#I could make the case of Lance being the sun who burns too bring and is at risk of consuming himself while the moon— Bruno in this case is

[then0rthernstar]

I have a problem, not being able to draw because of school, this song, and the idea I had a month ago of Lance and Bruno in moon and sun themed outfits.

[damnlance]

Number 3 for the klnace prompts please 🥺

Klangst Prompt #3:

“Can you please just.. hold me..?”

Summary: Lance has been having a hard time accepting his altean marks. Luckily, Keith arrives and is there to help him.

-

It’s been two years. two whole years since the war ended and the paladins made it back home to earth. two whole years since their lions took off in the middle of the night and never came back. and two whole years since Allura..

Since Allura died sacrificed herself to save the universe.

It would be an understatement to say that everyone came back home fine, because that was not the case. Coming back home meant bringing along nightmares that kept you up all night, unwanted, out-of-the-blue flashbacks in the middle of the day, jumping out of your skin at any sound louder than a whisper, and much more. So, so much more.

For Lance, coming back home meant he could be with his family again, but leaving Allura behind was never part of the plan.

And Lance is reminded of her every single time he looks into the mirror.

It’s a blessing and a curse. A blessing because at least he has a little part of her that he can see and touch and feel. But a curse because the part of her that he can see and touch and feel.. isn’t her.

He’s gotten used to his Altean markings since Allura gave them to him but even after two years, it’s still hard. Sometimes he goes an entire day without noticing them, forgetting they’re even there on his cheeks. But one tiny hint of emotion and boom.

They’re glowing.

Most of the time it's just a dim glow, a grayish light blue that’s only visible from his peripheral view. But on certain occasions, when he’s really up in his head and he can’t come down, they’re bright. They’re bright and buzzing and loud and blinding right there on his face for the entire world to see.

It’s rare, though.

And in the few times that it's happened, Lance always has the same feeling deep down in the trenches of his gut, with the same question burning in the back of his mind.

“Why me?”

For the longest time after the war, he shut everyone out. He hated being the center of attention, hated having all eyes on him, everyone looking at him like he was some fragile vase and if you said one thing that might trigger him, he’d break into a thousand pieces. He especially hated when his friends and family stopped looking him in the eyes when they spoke to him, their eyes glued to his markings which had them apologizing right after when he caught them, pushing him to continue with whatever he was saying.

It was too much..

He stopped going out in public or where there were people, and eventually locked himself in his room at all times. But he knew that that was a bad thing to do. Because it was just him all alone. Him and his markings. And that always made the thoughts in his mind and the feelings in the gut of his stomach come back to the surface of his health and spin him completely out of control.

Lance felt like he was on autopilot. He tried everything to cover his markings; hats, sunglasses, makeup, even stickers from his niece and nephew’s sticker books. It still did nothing to hide the fact that they were actually there.

And when times got drastic, he tried to take them off of his face. Literally.

When his family began to notice his distant behavior, they didn’t question it or push him to talk. They could never know what he went through in space, or how deeply he cared for Allura. But one family member in particular was really worried.

Veronica. She could read him like the back of her hand and when the other members of his family were too scared to confront the former Paladin, not knowing how he would react, Veronica stepped up to the plate.

She tried her best to be subtle and at first it worked. Her checking on him by helping him around the farm instead of being at work on the Atlas, tending to his every need when he asked, even guilt tripping him to going out to the store only to conveniently run into Hunk or Pidge or Shiro. And Lance knew all her little games of course, he just.. didn’t care.

So Veronica decided to call a distant friend.

That distant friend being the one person who knows Lance almost as well as she does.

The one and only Keith Kogane.

She called him in confidence and they talked a couple of times here and there. About the universe, his job with The Blade, and importantly, about Lance and his well-being. And it’s not like Veronica didn’t try to contact any of Lance’s other friends like Hunk, Pidge, or Shiro. She did. And he found out when they took him out for bowling and laser tag and he overheard them talking about it.

Yeah, let’s just say his marks were really glowing that night he confronted her about meddling in his life again.

But Keith was different. He was special. Veronica knew how strongly Lance felt about him and after a couple of different attempts to get Lance out of his room, or to talk about what was going on, she had no choice but to bring in the big guns.

Aka Keith.

It wasn’t easy, begging asking Keith to fly back to earth and take some time away from working with The Blade to comfort his sad friend who he hasn’t seen or talked to in months. But who else could get inside of Lance’s head like Keith?

So they made a plan. Keith would arrive back on Earth in two weeks on the Saturday before the McClain family dinner they have every Sunday night. And to make sure things wouldn't be too weird or staged, Veronica would also invite Hunk, Shiro and Curtis, and Pidge and Matt as well. It would be great for everyone to be together again anyway.

Saturday Evening.

The day was winding down to something calm and peaceful. Lance decided to get up and spend his day tending to the farm. He cleaned out the barn, fed the chickens, gathered some eggs, milked Kaltenecker and even gave her a nice bath. His family was gone, out for the day running errands, and the quiet wasn’t too loud or suffocating for once. It was surprisingly nice. After the chores were finished, Lance plucked some fresh juniberry flowers for the vase in his room and headed back up the hill to his home.

What he was expecting to see is maybe his family’s truck parked over by the big oak tree just outside his house.

But what he got instead, was a cruiser.

A galra cruiser.

And leaning against said galra cruiser with his arms crossed and a warm smile on his face is the one and only Keith Kogane.

Lance stops breathing as he stares at his old friend. He can’t believe Keith is even here right now, standing 50 feet away. Is this some kind of trick of the sunset? Lance rubs his eyes. Nope. It’s real. A small smile graces Lance’s lips as he takes a deep breath and makes his way over.

As he gets closer, Keith pushes himself off of the cruiser to meet Lance halfway. “Hey there, sharpshooter,” are the first words out of his mouth, his deep voice sending a chill down Lance’s spine.

“K-Keith,” Lance sputters, confusion and excitement pouring through his voice. They’re bodies meet together in a big, warm hug that has the hairs on Lance’s arms standing on end. Keith hugs him like he hasn’t seen him in a long time. And he hasn't. It’s been six and a half months since they last saw each other, or even spoke. Things with The Blade have been so busy that Keith rarely gets a chance to stop by to say hello or even stay a few nights. Of course, communication works both ways and Lance has spoken to him. He’s written Keith a letter for every other day. Yep. They’re all underneath his pillow in his room, ready to be opened and read by Keith eyes. That’s besides the point, he just can’t believe that Keith is HERE!

Lance pulls away, confusion still plastered on his face. Keith pats his shoulder and smiles that genuine, beautiful, once in a full moon smile that has Lance’s heart hammering inside his chest.

“Surprised?” Keith asks, folding his arms over his chest.

Lance reaches out and punches the half galran in his left pec, sending him stumbling back a bit. “Hell yeah I am, dude! W-what are you doing here!?”

“What,” Keith’s smile doesn’t falter as he shrugs. “Can’t a guy come back to earth to see his friends once in a while?”

Lance scoffs. “Uh, once in a while would be like every other week, not six and a half months!”

Keith’s eyes widen. “Shit, has it been that long??”

“Yeah, man.” Lance nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I would know.. been subconsciously counting down the days or.. w-whatever..” A light blush decorates his cheeks and ears as Keith continues to stare at him. Then, he smiles again and weakly punches Lance’s arm. Lance takes a good look at him; tall, muscular, visible stubble decorating his chin and upper lip, dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail that reaches his shoulder blades. He looks.. good.

“Why don’t we catch up then?” Keith asks with a softness in his voice that has Lance’s already hammering heart going haywire.

“S-sure thing.” Lance can barely meet Keith’s violet eyes as they begin their ascend up the hill to Lance’s home.

They talk on the porch swing until the sun goes down and the bright stars in the sky come up. Keith tells Lance all about how he and The Blade are doing amazing at fulfilling their mission as a humanitarian relief organization and all the planets they’ve helped. Lance listens thoroughly as Keith goes on and on, something about the way Keith’s eyes shine as he talks about his adventures up in space with his mother and Kolivan. It’s almost enough to lull Lance to sleep but he wouldn’t dare miss a second of Keith’s stories. After a while, Lance offers Keith some sandwiches and a few beers, to which he happily accepts, and they eat together in a nice comfortable silence.

“So,” Keith says after a small sip of his beer, “Enough about me. What’s been going on with you?”

Lance picks at his half eaten sandwich and shrugs. “Nothing as amazing as what you’re doing, that’s for sure.”

“Ah, come on,” Keith nudges him gently, “Tell me all about what’s been going on around here? The juniberry’s are looking nice.” He gestures to the open field and Lance exhales a small chuckle.

“Thanks.. I mean, I’ve been.. a-alright..”

Keith studies his face with a slight frown but doesn’t move to say anything as he senses Lance isn’t finished.

“But..” Lance lets out a sigh and rubs the back of his neck. A cool night breeze runs through his hair and he shivers a bit before turning his body to Keith.

“Yeah?” Keith answers, mirroring Lance’s body language.

“It’s been..” Lance stares at his sandwich, “Hard. Still.. like everywhere I look, I expect her to be there but.. she isn’t.. and I feel so..”

Keith watches as Lance sits there, looking down at his hands. He clenches them into fists and then..

He laughs.

A shaky, breathy laugh that has Keith confused as to what is funny.

Lance sniffs and then looks up to meet Keith’s eyes, shaking his head.

“I’m good, man.” He says instead. But the wavering in his voice says otherwise. Keith bites his bottom lip and tries to think of a way to say what he wants without it coming out as something that could push Lance away. Then he remembers all of the stuff Veronica told him about Lance’s health and mental state. Keith does a once over to really look at Lance this time, under the dim porch light. He looks like how Veronica says he might be feeling. Sad. Tired. Lonely. Although he does look good, the chores and things needed to be done around the farm toning up his physique, Keith finally sees the wear and tear the after effects of war has put him through. And it’s not much different than how Keith looks. Or Shiro. Or Hunk or Pidge and even Matt and Coran.

Keith ponders this for a while and then lets out a small breath. “Lance?” He says, voice soft and full of compassion.

Lance looks up and meets him, his hard gaze searching for something in Keith’s irises. Keith smiles shyly and reaches out to grab a hold of Lance’s slender hands. Lance looks down at their hands, studying their similarities and their differences. Keith’s got giant hands that are paler in comparison, but just as callous as Lance’s. They bring him a weird sense of comfort and as he looks up to meet Keith’s eyes once more, tears fill his own.

Panic rises in Keith’s features and he holds Lance’s hands tighter. “Hey, hey,” he says, “W-What's wrong??”

“Nothing, nothing,” Lance shakes his head, exhaling another laugh. “It’s just..” He sniffs, trying his hardest to blink away his tears. “You.”

“Me??” Keith shakes his head. “What did I-”

“You being here,” Lance cuts him off, looking up to stare into Keith’s eyes. “I’m really happy.. happiest I’ve been in a while.. I know that things got super busy and we have our own lives now, but I’m sorry that we kinda.. fell off. I’ve missed you. I do.. miss you.”

Keith’s pulse jumps as his ears eat Lance’s words, syllable by syllable. Those watery blue eyes are boring into Keith so hard, Keith feels like he could sink into them and would be totally okay with it. So he reaches forward and cups Lance’s cheek, moving closer to his face. He presses his forehead to Lance’s and very quietly breathes-

“I’ve missed you too, Lance,” He smiles, “So much. I think of you everyday and the one thing that keeps me going is you.”

“What, little ole’ me?” Lance says in a horrible southern accent that has the both of them giggling. Keith nods and rubs his thumb over Lance’s Altean mark.

“All of you,” Keith whispers, leaning forward to place a small, chaste kiss to Lance’s mark. It has Lance blushing like crazy and his Altean markings glowing bright between them. His emotions get the better of him and he lets his tears fall down his cheeks as he nuzzles his forehead against Keith’s, swallowing a sob threatening to pour out of his throat.

“Can you please just.. hold me..?” Lance asks, watery eyes locked with Keith’s.

And Keith damn near melts. “Of course.” He answers as Lance moves closer to his opened arms. He lays his head on Keith’s shoulder, slotting it perfectly in the junction of where Keith’s shoulder and neck meet, and sighs blissfully.

“I’m so tired.” He whispers.

“Sleep, Lance,” Keith whispers back, kissing his head. “Sleep.”

Lance nods, closing his eyes. “Guess this means you’re staying for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Don’t forget breakfast and lunch, too,” Keith says, leaning over to place a chaste kiss on Lance's temple. “If you’ll have me.”

“I would love that.” And when Lance finally drifts off to a peaceful sleep, his eyes catch sight of the light that bounces off of his cheeks. It’ll take a while but for tonight, he doesn’t mind the bright, buzzing, tingling feeling of his Altean markings. Not anymore.

-END-

(send me a klangst prompt!)

[liam-cadmus]

A/B/O dynamics. with a twist.  — i’m done seeing omegas as the ones rare in a/b/o. how about alphas. Konoha is full of omegas and betas, as the current norm. Alphas are quite rare, depending on the clan. Omegas lead the village more than the other two secondary genders, using 60% of the population. The rest, 35% of the village are betas, with the staggering number of 5% for the alphas, from any clan.  Alphas have unnatural strength, making the elders prone to keep them in the village, and stop them from fleeing. Some are respected, and some are feared, the members of the village hesitant in being with an alpha, in case they get controlled by the alpha voice. Mikoto made sure to remind her youngest to always, always keep his scent blocker on at all times, and made it their mission to hide his gender. Sasuke presented as the second alpha of their generation. That isn’t the reason why she wants him to hide it, aside from the backlash he’s going to receive. She doesn’t, and will not, allow her child be another weapon, a tool to the village. She knows it, seen it, the way people regard Uchihas as aggressive, emotionless, and unsympathetic people.  She knows, he’s gonna be used, controlled. They would use him against the clan...And they would get crushed to the ground with accusations of Sasuke controlling others. She wants to protect him from the rest of the world, to let him be his happy, loud self without being judged by the stereotypes.  Sasuke is a bright child, with grins as wide as the sun, blinding. He has the darkest eyes, like the night sky. With fair skin as light as the moon. He’s lean, without the usual bulk his father has on his shoulders and legs, leaning into his mother’s features with big doe eyes and lanky limbs. Splitting image, with his father’s attitude and mother’s looks. He was told to be an omega like his nii-san, looking so similar.  His mother made it a mission, making sure to teach him manners. He grew, being polite and civil in important gatherings, how to talk smoothly with respect. To bow with grace and smile with acknowledgement, to praise and to appreciate. He knew the responsibilities he too, carry as the son of the clan head, even if he was the second. He knew, and learnt. Became to be his mother’s gentle child to his father’s kind child, Itachi. Their Uchiha temper is still there, but he managed to control, to dull it under a facade, a mask. His eager and curiosity hidden behind his quiet, patient eyes, even if all he wants to do is ask without thinking about the consequences. Shisui would always look at him with a genuine smile, “I know you’ll bring peace.” His cousin would say, the only other alpha besides his father in the clan. Shisui would encourage and teach him, becoming his other older brother, than Itachi’s ‘maybe next times’. He smiled emptily once, looking more like a grimace. His Mangekyou ability reflected on his secondary gender. ‘I can cast a powerful mind-controlling genjutsu on victims so that they obey me without realizing. I can change their thoughts and future decisi—‘ Shisui stills, before gagging, leaning to the side, horror filling his face, blood red tears flowing down. ‘I won’t ever use it. Never.’ He said it with so much conviction and honesty, that it brought Sasuke to tears. Shisui is the most caring, affectionate, good-natured, understanding man ever, and even if he didn’t say that, Sasuke knows deep in his heart, his soul, that he still would never use that. Shisui and Itachi would always steer him away whenever Danzo is near, Shisui even opting to body flicker just to hide him. ‘Danzo would take Sasuke if he could. You’re already being watched, Shi.’ Itachi murmured one time, his rose and honey scent turning metallic and strong. Shisui’s pheromones tip over like a wave, the salt of the seabreeze and pine cones. He learnt not to trust the council man, and the suspicious bandages covering his arm.  Pack. ‘It is something you care for. You protect it with all of your heart.’ Mikoto Uchiha once said. ‘They’re the ones that will be with you for life. You protect. You do not control. You protect.’ she says, when he was missing Itachi. He learnt he had a strong, high alpha instincts, on how protective he can be. ‘You can hide it, but you can never keep it away. ‘  Sasuke knew independence. He became one with it when he was alone. When all of his loved ones disappeared in one day. They went alongside his voice, and emotions, leaving him blank as a slate, his burnt cedar and mint scent dull and bland. Silence. He became quiet, unnaturally so, his past shell of smiles and grins disappearing. His pack was killed, by his own brother, and he wasn’t even there. He wasn’t there. He failed. He failed to protect his pack. Protect. He allowed the hatred, the vengeance, the loss, grief, pull him to the darkness. He let it settle deep in his heart, weighing down on his shoulders. All he wanted was to scream, and scream. He wants to know. Why.  He tries, tries so badly to hate his brother. Uchihas love deeply, fiercely. In a way that is like no other. Deep to the bone and staining the soul. He tries to find the will to hate his brother, and force it to intensify, but it doesn’t work. He loves. He protects. He can’t hate his brother, even if he tried. He tried, he promised, he tried until he cried tears, until his Sharingan whirled widely in front of him. Until his scent spiked and his chakra thrashed, until he passed out.  A silver-haired man kneels over him, shaking him. Worried lone, black eye stares at him, mask covering his face. The scent of dogs, puppies? cover the man, with the ashy charcoal undertones. He stares back blearily, exhaustion marring his bones, making them heavy as lead. His Sharingan involuntarily activates, chakra pathways protesting as he scrambles back, panicking about his scent uncovered. The jounin coos, before his scent intensifies, covering him. Alpha. Sasuke frowns, dazed, aching, unmoving on Kakashi’s arm.  One thought crossed Sasuke’s mind when he sees the eye underneath the hitai-ate. Not traitor. Kin. Pack. Family.  Kakashi takes one look, before hugging the boy close, he will not lose another Uchiha in his life. They both lost their packs? They’ll be their own pack. Without others judging them.  Kakashi adopts Sasuke. It might’ve been an impulse decision, or maybe he’s poisoned. He didn’t know why, but he wants. For once, he wants. He wants to keep a kid from being alone. Wants the boy to have someone when he needed it. Wants the boy to not burden his clan’s death. Wants the boy to be protected from the village elder’s greedy hands. To keep, the boy from being a weapon. So he doesn’t turn to be like Kakashi.  Gai laughs, relief flooding him to see Kakashi dropping off Sasuke on the Academy, with a lazy half-salute and eye-smile before body flickering away. The Uchiha scowls, before pocketing his hands, and strolling lazily to the doors. Same dry humor, posture and antics. Sasuke has lightning affinity, similar to Kakashi, to his amusement. Lee hops brightly beside him, before the kid runs to Sasuke, declaring becoming ‘eternal rivals’. Sasuke’s jaw dropped, and wide, panicked eyes is too amusing for the people around them, the stoic Uchiha for once a loss of words, and startled.  ‘A shinobi looks underneath the underneath.’ Kakashi-nii— sensei tells them, lone dark eye calculating as he looks to the three genin in front of him. Underneath the underneath. Just what are you hiding, nii-san?  Sasuke groans, hand moving to rub at the sore muscles of his arms, the prickling wounds around his chest and arms burning. Sakura is gentle in healing the pierced skin, nerve endings on fire from the onslaught of senbon. He breathes a sigh of relief when he touches the scent blocker still secure on his gland, wearing the high collar shirt back on after the bandages. He winces at the fabric grazing the sensitive skin, before his nose wrinkles at the overwhelming scent of citrus and brown sugar attacking his nostrils. Loud, worried voice shouting ‘Teme.’ echoes through the clearing, making him raise his hand in assurance. Sakura’s faint cherry blossom scent wafts to his sensitive nose, her chakra muted as she lay on the ground motionless, Naruto’s prone from by the tree fraying his senses. Adrenaline courses through his body as he stands on wobbly legs, tongue bitten enough to draw blood. His gland itches at the blocker tight on his neck, as he moves his limbs to carry Sakura. He lets his strength appear, as he hops down silently to the ground, finding a cave to lay Sakura securely. He hisses through his teeth as he buckles to the ground, pain lancing his shoulder. He moves, willing himself not to stall as he crawls to Naruto, carrying him over his back. He sits cross-legged by the entrance, weaving a genjustu over them as he stays up for watch.  ‘You have a curse seal, and extremely chakra exhausted.’ Shikamaru observes as they break the genjustu, Ino scurrying over to Sakura. ‘What’re you doing risking your life like that?’ he hisses in worry, the Uchiha pale as a sheet, limbs shaking. ‘What happened?’ he asks, as he holds Sasuke’s face in place, forcing him to look directly on his eyes. ‘Orochimaru. Messed Naruto’s seal. Bit me. Had to protect. Pack. Been 5 hours since. On guard in case.’ Sasuke croaks weakly, before passing out. Sasuke tries to awkwardly become closer to Naruto and Sakura, even if he’s hesitant in touching. Sakura rolls her eyes before hugging him on the front, Naruto jumping on his back to circle around his shoulders, with Kakashi’s hand ruffling his hair. He will protect his pack. He will not leave them.  He became a chunin, and an ANBU with Kakashi as his captain. Moved through the ranks quickly, eventually turning to a jounin in couple months’ time. Naruto and Sakura became apprentices of the sannins, having them as mentors, which they tease him about. He huffs, before smirking smugly, ‘Who’s the jounin here exactly?’ which gains him disappointed pouts, a beta and omega ignoring him. They offer him more physical touches, Sakura linking their arms, or Naruto letting Sasuke have an arm around his shoulders. ‘Touch-starved bastard’. Kakashi making sure that he has control on where Sasuke is going to, knowing that his genius/prodigy status will lead him to dangerous situations. Added to the alpha secondary gender? no. He and Shisui already suffered, alongside Itachi on the village’s bad decisions. He will not let Sasuke become a bad decision nor a mistake. They will prove themselves worthy. Tsunade giving him a mission to go undercover for 3 years, striking a deal with Orochimaru. He does it without questions, knowing that Orochimaru needs to be killed, and he would gladly do so. He goes through day by day, sitting through experiments with the intent to kill Orochimaru at the end. Desperation clawed at Orochimaru, having a test subject that is an Uchiha, one of the last ones to exist, an alpha nonetheless.  Sasuke made a promise, to never use alpha voice, unless necessary. He doesn’t see the need to use it, since it only ruins Izuna’s name, being a descendant. He doesn’t want to taint their line, doesn’t want to be seen as his great grandfather, Madara. A rare thing, deep growling as his eyes turn cobalt blue, that makes his instincts go haywire and his movements shaky. A ability that he resents, because he never wants to see gold-eyed omegas and emerald eyes reflecting back to him.  So he doesn’t use it against betas or omegas. He uses it against alphas who dare hurt them, using his alpha voice to push alphas back from his pack. Aggressive and relentless, when alphas try to control his pack, dusty burning cedar reeking his hunched form, chakra venomous and crackling, burning like a thousand embers, his Uchiha blood reflecting his rage. Sasuke can be seen sitting down beside Shisui after he uses his alpha voice, hint of alpha pheromones still oozing from his form. (Sasuke and Shikamaru. Please. Sasuke knowing that Shikamaru is fully capable and independent. That doesn’t stop him from pampering or spoiling him. He keeps his protective nature from interfering but they both know that Shikamaru likes it even if he doesn’t wanna admit it.) Iruka adopted Naruto. 

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Four

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: hey y'all. my new job has been draining the life out of me so i have very little energy left for writing, which is why these updates are taking so long. im still very passionate about this fic though, it just takes me more time to write :(

in other news, this chapter is saturated with descriptions of pain, both physical and emotional. i hated writing it but it was worth it.

***

Nesta, 14

Sometimes it all becomes too much. Feyre asking for help with homework and Elain begging for more money to go to the strip mall, and their dad ignoring them all as if they aren’t even there. Sometimes she wants to leave it all behind and pretend she isn’t anchored to three other people, wants to pretend she is a lone being in a lonely world.

When she needs to go away, she comes here.

Cherrywood House is quiet, as it always is this time of year. One of several expensive vacation homes in the Smokies, Cherrywood is Nesta’s favorite for a multitude of reasons— it’s empty for ten out of twelve months of the year, it’s the only house with a clear view of the nearby lake, and cherry blossoms bloom on trees out in the back every spring.

It’s early June, and she has a few more weeks left with the house until its owners return. The family that owns the place never leaves a trace of themselves behind when they leave each August, so Nesta returns the favor by never leaving hints of her inhabitance either.

She takes her worn Converse and socks off at the back porch and climbs in through the unlocked window barefoot. This is where she belongs. A ghost roaming the empty halls, with no one to care for and no one to care for her.

She makes her way upstairs to her preferred hideout spot: an airy bedroom with a bay window seat that looks out onto the cherry blossom trees outside. Cracking the window open to let the fragrance of flowers in, she settles into the bench seat with her book of the week and starts reading.

Absorbed in dreams of deep love and deeper kisses, Nesta doesn't notice the sun going down until she can barely make out the words on the page before her. Glancing up with sore eyes, she realizes she needs to leave soon if she doesn't want to take the wooded path back home in the dark.

“Damn,” she sighs, but she gets up and shuts the window firmly.

She keeps her nose in her book all the way down the hall and down the stairs, and doesn't sense anything off until a large shadow flashes in the corner of her eye. Her head whips up, and the face that greets her looks just as surprised as she is.

Nesta freezes.

“Um,” the guy says. He’s maybe a few years older than her, seventeen or eighteen, and tall with shaggy dark hair. The front door of the house is still cracked open behind him. “What the fuck?”

Nesta unfreezes. And then she runs.

All the way through the main hall and to the back door, while the boy’s shouts chase her through the house. “Hey, wait up!”

They weren't supposed to be here this early—

Her hand wraps around the back door handle and she flings it open, shoving through the second screen door and shooting right down the porch steps. Heavy steps behind her ignite a panic in her, and she gains a burst of speed.

“HEY!” he calls again. Soft grass becomes dirt and twigs beneath Nesta's feet, and she knows she's reached the tree line. Dark shadows fall over her as she darts into the safety of the woods.

Still standing on the back porch and waving a raggedy pair of Converse, Cassian tries calling for the girl one more time. “You forgot your shoes!”

Cassian wakes up at five in the morning to the sound of the house’s pipes creaking, a telltale sign that someone is using one of the faucets. Blinking his eyes open, he hears the distant sound of the shower running.

Who would get up in the freezing cold at this hour just to take a shower? He checks the time once more to make sure he isn't imagining things, and gets up to peek his head out of his bedroom. Sure enough, light leaks out from under the bathroom door.

Cassian walks up to the bathroom and listens closely for any sound beside running water. He knocks hesitantly. “Nesta?”

Her muffled voice calls back to him, but he can't make out a thing.

“Are you alright?” he asks. “How long have you been in there?”

There’s no response, and now he’s concerned. Raising his voice, he says, “I’m going to come in to hear you better, is that okay?”

A soft affirmative answers him, and he tries the doorknob. It’s already unlocked, which is odd, but he pokes his head into the steam-filled bathroom cautiously. “Nesta?”

From behind the curtain of the shower, a pale, tired face appears. She’s sitting on the floor of the tub, he realizes. “Hey,” she attempts a feeble smile at him.

Cassian fully enters the bathroom, the humidity dampening his skin. “Are you okay? When did you get up?”

“I’ve only been in here for an hour, maybe.” Her voice is weak enough that he has to move closer to hear her. “Don’t worry about your water bill. I’ll pay it, I swear.”

He shakes his head, confounded. “I don’t care about the water bill. You still haven’t told me if you’re okay.” He moves to crouch beside the bathtub, the opaque shower curtain the only barrier between them.

Nesta rolls her eyes, looking embarrassed. “It’s just cramps. I get really sick on my periods, and I would have warned you that they suck ass, but that would imply that my period could affect you. It doesn’t have to affect you— if you just leave me to myself for a few days, I won’t even be a bother.”

Cassian blinks, not really knowing where to start with that, so he just says, “But why the shower?”

Nesta shifts uncomfortably behind the curtain. “Sometimes hot water is the only thing that helps with the pain. I already tried getting out of the shower, but it hurt so bad— I had to go right back in. I’ll get out eventually, don’t worry.”

Cassian frowns. This all sounds incredibly worrying. “This is normal for you?”

She’s about to answer when her face pinches in a look of discomfort. “Cassian,” she says, strained.

He leans closer, wanting to help. “Yeah?”

“Get out.” She doesn't look like she has the energy to add anything else.

Cassian wants to defy Nesta and stay right there, but that would require arguing with her, and she clearly is no longer in the mood to hold up a conversation.

Reluctantly, he nods. “I’ll be right down the hall. Yell if you need anything.”

Nesta is already sinking lower into the tub, trying to get more fully under the burning hot spray. Her eyes drift closed and she hums in answer.

Cassian doesn't return to his room like he said he would, but heads downstairs instead. He spends a good ten minutes reading the drug labels of various painkillers from the medicine cabinet before carefully arranging a nonlethal cocktail of them on a tray. He adds a cold glass of water and various handpicked snacks before returning upstairs to set the tray by Nesta’s bedside, and turns the heat all the way up to combat the chill in her room, just in case.

Then he goes back to his room and waits. He tries to listen closely for the sound of the shower stopping, but he’s not used to being up this early on a Saturday, and his bed is so warm…

He falls asleep waiting.

***

Nesta stumbles out of the shower long after Cassian leaves her and downs a handful of pills without thinking too much about who left them for her. She already has an idea of how the next few days will go, and she just hopes Cassian will allow her the dignity to suffer through it alone.

She crawls into bed exhausted and shuts her eyes tight. The next time she opens them, sunlight is streaming weakly through the windows. Jarring pain lances through her abdomen, and she brings her legs all the way up to her chest and whimpers. From the edge of her consciousness, she notices the snack tray has been replaced with lunch— some leftover lasagna from the night before. Sneaking out her hand from her mountain of blankets, she goes for her phone. A text sent nearly an hour ago waits for her.

Cassian: please eat.

Nesta glares at the lasagna because she knows better. She might have spent this morning eyeing the bathroom tiles to determine if they were clean enough for her to curl up there and die, but she's not at a point to abandon her dignity just yet. The last thing her roiling nausea needs is solid food. Instead, she gathers the focus to text back Cassian: Leave me alone today.

It's only after she sends the message that she realizes it sounds harsh, but she can't bring herself to explain further or to soften her tone. Her pain always has a way of stripping her of any defenses and formalities and leaving only a primal creature behind.

Turning her phone off, she closes her eyes and inhales tightly through her nose. A wave of cramps that feels closer to what a brutal stabbing victim would feel like overtakes her, and— no, she has to get up.

During times like these, the bathroom is Nesta’s favorite place in the whole world. Cool tiles to rest her head on, hot water just a foot away, and a spacious tub if she ever feels like passing out. Heaven. Naturally, she escapes there first.

After maybe another hour of restless writhing and moving about, Nesta decides the suffering isn't worth it and hobbles downstairs in search of some Nyquil to knock her out. She’s got the medicine cabinet halfway open when a broad hand slams it back shut, and she turns to find Cassian standing behind her with a stern look. “You haven’t eaten anything all day. You can’t take meds on an empty stomach.”

Nesta wants to cry at the denial of pain relief, but she grips the counter behind her and manages a glare instead. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I will absolutely tell you not to wreck your liver, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

A desperate whine escapes her, and she can’t believe Cassian has to see her like this. Even worse, she sees sympathy soften his face as his hand slips off the cabinet next to her head. “I made soup,” he offers. “Can you have soup?”

Nesta hesitates. Her insides don’t hate the idea of soup. She nods.

***

Nesta insisted on avoiding Cassian for the rest of the day, and Cassian graciously eased off her back once he knew she’d eaten. He kindly pretended he didn’t hear her running back and forth from the bathroom all day because she couldn’t sit still, and only interrupted her once to make sure she took more Tylenol before bed.

Now, long after night has fallen, Nesta is truly alone. Her medicine either hasn’t kicked in yet or isn’t strong enough to do its job tonight. She can barely think straight, and this is when the most primal part of herself comes out.

Despite her age, despite everything, she still cries. She cries as if anyone would bother listening, physical pain intertwining with the pain and humiliation of being ignored. “Papa,” she calls into her pillow, again and again.

She hasn’t trusted her papa in years, and yet she still expects him to rescue her. She still waits for him to show up and make everything better.

A hot tear leaks from her eye, and the catharsis of it distracts from her cramps. She curls up into a ball and cries harder, as if she can weep out everything that’s wrong with her body.

A soft knock interrupts her helpless whimpers, and Nesta hears the door open a moment later. “Nesta? Were you calling for me?”

Somebody came. No one’s ever come for her before.

A sigh of relief escapes her, and she forgets to put her walls up. “I’m just—” she tries to say, “so tired.”

She hears Cassian come farther into the room and curse. “Fuck, it’s an icebox in here.”

A hand nudges at her mound of comforters, giving Nesta’s shoulder a shake. “You should’ve told me the heater wasn’t working. Are you okay?”

That question sets her on edge. “Do I look okay?” her voice cracks. She wants to cry even harder now that he’s here, for some reason.

“Obviously not,” he mutters. “You’re staying in my room tonight. Get up.”

Nesta groans and burrows further into her freezing cocoon of sheets. “Don’twannamove.”

“It’s either that or I’m carrying you. I’m good either way.”

Nesta finally cracks her eyes open, glad that Cassian is only a tear-blurred figure in the dark. She doesn’t want to read whatever is on his face right now. Gathering her heavy comforter around herself, she gets up and lets Cassian lead her down the hall to his room.

Toasty warmth hits her as soon as she’s inside, and she makes an exhausted sound and drops the comforter. In a blur, she’s tucked into Cassian’s bed, enveloped by his scent and his lingering body heat on the sheets. Under the dim lamplight, Cassian seems to finally take notice of the tear tracks on her face. Clicking his tongue in sympathy and concern, he rubs his thumb over the sensitive skin under Nesta’s eyes. Her whole body shudders under the gentle touch. Who knew just the pad of his finger could combat this inescapable agony?

“This isn’t normal,” he murmurs. “I’m taking you to a doctor as soon as this storm clears.”

If Nesta was in the right state of mind, she’d tell him absolutely not. However, she’s barely comprehending his words as it is, so she watches him click the lamp off in silence. Darkness fills the room, but she can hear him moving.

“I’ll be right back,” his voice rumbles, and then she’s alone again. More tears leak at the feeling of abandonment. She’s so sick of herself.

After what feels like an eternity but is only a few minutes, she hears Cassian return. The mattress dips behind her as he climbs under the blankets with her, and then Nesta feels something hot and dry being pressed to her side. A towel. “Does this help?” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly close to her ear.

Wordlessly, Nesta reaches down and takes his hand holding the hot towel, dragging it beneath the hem of her sweater so the heat burns against her bare skin. She sighs and allows her tensed body to sag, leaning back into the hard cradle of Cassian’s chest and arms.

In her ear, Cassian’s breathing has gone shallow. His hand slips from her side, only to find her back and start rubbing up and down.

Her eyes flutter shut.

“My mother was a Muslim immigrant from Algeria,” Cassian whispers out of nowhere. “And whenever I felt sick as a little kid, I would crawl into her lap and she would rub my back just like this, and say some prayers and blow on my face, and I would feel better.”

Nesta makes a weak sound of acknowledgment. That sounds nice, nicer than anything she ever knew growing up.

“I’m sorry I don’t know any prayers,” Cassian says. Then, Nesta feels a whoosh of breath tickle the side of her face. “Does that help?”

It feels weirdly good, and Nesta's shoulders start shaking. She doesn't know if she's holding in a laugh or a sob. Cassian’s hand stills on her back. “Nesta?”

A sharp wave of pain sets her straight. After she breathes through it, she tells him, “You don't need to pray. Just… keep talking to me.”

His hand resumes drawing circles on her back. “Alright.” And he whispers stories into her ear for the rest of the night, until she's fallen asleep and long afterward.

The next morning, Nesta is feeling much better. Cassian knows this because she’s sitting in the living room when he comes downstairs, straight-backed instead of hunched over in pain, and she’s regained the energy to glare at him.

Cassian’s relief at seeing Nesta okay hesitates at that glare. He slows on the bottom step. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Don't call me that.”

He blinks, not sure what he did wrong. Before he can ask, Nesta says, “You didn't listen to me.”

“Excuse me?” He strolls deeper into the living area.

“I told you to leave me alone while I'm on my period, and you didn't listen. You dragged me to your room and made me spend the night with you.”

“You were crying for help,” Cassian says in disbelief. “What was I supposed to do? Ignore you?”

“Yes.” She looks even angrier. “It’s humiliating for me to have you see me like that. It's humiliating to have my own family see me like that.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but you’re—” He almost says overreacting, but some deep instinct tells him that word won’t fly well with Nesta. “You’re wrong,” he decides. “Whatever you think I’m thinking of you after last night, you’re wrong.” Cassian has no problem going into caretaker mode for Nesta; it's his natural state of being most of the time anyway. Besides, last night was… a new experience for him. For a multitude of reasons. “You can't tell me you go through that every month and have never had anybody take care of you.”

“I haven't, and for good reason,” Nesta seethes. “You had no right to see me like that.”

Cassian leans on the arm of a chair and crosses his arms, considering her. “Have you ever seen a doctor about your period?”

“That’s none of your business,” she snaps. Here is the Nesta that Feyre is always talking about: quick to anger and always on the defense, to the point that she comes off as unreasonable. Nothing like the helpless woman in tears from just the night before.

It brings out a rougher side of Cassian, one that wants to nip and bite at her boundaries instead of letting her be comfortable all the time. “That’s no way to talk to someone who stayed up all night to wait on you hand and foot, you know.”

“Don’t you dare hold that against me.” Nesta’s voice is dangerously cold.

“I’m not holding it against you. I’m taking you to a doctor.”

“No.”

“I already made an appointment.”

“Cancel it.” Her voice is brittle and she’s now trembling with restrained rage. Cassian doesn’t know if it’s because he’s refusing to give her a choice or if she just really doesn’t like doctors. Either way, it doesn’t change how Nesta ran out of bed at four this morning to puke her soup up. If it wasn’t for all this snow, he would have dragged her ass to the ER by now.

“I don’t have health insurance,” Nesta admits when she sees that Cassian won’t back down. “And I’ve made it this far without any cause for concern; there’s no reason to go.”

“Then I’ll pay for it,” he says simply. Her lack of care for her health astounds and angers Cassian at the same time. How is it that nobody, not even her family, has looked at this woman before and said You’re not okay, do you need help? How many times has she cried in pain with no one to listen?

Nesta has now stood up and is turning red in the face. “Absolutely not. Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Cassian smirks and straightens up.

“I’m not going to the doctor,” she barks. “Cancel the appointment.”

“No.”

“DO IT!”

In that moment, Cassian sees it. He sees how beneath the adult manner and adult words, the carefully crafted facade of cool, there is an explosive, tantrum-prone child. And he’s about to reveal her for good.

“It’s this Wednesday. I hope you don't mind skipping class.”

An enraged shriek shatters the air in the room, and before Cassian can even be shocked Nesta is verbally pouncing on him, yelling, “How fucking dare you, you complete shithead—”

“Nesta.”

“You have no right to— You’re so useless, this is why I didn't want to stay with you, this is why I never talked to you—”

“Nest—”

“You egomaniacal manipulative bastard— just because you let me stay in your house doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do—”

“Damn it Nesta, can you just shut up and LISTEN TO ME FOR ONCE!”

Nesta freezes and blinks, taken aback. Cassian immediately snaps his mouth shut, wondering if he’s finally crossed that line he’s been so cautiously toeing this whole time.

He watches her face closely, looking for signs of upset— or worse, fear. She only says, “Fine.”

He’s confused. “Fine, what?”

“Fine, I’ll go to the doctor’s.” Just like that, her fight is gone and the facade is back in place. She sets her jaw, but a hint of surprise and newfound discovery lingers in her eyes. “But I’m not letting you pay for it. It’ll have to come out of my own pocket.” She doesn't look happy about that part.

Cassian wants to argue her, but he knows how to pick and choose his battles. For now, he’s just baffled that he demanded Nesta to do something, and she listened.

He raised his voice at her. God, he yelled at her in anger and she only blinked in response, and now she’s listening to him. What kind of sick alien shit is this?

***

a/n: i love talking about these characters so if you ever get sick of waiting for part 5 just shoot me an ask and ill gladly discuss nessian with you

tagging: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @sensitiveillyrian @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx

[emachinescat]

That I Could Fear a Door

A Tales of Arcadia: Trollhunters Fan-Fiction

By @emachinescat

Summary: Jim had thought that going back home, back to the real world, would be an easy and painless process. He thought it would be simple - it should have been simple. It wasn’t. A reimagining of Jim’s return from the Darklands, where he quickly finds that adjusting to real life after so much trauma isn’t as easy as one might think. 

Words: 5,639

TW: PTSD, depression, panic attacks

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

Years I had been from home,

And now, before the door

I dared not open, lest a face

I never saw before …

I laughed a wooden laugh

That I could fear a door,

Who danger and the dead had faced,

But never quaked before.

- From "Home" by Emily Dickinson

Jim had thought that going back home, back to the real world, would be an easy and painless process. After all, during his weeks in the Darklands, first alone and searching the endless shadows, then hunted like an animal, then captured and beaten and forced to fight for the sport of others, hadn't he dreamed endlessly of just that? Of seeing the sun again, of seeing his friends, of hugging his mom, of cooking and eating and training and playing video games and slacking off on homework? He thought it would be simple - it should have been simple.

It wasn't.

The first few moments after crashing back into the over world were indeed euphoric. There was the sun, filtering in through the branches of the trees. It took all of his self-control not to stare straight into it. Even in the evening breeze, there was a warmth in the air that he hadn't felt in so long that it seemed more like a memory. He lay there, flat on his back in the grass, wishing he could feel the soft tickle of the blades on his skin, but trapped in his Eclipse armor. Still, he was free.

Much of the next hour was a blur. He later would recall a few hazy moments - hugging his friends, receiving the amulet from Blinky and finally - finally - shedding the stifling second skin of the Eclipse armor, trying to convince Nomura to stick around, Claire semi-joking about how bad he smelled, and the word free chasing itself around in his head like a dog after its own tail. Free, free, free!

He would always remember in perfect clarity the moment he hugged his mother again, but that hadn't come until later the next week. He wanted more than anything to go to her immediately upon his escape, but Toby and Claire convinced him otherwise.

"What's she going to think if you come home looking like … well, looking like… that?" Toby demanded, gesturing unhelpfully to Jim as a whole.

"And the smell…" Claire added, also unhelpfully.

"You have been through a great ordeal, Master Jim," Blinky reminded him gently. "If you go home now, there will be questions you cannot answer and not the rest you need."

And so Jim reluctantly agreed to go home in Toby's stead with Aaarrrgghh while Toby covered for him at home once more.

It was surreal, Jim found himself thinking as he stood in the Domzalski household's upstairs bathroom, shower already running hot behind him and Aaarrrgghh just across the hall, waiting for him in Toby's room. Just this morning, he had woken up in a cage on cold stone, in a state of perpetual, gnawing hunger that had become the norm, hanging on to the tiniest thread of hope that today might be the day he was finally rescued - but knowing deep down that it was much more likely to be the day he finally died. Now, he had a full stomach for the first time in nearly a month. He was with his friends, safe, electric lights warding off the darkness that had been his hell for so long. Hot water waited for him, beckoned for him. He could be warm and clean again. Just a few days ago he had said something about how much he missed soap. He should have been happy, he thought miserably. Maybe happy wasn't the right word. He was very happy to be away from the Darklands, from Gunmar and Dictatious and goblins and monsters. But he wasn't content.

He also couldn't bring himself to undress. He had been standing in front of the mirror for a good five minutes now, as steam billowed out from behind the curtain and fogged the glass, obscuring the face he'd barely recognized anyway. Good riddance, he thought half-madly, for the boy in the mirror was a warped doppelganger, touched by death and despair, with his sunken eyes, wan skin stretched too tight over abnormally prominent cheekbones, dark, puffy bags under his eyes, and a smattering of bruises and cuts pulling the whole package together with a sickly little bow. His hair was a bit longer than he usually kept it, matted and caked with dirt and blood. It felt crusty to the touch, and brittle somehow, as if it would crumble to dust if he tried to brush it.

He looked bad enough as it was from the neck up. He had no desire to see what awaited him beneath his filthy clothes. He wondered blearily how they had gotten so disgusting when they had been underneath his armor the whole time. Sweat and revoked shower privileges would do that to a person, he finally reasoned, and at once he found he couldn't get in the shower quickly enough.

He stripped off the offending garments with an urgency he hadn't felt even at his most desperate moments in the Darklands, nearly tripping over the edge of the tub in his haste to get in. He was relieved that the mirror had fogged, but he still avoided making eye contact with it just in case.

The water burned his skin, but he turned it hotter, attacking his hair first with nearly half a bottle of shampoo, applying and rinsing, applying and rinsing, until he couldn't see from the suds cascading down his face and the murky water ran clear. He conditioned once, something he'd never done before. He didn't know if it did anything, but it made him feel cleaner.

And then he was scrubbing himself all over, the water reddening the skin on his arms (he studiously avoided looking anywhere else), again and again, as if trying to peel his very skin off. Dirt and sweat and blood poured off of his battered body and he watched it meander toward the drain in a detached sort of way before resuming his frantic washing.

It wasn't until his skin was so raw that he felt like he was an onion peeled of its top few layers that he stopped, breathing heavily, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him, nausea roiling as he regretted the deli sandwich he'd scarfed down earlier. Knees weak, he found himself sinking to the floor of the tub, knees drawn up awkwardly to his chest. The water pounded on his head, back, shoulders, and he let it, slipping into a kind of sleep-trance, watching the water swirl around his feet before making its relentless way to the drain. He thought of nothing, felt nothing, and only broke out of the haze when the water grew cold and panic lanced through him at the loss of warmth. He turned off the water, more tired than he could ever remember being in his life, somehow managed to stand up on wobbly legs, wearily slid back the shower curtain - and froze.

Since he'd been in the shower so long that the water had gone cold, the mirror had also de-fogged, and he found himself unwillingly confronted with the specter that he had been hoping to avoid - his reflection.

Before he'd been captured, he'd scavenged for food and found himself eating something mostly every day, so he'd been nourished but always hungry. After he'd been taken, however, any meals - and he used that word lightly - were few and far between. They'd fed him just enough to keep him alive. He could see now from his emaciated frame that they had still essentially starved him. He'd been Gunmar's prisoner for what felt like years, but it had to have been a week at most.

Still, close to a month without a reliable food source had done its work: He'd always been skinny, but now he could see, fully defined, every rib. Any muscle mass, lean though it might have been, that he'd gained during his training was gone, his arms weak and frail looking. His armor had protected him from extensive physical damage all the times that he had been beaten or tossed around like a soccer ball, but his whole torso was mottled with bruises of all colors, shapes, and sizes, all in different stages of healing. A good deal of them were centered over his ribs, and he winced as the pain that had been his constant companion flared up. He wondered vaguely if he needed to see a doctor. He wouldn't be surprised if Gunmar had cracked a few in one of his rages. He cast the thought aside - how would he explain the state he was in? - and turned abruptly from the horrible, somehow shameful image of his battered body and quickly dressed in the pair of pajamas Toby had let him borrow. They would have swallowed him whole on a normal day, but now they made him feel tiny and breakable and pathetic and weak, and he only kept them on because he hated the way he looked underneath even more.

He offered a simple "G'night," to Aaarrgghh before falling into Toby's bed, expecting to fall asleep the instant his head hit the pillow.

To his surprise, and to his irritation, sleep refused to come. He couldn't get comfortable. The bed was too soft, the blankets too warm, and the moonlight making its way in between the cracks in the curtains toyed with him, tickling his eyelids with the suggestion of light and making it impossible to fall asleep. There were none of the noises he'd come to grow accustomed to, either - no faint buzzing of the magically reinforced bars holding him in, no tromping footsteps of the guards, no click-clacking of goblin claws or snorts or whistled operas or snarls or distant, echoing screams…

In the end, Jim tossed and turned, sick with fatigue and enraged at how cruelly sleep evaded him. He finally, mercifully fell into a restless, nightmare-filled slumber around five in the morning, but even the worst of the dreams didn't wake him, exhausted as he was, and he was trapped back in the Darklands, suffering torture after torture at Gunmar's hands, until he woke again eighteen hours later, on a cot in Troll Market.

He had been moved there at dusk the next day when his coma-like slumber pressed on and his friends, who had not realized the extent of his injuries or exhaustion, grew worried. Vendel had examined him while he slept, expertly bound ribs that had indeed been cracked, and performed all the healing rituals and magic he knew to be safe for a human. Even so, he'd warned Jim, who felt numb and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, it would be a week before he could even begin to regain his strength and pass as his old self, and longer for him to truly be back to the same physical shape he had been in before he'd gone to the Darklands.

And so Jim stayed in Troll Market, under Vendel's care, for another eight days, while Toby got to put on a magical mask and pretend to be him and have his life and hug his mom. Jim tried not to be bitter about it, but it was hard. Blinky and Aaarrrgghh spent all their spare time with him, and Claire and Toby came to Troll Market after school every day and kept him company until they were expected home. Jim talked to them, laughed hollowly, took the homework they gave him, and then retreated within himself as soon as they had disappeared out of sight.

It will be better soon, he kept telling himself desperately. I just need to get out of Troll Market, go back home, get back to my normal life. Once I'm feeling better and things are back to the way they were, it will be like I never left.

Once again, he was very wrong.

***

In the weeks that followed his re-emergence into his real life, Jim discovered very quickly that the life he had left was either very different than he had remembered it to be, or that he himself was very different than he had once been. He supposed both might be a little true.

Being in his mother's embrace was the only thing that felt completely safe and normal after his return. He didn't care that she had just grounded him; when he finally saw her again, he hugged harder and longer than he could ever remember doing, and he had felt better, more like himself, until he'd tried to go to sleep that night and the cold returned. The next morning, he had attempted to do his usual routine like nothing had ever happened, but even that familiar motion felt hollow and the smile he flashed his mom before leaving for school barely concealed the emptiness just beneath the surface.

Other than that first hug, everything else around him, including his friends, school, good food, trolls, even his mom - all things he had coveted during his time in the Darklands - were strange and foreign to him.

Claire and Toby, though they did their best to be understanding and supportive, were obviously thrown off by his sudden mood swings and sullen attitude. They seemed distant and somehow unfamiliar, and Jim found himself feeling awkward around them, unable to figure out what to talk about or why he should laugh at the joke Toby had just made. Didn't they understand that none of this really mattered? There was so much darkness and pain and fear just beneath the skin of this world, and if they scratched the surface just a little too deeply, it could break loose and destroy them all. So he did what he could to avoid these awkward moments all together, and barely noticed the hurt and disappointment blooming in their eyes as he shut them out and walked away.

He'd thought school would be a great return to normalcy, but everything about it grated on his nerves. Even the cheers as he returned to campus - Congrats on beating Jim Lake Disease! - made him feel claustrophobic. He barely held it together anytime Steve cornered him, his heart racing madly in his chest like it wanted to escape, with or without him. The teachers were demanding, the sound of the lockers made his head ache and reminded him too much of the sound of a cage door slamming shut, and once, when Coach had grabbed his arm to show the class proper movement for a volleyball serve, raw, animal fear had overtaken him, and he'd flipped the teacher onto his back and scurried, terrified, under the bleachers. He barely remembered it, except for the pain in his chest, the short, insufficient puffs of breath, and Claire finally coaxing him out after class dismissed and herding him to the nurse. It was a panic attack, she'd said, eyeing him with concern, and had he had any drastic life changes, any unusual stressors? He lied, because he couldn't do anything else, and she told him to consider seeing a counselor anyway.

"Maybe the nurse is right," Claire said on their way to Troll Market that evening. "You're obviously struggling with this. Maybe you should go to counseling, or something." Her voice was soft and soothing, like she was talking to a wounded beast. Perhaps she was.

Jim laughed, a harsh, cold sound that stopped his best friends in their tracks. "Oh, sure, I'll just do that," he said sarcastically, hating himself as the bitterness dripped from his lips like an overflowing witch's brew but unable to stop the words or the emotions that spawned them. "I'm sure there's plenty of shrinks out there that can help me with my troll-induced trauma."

One of the things he'd missed the most was food - good food, not soupy nightmare-creature eggs or slimy soup made from monster meat that was probably not good for humans but that he had scarfed down on the rare occasion that Gunmar had deigned to feed him. Now, he ate because it was expected of him, but he barely tasted the food. Even his favorite recipes were like ash in his mouth, and cooking didn't bring him the pleasure it once had.

If Claire and Toby were baffled by his behavior, their confusion was nothing compared to that of Blinky and Aaarrrgghh, his two closest friends and trainers in Troll Market. Blinky had fretted on more than one occasion that perhaps they had brought home a changeling Jim somehow, not the real one. After all, Jim Lake, Jr. was kind and funny and fun to be around, and this new Jim was brooding and dull and never truly present. Jim saw the worry in Blinky's six eyes and in the anxious set of Aaarrrgghh's jaw, and it saddened him - just not enough to shake him from the waking hell his life had become. Training was a monotonous routine as he gradually built his strength back up, and even Draal, perhaps the least emotionally-inclined of the trolls save for Vendel, found himself hesitantly asking the young Trollhunter if he was okay, if there was anything he needed that might help him feel better. Jim gave him a half-hearted smile, truly touched, but said no. He wasn't sure anything could fix this hole that had been drilled inside of him. It was too dark, too empty, and it hurt too damn much.

His mom had noticed a difference in him too, but she was at a complete loss. Jim tried his hardest to be his old self when he was with her, and being in her company did bring back a spark of his personality, but even so, he saw the concern in her bright blue eyes whenever she looked at him, and he'd seen her at school in conference with Seňor Uhl, and knew that she was trying to get any inkling of what was eating away at her son. Claire and Toby were no help to her, either, for after she had cornered them after school one day, demanding to know what had happened and why Jim was behaving so uncharacteristically, they had taken extra care to avoid her, unable to say or do anything to ease her worry.

***

And so this went on for nearly two weeks before Toby, Claire, Blinky, Aaarrrgghh, and Draal met up with the sole intention of finding a way to bring their friend back. He was suffering so much, and no one could truly understand what he had gone through.

"He clearly has signs of PTSD," Claire said heavily, clarifying for a befuddled Aaarrrgghh: "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

"This… order?" Aaarrrgghh drawled, eyes wide in concern.

"Disorder, big guy," Toby corrected, heaving a weary sigh. "It means he's been through something traumatic, and he can't deal with it."

"Well, how do humans usually deal with their trauma and stress?" Blinky asked, always straight to business.

Claire and Toby exchanged knowing glances. "Most of the time, we don't. We just avoid it all together," Claire admitted. "But when someone has been through something like Jim has - extended periods of isolation, being a prisoner, abuse - it's not enough to pretend it doesn't exist." A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away with the heel of her hand angrily. "I knew he'd be in bad shape when he came back," she admitted. "But he was so happy to see us when we rescued him that I thought that maybe he would be okay."

"What do humans do if they cannot ignore this trah-mah?" Draal enunciated the unfamiliar word. It was quite endearing to see such a hulk of a beast with so much concern in his dark eyes.

"Usually, they see a therapist," Toby supplied.

Aaarrrgghh frowned. "There - I - pissed?"

Toby snorted in almost manic laughter. "Therapist," he repeated, still chuckling. "A person who goes to school to know how to help people with their problems and stuff."

"Well," Blinky said, a new light in his eyes, "we shall venture forth and find Master Jim one of these therapists! Then he'll be back to his old self in no time!" He noticed the dubious expressions on the humans' faces. "What? Are the therapists extinct?"

"No," Claire replied. "But Jim was right - he can't talk to anyone but us about what has happened, and he obviously has no interest in talking to us!"

"Yeah," Toby chimed in, "if he went up to a shrink and told them that he had been stranded in a dark, forbidden hellscape searching for a lost child and then was the prisoner of a crazy troll that wants to escape his eternal prison and conquer the overworld… he'd be thrown in the loony bin for sure."

"So it's hopeless." Blinky's arms fell limp at his sides. "We can do nothing to help Master Jim escape the clutches of PDSC." Neither Toby nor Claire bothered to correct him. Blinky continued, "Is there anything else that might help Master Jim? Anyone else that he might talk to that would not throw him in this 'loony bin'?"

Claire opened her mouth to say no, but shut it abruptly, the light of an idea sparking in her eyes. "Actually," she said, the hint of a real smile making an appearance for the first time in a very long time, "I think I have an idea." When six pairs of eyes locked onto her hopefully, she added, "And it might even be a good one!"

***

When Jim got home from school two days after the secret meeting between his friends he was surprised to hear someone bustling about in the kitchen when he opened the front door. His mom worked late on Tuesdays, and anyway, her car wasn't in the drive. He reached his hand into his bag, paranoia growing, and his fingertips had just brushed the curve of his amulet when a tall Asian woman wearing a smart pantsuit limped into sight. His bag fell to the floor.

"Nomura?"

It was odd seeing her in her human form; after spending so much time around her changeling form in the Darklands, he had forgotten that she was quite pretty as a human. "Hello, Little Gynt." Her voice was also much less grating in this shape, but he found he didn't like the softer tones as much anymore.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, picking his bag up and hanging it on the stair rail, though he closed his hand around the amulet first, clutching it tightly in one fist. It wasn't that he didn't trust Nomura - she had proven herself to be a loyal, if reluctant friend - but because he had come to associate her presence in general with danger. If she noticed his cautionary measure, she didn't mention it. "I thought you left," he added as an afterthought.

"I did, but I came back," she replied vaguely. A stab of annoyance shot through Jim, and even the negative emotion came as a relief - he had felt nothing but fear and numbness since returning home. The change was nice, even if it was fleeting.

"Why?" His eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me you were worried about me?"

She studied him with dark, serious eyes for a long moment. "I don't worry about anyone," she finally responded.

Jim felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. She said this, but he could see beneath the surface now. Their time as prisoners of Gunmar had shown him that there was much more to the changeling than met the eye. He waited for the consuming awkwardness that always set in when he was around his friends to descend, but to his surprise, he continued to feel relatively comfortable around Nomura, more at home than he had in a long while.

"Shouldn't you be in a wheelchair or on crutches or something?" he asked, gesturing to her legs. Normally she wore dresses, so he could only assume that the legs of the pantsuit hid some spectacular bruises. "I thought your legs were really hurt."

"They were broken," she agreed. "But my kind heals quickly." She moved forward slowly, then sat on the couch. "They still need a bit of rest to recover fully, though."

Jim sat down across from her in an armchair. "I can't remember if I ever said - thank you, for believing me, for helping me escape." He paused, eyes on his fidgeting hands in his lap. "For being kind."

"Well, I'm more than just a pretty face," Nomura said, and it was impossible to tell if she were joking or not. After a companionable silence, she asked, "So how have you been holding up, Little Gynt?"

Jim didn't know what it was about her, but something made him want to tell Nomura about sleepless night after sleepless night, about the nightmares that plagued him whenever he finally collapsed from exhaustion, about the cavern that had been dug seemingly overnight between himself and his friends, about how he either felt nothing or everything at every moment, about how loud footsteps made him anxious and how physical touch - except hugs from his mom - made him want to wither into himself or run away screaming, about how he had had all these expectations about what life would be like on the other side of Killahead Bridge, and how none of them had come through. He gave her a weak smile, and said, "I'm fine."

An undefinable expression flitted across the changeling's features. "Yeah, kid," she said finally. "I'm fine, too."

***

After that, Jim came home on Tuesdays and Thursdays, his mom's late days, expecting Nomura to be there, because she always was. Sometimes they'd have a cup of tea and sit in silence. Often they'd talk about mundane things - Jim would talk to her about school and his mom, and Nomura would talk about anything from opera to history to art to the strange old man who had flirted with her at the laundry mat Sunday night.

These visits, as ordinary as they were considering she was a changeling and he the Trollhunter, slowly seemed to draw more of the old Jim back out into the light. Talking to Nomura was different than talking with his friends; perhaps it was because she had been there with him in the Darklands, had suffered alongside him at the hand of Gunmar. And the more he talked to Nomura, the easier it was to talk to his friends, too. Slowly, the cavern that had been dug between him and his friends, troll and human alike, began to shrink, and he laughed aloud at a stupid pun Toby made at lunch, and he didn't retreat into himself every time a locker slammed. Still, there was a barrier between himself and his real life, the one he wanted back more than he could express but that was always just out of reach.

He found himself actually complaining to Nomura about this three Tuesdays after he had first found her waiting for him in his home. "Toby spent weeks wearing a magical mask and pretending to be me and to have my life," he said. "Sometimes I just wish that I could put that mask on and be me again too."

Nomura was quiet for several seconds, and then she told a story that seemed to be very much off topic: "When I was a child, I was told stories of the human world. It was a wonderful place, full of light and life and the sun…"

"What does this have to do with-?"

"Shut up and let me talk." When Nomura told you to do something, you did it or risked life and limb. So Jim wisely shut up and let her continue. "I grew up longing to go to that world, to see the sun and to feel the warmth and the light. The surface world was a fairy tale, and I was a little girl who grew up in the dark. Nothing else could have spoken to me more.

"But when I was finally given my chance to come into the world, to take the place of a little Asian-American girl named Zelda Namura, I was separated from my parents and my home, all alone in a world I did not understand, and it didn't matter how much I had dreamed of the sun, it wasn't what I had expected at all.

"Adjusting was… difficult. It was not until the human body I had replaced had grown older and was taken by her family to the opera that I found something that connected me to this world, something to enjoy, something of beauty. But it wasn't until I met another one like me, here in Arcadia, while under the employ of Bular, that I truly felt at home."

"Mr. Strickler," Jim realized.

"Yes. There's something very special about talking with someone - even if it's someone you're not crazy about - that understands you, where you've come from, and what you've been through."

"Is that the moral of this story?" Jim asked, partially touched, partially exasperated. "Are you trying to tell me that talking to you is going to make all of this go away because we've been through the same thing?"

Nomura shrugged. "Who knows? I just think it's a good story. You can take what you want from it."

Jim smiled.

And then everything, like water pushing relentlessly at a weakening dam, broke.

***

Jim could never remember crying the way that he did that evening. He didn't think he was sad, exactly, or hurt, or even angry anymore - he was just exhausted and overwhelmed with everything that he had gone through but kept to himself. The fear and humiliation of his capture, the paranoia that his friends were never going to trust him after he betrayed their them and went to look for Enrique without them, anxiety about Gunmar and the paralyzing horror every time he wondered if there was any way he could have followed them out of the Darklands, how he was having trouble connecting with the world he'd always known, the sleepless nights, the nightmares, the numbness and terror that followed him interchangeably, the way that every touch to his arms sent him back to his prison, being dragged painfully between two trolls strong enough to rip him in half with one swift yank…

He talked and cried and had no fewer than two panic attacks, and Nomura just sat there quietly all the while, watching with an unreadable cocktail of emotions in her eyes. When he had finally quieted, his heart feeling both emptier and lighter than it had since before he had made his journey to the Darklands, she simply handed him a packet of tissues she had packed in her purse and asked, "Better?"

He offered her a sniffle and a watery smile, unable to speak anymore, too stunned to fully process what had just happened. She stayed by his side, just being there, until his mom's headlights shone through the blinds. She would climb out the bathroom window and into the night.

Jim slept peacefully that night. If he had bad dreams, he didn't remember them.

***

It was a slow process, even after the cathartic conversation with Nomura. Jim slowly found himself acclimating more and more to his old life, with friends, school, home life, and even troll hunting becoming things to look forward to rather than dread. Loud noises and unexpected touch still startled him, but he was able to ground himself more easily now. He fell into a routine very similar to the one he'd had before, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Cracked ribs, bruises, and cuts healed much faster than emotional scars, but at least he knew, in time, he would be okay. He was acutely aware that nothing would ever be exactly the same as it had always been, though. What he had gone through was something no person, no teenager especially, should have to experience. And while he had entered the Darklands of his own volition, none of what had happened to him there was his fault (at least that's what they told him; it would take a long while to truly believe that himself, but that knowledge, like everything else, would come in time). He had been isolated in the dark, on the run, hunted, captured and held in deplorable conditions, starved and beaten, forced to fight for his life, and nearly broken beyond repair, but he had made it this far.

Things might never be as they were, but he could forge a new path from here. He could grow stronger, adapt, overcome, and prove to Gumnar, to his friends, to troll kind, and to himself that he was more than what had been done to him. He was more than pain and trauma and helplessness and fear and rage.

He was James Lake, Jr., Jim to his friends, the first ever human Trollhunter, the son of Barbara and student of Blinky, Little Gynt, and even, he supposed, Buttsnack. Some days he would only feel like some of these things. On bad days, he wouldn't feel like any of them.

But he wouldn't forget the truth. He wouldn't lose sight of who he was so completely, not again. And, if by some horrible twist of fate he did, he knew now that he had an odd but utterly complete assortment of friends - humans, trolls, and even a couple of changelings - who would help him fight his way out. Out of the Darklands. Out of the past and pain and dark recesses of his own mind.

And into, as cliche as he knew it was, the light.

[writemarvelousthings]

Goodbye For Us

PAIRING- Steve Rogers x Reader (slight implied Bucky Barnes x Reader at the end)

WORD COUNT- 3.7K

WARNINGS- Angst!! Separation, being deserted. Swearing, mentions of self-destructive behaviour. Grief and rejection. 

Summary: Steve decides to return to Peggy, leaving you broken and unsure how to live without the man you have loved with all of your soul. But will his decision be the making of you? 

A/N: Ya girls is back with some music inspiration, this is inspired by Selena Gomez’s new Song Lose you to Love me. As soon as I heard it this plot came barreling into my head and I had to write it! Thank you to @abovethesmokestacks​ for being me Beta on this one! I’m sorry for what you’re about to read, it hurt me too. 

Gif not mine

Your world was burning, crumbling into molten ash scattering through the wind turning into smoke as the tips of your fingers grasped to keep it slipping away from you.

“Please don’t do this.” your voice was trembling, sore and unused as the man sat before you physically winced.

“I... I have too.”

You spat his words back at him, with all the venom you could muster. Another set of blue eyes shifted to look at you, concern flashing across them before settling on his long-time friend making the hardest decision.

“You don’t know what it was like to not have… to try and live after the snap.” Steve’s shoulders sagged, you noticed for the first time how his skin wrinkled around his eyes. The lighter shade of blonde scattered against his golden tresses, sparkling silver in the light. He looks tired.

“You promised me.” you sounded desperate now and you were, a little girl chasing smoke on the wind travelling further and further away from you.

                                                            ~~~

The sun was setting low in the sky, soft cool sheets caressed your body as the warmth from Steve encompassed you. Steeping into the pores of your skin, moulding against your bones. Everything in your body screamed for him, burned for him. Your heart thumped in a steady rhythm tattooing his name against your sternum

Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve

“Will you make me a promise?” you mused, your voice carrying across the soft crooning of your Spotify playlist you personally made for Steve. A large hand roamed against your hip bone, a deep hum answered you. Rolling to face him, your golden lover bathed in the afternoon glow.

“Never leave me.” A small crooked smile spread as slow as molasses, that warmth inside you spread deeper inside you. Attaching itself to your very attoms, curling around the nucleus itself and settling there. Steve’s large hand found yours, bringing the tips of your fingers to his lips. Pressing them against the smooth velvet, against the place that worshipped every inch of you they whispered the words against your skin. Branding you anew.

“Never.”

In that moment, you’d never loved anyone the way you love Steve Rogers

                                                        ~~~

“Sweetheart..” Steve has the decency to look pained at least.

“No, you don’t get to call me that anymore.” You shake your head, finally seeing what you had been too blind to see all these years. What you had looked through rose-tinted lenses at. Natasha had warned you, Natasha. Your heart lurched at the thought of her, how you pushed aside her concern for you. Her sisterly love for you. It all made sense.

“Natasha knew, she knew all these years that you didn’t let go of her... Not really. Not ever.” You bitterly wiped the tears from your eyes, the biting sting only adding to your anguish.

“She always warned me... Not to play with fire.” Steve whispered, his admission carving a piece of your soul from you.

“But... Peggy. She’s dead Steve.” Bucky’s voice cut through the icy tension mounting, cracking the room with sudden electricity as Steve surged to his feet.

“But she’s NOT! I can go back, I can be with her and finally have the life I’ve always..” the words caught in his throat, blue eyes widening. Even Bucky whipped his head up metal arm whirring. You caught the sob in your throat before you swallowed it down.

“The life you’ve always wanted, right Steve? A home, someone to love you. Kids? You have that Steve, you have a family that loves you.. A home, why can’t I be the person to give you all that?” You look up at him, hands flat palms up on your knees. Begging to the man who you had loved for the better part of seven years completely looked down on you, the look in his eyes scaring you. Pity, he felt your pain but you knew, in those atoms that had been encompassed by him. His mind was made up.

“I’ve got a chance with Peggy, my Peggy. I have to take it.” You remained silent, his words lancing your heart with each syllable. You’re not sure how you managed to stand, much less find your way to the door looking back towards Steve. Unshed tears brimming in his eyes before one blink and they were gone.  

“I hope it’s everything you want Captain.”

Your name falls flat from his lips, but like five years ago. You find yourself carried on the wind and away from Steve Rogers for the last time.

                                                        ~~~

You don’t go with him to the mini transmat platform, no matter how much Sam begs you. Bucky tries to convince you. Bruce even threatens to tear your door down. But he doesn’t come to you, doesn’t try to patch up any resemblance of what you once had, what you once shared. Bucky comes back to your room when he’s gone, sits with his back against the door as you slide down the other side listening silently.

“He did what he said he’d do, put the stones back… didn’t... Well, you know.” Bucky clears his throat, you press the heels of your palms into your eyes. Your body is shaking with grief that he’s gone, back into the arms of the ghost in Steve’s eyes when he looked at you.

“Then I turned around and he was there.” your head flew up, inches from cracking the back of your skull against the door. He came back? A flash of hot white hope burns through you.

“The punk remembered when he left and came back.. he’s.. he’s lived his life. Seemed happy with his decision... I’m sorry.” you don’t remember when Bucky leaves your door, you don’t remember the day turning to night then back to day again. You don’t remember Wanda quietly leaving you a tray of breakfast, placing a hand against your door signing softly. All you remember is the void of emotions, except one. Because in that moment.

You’ve never hated anyone more than you hate Steve Rogers.

                                                        ~~~

You throw yourself into missions, taking the ones that send you to the far reaches of the world. To the cold frigid landscape of Siberia, the humid thick air of Bangkok. Smog filled China and crystal blue waters of Malta, you kill. You drink, you fuck. Pretty brown eyed girls that taste like strawberries and cream, green-eyed boys with eager hands that fall into your trap. None of them blonde, never with blue eyes. Sam is concerned, Wanda is worried but Bucky looks at you with a sympathetic knowledge that makes your stomach lurch. Your hands itch to take the next solo mission, but Sam puts his foot down.

“You have to go with a partner.”

“Oh fuck off, Wilson, I work better alone!” you scoff, hands raking through your cropped hair. Half of it shaved to the skin. Sam’s deep eyes scan you, analysing your appearance. You had just come off seventy-two hours holed up in Vancouver. The mission took you twelve, it took the next sixty to lose yourself in bars that specialised in sweet overpriced cocktails with a menagerie of students stumbling through its doors and eventually into your bed.

“When was the last time you ate a decent meal? Slept for more than four hours, took a god damn bath?”

“Don’t…” you fisted your hand, anger and pain rolling off you in waves it make Wanda turn, arms wrapped around her middle physically recoiling from you.

“You used to love baths, you were always using all that soap and bubble shit with..”

“Don’t you fucking say his name Sam... Don’t, please.” your voice was hard with bite and venom which washed away with the alarming wave of tears brimming in your eyes.

“He was the one who loved them.” Wanda’s voice rang through the room throwing you into a memory you’d rather forget.

                                                        ~~~

“God can we just stay here forever?” Steve groaned, head resting against the curve of the bath. You giggle, chin resting on his sternum as you gaze up at him.

“We’d get all wrinkly.” you titter, pressing your lips to his golden skin. The lavender bath salts soaked into his skin, your cheek vibrated from the deep chuckle in the bowls of his chest.

“But I’m so relaxed sweetheart.” Steve groaned scooting lower into the water, pulling at your hips bringing you closer to him.

“And what if the world needs us?” your nose nudges against his for a moment, you’re so close your not sure where Steve starts and you end.

“Well, then at least we can take another bath to celebrate saving the world again.”

“That sounds like a good plan Captain.”

“Mmm, doesn’t it just.” and his lips slipped over yours, one hand cradling the back of your head as you bleed into him.

                                                        ~~~

Sam looks between you and Wanda, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m taking you off the roster.”

You balk at Sam, scrambling to plead your case. You needed those missions.

“No, you need time. This person in front of me. I don’t know who the hell she is. She’s certainly not who Tony and Natasha fought to save and bring back.” at the mention of your mentors you flinch, recoil to a dark part of yourself that resents the person you have become.

“Listen” Sam walks towards you, his voice softer. “I know things have been tough, but you’ve gotta shake him off. You’ve gotta find yourself, the real you. The person we all know is in there somewhere desperate to get out but you won’t let her and I think you know what you have to do to let her free.”

                                                        ~~~

Your hands shake, swallowing thickly around your tongue as the gravel crunches under your boots. The autumn chill had fully set in as it whips the leaves off the trees, the bright vibrant red causing your heart to ache for a different reason. You watch as one leaf flitters along with the wind, flipping and floating to land on the black granite stone before you.

“Hi, Tasha.” you huff at how weak your voice sounds, how lost you feel not having the one person you could turn too.

“Bet you’re looking down right now wanting to kick my ass.” your hold on the sunflowers tightens as if grasping on the stems gives you something to anchor yourself on as to not fall apart completely.

“And maybe Steve’s, but he’s an old man now and that’s frowned upon.. Not that you’d care.” you let out a hollow chuckle that contorts your face. And then you’re heaving, body shattering with sobs that dig your knees into the ground in front of the empty grave. A reminder that not everyone made it back home.

“I’m lost Nat, I’m so lost without him. I don’t know what to do, or who to trust again.. I’m nothing without him.” You crawl closer to the gravestone, the white block letters mocking you.

Gone, but always with us.

“But that’s not true is it, you’re gone. Tony’s gone. Stev...He..He left.” your lip wobbled dangerously as hot tear’s burned your eyes, even uttering his name felt heavy on your tongue. It stabs at what is left at your soul.

“You always said to be careful but I was so blinded by my own stupidity and love that I.. I..” your chest burned, the lack of air entering your lungs make your body ache. Muscles pulled tight and tense around your bones causing your skin to prickle harshly. Then you felt a weight on your back that was unyielding and firm as your ears rang it was then you realised the weight was the result of smooth black and gold vibranium rubbing against your spin.

“Breathe (Y/N), c’mon breath for me darlin. It’s okay.. It’s gonna be okay.” you’re not sure if it was the soothing words or the cool touch of Bucky’s vibranium hand touching you with such a firm yet gentle pressure that makes you fall back into him.

You had been held before, by your mother when you fell off your bike for the first time. By Tony when he found you half-buried in rubble after a rather dicey mission. By Natasha on a rather drunken girls night as you stumbled home shoes in hand giggling into her red locks. By Steve, oh were you held by Steve. But this, this was different. Never had you felt so protected, so safe. When Steve held you, your whole body was set ablaze. But with Bucky, your whole body became butter soft. Sliding up against him as he mumbled into the crown of your head.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you darlin. It’s all going to be okay. I’m here now.” clinging to the soft grey of his jumper you cried and cried. Until the leaves stopped falling around you.

                                                        ~~~

You sure you want to do this?” Sam looked over your head at Bucky, he had been asking you that question since the moment you entered the kitchen. And then in the elevator to the car park, then in the car driving into the little suburban row of houses. And again when you parked in front of the little yellow house.

“Jesus Sam, can you give it a rest? Your starting to annoy me!”  

“I’m just making sure!”

“She said she’s sure, it’s her decision, not yours.”

“Is that why you brought that knife in your shoe Barnes, what you gonna jump a retired old man that’s real..”

“Oh bite me Wil..”

“Will you two just…”

“It’s nice to see not everything has changed” the three of you freeze, the third voice makes you turn to the now open door. The familiar cerulean eyes you had stared into countless times flashed at you. It makes the back of your neck crawl under his gaze, assessing the changes in you since that day he decided to tear apart your world.

“Would you like to come inside?” The question was broadly asked but you all knew who it was really for.

“Nah, me and Buck are gonna take a walk around the neighbourhood. Gotta make sure his old legs are fighting fit” You smirk as Bucky grumbles under his breath, shoving his hands further into his coat pockets. The tip of his nose turning red as the winter air stings at your cheeks, you watch slightly helplessly. Your eyes follow the two figures down the street before turning to meet Steve’s.

                                                        ~~~

I hope you don’t mind I made us some tea.” You sit perched on the couch, like a bird ready to take flight at the slightest disturbance. That’s what you were now, a flightless bird still clinging onto the last branch as the tree continued to burn around you.

“Tea is fine.” your voice is monotone, eyes scanning around the room. Knickknacks of a life lived stung, not as much as you thought they would. But stung nevertheless, you watch as Steve shakily pours the tea into the cup. The brown liquid splashes dangerously for a moment and out of instinct you reach out to steady his hand. It’s frail and cold, skin pulled tight over bones, nothing like the strong hands that held you all those years ago. Once your cup was filled you cleared your throat.

“Do you have any..” But Steve was already pushing an open jar of honey towards you.

“You remembered?” you swallowed thickly, gently taking the slightly sticky mason jar from him.

“I never forgot, you always liked things a little sweet.” you couldn’t help the slight tug of your mouth.

“You cut your hair.” he muses, you sip your tea trying to compose yourself.

“Needed a change after what happened” a noise escapes Steve making you look up. Guilt, piles of it. Mountains buried for years as you break the last memory he has of you.

“I’m so sorr..”

“I hated you, you know.” Steve settles back into the armchair, head bowed with his hands clasped before him. Gone was your golden lover, now there was a man who had lived the life he had yearned for but broke yours into a thousand pieces in the process. Some of them still floating like ash around you.

“I hated you for so long, since the moment Bucky told me you were there that day you went back. I hated every day for the past two years.”

“Not as much as I hated myself.” a flare goes off within you.

“You made a decision Steve, you could have left her alone. But you didn’t.”

“No I didn’t” you stare into Steve’s eyes, you search his face. Trying to find the man you loved, the man you bled for. The man who you defined yourself for.

“It looks good, the hair. You look... different.”

“I feel different” you take another sip of tea, it was lukewarm and sat heavy in your stomach. “Did you get the life you wanted? Love? Family? Stability?”

“I did.”

“Was it worth it?” Steve looks at you for a long time, a slow smile spread across his mouth. You knew he was thinking back, reminiscing.

“It was, but,” he reaches across to you, taking both of your hands in his. Bringing them to his lips kissing your knuckles gently.

“I am so sorry for the pain I caused you, sweetheart. I never wanted to hurt you, but... Peggy, she was,”

“The love of your life, I know Steve.” you give him a small sad smile that really hits the final nail on the head.

“I’m not sure if I’ll ever truly forgive you for what you did to me, you broke me, Steve. In every way, a person can be. I don’t even know if I’ll be the same person when all the pieces get put back together. But I know a small part of me, and over time it will grow, is happy you got what you deserved. You fought for so long, I assumed with me by your side it would make the fighting easier.” You squeeze his hands gently.

“But you were always going to be the man out of time, you were meant to take that chance. As much as it kills me inside because I burned for you, Steve. So brightly it consumed me I didn’t realise what was truly going on right in front of me.” your feel your chest clench as Steve’s eyes gloss over.

“I really did love you, for those first few years, I really did think I could live in the modern world with you... Then finding Bucky and the snap. And you were gone for so long. I didn’t know how to live... Then I saw Peggy again and part of me thought I could have a life with her again, we weren’t even sure the stones were going to bring everyone back.”

“But they did… and here we are Steve.” Your tea was stone cold as you held Steve’s hands, both of you mentally drained at the reality of what you both endured.

“We named our daughter after you.” his voice is so quiet you almost miss it, you let out a watery chuckle.

“Really?”

“Yeah, you and Natasha, she’s named after two of the most important women in my life. The women who saved me in those first few years out of the ice, who helped save the world.”

“I’m sure Margaret loved that,” the bitterness is laced thick in your words, instantly you regret saying them. “I’m sorry that wasn’t fair.”

“She understood what I sacrificed to be back with her. She was the one who suggested your name.” You feel your legs shake slightly, the room suddenly becoming too hot to bear.

“She knew about me?”

“I told her everything, she wasn’t best pleased with the way I handled our last conversation” Steve gives a wry chuckle before continuing. “She said she owed a lot to you, for putting me back together. She also knew I left you in the best hands I could trust, we owed our lives to you. Now you have to go and live the one you deserve, not for anyone else but you” There was that flash of determination in Steve’s eyes you were so familiar with, the one that was always present before charging into battle, into the unknown. That it made you surge forward wrapping your arms around his bone shoulders tears blinding your vision.

“What if I don’t know how to do that” Steve chuckles, wrapping his arms around you rubbing his hands up and down your back.

“Sweetheart, if anyone can do it. You can”

                                                        ~~~

Sweet and thick, the air flowed around you like nectar. Offset slightly by the cool sharp contrast of the lake lapping at your toes. The Yellow summer dress rucked up to your thighs trying to get as much of the breeze on your skin as possible, sweat trickled down your neck as you turned your face up to the sky humming. The only thing cutting thought the sweet peaceful summer afternoon was the soft footfalls walking towards you and the soft grunt of a body dropping to your left.

“It’s hot as hell out here” Bucky grunted, you cracked an eye open glancing at him before closing it again.

“Well, you are wearing jeans and combat boots in August” you bluntly pointed out.

“Yeah but then how else am I gonna convey I’m mean and scary as hell” you didn’t need to open your eyes to know he was grinning like the Cheshire cat, just as he didn’t need you to open your eyes too see them rolling under your lids.

“You’re as mean and scary as Winnie the Pooh”

“Are you calling me fat?” you scoff finally opening your eyes to look at the blue eyes glittering before you.

“You are a lot thicker than you used to be Barnes”

“That’s because Wanda makes such good food” he groans falling back to lean on his elbows “It would be rude to refuse her”

“I’m sure she’d get over it” you grin nudging his calf with your foot, he grumbles for a moment before you laps into a peaceful silence.

“You doing okay?” the gravelly and sincere tone makes you tear your eyes away from a young starling taking flight off a low branch. The blue eyes you are met with are filled with nothing but affection, concern but also respect, the cool breeze whips around you again and you smile, as brilliant as the sun that shines down on you bathing you in the hopeful promise of tomorrow.  

                                                         ~~~

[the-headbop-wraith]

3 _ 47  A Goodbye Letter

 Kingsman Mechanics didn’t usually pick out supplies with smaller distributors, but occasionally Arthur would roll around to collect some of the less essential equipment which had a habit of wearing out. Sometimes it was worth it to spurge a buck if the use was versatile enough, while other equipment had components that wore out regularly and it required periodic maintenance. Other assets he did like to snag spur of the moment, typically for his personal work such as on his arm, or when he needed inspiration for new gear that was hitting the market.

 It was always such an outlet to head out of town and browse the techno shop, supplied with quality parts and computer components for modest prices. One division of the shop displayed aisles of industrial shelving, with test gadgets up top for casual shoppers. Other portions of the store dedicated inventory to domestic living, or industrial distribution. It was likewise one of the nearest shops that carried valued craft supplies for largescale modeling, such as welding and do-it-yourself engineering. For Arthur’s needs, he was aiming for some new soldering parts to boost the efficiency in a refurbished arm.

 There were advantages to a custom made mechanical arm. Dealing with corroded bolts and nuts or working with a stubborn, over twisted bolt was not the issue it used to be. However, it wasn’t a real arm, some of the angles he used to twist into for reaching sections of a car was now troublesome, and his false arm had limits different to a limb of flesh and blood. The circuits and servos didn’t mend on their own over time, if something inside the arm ceased altogether the whole arm crapped out. He couldn’t call for ten and give the arm a chance to heal, anything that needed fixing Arthur did so in his spare time. To avoid those complications, rotors and gears required maintenance; the harder the work, the more frequent the checkups. Circuits burnt out due to overuse – sometimes it overheated – wiring frayed of came loose from the excessive movement and prolonged abuse.

 And dear gods, did he abuse his arm.

 He moved down the large lane, checking his phone and comparing the listing to the names and brands of spooled wires in bins. A metal with a higher heat tolerance was more expensive, but it would endure more hours. However, he needed to construct a better housing for the circuit line to prevent the insulation getting snagged. One of the first arms he built, he totally forgot to factor in gravity and momentum; the wires were not secured like they should’ve been and the model was short lived. He didn’t even make it through the first (return to) paranormal case, they didn’t even arrive to the destination before the thing died.

 With a shudder, he tossed the elected spool into his basket. Within, some large crates of craft metal for repairing cosmetic areas of the shop. Some lowkey cheapy materials he bought offhand, rather order wholesale. Some test gear to burn through before reaching out to large distributors for orders.

 Next, he ventured to the aisle for hosing and insulation components. A new building line for storing energy for the battery would extend the functionality of his arm. The only thing he could do while resting was recharge the internal battery, big whoop.

 On his way to the aisle, Arthur dithered and gave his space a brief examination. The creeping sensation that someone was watching, or someone followed him. It was no mistake, he knew that sensation better than a burn. No way this was paranoia. Never would he attribute his instincts to paranoia.

 For now, he played it cool. It was more to the hope that being out in public would deter something malicious, but he wouldn’t let on about his suspicions. Once he reached the parking zone, he’d have to be on his—

 In his ruminations, Arthur almost didn’t react in time to avoid the basket that eased out into his path. However, his reflexes remained uncontested, and he managed to swerve despite his gimp arm.

 “Holy crepes! I’m so sorry, excuse—” He shut up, and mayhap his face drained of what little color it had. In his path stood….

 MAMMA PEPPER!

 The stern face, the tight shoulders, the imposing aura. Arthur purposefully avoided the Pepper Paradiso, the whole Pepper Bushel – save one vengeful spook – nononononononononononononononononononoNO! Why is she here? He avoided all the grocery stores in all their small town, save for the few times he had to go out and pick up foodstuffs because his Uncle was too sick or swamped with work, whatever – he couldn’t let Uncle Lance go out, even if he insisted he was fine – she couldn’t be here, not in the sacred mechanics haven. The last frontier of casual shopping, and freedom from the accusing eye. This was inconceivable!

 Arthur opened his mouth, but words abandoned him. His throat generated an eerie whine. “Ack.”

 “Arthur,” Mamma Pepper spoke, voice icy, but somehow heated and thick. “I haven’t seen you in some time. You and Vivi, don’t come by anymore. Do you?”

 Any shape or form of human vocalization was beyond Arthur. He clenched his jaw, choked back a swallow, and tried for a syllable. “Uh.”

 “Are you all right? Should I leave you?” She pulled the basket backwards, though there was plenty of room for Arthur to move onward.

 “No,” squeaked Arthur. “Uh… it’s all right. I mean, I’m fine. It’s okay.” He took a breath. Without a word, Mamma Pepper stood, rigid and impassive. “Yeah. It’s fine. Um, Vivi… she uh, she—” He stalled when Mamma Pepper raised a hand.

 “I see. I didn’t mean to intrude.” She tightened her grip on the basket. “I try not to push, but I also don’t want you both believing you are not welcome. You are always… welcomed at the Pepper Paradiso. Does it help when I remind you?” She peaked one critical eye at Arthur.

 He nodded. “It… yes. I appreciate the offer.” He glanced aside, then, checked the supplies in the basket. Industrial Gas Connectors, among other parts and pieces from gauges to replacement dials. “How’s the restaurant doing?” Mamma Pepper seemed to frown. Seemed to. And sighed.

 “Business as usual.”

 “I didn’t mean the business,” Arthur interjected. “I was talking about your equipment. I meant to call and ask, if you… needed some maintenance work? I could come by sometime. I can bring, eh… Vivi. She’d like to come by too, I think. I’d have to ask. She’s been, um…” reflexively, he reached over to grip at his metal wrist, “been doing, erm… well. Yeah. I wanted to ask….” He stalled.

 Mamma Pepper’s stare became harder, more critical. But there was an underlying softness he could scarcely discern.

  __

 For the past month Lewis spent the bulk of his time at Vivi’s apartment, while she was out at work or checking in with Arthur during days off. Though she recognized Lewis wouldn’t remain the whole time locked away or secluded from the world, he left notes when he was jamming off and for how long he intended to be. Where he went remained a mystery, which she was not super eager to inquire about but she did remain curious. She was more apt in reading his nonverbal cues and perhaps a little underestimated in her abilities, given her experience with paranormal creatures.

 Today was one of the first times she hauled Lewis out, though he was foremost invited to change up his ‘routine’, whatever that consisted of. For a bit, he pretended to give the offer some thought – while he hovered midair looking pretty relaxed. It wasn’t a huge surprise that he went along, not that he had a schedule or anything to keep on task with. Aside from shopping runs, a task reserved for the evening, with funds set out for his personal use, and having no real needs of his own. He spent the money on making sure Vivi was well stocked, so poor-poor Mystery wouldn’t have to watch his partner drink those awful canned teas.

 This day was not one to be in any particular place, with an established time to return on. It was a rare day to get out there and go nowhere, spend time in each other’s company.

 And Vivi felt like she was getting to know a Lewis better. She wasn’t certain which Lewis she was becoming more aware of, since there was a difference between Lewis Pepper when he was living, and the Lewis postmortem – if she was to put it indelicately. There were not enough notebooks and folders in the Box which gave her insight into Lewis Pepper, not enough pictures to rekindle memories stolen from the pools of reflection. It didn’t matter so much that she remembered who he was, but that she knew who he is. It bothered her that she lost what once was, and might never be able to take it back.

 A braided crown of stems and flowers alit on Vivi’s head. She took it down and gave the hoop shape a brief scrutiny.

 “Not my best flower crown,” Lewis admitted. “But not a lot of flowers ‘round here.” He held a short stem between his teeth, and gave a comical southern draw.

 “Is it imbued with special, mystical properties?” She turned the crown over and over. Lewis’ voice hitched, as he cackled.

 “No, Vii. Not everything needs special secret magic to make it special.” He grinned. “It’s an old fashioned, unremarkable, flower crown.”

 Vivi set the crown back upon her head. “Plants always have a charm about them, through the winter they endure. I don’t know what it is. The dormancy, the anticipation of reawakening post a harsh and relentless season, something previously viewed as unsightly, reviving, blooming. Hmm… I hope we can have a snowfall before the cold ends.”

 Lewis shrugged. He leaned back against the tree they sat beneath, shaded from the sun by the thin branches brimming with miniscule buds. “One more snow fall wouldn’t be too bad, though I always love the colors of spring. I’m eager for the return of some color.”

 Across the open field of the park, Mystery darted by like a bullet. As if a vengeful spirit was snapping at his tail. Like he was racing his own shadow.

 Vivi reclined back and rested her head on his thigh. “Hey.”

 “Hmm?”

 “When you leave your notes? Do you actually go out somewhere, or… do you sometimes rest too?” she pondered. “I get this feeling you’re not gone completely. Like you’re still there, but unresponsive. Resting?”

 Lewis reached a hand up and scratched at his cheek. “Uh, perceptive much? Sometimes I am a little weary and can’t fully manifest, like the way you… know. Since I can’t just be, I don’t want you to worry. Other times, I’ll find my way to the van. It… is a place where I feel at peace. Dunno why that is.”

 Vivi pulled her hands up and folded them over her middle. “Hanging around with the living still overwhelming?”

 “It’s a lot of energy to deal with. I can’t really escape it.” Vivi smirked.

 “And how’s the van coming along?”

 Lewis wheezed, “Slowly.”

 Vivi tilted her head back further and gazed into the rich azure sky. “What about you? Not that it matters right now, but you’re not casting a shadow. That only happens when somethings on your mind, or you’ve pushed yourself a little too much.”

 Lewis reached over and tucked back a loose hair under the woven crown. “That’s nothing to worry about, I’ve been more active than usual. I guess it’s not so noticeable when we’re doing the travel gig, and you’re focused not on me.” He offered a sly waggle of his brow above the sunglasses, and Vivi responded by squinting back suspiciously. “Mi queria, don’t worry so much. If I thought something was off, you’d be the first person I’d go to.”

 Vivi scoffed. “You better, buster.”

 Mystery sprinted over and gave pause, long enough to tumble down beside Vivi and roll in the scraggily grass. “Mystery!” The wily hound snatched the crown from her head and took off, his yapping suspiciously rebounding like cackling laughter. “You give that back!” Vivi flew up, scrambling to get on her feet. Lewis was up immediately, skiing forward.

 “Oh! I absolutely will catch you! Don’t you doubt it!”

 The ears and hair on Mystery shot up, and he was off faster than a beam of light. Lewis dove after the dog, zigzagging in wild patterns and grabbing at thin air upon every duck and slide Mystery pulled. The grass beneath Lewis’ heels scorched upon every twist; try as he might though, the pup was unattainable.

 Before Vivi could fully devote herself to the chase, the muffled hum of her phone went off. She almost went ahead and left the phone beneath the tree, tucked away safely in the backpack, but decided better and picked it up. “Arthur?”

 “Hey,” replied through the phone.

 “Didn’t expect a call from you. Is everything okay?” She spun around and watched as Mystery made a wide turn, with Lewis hot on his tail. Literally. When Lewis spied Vivi on the phone, he abruptly broke out of his glide and jogged over. “Hmm?”

 “What was that? Is Lew there?”

 “Yeaahhh… Lew’s here.” She grinned up at the aforementioned specter. Lewis’ appearance flashed and shimmered, he set his hands on his vest and tugged. “Arthur says hi.”

 “Tell him… hey, back for me?”

 “Lew says Hay.” Arthur laughed. That was a good sound.

 “I was callin’ to see if you were busy tonight, I have something I wanna ask.”

 Vivi stepped back into the shade and leaned on the tree. “You can’t ask right now, over the phone?” Mystery padded around the side of the tree, lil crown looped over one ear.

 “It’s ahh… a lil complicated, to talk about. Actually, you and Lew both.” Arthur didn’t sound super fortified himself, but his words came through. “Would Lew be willing to come by? If not, that’s okay too. It’s up to him. But he can come by too, I could talk to him.”

 Vivi looked over to Lewis and hit the mute button on her phone. “He wants to see you.”

 “I got that.” Lewis’ appearance dimmed, the burning eye behind the sunglasses glistened in the shifting fractures of his projected appearance. For a moment, Vivi thought he would vanish or lose his grip.

 “You can say no,” she affirmed. “You don’t have to give a reason. He’ll understand.”

 Lewis snatched her hand before she could work at the phone screen. “No, espera. I’d like to see Artie.”

 “You sure?” You and he… you think you’re up for it?”

 “Yeah.” Lewis took the little stalk of grass from his mouth and tossed it. “If he’s cool, I’d be down for a visit.”

 Vivi unmuted her phone. “Hey Art, you still there?” Arthur replied with a hum. Some background noise came through his side, it sounded like traffic or machinery. “What would be a good time for us to swing by?”

 “Around seven, a little after,” he offered. “I’m running some errands, so no rush. You don’t sleep, do you?”

 “Mmm,” Vivi mocked contemplated. “It’s not in my schedule.” A sound akin to static emitted, and she took it as Lewis best attempt at clearing his throat. “Sounds good.” She wondered briefly, but dismissed the thoughts. “We’ll see you then.” She clicked off the phone and made certain it was closed out.

 To Lewis, “He sounded tense and anxious. I didn’t want to ask.”

 Lewis went over and took the crown off Mystery’s head, and set it back on Vivi’s blue hair. “If there’s a problem, I can duck out. Not that I mind a meet, some nonbusiness would be a nice change.”

 Vivi peered at him quizzically. “I don’t think there should be. He’s put a lot of work at the shop, and that helps. But we’ll see.” She began walking, with Mystery picking up the pace by her side and Lewis at her shoulder. “Anywhere else you wanna roll by and check out?” She fitted her hand into Lewis’ and gripped his fingers.

 In a flash of embers, Lewis lost his very convincing living appearance and stood frozen mid stride. At least the park for the time sat empty.

 Vivi stiffened. “Fuck!”

 __

 Another crate of supplies went into the back of the work truck on loan. The parts and materials sat on high value, even the copper was an easy swipe if some lowlife happened by and recognized the glossy hull. With all the valuables packed into the front seats, Arthur shut and locked up.

 Paths of sidewalk wound around the patches of desert xeriscape and clumps of cactus, cutting the sidewalk and parking zone into jagged portions. An expansive patio rolled out from the building entrance, fitted with a wide awning and short fence to divide the patio from the walkway. A few tables sat, awaiting company on the chilly day.

 Arthur moved through the opening of the fence, his gaze taking in faces, his apprehension spiked higher. He didn’t see any familiar faces, but that didn’t reassure him. It was chilly, and his metal arm shifted in the sling; the only arm covered at this time. It would be best to leave, this wasn’t a good idea. He’d call, apologize. She’d understand. He hoped she’d understand. He took a step back. On the thoroughfare traffic picked up, though none of the vehicles cruising by slowed or pulled into the parking lane. Not yet. But soon….

 The entrance to the café swept open and a familiar face glided out. Arthur grimaced, but hadn’t given his legs the memo to relocate. That would’ve been hella rude.

 “I’m glad you could make it.”

 Arthur put a hand to the low top of the fence at his side, but reframed from leaning. He was certain if he did anything but stand, he’d collapse.

 “Yeah. I had a,” he stammered, struggling to collect his words, “a last pickup. Have you been waiting long?”

 Mamma Pepper stood stock still, statuesque. “Not long at all. It’s chilly outside, I have a table waiting.” It sounded almost like she was inviting him into her own restaurant, though Arthur wasn’t sure why this out of the way café.

 He checked the area over before stepping forward. One foot, then the other, steady. “This place. It’s new.”

 “I assisted the owner’s in getting set up,” Mamma Pepper supplied. She held the door for Arthur, until he ventured in of his own pace. “Sometimes my family offers taste testing, and vice versa.”

 Arthur concealed the little twinge that ran through his spine. “Awesome.” The interior was not splendid or over done, but simplistic with a homey charm. At the furthest side of the room, logs crackled and churned within a brick fireplace. From the ceiling, rustic lanterns hung. The dim light competed with the sparse interior tables, and the little candles flickering. One table at the furthest wall harbored a mug of steaming liquid.

 “Take your time, if you choose to order,” Mamma Pepper spoke. “There’s no rush.” She left him and weaved around the tables, until she reached her target. She pulled a chair out, and then took her seat at the table across from the vacant chair. A blatant invitation, if he ever saw one.

 Despite a line, Arthur went ahead and made an order. After the barista took his name, he ventured over to the location Mamma Pepper claimed. She was sipping at the beverage. “I never gave that sorta theme much thought,” he admitted. “They offer some interesting… mixes.” Concoctions sounded rude.

 Mamma Pepper nodded and hummed. “Coffee and tea blends, with traditional staples. I wanted to tell you about it sooner, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

 “Ah.”

 “How have you been?” She squinted one eye at Arthur. “I expect well.”

 “Y-yeah. We… uh, Vii and I, we’re still at it.” He rubbed the back of his head with the heel of his palm. “Doing investigations. Y’know that.”

 “Nothing stops that girl.” A hint of a smile graced Mamma Pepper’s face. “I’m glad to hear.”

 The barista brought by Arthur’s beverage, exchanged conversation on how the two were doing, and left. It was a joy to focus on something else, if even briefly.

 “What did you get?”

 Arthur gave the warm liquid a try. “One of the trademark Hy-blends.” He wasn’t a stranger to abominable tea and coffee concoctions, or anything to spark his brain and keep his eyes open on the longest of long roads between towns. But this was really good, the appropriate balance of strength to mellow, with perhaps too much cream making it thick like ice-cream. But good nonetheless. It wouldn’t keep his heart beating, but it was flavorful.

 His mind worked to bring forth the questions, to inquire about how a family went on in the absence of a loved one. How did one approach the topic, and when was it an appropriate time? There was no reason to approach that at all, no reason to drag it forward if he could avoid it. He sipped his beverage, trying his darndest not to quake.

 “You have a way with the machinery,” Mamma Pepper went on, through the absence of substance. “The equipment gets fixed – mind you – everything works without hitch, but it’s not the same. I can’t put my finger on what’s different. Your help was appreciated.”

 Arthur slunk down in his seat a bit. “Yeah. Mn, sorry ‘bout that. Not, uh….”

 “Arthur,” she stated, firmly. “I’m not disappointed. I’m trying to explain that we missed you. We missed Arthur, not Arthur the mechanic. Just… Arthur.” She sipped at her drink.

 “Oh, right.” He looked around at the dimly lit space, the steady stream of customers. “Have you helped other restaurants get opened up? It’s pretty sweet, nothing like the Pepper Paradiso. Er, it’s more… rustic, I guess?”

 Their exchange seemed to fall into place after that, with Mamma Pepper going lightly over a few changes at the Pepper Paradiso. The two caught up on how they were getting along, while skittering aside from the topic involving Vivi. Arthur wasn’t certain how to approach that grape vine, but Mamma Pepper’s questions were careful. It almost felt normal, like he wasn’t cowering under some terrible weight and suffocating. He could breath a little easier, his replies coming with minimal hitch – when he didn’t think about the now. She did admit her family kept up to date with Uncle Lance, which surprised him. Lance never let on he stayed in touch with the Peppers, though given his Uncle’s pokey (though prying) it was a little obvious.

 As the minutes ticked by, Arthur did become comfortable with a topic delving into how Vivi was keeping. He didn’t want to elaborate a whole lot, but he wanted to assure Mamma Pepper that in the least, the blue-headed investigator sleuth had asked about the family. He wasn’t sure where to go from there, but Mamma Pepper filled in the blanks. She offered cheerful accounts of how the girls were growing so fast, what grade they were in now, and the mischief. It was all good conversation, pleasant and cathartic about the little things. Mostly mundane, and some entertaining and exciting. And when Arthur talked about the hamster he adopted, and built prosthetic wheels for, Mamma Pepper even smiled.

 __

  It was a little after six and the sun was in full set, when Vivi biked her way up the sidewalk beside Kingsman Mechanics. With her trotted the Mystery, prancing like a gazelle and very undog-like, but who was paying attention? Staff hadn’t cleared out completely, though the garages had long been shuttered and locked; barring the entitled customer from trying to get a simple (two hour) fix done on their car at the last minute. Vivi coasted up the empty carport and set her bike beside one of the sign poles for reserved parking, and latched the chain. Then, went over to the entry door and knocked. While she waited, Mystery turned his nose down and gave the area a brief scout.

 “I know you can open the door, but I’m not keen on sneaking in.” As per usual, she wore one of the work backpacks, and in the side pocket sat a snug flashlight.

 To Mystery, “You can run off for a bit, if you need. I think we’ll be fine.” This time, she gave the doorbell a buzz.

 Mystery raised his head and gave Vivi one of his, “give me a break,” looks. He trotted back over.

 In due time a wobbly, hazy form swelled beyond the dim barrier of the door. The door unlatched and opened; Uncle Lance stood there, somewhat surprised. “Aye, hey Vivi. Mystery.” He nodded to the dog as he padded by, welcoming himself in without prompt. “Arthur expectin’ yu?”

 “Yeah,” she gasped. Upon entry, Uncle Lance secured the door behind them and pocketed the keys. “We’re a bit early… I had a few stops to make. Is he not in?” She fell in step behind Lance as he led the way, through the dark passage. Most the lights through the main workshop remained off, only the soft lamps offering radiance, enough to keep people from stumbling into each other or getting lost.

 “Naw, been out all day.” Lance rolled his shoulders and stretched up one arm, gripping at the socket. “I should replace both arms,” he muttered. When he lowered that arm, he checked his watch. He didn’t wear a watch. “Not too worried. Ceptin’, I don’t have a ride out of ‘ere.”

 Vivi couldn’t help but set a hand over her face and stifle the snicker. It was usually her or Arthur winding up stranded due to shared vehicles, if her bike was not available (though Arthur would first eat a healthbar than ride her bike). Now, it was Uncle Lance’s turn.

 “I’m so sorry about that.”

 Mystery yapped. It was a distant reply, given that he was now patrolling the work garage.

 “Can’t be helped. I’m just glad whatever nonsense yu get involved with, you came out safe.”

 Vivi grimaced and bit her lip. “Yes, very glad. It could’ve been bad.” Unbeknownst to Vivi, the flashlight flickered sporadically, until it sputtered and went out entirely. Crackling webs of fuchsia detached and dispersed off through the murky air.

 Lance swung away from heading toward the office and gestured. “Something up with that flashlight?”

 “Huh?” Vivi twisted herself in order to view the aforementioned electric torch. “Uhh?”

 “I seein’ you haul that there thing around.” He tugged on his beard, in thought. “Well, not lately…. You’re not planning on doin’ no spook snoopin with Arthur? Ya’ll are on break from that job-work, eh? A vacation, ain’t it called?” He fixed Vivi with a ferocious, accusing glare – the shadow around his eyes intensifying to the tenth power. “Ain’t it, girl?”

 Vivi sweated. How was it possible for someone so opposite of tall, to be so imposing. “N-no, Uncle. We… I swear….”

 “I pay Arthur to do one of two things.” Uncle Lance counted them off on his fingers. “Work. An’ Rest. Ya got that!”

 Vivi grabbed at her scarf. Oh sweet mother of gods, Lance looked set to unite with his rifle. “No! Absolutely NOT! Er, I… it needs to be looked over. I forgot to hand it over to Arthur, it was my fault! I was careless!” Lance’s features became more relaxed, and she risked a breathy exhale. Crisis averted.

 “Ah. Groovy.” He pivoted and began walking, saying over his shoulder, “Call me when he gets in. And if you need somethin’, there’s chicken wings in the fridge.”

 Vivi waved after him. “Kay! Thank you!” And then raced off, shooting into the corridor and charging up the stairs. Down the hall, the door to Arthur’s work room awaited ajar, and she barreled in.

 A flash of embers all but blinded her. The rose-tinted blaze faded out leaving a hard, burnt fragrance throughout the room. “Lewis! Again?” She wobbled aside when Mystery shoved his way in through the doorway. “How does this keep happening?!”

 “I thought you were Uncle Lance!” came the disembodied retort, somewhat crackly.

 Vivi shut the door and checked the corkboard with the pinned schematics. “Why didn’t you wait then?” None of them were burnt, which was good.

 “I got bored.” In a fuchsia surge of flames, Lewis shape reappeared. A skull and death suit, and then a fizzing surge of embers swirled about the skull and fitted the spirit with cheeks and a jaw, a living memory. “And… I kind of wanted to check the place out.”

 Vivi studied Lewis for a moment, but said nothing. That was fast, though he hadn’t shed the death suit yet. “Okay. I’ll send Art a text, let him know we’re here. Make sure we don’t surprise him.” She set the backpack on the couch and rummaged through it. Mystery hopped up onto the cushions and curled up, his eyes tracking Vivi’s work. Up until she pulled up the laptop and her phone. “Aw. No power.”

 She and Mystery turned their eyes to Lewis.

 The spirit glanced aside and tugged at his tie. “You did ask earlier, didn’t you?”

 Vivi pointed to her little phone. “There is a battery in here. It has only so much power.” Mystery growled and yipped.

 “Be thankful your apartment covers utility costs.”

 Vivi grumbled under her breath as she rooted around her backpack for the charger. “I forgot it. I know better.” Mystery bounced off the couch, within seconds he was back with Arthur’s charger clamped in his teeth. “Thank you. I probably have to hook up my laptop too.” She tsked, this was cumbersome and she knew better.

 “I’m sorry!” Lewis swiped off the embers crackling at his vest and shirt sleeves, the same way someone would straighten out wrinkles.

 “No you’re not,” Vivi snapped. “You shouldn’t be. It’s not your fault.” Thankfully, she never took the laptops charger out of the backpack; let alone disconnected it. She hooked it up to a surge bar and plopped down on the couch once more. Lewis sat down beside her.

 “Watcha lookin’ up?”

 “Emails. There better not be emails in my damn emails.” She went through the mail icon and sighed. “Of course, it’s from Duet.”

 “Joy o joys.”

 “A list of assets for review.” She closed out the email. “I’ll look at those later.” She pulled up a new tab, and began researching how to stop spirits from syphoning battery life on the Paranormal Corner site.

 “Maybe… I should go for a bit.” Lewis glided out of his seat, up until Vivi caught the tail end of his vest and hauled him back down. “Or not….”

 “Atta boy.”

[jennyellie]

Red Riding Hood AU

[Chapter 6: Confrontation]

The late afternoon sun lowered down until the white moon started to rise in the late night sky.

Lance in the meantime, returned to the village to get some rest after a long day work.

But as he passed the entrance, the atmosphere wasn't right. Something seemed...missing.

The townspeople were mostly still awake seeming like they were waiting for him, and at the front of the crowd, was the kid's mother who was so close to crying.

"Ma'am? What's wrong?" asked Lance.

Few seconds later, the woman asked.

"...Have you seen Walter?"

"Wait..He's not..here? I thought I..."

Lance was slowly becoming scared.

He was sure he put Walter back to the right path and would be home now.

"He was supposed to be home by nightfall! I asked all villagers who were returning and none of them saw him..!! He always used to return at sunset.."

said the mother who slowly starting to break down.

To calm her down, he bent down and tightly held her hands.

"Don't you worry, ma'am. I promise I will find your son whatever it takes. Stay safe here with the others and I will go and check his grandmother's house."

"She lives in a house with a red roof just before you get to the other village. Next to it is a large oak tree." said the child's mother.

"Thank you. I will bring back your son as soon as possible."

Then he ran to his house, took out the strongest rifle, packed some bullets and took a dagger just in case.

As he exited the village, he turned back one last time at the people and started to run into the pitch dark woods.

Relying on the moonlight, he rushed through the forest and the fields as fast as he could.

He hoped the kid to be safe.

He didn't want anything worse to happen after 'that day'.

.

.

.

After dashing for a while, he could see the red-roofed house with a large oak tree far ahead.

To be sure, he called them if they were safe.

"Ma'am? Walter, are you there? It's me, Lance!"

There was no answer.

So he slowly went inside and drew all the curtains to let the moonlight in and started to search the house.

The house was strangely too clean for an invaded one.

Looking around the kitchen, he lit the candle and saw a familiar yellow basket on the table next to a vase full of flowers.

The kid was still here.

Becoming uneasy, he crept inside deeper and went to the final destination.

Inside the bedroom was a bed with other few furnitures.

"Ma'am? Are you in there?...Kid?"

He went closer and closer to the bed calling the two.

As he drew the drapes, there was a low growl heard and suddenly the monster sprinted out, so close to catching the hunter.

Lance after barely dodging the claw, quickly pulled out his rifle and aimed at it.

"WHAT THE-?! What in the hell is that thing?"

"...You don't remember me, don't you Sterling?" said the monster slowly approaching to Lance.

The hunter quickly observed the strange looking 'animal' that looks like a human but with furry ears and a tail. It looked very close to...a wolf. As his sight went down to the stomach, he saw something was moving inside.

At that short moment, the wolf attacked and caught him by the neck to make the hunter drop the rifle.

"What are you? Some kind of...were..wolf??"

asked Lance while being choked.

"Still no clue? Well then, I'll give you a little hint...It all started with a fire." said the wolf.

Just as Lance heard the word 'fire', everything was coming together.

The ears, the tail and the burnt arm...He found out it was one of the pack which attacked their village years ago.

Lance looked back at the creature with shock.

As the wolf saw the realization on the man's face, it smirked.

"Ah...you remember. I mean I also never forgot that day.

You were one fearless huntsman.

You led your crew to protect the village, never stopped fighting until the end, and had this flaming weapon that just left the whole forest, ONE. BY. ONE.

said the wolf in a sarcastic tone.

Then he rolled up one of his sleeves, revealing the burnt, distorted arm with the severely melt down skin.

After hearing the creature's words, the man slowly started to believe that the thing he is seeing right now was one from the pack.

"I don't know what happened to you, but I have words for you too, dirty fur bag.

It's not my fault!!

Because of you almost all of our villagers have lost their only children and my comrades are DEAD!!!

It is my sworn duty to keep our town safe ever since.

If you and your pack haven't came down in the first place, none of this would have happened!

You deserved that burn!!"

shouted Lance.

The wolf after hearing those words, tightened his claw harder around his neck as he slowly walked to the kitchen table.

It's voice started to crumble down like its emotions.

"My pack were the only family I ever had, Sterling.

I was one of them since I was a pup.

In case you didn't know, some of them...were not even fully grown up yet.

Was it fun to have all the glory by crushing us?

Was it happy to get what you always wanted?

WAS IT??!!!"

At this point, Lance's vision was getting bloody red and blurry.

Just as he thought this was the end, he

suddenly dragged the wolf down with his weight and made the table knock down.

As he saw the wine bottle roll out from the basket, he caught it and smashed against the creature's head with full force.

The bottle shattered into pieces and the dark liquid was dripping down to the floor like blood.

The wolf fell down on the floor with a big thud.

I felt bad for the both of them since they had understandable reasons...

But to be honest, I actually was slightly on Lance's side.

In case anyone who thinks Killian is dead, don't worry. He's not dead, just fainted.

(And probably a concussion too...)

@xxstar-bluesxx @rachi-roo @thesmoothpudding @ohziland @honeypandonze

[brokasteltranslations]

Fate/Requiem: Chapter 8

Dusk was closing in.

Other incidents, big and small, had occurred around the outskirts of the Colosseum, and the heart of the city had been effectively paralysed with the temporary absence of the municipal administration AI, causing accidents all across Akihabara. However, the communication and transport networks were recovering, and governmental and medical institutions were returning to full functionality with all possible haste.

-

At long last we exited the Colosseum. An enormous crowd milled about the exterior. News of the tragedy had finally reached families and friends of spectators through the municipal information network, and they had come en mass in search of their loved ones. Some screamed the names of missing family members. Others wept and wailed for those already lost.

After the ferocious battle inside, the outside wall looked to be only moments away from collapsing. Black and yellow tape had been strung up to keep people away.

“You know, I have this weird feeling I just saw him back there.” Karin looked around suspiciously.

“Who's him? Kuchime?”

Karin nodded hesitantly. That wasn't like her.

“Only for a second, though. Might have been imagining things.”

“Maybe he came to see if we were okay? Guess that's still kind of weird.”

Karin's carefree laugh was enough to set me at ease.

“Speaking of missing people...” I scanned the sea of people around me. “Oh, there he is.”

The boy stood alone in the middle of the crowd, straining his ears to hear their cries and sobs as though listening to music. I recalled his face before as he asked me what “death” meant. It looked to me as though he were hoping to find an answer.

To see him standing silent amid a sea of human grief, with his golden scarf fluttering in the twilight sun, he hardly seemed a creature of this world.

-

Nzambi had spoken of an expanding kingdom of the dead.

Death was no stranger to us. It had always lived hand-in-hand with us. In this city, it had simply been ushered from the stage, covered over and hidden away. Sometimes its eyes had been covered by my hands, sometimes by those of the municipal administration AI, and sometimes by Chitose's porcelain fingertips.

“Chitose?”

I looked my grandmother dead in the eyes as I asked.

“That black dog... The Servant. You know what it is, don't you?”

I could make as many theories as I pleased as an outsider, but what really mattered was that it had called me by name, and had some kind of acquaintance with Chitose.

“You reacted when Pran mentioned it, and you didn't hesitate to attack it with your stakes. You know what it is, and you knew about what was going to happen here today.”

She didn't answer me. Neither did Lucius, now dressed once more in his modern attire; he furrowed his brow sadly, but said nothing. No matter how dear he was to me, in that moment his silence left me furious.

-

Eventually she spoke, but it was not to answer my question. She had ignored me. Again.

“There's something I need to tell you, Erice, now that Caren can't.”

I tensed. Nothing ever came from her but misfortune.

“It's about the child she entrusted you with. I'm going to take care of him from now on.”

What? Whatever I had expected, it wasn't that. I shuddered at the request.

How much was she going to take from me? She had taken my work, the boy, Caren... Even my parents, she had stolen. I had no intention of going along with her wishes any longer.

“I refuse.”

Her face didn't falter for a moment. Apparently she had been expecting as much.

“But I doubt you'll respect that anyway, will you?”

“I suppose I won't.”

She glanced to the boy standing some distance away. I moved to block her way.

“Ms. Fujimura didn't just charge me with taking care of him. She also asked me to discover what I could about his identity.”

“That doesn't matter any more either.”

I shook my head. “But it does. I think I've found an answer.”

“I see. It looks like you don't have any intention of doing this the easy way.” Her Command Seals flared to life on the backs of her hands - the symbols of the Stigmata, and tokens of a piety willing to subject her own body to the pain of crucifixion. And she called out to her Servant.

“Lucius.”

Surely she doesn't mean to...? Her Servant hadn't moved. He stood still, eyes downcast, as though he hadn't even heard.

“Lucius.”

Chitose called to him again, in a kindly voice that made my blood run cold.

“Please, Lucius... Don't do it...”

I sprinted for the child, but I was too late. Before his Master's Command Seal could flare brighter, he began to move, mechanically, robotically. He manifested his spear...

And hurled it at Pran with pinpont accuracy.

----

The clash of colliding metal rang out like breaking ice, and Lucius' Holy Lance spun high into the twilight sky.

There he stood, in front of Pran, in the space I had been trying so hard to reach: Galahad, stripped of his armour and down to his shirt. He held his sword high and horizontal, staring down Longinus as he interposed himself between the centurion and his prey.

“You could've run and left Koharu to Nzambi, but you didn't. Consider this a debt repaid, Reaper girl. Though I'm not sure you’ll thank me for it.”

The spinning lance returned to earth once more, bound for the earth directly in front of Galahad. The knight snatched it from the air a split second before it hit the ground and tossed it back to a dumbfounded Longinus' feet.

“Maybe the Sword of the Strange Hangings doesn't look like much, but sadly for you, the shepherd boy it belonged to ended up king of Israel.” Galahad's voice was haughty. “You won't find many holy relics more sacred.”

“I see. The sword of David, then.”

“And no other. They say no armour can stand before the Holy Lance, but this sword might be able to get in a stinging word or two. As you just saw.” Galahad chuckled as he returned his blade to its sheath.

Koharu!

The girl in question had been returning to our group after receiving first aid. She strolled over to silently take her place by her Servant's side. Her face was twisted in a pained grimace, but I saw no hint of surprise at Galahad's actions. She had been watching my argument with Chitose from the beginning.

“Or well, who knows? Perhaps you expected me to stop you from the first.”

Longinus remained silent. I glared at Chitose. Finally she relented, and with a sigh her Command Seals dimmed.

She called out to Koharu as she stalked past. “Get well soon, Riedenflaus. Your strength will be needed soon enough.”

“O-Of course.” Koharu paled. She couldn't even look her in the eye.

With that, Chitose and Longinus left the Colosseum behind.

-

I needed to thank Koharu and Galahad somehow. I even thought up a plan to invite Karin and Kouyou and go to a juice stand together, but before I could...

“Urgh... Agh!”

Searing agony assailed me. I grabbed my burning arm and grimaced. This was not the pain brought on by the evil spirits; it was something I had never felt before.

Before I knew it, Pran was standing in front of me. He opened his mouth solemnly.

-

“I... ask... you...”

-

He spoke directly to me, and only to me, in the same broken English as when we had first met.

-

“Are... you... my... Master?”

-

Heat and agony raced down my arm, tracing mana pathways into my body... and at long last a Command Seal, the symbol of the contract I had dreamed of since the day I was born, flowered into being on the back of my hand.

Like a tiny knight, he took that hand in his own, and gazed up at me serenely.

I was smiling. Perhaps I was crying, too.

“You really have come from far away, haven't you?”

“Very far.”

“I know who you are now. You're Voyager. A lonely little Servant who travels the stars.”

My words never left my mouth, but he heard and nodded regardless. “I’m glad. Finally we've met, Erice.”

Here and now I swear...

I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven. I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell.

“It’s okay. Let’s destroy this world. Let’s finish this war.”

Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail. If you submit to this will and this reason...

I pledge my fate to your guiding light.

“Your wish and what I have lost are the same. We’ll watch right to the end, together.”

----

“The Holy Grail War... is not yet over.” The light in Ms. Fujimura's eyes dimmed even as she spoke.

“Do you wish to fight, Erice? Or perhaps...”

I wished, hard - to hurl myself into the battle for the Holy Grail, and to bring it to its end.

Ms. Fujimura looked up at me with sadness in her eyes.

“I see. In that case, Erice, I have one last request for you. If you choose to fight...”

-

“Go to Fuyuki.”

To be continued

[the-four-disaster-bastards]

How long have Elgor and Alteir known each other and how did they meet?

((They’ve known each other for about 50 years at this point. By now, they pretty much may as well be married, but it certainly didn’t start that way. Here’s a rp with @renegadenephilim of how their first meeting played out!))

—–

     Most can agree that the Earth is a desolate, dark place, razed by the hoards of demons that roam it. Light itself seems to struggle to reach the planet, and even when it does, it rarely offers comfort. The harsh sunlight that beats down on the Ashlands is proof of that, leaving little of that desolate realm and the broken skyscrapers that border it trapped under heat so thick that it warps the air.

     Such heat should be stifling to all that attempt to move through it, but for one particular runaway frantically climbing the broken flights of stairs that still line the inside of one of the dilapidated skyscrapers, it could hardly matter less. Many don’t dare to climb so high, where they could be picked off by the remaining Hellguard who still patrol the skies. If he can just find somewhere high enough to hide himself from the hoard for a while, he stands a chance of survival.

     With every flight he climbs, with every bit closer he gets to the sun, another one of his scales turns gold. That might concern him, if he wasn’t so worried about hiding himself.

     Another few flights of stairs finally take him to the roof, where there’s just enough left of a storage room at the very top of the building for him to squeeze into. He pushes the door open and forces himself through its frame, ignorant to how the sunbeams shining in through the holes in the ceiling seem almost opaque in how bright they are. He has enough space to huddle in the corner and keep himself out of sight, and that is what matters.

     That is, until his tail sweeps through one of the rays of light, and is met with a burning sensation across the skin that came in contact. The demon hisses and brings his tail closer to himself, only for his eyes to go wide when he sees the change in color to his hide.

     "What in the nine circles…?“

     He tilts his head skyward and gazes into the strange, unearthly light. It yields no answers for him, instead leaving only a split second for him to react as its luminosity increases exponentially, bathing everything it touches in burning white.

     There’s no scream, no roar, or no sound of impact—just a brilliant sunburst that encompasses the entire tip of that skyscraper, large enough to be seen from miles around, burning brighter than the sun for the crucial few seconds that it lasts.

     While there are, fortunately, no Hellguard close by enough to be of any concern, there is one former member of their armies whose eye is caught by the brilliant light.

    He notices it only as a glint off the weapon he sharpens at first, but then it becomes far too bright to be natural, in a way that is all too familiar. From where he sits in one of the half-ruined buildings across from the source, he turns his white-blue gaze upward, and finds, to his chagrin, that the light is so bright even he now has to squint against it.

    Perhaps that shouldn’t surprise him, but the presence of the golden light itself does. Why would it be here, so far away from any place one would expect it?

     He takes it upon himself to investigate. He takes to the air with redemption cannon in hand, just in case.

       Fortunately for him, it becomes evident that the weapon he carries will not be necessary as soon as the ruins of the skyscraper’s peak are reached.

     The being caught in the epicenter of the light lies motionless on the ground, taking only the slow, shallow breaths that those without consciousness can take. There’s no evidence of a struggle in the area, but the wounds he’s sustained might have suggested otherwise in any other place.

     Fragments of scales and tinted bone surround the being’s body, as if they were forcefully shorn away from him by the light. His hands and feet are bloodied, yet still shimmer with the remnants of the energy that just burst throughout the sky. This same energy crests the back of his head and the tip of his tail.

     Most striking is the damage–if it can be called that–to his wings. Blood runs down them in thin streaks, acting as lingering evidence of the transformation they’ve just been dealt. They now faintly resemble the build of the Destroyer’s wings, save for the golden membranes that bind them to his back and tail. Those too glow with the same heavenly light.

    It’s obvious that this creature used to be a demon from his horns and animalistic features. Now that he’s been touched by the light, however, it’s hard to say what he should be called.

     The fallen angel hovers a short distance away from the unconscious demon, pointing his weapon almost without thinking.

     Every bit of ingrained instinct in him is trained to kill demons on sight. Uncountable years of combat have made it second nature, if not first nature. It’s almost everything he knows; it’s almost everything he’s ever done.

     But he doesn’t shoot.

     This demon–if he can still truly be called such–has been touched by divine light. For what reason, the angel could not begin to fathom, but he would know that reason if he could.

     At his wordless command, he summons the only companion he has left in these uncertain times. As if materializing from shadow, a griffon-she-wolf-hybrid steps forth, sniffing at the demon cautiously. She, too, is more than familiar with killing demons, and the smell of this one’s blood makes her go tense, as if about to attack.

    “No,” her handler commands. “We’re taking him with us.”

     The beast’s canine head snaps up to look to her companion, as if looking for confirmation that she understood the order correctly. The look she gets in return confirms that, yes, she did.

     She shifts her taloned feet uncertainly, but ultimately obeys. With her handler’s help, the demon is carefully, gently lifted onto her back, and they depart, returning to the hideout they’ve holed themselves up in as of late.

—–

     Some time passes before he begins to show the first signs of consciousness again, but sure enough, his breath hitches in his chest after being shallow for so long. The ringing of his ears is the first thing that stirs him, but its effects are not enough to rouse him completely. The splitting headache that grows more pronounced with each throb in his skull prevents that.

     Altael doesn’t know that he’s been moved, nor does he know that his body is no longer the one he started out with. He can barely feel anything save for his head, and even that sense is limited. Try as he might, he can’t find the strength to open his eyes yet.

     The only thing he has the strength to do is exhale a weak, quiet groan, and even that is hard to hear above the ringing in his eardrums.

     "Hm,“ his impromptu caretaker hums at hearing the first signs of wakefulness from the demon after so many hours, musing mostly to himself. “Perhaps you’re not dying just yet after all.”

     He sets the blunt end of his lance to the floor and stands, at which his beast companion’s canine head snaps up to attention. The floor creaks faintly with the weight of the angel’s steps as he comes to the side of the makeshift bed the demon lies atop.

     He’d managed to wrap up the worst of the wounds with bandages, but he could do little else with any certainty on his own. Perhaps now that the stranger is beginning to stir, there is more he could do–but he has questions first.

     "You. Can you speak yet?“

       In his dazed state, Altael doesn’t entirely recognize the words being spoken to him, nor does he recognize that he should be concerned that he’s no longer alone. The pain in the base of his skull is still his most predominant concern–all else is second to it for now.

   Still, he manages to roll his head to the side with another quiet grunt. The movement makes the ringing of his ears grow louder, but he still attempts to open his eyes and track the source of the noise that pierces through the constant drone.

     Eyes as golden as his wings slowly crack open and blink, but there’s no focus or recognition to be found in them. His vision is too blurred for him to make out anything but this stranger’s outline, but at least he doesn’t look like a demon.  He hasn’t been brought back to the horde. That means he can still work through whatever this situation is, whenever he regains his wits. That’s a good start.

     “Rrrgh…” His first attempt at speaking only comes out as a pitiful growl that might have been another groan if he could have worked his voice up. Another few seconds pass before his second attempt at speaking.

     "…What?“

     He might be able to speak, however simply, but his ability to hear and process words isn’t entirely there yet.

     "So, that’s a definitive ‘mayhaps,’” the angel standing above him decides aloud, shrugging and nodding. “I suppose I couldn’t have expected much better just yet.”

     He turns, his long feathers ruffling slightly with the movement. He pulls a chair up close by the bedside and sits in it somewhat heavily. His lance remains in a loose grip at his side.

     "It appears as though you won’t be moving anytime soon,“ he observes. “Hopefully you’ll be talking sooner.”

      He can vaguely tell that quite a few words were just spoken, but there are very few he can definitively make out before the sound of his captor sitting down in his chair makes him flinch and close his eyes. Each new movement and noise he processes wakes him just a little further, regardless of whether or not he really wants to be awake yet.

     "Head hurts,“ are the next two words he strains to push out, in an attempt to justify his slowness to respond. Though he hasn’t spoken much yet, his voice seems tinged with a slight accent.

     He draws in a deep breath and brings his hand to his face to rub at his eyes, only to find that his fingertips feel…odd, to put it mildly. This must be a side effect of whatever head wound he was dealt to put him in this state–why else would his hands not feel like his own?

     The angel actually gives a faint chuckle at that.

     "I would imagine all of you hurts,” is his amused response. “A demon touched so directly by holy light should be thoroughly dead.” He leans forward, now unsure whether he’s talking more for his own sake than for the sake of actually receiving an answer to his questions.

     "I would ask you why you aren’t, but you don’t sound quite well enough to be interviewed.“

     Is that what happened to him?

     This revelation manages to stir Altael a little further, enough for him to put actual effort into making his eyes focus again. He starts by looking at his…his paw. This is not his hand, so why is it attached to his arm?

     Much to the protest of his head and wounds, he pushes himself slightly more upright, enough to give the rest of himself a look over. His legs seem to have suffered in much the same way, and where that flame on his tail came from is entirely beyond him. Then he catches sight of the golden membranes affixed to his tail.

     He follows these up until he sees where they connect with what once were his wings, but are no longer shaped as they used to be. Flexing the one splayed out at his side confirms that it is his, unbelievable as it may be.

     “Is…that light what did this to me?” He hesitantly asks, apparently more concerned by his new appearance than the angel he’s keeping company with.

     "I can only assume so,” is the fallen angel’s uncertain response. “I didn’t witness any transformation firsthand; I only saw the light from a distance.” He drums his armored fingers along the hilt of his lance.

     "You’re fortunate I found you before the Hellguard did.“

     It’s only now that Altael chooses to size up the one who will either turn out to be his savior or his captor. Any angel is enough to set him on edge, even when fallen, but this one seems surprisingly…docile.

     And alone. He’s never seen a fallen angel that was without similar company. Everything he knows of the angels who scorn the light tells him that they’re rarely without their flock. Is this one truly on his own, or are their more lying in wait?

     Altael’s train of thought is betrayed by how his body goes tense, but he makes no attempt to flee—yet.

     “Is there a reason you decided to bring me here, instead of killin’ me?” He surveys the rest of the visible hideout before he speaks again. “…wherever here is.”

     ”‘Here’ is not far from where the light touched you,“ the angel assures him. “As for why I brought you here, I have questions you can’t very well answer if you’re dead.” He pauses, putting a curled finger to where his helmet covers most of his obscured chin. His white-blue eyes narrow, dimming their glow slightly.

     "Although, it… doesn’t sound as if you know what exactly happened to you, or why.“

     Well, that’s encouraging. He’s only alive so he can be interrogated.

     Altael breathes out a rumbly sigh and lets some of his tension fade, though not all of it. There may be little point in doing anything but cooperating, since he certainly can’t fight in this state–and even if he could, he has no idea where his weapon is. For all he knows, his spear could still be in that building.

     "You’re right, I don’t.” He gives himself another good look over. Once again, his eyes settle on his new wings. “Ain’t never heard of a demon touchin’ the light ‘n lookin’ different instead of dead.”

     "Nor have I,“ the fallen angel agrees in a disappointed sigh. It was a longshot, but he’d sort of been hoping maybe this was something the demon might know about. His hand moves from his chin to the back of his helm.

     "But there must be some reason to it, yes?” he presses, perplexed. “I imagine you want to know more than I do, even, er…” He pauses.

     "… I suppose I should ask your name, if you have one,“ he states out of formality.

     It’s Altael’s turn to give a dry chuckle at that. Perhaps it’s rude to laugh, given that he might owe this angel his life, but he’s at a loss for what a better reaction would be to this mix of politeness and ignorance. That contradiction strikes him as amusing.

     "Do you think they don’t give us names in Hell?” He asks out of amusement rather than offense. Before the angel can answer, he speaks again. “It’s Altael. Legion Champion and battle strategist…”

     His voice trails off, and his smile goes with it. Too much has changed now for him to retain his titles, hasn’t it?

     "…Former Legion Champion might work better, now that I think of it.“

     "Eligor,” the fallen angel states in a very similar tone of voice to that last detail about the demon’s status. “Former Storm Warden of the Hellguard. Not that the former part is difficult to ascertain.” He sniffs disdainfully, wings twitching. He can’t help but notice, ironically, that their names almost sound as if they should belong to the opposite race.

     "Are you a deserter as well, then?“ he guesses.

     "Only recently,” he confirms with a shallow nod, “It’s why I was runnin’, before…all this.” That statement is accompanied by a gesture to the rest of himself–which he still can hardly believe looks the way it does.

     "I figured I didn’t have long ‘till someone found out I was gone, so I thought I’d lay low in that skyscraper. Look how well that turned out.“

     "Indeed.” Eligor shifts in his seat. He considers asking why a Legion Champion would desert Samael’s forces, but ultimately thinks better of it. Regardless of how much he may or may not have helped Altael, he’s not owed a life story.

     "Well,“ the angel decides, rising to his feet somewhat heavily, “I suppose that would mean we’re not enemies, at the very least. Technically speaking.” He makes a small shrugging gesture.

     "I’d been waiting until you awoke before attempting to treat your wounds any further. Truth be told, I’m not much of a healer at all, let alone for a race I’ve never tried to heal.“

     Technically allies is better than outright enemies, but he knows better than to fully trust Eligor, even given their circumstances. Whether or not there are more fallen angels nearby is unclear, nor is it clear if there’s anyone he reports to. The last thing he needs is for more people to know of his continue existence.

     But that doesn’t mean he won’t take the extra help while it’s still in reach.

     "You’ll…have to tell me what is and isn’t damaged. Lotta my body still feels like it’s asleep.”

     To confirm this, he flexes his new paws again, invoking more of that uncomfortable pins and needles feeling–but somehow managing to unsheathe a set of claws he was unaware he still had. He raises one glowing brow at this sight.

     "…Those’re new,“ he observes somewhat bluntly.

     Eligor squints at him.

     "You… didn’t have claws before?” he asks incredulously. “I find that hard to believe.” He looks the demon up and down, half-turning as if to step away.

     "Exactly how different were you before?“

     Altael sheathes and unsheathes his claws twice more to grow accustomed to the motion before he answers Eligor. His look of incredulity is met with one much like it.

     "Of course I had claws, they just didn’t look like this.” He turns his wrist so he can inspect them a little better. Their curvature is more pronounced, just as their ends look much sharper than they’ve ever looked before. He might actually be able to use them for self defense now, as opposed to intimidation.

     "I also had hands instead of paws. Can’t fathom why the light decided to take ‘em from me.“

     The angel doesn’t really know how to respond to that. He’d sort of assumed the only major change the divine light made was adding a golden color among all the black and red. He didn’t realize there were any major anatomy changes.

     "Your wings.” He gestures to the limbs, venturing a guess based on what he knows of the typical Legion Champion. “Were they always right-side-up?”

     It isn’t unheard of for a demon to have actually functional wings, but it is rare. Even then, it’s usually only a trait observed in demons who were once angels.

     “They most certainly weren’t,” Altael answers assuredly, as if that’s the one thing he still knows to be true of himself in the midst of all of this confusion and change. “That’s what’s so strange about this–I barely look anything like I did before.”

     He brings his paw up to feel at his face again. His horns still seem to be intact, as does his nose and mouth, along with the scars that frame them. That confirms that his general facial structure hasn’t changed, but until he can find a mirror, he won’t know for sure if his transformation was only applied from his chest down.

     "Really?“ Eligor asks mostly rhetorically, his gaze scrutinizing. This whole situation is even more unorthodox than he’d originally thought. Ironically, he gets roughly the same idea Altael has–getting him a mirror to figure out exactly how much has changed.

     "Wait there,” he directs more than requests, turning his back to the demon to step toward an open doorway nearby. He points to his beast companion at the far end of the room, then back to Altael.

     "Marchosias. Watch him.“

     And with that, he leaves, the cyan glow of his wings being the last of him to disappear beyond the doorway. The griffon-wolf obeys the command dutifully, padding over to take her handler’s place sitting upright by the bedside.

     And he’s gone. Lovely. He wasn’t very at ease to begin with here, but now that there’s a large canine griffin sitting just a foot away from him while he’s in a weakened state, he couldn’t unclench his neck muscles even if he tried.

     He looks the beast in the eyes. Then he looks to the door. Then he looks to her again.

     What is one supposed to say to break an awkward silence with a fallen griffin, exactly?

     Marchosias, for her part, looks quite at ease. Her posture is attentive, but neutral, and thanks to her canine face–rather than avian–her relatively relaxed expression is easy to read.

     She tilts her head to one side, regarding the demon with curiosity. One of her ears angles backward as the sound of something heavy being dragged comes from the direction her handler left in, but her ice-blue eyes remain fixed on Altael. Her long, fluffy tail drags across the floor as it sways from one side to the other.

     She’s not yet very familiar with this stranger, but if her master is letting him be here, then she figures he’s probably okay.

     He can’t quite fathom why he feels so inclined to do this, but he tilts his head in the very same way that the she-wolf does, first at her, then at the loud sound coming from beyond this room.

     If he’s dragging a weapon in here to kill him with, it seems to be giving him some trouble. Not that he thinks he would do that so spontaneously after this.

     "That better not be his gun,” he mutters to no one in particular, sounding only mildly disdainful of that possibility.

     That theory is disproven momentarily, when Eligor backs out through the same doorway and the object he’s dragging is revealed to be a large, framed mirror about as tall as he is. It looks as if it was meant to be wall-mounted, but met a milder version of the unfortunate fate the rest of Earth did. As a result, a crack runs across its reflective surface, but it remains otherwise in one piece, which is more than what can be said for most fragile objects made by humans.

     "When I fell,“ he explains without the slightest prompt or even a hint of strain in his voice, “the first thing I wanted to do was see how much had changed.”

     Marchosias moves aside as her master positions the mirror before Altael. He remains to the side of it, holding it upright by keeping one hand on the ornate frame.

     "So. How drastic is it?“

     There’s a long duration of time where Altael is completely silent as he takes himself in, bit by astonishing bit. The face that stares back at him is only barely his own, and the body it’s attached to is more animalistic, more rounded, and more flecked with gold than it ever was before now.

     The glow that comes from his wings is so unnatural to him that it almost makes his skin crawl. Why is the glow that adorns the feathers of the soldiers of Heaven radiating from his membranes? Why does it crown his head and the end of his tail? Why is he, being what he is, the source of it?

     "It’s…quite drastic,” he answers quietly, his voice weighted with uncertainty and dismay at what he’s become.

     Eligor hums pensively at that.

     "It was the same for me,“ he offers sympathetically, the feathers of his wings ruffling briefly. “It could have been much worse, however.”

     Having worked under Samael’s command, perhaps Altael knows that as well as anyone. If there is one horribly perfect example of how far even an archangel can fall, it would be The Blood Prince.

     "Can you tell how badly you’re wounded, at least, and where? Other than where your bandages are bloodied, that is.“

     "Mmh…something definitely happened to my head,” he posits, putting his anxieties surrounding his new form to the side for the moment. There won’t be much he can do to find more answers to his questions if he isn’t in good health.

     He flexes his paws to work some more feeling into them. They’re sore, but he can feel no wounds splitting apart from the movement. Unfortunately, attempting to flex his wings does not yield the same results. Moving those both stings and aches at the same time, especially around the bases.

     "My wings, too,“ he adds, curling his tail closer to himself out of reflex. "Feels like they got torn out and stuck back in.” For all he knows, that could be exactly what happened to him. It’s gruesome to imagine, but he can think of little else to explain their shift.

     Eligor could almost believe that really did happen.

     "You won’t get very far trying to go anywhere, in that case,” he observes somewhat unnecessarily. “Perhaps you are blessed, at least, in that it was not someone else who found you.” He sets about the task of dragging the oversized mirror back to its original place.

     "A fallen flock would have been unlikely to take you in,“ he elaborates, gradually moving farther away. "The Hellguard would have killed you on sight.” He knows that to be a definite fact. “And if you’re a known deserter, then even your own hoard happening upon you may have been your end.” Another dry, almost humorless chuckle echoes from beyond the doorway.

     "You and I may not be so different–neither of us is spoiled for allies right now.“

     ‘Thanks for the reminder of how desolate my life has just become,’ is what Altael might say if he wasn’t wounded and in this stranger’s care, essentially dependent on him until he’s healed, but God, is he tempted to. He at least waits until Eligor has left the room to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose.

     "So you’re suggestin’ an alliance?” He calls out after him, only to wince as the sound of his own voice makes the ringing in his ears rear its head again.

     Some ally he’ll prove to be, barely able to speak or move yet without causing himself pain.

     "That I am,“ Eligor calls back over the dragging sound from the other room. Once the mirror is back in place, he returns near to the makeshift bedside Altael seems to be restricted to for now.

     "Or at least, I’m offering you a place here, and what help I can give you, in exchange for allowing some further prying as to what happened to you, how, and why.” He shrugs, as if that’s about the most plain way he can put it. It’s not the strongest grounds for an alliance, by any means, but it would at least be a fair enough trade.

     "I imagine you’ll want to know the same, once you’re in any state to go looking for answers. One way or another, unless you plan on crawling out of here rather than walking, it looks as though you have time to think on it.“     He doesn’t necessarily enjoy the idea of being bedridden in a stranger’s home, but it’s easy for him to decide it’s for the best when weighing it against his other options. As an enemy to the horde and the light alike, with very little means of currently defending himself, he must take aid where he can get it.

     And if Eligor is just as curious as he is to understand why light returned to a barren, broken Earth for just long enough to touch him, then he sees no reason why he shouldn’t allow him to help search for answers.

     "If you’re sure this is something you want to pursue, I won’t stop you from helping me. I just can’t guarantee there will be any definite answers out there.”

     He especially can’t claim to understand the mysteries of the light, and if someone who used to dwell among it even seems stumped, he isn’t optimistic that unraveling this will be easy.

     "I can’t say for certain, either,“ the angel concurs, "but it is worth trying. For now, though, you’re in need of rest, and perhaps an effective painkiller.” He turns, once again stepping away into another room. Some sounds of shuffling various containers soon follow.

     "We don’t have much here, Marchosias and I,“ he speaks up from across the hideout-made-home, "but what we do have, you’re welcome to.”

     As if to confirm her agreement to that sentiment, the wolf-griffon turns her head to face Altael with her mouth hanging open in that relaxed, almost-smiling expression a canine at ease often has. Her long tail wags slowly as her handler passes by once more, this time holding a glass half-full of a glowing green fluid. He offers it toward Altael.

     "This should help.“

     Altael doesn’t delay in taking the vial of healing fluid from Eligor, not even long enough to thank him first. He brings it to his lips and tips his head back and downs the entire thing in just a few large gulps. He takes in a deep breath once he’s emptied it, then breathes it out in a relieved sigh as soon as he feels his headache beginning to fade.

     "Thank you,” he says at last, “For that, and for the shelter.” Soreness still tugs at his weary limbs, but with some of his clarity restored, he already feels that much better. The golden flames atop his head and tail brighten as a reflection of this.

     "I can’t say I’ve met one of the Fallen who was quite so generous,“ he observes after a few more moments of silence, with a tilt of his head that betrays his own curiosity. He leaves that statement open ended, should Eligor decide to elaborate more on the nature of his willingness to help.

     "Nor have I,” Eligor sighs, speaking without looking his guest in the eye. He reaches a hand over to pet Marchosias behind the ears, at which she closes her eyes in content.

     "I fell because my views and values are no longer aligned with my former comrades and superiors,“ he explains. "This violation of the truce, this Apocalypse—I can’t support it. The humans didn’t deserve this.” He gestures to the space around them.

     "And those who have fallen farther than I… They might like to think themselves different from the Hellguard, but right now, I can’t agree. Both sides seek only to benefit at the expense of what has happened to this realm. Both sides, as they stand now, are devoid of honor.“

     He can check that off as another first for today—a fallen who fell for a noble reason. More intriguingly, he seems to have fallen for the exact same reason he deserted his own horde.

     “Mmhm,” he nods in agreement, lacking the lengthy words Eligor possesses to articulate himself, yet sharing in his sentiments. “That makes two of us, I reckon. I left my legion for the very same reason.”

     He shifts position again, this time a little closer to sitting up. His tail curls around his legs as he pulls them closer to himself and lets his gaze fall to the floor. It’s odd, speaking so candidly about this after so long keeping it to himself, though he can’t deny that he enjoys this strange freedom.

     “Bein’ a strategist in the horde…I feel as if I was one of the only ones puttin’ any thought into the carnage we were spreadin’. Might’ve been why it was so hard to stand.”

     Eligor gives a thoughtful hum at that. Before today, he never would have imagined a demon who didn’t enjoy carnage might exist.

     This one really is different, then.

     "Could that, perhaps, be why the light chose you?” he ventures.

     "Erm…“  Truth be told, he hadn’t really considered the possibility of his morality being a part of this. He’s heard plenty of tales of demons deserting their posts, but almost all of them end in death–certainly not a physical change in their appearance.

     "I’ve never heard of a demon bein’ touched by the light before, regardless of why they left their posts,” he refutes, though he doesn’t sound too sure of his words, “And even if it was, I’ve still got plenty of sin on my conscience. It’s not like I went my whole life secretly bein’ some beacon of morality.”

     He’s been intelligent enough to be above senseless violence himself, but there’s still plenty of bloodshed that was orchestrated under the structure of his military planning. Just a few hours of finally taking action against it can’t have been all it took to redeem him…

     …Could it?

     "I know it’s supposedly easy to fall from grace, but I’ve never heard of it bein’ easy to rise to it.“

     "I haven’t, either,” Eligor agrees. “But then, the Creator works in mysterious ways.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I thought it worth considering.” He shifts his wings to resettle and fold them to his back.

     "We’re not likely to get very far merely speculating,“ he points out, turning away. "Get your rest. Call for me if you need anything.”

     It seems that regardless of whether he wants for it to or not, this conversation has decidedly ended for now. The angel has a point–there’s little he can do now if he has no answers beyond attempting to restore his strength. Perhaps then he’ll be able to ease some of the dead weight that he’s become on this unfortunate fellow.

     "Very well.“ He eases himself back into a more relaxed position, rolled onto his side with one of his wings awkwardly folded over himself. Strange as it is to have them be so large now, their warmth is at least pleasantly comforting.

     Though he closes his eyes, he does not drift into anything close to a restful slumber. Too many questions without answers still weigh on his mind for that, and instinct dictates that he should never lower his guard in the company of the enemy.

     Even if the company of the enemy has been quite beneficial so far.

[alvaar-aldaviir]

Movement: Melancolico Part 1/3

Time Frame: Heavensward. Spoilers accordingly.

Notes: Trigger Warnings for a more personal and introspective look at grief and depression, as well as accompanying thoughts of suicide.

This is by far the darkest piece posted thus far, but it’s important to Alvaar’s character and I don’t like to gloss over the impact it left on him and his subsequent relationships with others. Scions especially.

Cross-posted to Ao3.

 -

Alvaar has never been the sort to give himself time for pause. There was too much to do as the Warrior of Light, too many wrongs to try and right as the world shifts under his feet after the Vault. But having ripped yet another tyrant from his throne and finally taking time to grieve...

Why is it the hardest battle he's had to face is the frozen state of his own blackened heart?

An introspection on grief and depression, and the importance of the people who stay by your side. Second chapter incoming.

 -

It was over. Thordan was dead, Haurchefant’s killer had been slain with him, and in the quickly growing pile of problems already stacking before the remaining Scions Alvaar only cared about one. He’d dragged another tyrant low and put more Primals back into aetheric dust, the world could hold a moment for him to attend the funeral of the man he’d loved when he’d put his own grief aside to see justice done. And somehow, for all the near brushes with his grief he’d had chasing after Thordan, when he’d finally given himself leave to let it wash over him...

Alvaar still hadn’t managed a single tear.

-

It spared the Count a scene at least, having only held the hand of his beloved when he paid his respects. A hand that felt alien and cold, stiff and somehow like it was hollow, empty of the vibrant and warm soul that had once been bursting within. A man that could ask him to smile on his dying breaths...

He’d dipped his chin, murmured his words of goodbye, and walked away feeling as though whatever warmth that had lingered in him now lay in that casket to keep Haurchefant company. He wouldn’t need it. Surely he’d never feel anything so warm again without him.

Tataru and, somehow surprising to him, Alphinaud, had lingered by his side. The Lalafell’s hands wrapped tight about his and he barely felt it at all. He’d only sat still and silent through the funeral before he found himself being guided away once the candles had started to burn out. Led through the streets like some dumb beast of burden by the small hands holding his and the slim arm at his back.

He didn’t know what words they’d said nor what they’d done, only that he’d fallen face first into a bed that didn’t carry a trace of the young lords cologne and somehow the absence of it felt both fitting and obscenely painful.

-

The next day passed like a haze as he stayed still and silent in the darkened room and remained relatively mute to anyone that came calling. His solitude was only broken when Alphinaud finally shoved the door in after the third unanswered knock to let Tataru nervously follow along behind him. Once he’d sulkily sat up to stare at them both he was immediately greeted to a bowl of stew being held towards him as the Lalafell chattered about it being her latest learned recipe at the Forgotten Knight. And with the Arcanist already clearing off the side table and dragging over chairs for himself and Tataru, he’d had little choice but to entertain them, listening quietly as Tataru brought up what bits of inane gossip she could, pointedly staying far away from the issues at hand.

-

The next day Tataru returned, this time carrying a cutely adorned basket along with his breakfast. He’d no sooner finished (more from the pressure of her stare than hunger) when she was pulling out her embroidery hoop and asking him to teach her a new pattern. After an overly long silence which she stayed determinedly, if not earnestly, expectant at his eventually reply, he acquiesced. With a small flourish of light his own needlework set appeared in his hands and he’d studied the blank fabric for a while mulling it over. He knew invariably she would want to embellish her clothes with something unique for her newfound workplace and pondered what designs might work as he wordlessly accepted the fabric pen she held over to him.

Opting against designs of the straight spires of the buildings around them (for they only reminded him of bloodied lances rising from a corpse) he settled for a heavy lined sketch that left the Lalafell confused until his thread and needle began to fly, stitching white over the swirl of icy blue ink lines. Her eyes immediately lit up with excitement, hopping up beside him to watch as the frost patterns were quickly embellished in with delicate stitches and raised knots.

“I spoke with an elderly woman at the guild here. Apparently, there’s a technique called thread painting that’s become rather popular with the ladies of estate. If you were to very carefully bleach out some of the color for your base lines, you can embellish them with silver floss like so. Think of it like fern reeds at first but add more swirls to the frond ends and a few straight fractals with your thread. Like frost on the windowpane,” he murmured, holding his fabric away so Tataru could watch him work.

“Oh! Alvaar that’s genius! I have just the perfect blue piece that could use sprucing up!” she chirped.

“If you can, try on a part you can’t see first. You’ll want to see how much the bleach spreads through the fibers,” he continued, reciting the pointers he’d been given.

They’d spent almost two hours with their needlework, the Bard patiently advising and even handing off his teaching piece and a few spools of cotton silver floss for her to use. As soon as she left in her usual scurry for work, he’d waited for the door to close before fitting another piece of fabric into the hoop, securing his needle, and banishing them back into nothingness.

Without the chatter or direction, he’d returned promptly into a defeated sulk for several hours, interrupted only by Alphinaud letting himself in after his knocks were ignored.

Alvaar didn’t bother to sit up, not fully certain why the young Elezen was there when Tataru wouldn’t be out from her shift for another four hours at least. Not unless he was here to be dragged along as both physical and mental muscle for another round of Leveilleur politics.

And if that was the case the boy was about to be terribly disappointed by his newfound depths of apathy.

What else would it be? A rousing speech to rise up from despair and fight for a better Eorzea? A plea or summons from yet another far off city needing their help yet again? Another return to conflict against the shade of Nidhogg that had claimed Esti-

“Drink.”

The flat no nonsense tone made him flick an ear as weary puzzlement pulled at his brow. Sliding his gaze over to the Arcanist he stared at him mutely and the thermos he held out to him.

“You have to keep your fluids up or you’ll get dehydrated and sick, now drink,” Alphinaud commanded again, though Alvaar could hear the faint nervous tone underneath. The sound of someone trying to be brave in the face of something unfamiliar he figured, as the boy had scarcely ever seen the Warrior of Light in any state that wasn’t still rock steady. Even in the face of Bahamut he’d kept his emotions under control and been responsive despite internal fear. And even after losing himself to rage fighting against Ilberd, he had quickly come back around and behaved normally once he’d been snapped out of it…

It was perhaps the most telling of how his mood must appear, given the youth had marched headstrong into each major city without so much as a pause of step to speak with political giants.

A faint snort left him, but he sat up anyway to continue pinning the Arcanist with that stare for a few moments more before holding his hand out. Accepting the container he removed the cap, staring at the pale liquid inside as a strong whiff of mulling spice reached him.

“.... Mulled tea? ... the scent is right, but the color is off. Did they substitute tea leaves?” he mused, taking another light whiff before tasting it.

“They didn’t have any Thanalan tea leaves, likely because the secular attitude hasn’t left much in the way of trade routes with Ul’dah. Hopefully that will change in the near future when... well. We finish what we’ve started.” Noting Alvaar’s flat stare, Alphinaud fidgeted, looking away promptly and finally moving to sit on the edge of the bed, staring at his shoes. “.... I’m sorry if it doesn’t taste right. I... tried my best to brew it the way you showed me,” he murmured.

There was a pointed silence that stretched out between them before the Bard took another drink in thought.

“It’s different. A bit weaker. Coerthan tea leaves don’t have as much flavor due to the harsher growing environment and tending to be dried from the cold instead of the sun. It’s not as oxidized as in Thanalan, despite being the same plant. It takes almost double the amount, but a weak brew is sometimes a better option than a strong one. You can sometimes brew again, but removing bitter flavors is difficult,” Alvaar mused.

“Ah... sorry...”

“Don’t be. It’s not bad, just different but a good enough substitute. In fact, it brings out more of the mulled spices as Coerthan tea has more of an earthy flavor. It’s also not bitter from over steeping. That’s usually the most difficult part,” he whispered, staring at the container. “I’ll have to teach you how to make Ishgardian tea. They use yaks milk here and steep the tea right in the milk. It’s quite a bit different from in the south. There the milk is a primary additive and not used as a base.”

Alphinaud blinked at him, tilting his head some once Alvaar had fallen quiet again. “You know quite a lot about tea.”

It got another snort. “I’d hope so. I had to get a real good eye for it given it sells pretty consistently. Nobles love their herbs and spices. It’s a lovely show of status to have foreign spices in your food or at your table. ...Did you know Y’shtola loves Coerthan tea? I’d usually harvest a bit extra for her.”

“Does she? Hm, I wouldn’t have guessed. ... so, what made you interested in botany? I confess, it was not a topic I went to at the Studium.”

The Bard was quiet for a spell, still studying the pale liquid intently. When Alphinaud didn’t seem to show any sign of leaving or pressing him further, he at last sighed and looked up.

“Money. I arrived to Gridania with little more than what I carried and maybe a thousand Gil. Just enough to stay a day or two and find some work.”

At that the teen stared at him in silence for a few moments, during which the Bard took another slow drink while maintaining eye contact.

“... Y-you’re serious?”

“I needed the money.”

“No that you only had access to a thousand Gil. Did you have a credit line or access to-”

“We don’t all have very accommodating rich parents Leveilleur. In fact, some of us don’t have parents at all,” he cut in flatly before taking another sip as he looked away. “It can’t all be heroic battles and cajoling with the big brass of foreign nations. It hardly puts food on the table much less pays the cost of raw materials to craft into some form of steady income.”

At that the Arcanist seemed a bit chastised, studying the floor again. “Weren’t you paid for your work with the Scions?” he asked softly, still a note of disbelief in his tone.

Holding up a hand the Bard began ticking things off his fingers. “Travel expenses. Lodging. Equipment costs. Repair bills for said equipment. Food and potion expenses... At the end of the day I break even Alphi. And that’s only sustainable if I show up to do great heroic feats every day, which you might forgive me if I find that a little disconcerting to be that needed. Besides, I have retainers and a chocobo to pay for. That’s the bulk of the reason I joined the Twin Adders and that was mostly to open up a way into marketplaces while being mobile.”

Alphinaud was silent for a short while, contemplating the idea of it and hanging his head a bit more. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Flicking his gaze over to the snowy haired teen, Alvaar frowned slightly at himself before ruffling his hair and looking away again. “I’m not. At least it’s honest work. Besides, Scion work is sort of, you know... nonprofit. I can’t really demand more pay and I wouldn’t anyway. Keeps me busy. And I genuinely like many of the trades I’ve picked up. It sort of... grounds the adventuring. Reminds you of why you do the insane heroics.”

“Yes... I’ve certainly found that perspective is all important to what we do...” the Arcanist replied, managing at least a vaguely upbeat tone. “Still, I apologize for being ignorant of your situation.”

“Don’t worry about it Alphinaud. It’s not your problem and you’re in a very wide majority of people that don’t ask about my life. Most don’t really care about what happens to their neighbors much less the man under the mask and I don’t make a habit of supplying details anyway. In fact, the only person that really dug into my life was... well. Haurchefant.”

At that the mood grew even more dim, punctuated by a single soft and saddened laugh from the Bard. “He used to trade me folktales and history for stories about myself... I suppose I’ll never find out how the story of the ‘Moonstone Lanner’ ends...”

Setting the now empty thermos on the nightstand with a ringing thud, he rested his head on his drawn-up knees and wrapped his arms about himself, burying his face away from view.

“Damnit Greystone...” he murmured, voice faint and hollow. Even now... STILL... No tears would come to him and-

“Do you know anything about Sharlayan?”

The words were a bit rushed but they made Alvaar pause anyway, lifting an arm up enough to see Alphinaud’s expectant look.

“.... No. Why?”

“Would you like to? I still remember many of the things on its history from my time in the Studium. And even a few myths and legends if you prefer that instead.”

Staring at him flatly for a long beat, he finally sighed when the Elezen seemed content to wait for a reply and even more than ready to stay seated at his bedside. “Fine. Give me a myth. Something fantastical.”

“I can think of a few. Here, eat this. Tataru said she would bring you dinner but that’s still a few hours yet,” he answered, holding over a wrapped-up handkerchief containing some form of braided bread.

A deeper sigh left him but he accepted it anyways, rearranging a number of pillows back behind him before falling into them with a feathery thump as the arcanist began his story.

-

Another day and then a second passed in similar fashion, Tataru asking him about this craft or another in the morning with his breakfast and Alphinaud telling him a story or three with his lunch. In the late evening they both made an appearance with dinner, sharing whatever Tataru had been allowed to take with her (which he noted was a much larger and more complex portion of leftovers than any one Lalafell would need) and chatting or playing cards.

And in the times between he would lie silent and still in the dark as if in some waking dream with only the ever-present sound of the howling winds to accompany his depression.

On the third day, both maid and Arcanist had dutifully reminded him (no less than three times a piece) that Tataru would have a particularly late shift and he should definitely make sure he went to or otherwise acquired dinner. He’d offered mute nods and mentally brushed it off as the vain test it was. He didn’t want food or water.

He just wanted to be left alone.

-

If the winds of The Pillars were colder than anywhere else in Coerthas, Alvaar couldn’t tell as he stared down into the inky black. The almost ever-present snow remained, spiraling away out of even his keen vision as it dwindled out of the lamplight of the city and vanished into the obsidian depths below.

Once he wouldn’t have had much interest in studying so steep of a fall, leaned against the balcony of his loaned room at the Fortemps Manor. Once he would have had much more of an interest in being inside where it was warm, curled up under the arm of his lover. Once he would have shared stories of his travels and listened for hours as the Lord of Camp Dragonhead regaled him with the long history and folktales of Coerthas.

Once, Haurchefant wouldn’t be lying cold in ground that was colder still and would have been there to keep him warm both inside and out with his cheerful demeanor.

Now Alvaar wasn’t certain if he’d ever really feel the cold again with how numb his heart still felt. Like it hadn’t beat since Haurchefant had been run through. His insides colder still then the hellscape of ice and snow about him. Indifferent to the frozen winds that ripped at his loose cotton tunic and leather breeches.

He stared into the inky black, gaping like the maw of some colossal dragon intent to swallow all Ishgard and her people, and he felt nothing.

Three days and still...

He felt no outrage that often sparked in him after those he loved were attacked. He felt no sense of duty driving him to feats of heroic stupidity. No sadness to linger and mourn the loss of a man he’d truly come to love. There was a growing pile of bodies about him to avenge, a city stirring in unrest in the wake of a millennia of lies, Scions to track down, and a war to help end.

Even so he stared at that abyss and he felt nothing but a desire to be consumed in it. To let it swallow him up and put an end to the unyielding march of the Warrior of Light. The heroic figure of myth and legend that made a target of every mere mortal around him... until, inevitably, he would die standing alone. Haurchefant and Ysayle, both dead on this journey, and surely by now Estinien has been consumed in Nidhogg’s rage...

His friends were dying around him as he fought for a country that wasn’t his own. Hadn’t he done enough? Couldn’t he at least grieve for what had been lost?

It was bitter, and it was petty, but in his dark apathy he thought maybe if he let that yawning void consume him then he’d at last feel like he could break down and cry.

Finally shed the tears that had burned in his eyes as he held his dying lover in his arms. The same tears that remained hot and still refused to fall in the ensuing chase. When he’d battled Primals, and Garleans, and lost more friends. Even at Haurchefant’s funeral and afterward, when he’d felt the concerned stares of his few remaining Scions and the House of Fortemps who knew what the man had meant to him.

He’d told him the night before the Vault that he loved him... and now when he finally stole a moment of his own he couldn’t even shed the damn tears with this cursed icy heart in his chest.

It would be so fitting...

Just a step...

Just a short climb...

And he’d vanish into nothingness again…

[classpect-musings]

Classpect Analysis: Page of Light

Active or Passive: Passive

What they do: Pages passively utilize their aspect/utilize through their aspect, and often use it to protect. Light is the aspect of information/knowledge, analysis, perception/awareness, fortune/luck, illumination (both literally and metaphorically), meaning/truth/clarity, and attention/the “spotlight.”

Active equivalent: Knight of Light

Inverse: Thief of Void

The Page of Light starts out with pretty much none of their aspect as well as a pretty poor grasp of understanding and utilizing it. Light represents, among other things, information and knowledge. Keep in mind that this does not necessarily mean they are unintelligent! What this means is that this Page may not have a lot of truth in their life. They might be innocent rather than being considered ‘dumb;’ instead, they’re kind of the clueless friend, though they like to think otherwise. It’s likely that this Page has a short attention span about half the time or give more attention to some information than others. And if they do get their hands on some interesting information, it’s likely that they’ll go all sorts of ways in analyzing it...completely wrong, that is. This Page has the tendency to fixate on specific facts and over-process them to the point where such facts no longer have any discernible meaning. You could give this Page a poem about dogs and two hours later they could come back to you with an overly detailed (and probably wrong) explanation as to how this poem reveals the author’s deep-seated fear of death. In an effort to appear smart, they might use every possible method of analysis at their disposal and end up making it clear to everyone else that they are overcompensating a lot-- all while missing the actual point the information they’ve studied is trying to make. And their attempts to synthesize various sources together may lead to facts getting jumbled and their information being very confusing. Additionally, it’s likely that they’ll substitute ‘normal’ words for extremely complicated/obscure words in an effort to look like a genius, which results in the opposite. All this variety in their attempted analysis leads them to not having a clear sense of truth and meaning in their life. Sure, this Page might think they’ve got it all figured out, but the reality is that they’re in a sort of fog of confusion. This Page might get led around a lot as a result when it comes to meanings and interpretations, unconsciously leaning on someone else’s perception so they don’t look like a fool while still thinking they’re very intelligent. As a result of heavily leaning on someone else’s perspective, they’re likely to be more narrow-minded as well. Maybe they know weird trivia facts (ex. “Did you know that zebras are black with white stripes, and not vice versa?” but the moment you ask them what continent zebras are from, they completely blank).

Additionally, the Page of Light wants attention. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing; it’s just that they’d like to have the spotlight on them, even if their attempts to handle the attention are usually botched entirely. Maybe the one time they finally get people to pay attention to them is when they do something really ridiculous, and everyone mocks them for it.

In terms of metaphorical and literal representations of lack of Light, they might have poor eyesight. They might also live in a dark place and not really get a lot of sun. Adding on to the fact that Pages tend to try and overcompensate, this one is likely the type to spend hours in the sun to try and get a tan, only to get badly burned in the process. This Page could also be exceptionally unlucky and try to fix it by carrying around as many lucky charms as possible.

The Page of Light, like all other Pages, is going to have a very slow growth process. However, if they can unlock their potential, they will become extremely powerful. In the case of the Page of Light, they’re going to go on a quest to discover truth and meaning. This could go badly if they have someone constantly influencing their perception and how they analyze things, as well as what they do with the information they discover. Some independence would help this Page; when they’re alone, not influenced by what other people find important, it will be easier for them to see it themselves. They learn how to analyze information properly and utilize it for the best strategies. Additionally, they’ll be able to get more attention and start using it to their advantage. At first, their teammates might not trust the information this Page gives them, seeing as their insights are usually flawed. But if they can learn to take a chance, they might find that it’ll pay off-- which will also give the Page more attention and boost their confidence.

A god tiered Page of Light who has fully developed will be an excellent teammate to have! They have a much better grasp on their idea of truth as well as how to analyze and apply information. They can also understand other people’s perspectives and therefore be a decent advice-giver when it comes to pointing others to success. If the session hasn’t been completed at this point, they’re the right person to direct it. This Page also thrives in the limelight-- and combining their excellent advice, this is a good player to have. Not only can they strategize, but their teammates actually listen to them!

After they ascend (and if they’ve gone through the proper development), the Page of Light will be extremely powerful. They can utilize/exploit Light and utilize/exploit through Light. First would be luck. That doesn’t sound like too much at first, but think about it. When an enemy comes at them with a knife, this Page just happens to dodge at the perfect moment, and the enemy stabs one of their own comrades instead. The Page also just happens to aim every single shot perfectly, all the time. There are more ways, but needless to say this would make this Page very hard to defeat-- and we haven’t even gotten to their other powers yet! Utilizing Light in its most literal sense would also involve, well, light. A more passive version would be a light distraction like a brief flash. They can also shoot beams of blinding light into their enemies’ eyes, temporarily (or permanently) blinding them. (This could also have the amusing effect of a ‘spiritual illumination,’ i.e. an existential crisis.) This could also cause minor or major burns. Maybe they can microwave stuff with it, too. This power includes utilizing the light already around them-- if it’s daytime, fighting this Page is a bad idea. The Page themself could have a move where they give off an aura of blinding light-- this incorporates both the literal Light power as well as their proficiency for being in the spotlight. Speaking of which, this Page could activate a more subtle power: a particularly distracting presence. Enemies can’t tear their eyes off this Page, who gives off a vibe of being incredibly well-spoken (not charismatic, necessarily, but their words flow very smoothly despite their vocabulary being complex) until it is too late.

Oh! And relating back to that aura of Light I mentioned, they could use this in another subtle way: spreading information. When you speak with this Page, their words are easy to understand, and you feel more intelligent just being in their presence. And though they might not communicate everything in words, you can feel the information and analysis almost transferring to your brain. So basically, this:

A powerful Page could use this on friends and foes alike. A more direct method would be for this Page to touch a teammate (perhaps by having the teammate close their eyes, and the Page gently lays a finger on their eyelids, since the eyes represent Light?) and communicate the information without any words. However, foes would be infected with unfathomable horrors beyond words in some kind of horrifying Lovecraft-esque way. Which brings me to my next point: Would the Page of Light be able to communicate with and understand the horrorterrors without some sort of mind break? I think so. Feferi was able to communicate with them (and even persuade them to make the dream bubbles), likely as a result of her time with G'lbgolyb, Emissary to the Horrorterrors. So I think that this Page would have the information needed to speak with them, once fully developed, of course. If this Page tries to talk to them prior to that… I don’t think it’ll end well.

As for a land for the Page of Light, I recommend the Land of Mirrors and Libraries. LOMAL is a land shrouded in darkness; the ancient oak trees, once rumored to whisper secrets of old, have shriveled in the endless night. As a result of the constant darkness, the consorts can barely read their books and only have fractions of the knowledge they once possessed. They can give hints to the Page of Light, who can rearrange the mirrors around the planet to reflect the moonlight into the libraries instead. Once they do so and can understand the information in the books, they will know how to bring back the sun, which will rejuvenate the whispering trees.

As for a strife specibus, Pages have used weapons that are obviously, well, weapons (lance, pistols) while Light players tend to have ordinary objects that double as weapons (2xneedlekind, dicekind). That’s kind of a catch-22, so I’ll list options for both. The Page of Light might use a magnifying glass that is actually defunct (though they don’t know it) or maybe a tarot deck that works for both being slammed over enemies’ heads and the Page’s overanalytic tendencies. On the other hand, an actual weapon for this Page could be a ray gun. Maybe they *think* it works because they read that microwave beams are harmful, but the weapon actually does jack squat at first, only becoming more potent with alchemizing it with other weapons.

Requested by @probablynotcollin​ ! Thanks for requesting; I hope you found this helpful.

[riskeith]

forevermore (1,075)

im emotional, and because no matter what happens in s8, they will always always be in my heart.

ABT: after the war. lance and keith are together. they stargaze. 

“Remember all those competitions we used to have?”

Lance gazes up at the sky, watching the stars twinkle. A cool breeze passes by, but Lance doesn’t really feel it. Because Keith is beside him, leaning against the space between Red’s eyes, and when they’re together, this flame burns inside him, warming his entire being. He doesn’t remember whose idea this was—to come out and spend the night outside. He thinks maybe Red was calling for both of them. When they saw her, she’d already lowered her head to the ground, waiting for them to climb on. They had watched the sun set, and now Lance guesses he’s feeling sentimental.

“Yeah,” Keith replies a second later. “There were so many. Sparring, piloting, taking down enemies. There was even that one time we competed over who could complete the most tasks for Coran. He made us do some weird things. But do you remember how I won most of the competitions?”

“No way! There is no way you beat me at all of those. As I recall, we drew for a lot of them. There was no clear winner. Except for the Coran one. You pulled out, because you didn’t want to clean that creature. I did.” Lance doesn’t really know if he counts it as a win, though. Coran didn’t tell him the creature would be slimy. He ended up having to clean himself for days afterwards.

“And it was gross. I have no regrets.”

Lance doesn’t reply, and lets a comfortable silence fall between them. Things have been mostly quiet for some time now. The final battle had been a gruelling one, Honerva’s magic was powerful, the weapons she created were just as strong, but they were able to overcome them. He thinks about Allura, then. He wonders how she’s doing up in space, if she’s been able to find some solace from everything with the Alteans she’s now leading. He enjoyed their time together, but he knew it would never last. Allura’s place was always up there, and his was always on Earth. After a while, he sits up too, and takes his place next to Keith.

“We were so young, then. We knew nothing before we went into space.”

Keith hums in agreeance. “I think, though, even with all the hardships, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything else in the universe.”

“Neither. I mean, I piloted two giant lion warships; I got to use a laser rifle, a sniper rifle, and an Altean broadsword. That’s pretty cool if you ask me. I never got to pilot Black though.” Lance doesn’t mean it as anything but a passing comment, however Keith tenses.

“I would’ve traded with you, if I could.” Lance turns his head to look at Keith, eyes softening. He knows it was hard for him. He didn’t want it. But Lance thinks everything turned out okay.

“I don’t know. It’s a lot of pressure being a leader. Besides, I enjoyed being your right hand man.” He smiles.

“You were my stability, Lance.” Lance’s eyes widen, and Keith faces him. His eyes tell him there is no lie behind his words. It still shocks him though, he finds it hard to believe. He hardly thinks he did much. He simply told Keith what he thought he should do, and he did it. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re surprised. I thought it was super obvious. If I ever got angry or frustrated, all you had to do was say one word, and I’d calm down.”

Lance thinks about it, and realises Keith is right. It’s a crazy fact. “Look, maybe I was just in denial. I mean, the fact that this,” he gestures between them, “is a thing still baffles me.”

Keith rolls his eyes, then places an arm around Lance’s shoulder to bring him close. Lance lets his head rest against Keith’s.

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re plenty amazing. If anything, it should be me who has trouble believing it.” A moment passes, and Lance tries to think of something to say, but Keith speaks again. “I used to think about it, the possibilities of us becoming a thing. When I was with the Marmora, I’d sneak out sometimes to look at the stars. And then I’d wonder if they’d align for us.”

Tears prick at the corners of Lance’s eyes; he doesn’t know why he’s suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. He buries his face in the nook of Keith’s shoulder, and lets the tears fall freely. He hears Keith chuckle, and then he feels a hand on his back.

“Don’t cry. We’re here now, aren’t we?”  

Lance pulls back, and wipes his eyes. He glares at Keith. “You made me cry! You can’t just say stuff like that! Who knew that our wild Keith over here was actually a romantic!”

“Oh, you don’t even know.” Keith gets this look, one that’s suspicious, and Lance narrows his eyes at this.

“What are you planning?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Come on!”

“Nope.” Keith turns his head away from Lance. Lance pouts, then leans so he’s back in Keith’s line of vision.

“Please,” he whines.

Keith watches him for a moment, then pecks his lips. “Nope.”

Lance sits back and crosses his arms. Keith laughs again, then unravels Lance’s arms so he can hold his hand and interlace their fingers.

“You’ll see soon enough.”

It’s clear that Keith isn’t going to reveal anything, so Lance relents. They go back to watching the stars.

“Oh, you can see the base of the statue from here.” Keith points into the distance, and surely enough, there’s a shine of metal. It’s still surreal, the fact they’re going to be on a monument. It’s going to be weird to see another him. A much, much, larger him. God, his family is going to be so embarrassing about it.

“We’re going to be immortalised,” he says.

“I think that’d be the case even if there wasn’t a statue,” Keith looks at Lance again, and when they make eye contact, Lance is breathless for a moment. He stares into almost-violet eyes, and he can see the stars reflected them. It’s beautiful. Keith stares back, and Lance wonders what he sees, if there are a sea of stars swimming in his eyes too.  

“Really?” Lance’s voice comes out as barely a whisper.

“Yeah,” Keith leans close, hovering before Lance’s lips, “didn’t you know? We’re forevermore.”

And Lance lets their lips meet.

[rassilon-imprimatur]

A Rag and a Bone

As some of you saw, I found one of my “lost” Doctor Who holy grails, Daniel O’Mahony’s A Rag and a Bone! I’d been hunting high and low for this piece of fiction because the idea of O’Mahony writing a Sabbath-centric story was too good. There was literally no information whatsoever online as to what the story was actually about, but I love O’Mahony’s writing and the idea of him tackling Sabbath seemed like a match made in hell.

Finally getting a hold of this story, I must say that calling it “a Sabbath story by Daniel O’Mahony” is incredibly disingenuous, and while I dissect this story and share it all with you, I have to be completely honest and say that I have never been more confused at such a short piece of fiction in my life. Delighted, mind, but very confused. 

This story was published in 2003′s Myth Makers Essentials, the famous fanzine’s special 40th anniversary celebration. Myth Makers has been rather a white whale of mine, most long out of print issues holding onto other holy grails, most notably Parkin’s Saldaamir and The School of Doom. 

This story is more than a Sabbath tale, being a celebration of Doctor Who’s history, the history of the humans who keep Doctor Who going, as well as a celebration of the 2003 BBC prose continuity that, for all intents and purposes, was the Doctor Who at the time alongside Big Finish’s 1999-2003 years.

It’s also written by one of the closest things Doctor Who has ever had to Clive Barker, meaning that it’s a very disturbing celebration. 

O’Mahony introduces his story with a discussion of what he considers one of Doctor Who’s essential elements: 

In O’Mahony’s view of the series, Doctor Who is about humanity. Human history, ingenuity, sacrifice. Without humanity, Doctor Who is nothing. It’s a much more grounded view on the series, and while I’m not sure I quite agree with it, it makes literally every Doctor Who story O’Mahony has written make a lot more sense. 

I go into the story’s eccentricities and references (SO MANY REFERENCES GUYS, I’M SO HAPPY) under the cut. Reminder that a) O’Mahony, while a beautiful writer, is a very brutal one; his whole brand is painting objective horror and worldly ugliness in the richest, wine-like prose ever, and it’s definitely not for everyone, and b) this story, like Bidmead’s wonderful With All Awry, is far less literal than it is figurative. The continuity of the time is a factor in the story, but it’s rather useless to try and squeeze it in anywhere, that’s not it’s point. 

A Rag and a Bone is an author’s thesis on the spirit of Doctor Who, as well as a simultaneous criticism and celebration of its state in 2003, all the while managing to use Sabbath in the manner he was intended, rarely seen outside of Lawrence Miles’ writing. 

I’m not doing every passage of the thing, just the meatier ones. Enjoy and watch me stretch my English degree! 

(Note, the story starts in first-person from Fitz’s POV, shifts to weird surreal mix of Fitz and O’Mahony himself, back to Fitz, and then ends with third person omniscient.)

The story opens up simply enough (which, given what appears to be going on, it’s really funny to say “simply”): 

Already, this story seems to be following the beats of The Adventuress of Henrietta Street, the idea that in the universe without Time Lords, the universe is free game and humanity (led by Sabbath) needs to step up. But, it’s also a meta commentary. The passage is vague as to what’s really going on, but I think the war/looming disaster is something very specific, that I’ll touch on later. 

1) The date. Lmao. What could that possibly be a reference to?

2) Sabbath frequently had agents and allies throughout his novels, and one of these two, the Angel Maker, is actually from Lloyd Rose’s Camera Obscura. I don’t know if that gives an idea of the placement, or just further shows O’Mahony’s “I’m playing with current continuity” schtick. 

3) “Miss Kapoor went through the inevitable ritual struggle with her ideological opposite [...] We watched the catfight from the bar balcony - Bollywood Queen of Sin versus the [Angel Maker]...” Perhaps a smirking jab at the rules or sterotypes of storytelling? Set certain characters against the idealogical opposites. Anji often went toe-to-toe with the ideologies and beliefs of people in her novels, far more than Fitz or the Doctor did, so I think that’s what this is a nod to, wrapped in the story’s theme of ritual and symbolism and framed as “the Doctor’s female companion must face Sabbath’s female companion in a duel!!!!!!!” 

4) “... a dog-faced parahuman whose name I missed. He was the softest spoken of us all, fresh from the plane of the First Time War, resplendent in Gallifreyan scarlet.” This is Wardog (or a contemporary of Wardog), originally from Alan Moore’s DWM Black Sun Trilogy, portraying the First Time War. He had been recontexualized into Cold Fusion/The Infinity Doctors’ canon in Lance Parkin’s Executive Action, published in 2001′s Walking in Eternity, making him an (admittedly tangential) interesting cog in the EDA’s history and continuity. 

1) First time reading this passage, I couldn’t decide if this was purely Fitz or O’Mahony inserting himself into the narrative... and then I realized it’s both. There are two major critical takes on the companions, and this is the first: the role of the companions in the series is to give the audience someone to relate to and, in some cases, live vicariously through. Enjoying the adventure, experiencing the sights, etc. This section is both Fitz Kreiner and Daniel O’Mahony, trying to make sense of what’s going, while the story is already giving us the implications that, despite trying to create a narrative of the Doctor’s condition, he is actually not real. 

2) Marvel at Fitz dragging himself in every possible way. Maybe a reference to how the novels (since the VNAs) really hadn’t had any qualms with pushing the flaws and imperfections of their characters? O’Mahony in particular is a writer who would go into great detail about how flawed people were. 

3) “... Miss Kapoor - whose sins are much more scarlet than mine - wouldn’t stoop to.” I choose to believe this is a slight reference to how Anji was treating by some writers at the time. The EDA authors wither loved Anji, or hated and demonized her. I could be reaching with that one, but it doesn’t quite make much more sense otherwise. Maybe a reference to her earlier distrust and betrayals of the Doctor (such as in Mark Clapham’s Hope?)

1) This is why I think O’Mahony was attacking the negative handlings of Anji, because the description of her character in the first few sentences is so... good. Beautiful, caring. 

2) “The entropy rolling from the Deep...” I’m convinced that, in the end, the threat coming to destroy the universe, the stagnancy, the entropy, the “war,” is Doctor Who’s continued cancelation. Its the 40th anniversary, fourteen years since the show was cancelled, the series kept alive by a small and committed group of book readers and BF listeners (during BF’s early years). I’m adamant that the Wilderness Years produced some of the most creative and original Doctor Who ever, but it is very easy to see why people considered continuing the story a losing battle. More and more, the series slipped out of public consiousness and become more and more of an exclusive cult

3) The second critical take on companions in Doctor Who is a negative one (but one that needs to be said in some cases): in the end, they’re all interchangeable. None of their backstories or quirks matter in the end because they’re interchangeable stereotypes that need to stand their and ask the Doctor questions. What’s gorgeous about this sequence is how it tackles that idea in such a meta and independent way. Anji, realizing that she is, in fact, the latest face in a countless list, takes power from that. She reaches back to her predecessors and uses their abilities, their attributes, for her own agenda, all the while dressing as Anji Kapoor, praying to Ganesh as Anji Kapoor, being the unique and seperate entity that is Anji Kapoor. 

4) “Babewyns.” The Ma’lakh grotesques, the villains of The Adventuress of Henrietta Street and one of the major elements in Faction Paradox. 

This section operates on two levels, both fictionally and metafictionally. The idea that the Doctor is now a vacuum and Sabbath must either fix or flat-out replace him is the central conflict of their relationship and adversity throughout their novels. There’s also a pun on the EDAs’ “Earth arc” which was the start of the status quo that brought in Sabbath. But, you’ll notice, the “Earth arc” here is not The Burning... it’s An Unearthly Child. Sabbath’s (very morbid) take of what happened to the Doctor isn’t the plot of the EDAs, it’s the beginnings of Doctor Who. The Doctor became part of human consciousness in 1963!

So why is the Doctor now a puppet? A doll, an inhuman echo? Because the show is cancelled, and despite the series living on through, there’s this overwhelming feeling that maybe, just maybe, the final end is fast approaching. 

(Actually reading this theme in a story published two years before the show returned is rather nice, isn’t it?)

Sabbath’s take on this is, of course, negative and condescending, while Fitz focuses on the positivity of the Doctor. How he brings goodness and love into our lives, and that by “forgetting him,” (the show being cancelled) we’ve let horrible things into the world. That what Fitz is traveling with is the idea of the Doctor, the “totem” of what’s left, pushing through because Fitz/O’Mahony/the authors/the fans are still holding onto him. 

This section also shows how Sabbath really, in the end, cannot replace the Doctor. His best appearances outside Adventuress (Parkin’s Trading Futures and Rose’s Camera Obscura) stressed his limitedness, his flaws, his (debatable) inability to rise to the occasion. He talks to Fitz about power vacuums and the state of the universe, and then Fitz immediately confronts him with his antiquated 19th century beliefs and ideals. Lawrence Miles always claimed Sabbath was never meant to actually replace the Doctor, but several authors, including Lance Parkin, have since expressed that this was not common knowledge and that many authors fully believed Miles was trying to push Sabbath on them as “the new Doctor.” That’s what I think this is a response to (and mind, O’Mahony and Miles were colleagues and friends).

Here we see, we don’t need or want Sabbath. We just want our Doctor back. 

“Sometimes he believed that TV would save the world.” What a sad line, knowing the meaning of this story, huh? 

In the end of the story, Fitz and Anji rebuild their “Doctor-totem” from the junk of IM Foreman’s yard, literally using the ruins of the character’s humble 1963 beginnings to build the foundations. But remember, their Doctor is the Doctor of the novels. There’s more work to do to recreate their perception of him.

1) “Dawn Brigades of parahumans and the killer-cats of Gallifrey as they fought over the nature of the newborn universe.” Wardog’s Special Executive (representing the might and will of Rassilon) and the villains planned for the original story replaced by 1977′s The Invasion of Time (who I think here represent the Pythia), clashing during the universe’s minting (later known in Faction Paradox as the anchoring of the thread). This take on Gallifrey’s history (VNAs, EDAs, FP) is THE Gallifrey at the time of 2003. 

2) “Their tales would be told by the Needlefolk at the End of Time...” The Needle, seen in The Infinity Doctors, Unnatural History, Father Time, Miranda, and alluded to or contextual related to in Hope and The Gallifrey Chronicles. An important aspect of the lore at the time!

3) This ending is so beautiful, if sad. Here is where Fitz and Anji fully represent the Doctor Who fans and creators at the time. Using their stories, their (new) adventures to further coax their Doctor back to life. He’s built from the junk and refuse of the dead Classic series, he’s lavished with the stories and lore of the Wilderness Years. He is part of humanity, he’s in us, as long as he as friends (the fans) trying to keep him alive.  

[allbestnet]

100 Best First Lines of Novels

Call me Ishmael. Moby-Dick by Herman Melville (1851)

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (1813)

A screaming comes across the sky. Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon (1973)

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez (trans. Gregory Rabassa) (1967)

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (1955)

Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy (trans. Constance Garnett) (1877)

riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. Finnegans Wake by James Joyce (1939)

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. 1984 by George Orwell (1949)

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens (1859)

I am an invisible man. Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison (1952)

The Miss Lonelyhearts of the New York Post-Dispatch (Are you in trouble?—Do-you-need-advice?—Write-to-Miss-Lonelyhearts-and-she-will-help-you) sat at his desk and stared at a piece of white cardboard. Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathanael West (1933)

You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain (1885)

Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested. The Trial by Franz Kafka (trans. Breon Mitchell) (1925)

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino (trans. William Weaver) (1979)

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. Murphy by Samuel Beckett (1938)

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger (1951)

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce (1916)

This is the saddest story I have ever heard. The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford (1915)

I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me; had they duly considered how much depended upon what they were then doing;—that not only the production of a rational Being was concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his mind;—and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions which were then uppermost:—Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded accordingly,—I am verily persuaded I should have made a quite different figure in the world, from that, in which the reader is likely to see me. Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne (1759–1767)

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. David Copperfield by Charles Dickens (1850)

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. Ulysses by James Joyce (1922)

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Paul Clifford by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton (1830)

One summer afternoon Mrs. Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware party whose hostess had put perhaps too much kirsch in the fondue to find that she, Oedipa, had been named executor, or she supposed executrix, of the estate of one Pierce Inverarity, a California real estate mogul who had once lost two million dollars in his spare time but still had assets numerous and tangled enough to make the job of sorting it all out more than honorary. The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon (1966)

It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not. City of Glass by Paul Auster (1985)

Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting. The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner (1929)

124 was spiteful. Beloved by Toni Morrison (1987)

Somewhere in la Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing. Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes (trans. Edith Grossman) (1605)

Mother died today. The Stranger by Albert Camus (trans. Stuart Gilbert) (1942)

Every summer Lin Kong returned to Goose Village to divorce his wife, Shuyu. Waiting by Ha Jin (1999)

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. Neuromancer by William Gibson (1984)

I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man. Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (trans. Michael R. Katz) (1864)

Where now? Who now? When now? The Unnamable by Samuel Beckett (trans. Patrick Bowles) (1953)

Once an angry man dragged his father along the ground through his own orchard. “Stop!” cried the groaning old man at last, “Stop! I did not drag my father beyond this tree.” The Making of Americans by Gertrude Stein (1925)

In a sense, I am Jacob Horner. The End of the Road by John Barth (1958)

It was like so, but wasn't. Galatea 2.2 by Richard Powers (1995)

—Money . . . in a voice that rustled. J R by William Gaddis (1975)

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (1925)

All this happened, more or less. Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut (1969)

They shoot the white girl first. Paradise by Toni Morrison (1998)

For a long time, I went to bed early. Swann's Way by Marcel Proust (trans. Lydia Davis) (1913)

The moment one learns English, complications set in. Chromos by Felipe Alfau (1990)

Dr. Weiss, at forty, knew that her life had been ruined by literature. The Debut by Anita Brookner (1981)

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain / By the false azure in the windowpane; Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov (1962)

Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board. Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston (1937)

I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story. Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton (1911)

Ages ago, Alex, Allen and Alva arrived at Antibes, and Alva allowing all, allowing anyone, against Alex's admonition, against Allen's angry assertion: another African amusement . . . anyhow, as all argued, an awesome African army assembled and arduously advanced against an African anthill, assiduously annihilating ant after ant, and afterward, Alex astonishingly accuses Albert as also accepting Africa's antipodal ant annexation. Alphabetical Africa by Walter Abish (1974)

There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it. The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C. S. Lewis (1952)

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway (1952)

It was the day my grandmother exploded. The Crow Road by Iain M. Banks (1992)

I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974. Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides (2002)

Elmer Gantry was drunk. Elmer Gantry by Sinclair Lewis (1927)

We started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall. Tracks by Louise Erdrich (1988)

It was a pleasure to burn. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury (1953)

A story has no beginning or end; arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead. The End of the Affair by Graham Greene (1951)

Having placed in my mouth sufficient bread for three minutes' chewing, I withdrew my powers of sensual perception and retired into the privacy of my mind, my eyes and face assuming a vacant and preoccupied expression. At Swim-Two-Birds by Flann O'Brien (1939)

I was born in the Year 1632, in the City of York, of a good Family, tho' not of that Country, my Father being a Foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull; He got a good Estate by Merchandise, and leaving off his Trade, lived afterward at York, from whence he had married my Mother, whose Relations were named Robinson, a very good Family in that Country, and from whom I was called Robinson Kreutznaer; but by the usual Corruption of Words in England, we are now called, nay we call our selves, and write our Name Crusoe, and so my Companions always call'd me. Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe (1719)

In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street. Wittgenstein's Mistress by David Markson (1988)

Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress. Middlemarch by George Eliot (1872)

It was love at first sight. Catch-22 by Joseph Heller (1961)

What if this young woman, who writes such bad poems, in competition with her husband, whose poems are equally bad, should stretch her remarkably long and well-made legs out before you, so that her skirt slips up to the tops of her stockings? Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things by Gilbert Sorrentino (1971)

I have never begun a novel with more misgiving. The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham (1944)

Once upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person. Back When We Were Grownups by Anne Tyler (2001)

The human race, to which so many of my readers belong, has been playing at children's games from the beginning, and will probably do it till the end, which is a nuisance for the few people who grow up. The Napoleon of Notting Hill by G. K. Chesterton (1904)

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1925)

You better not never tell nobody but God. The Color Purple by Alice Walker (1982)

“To be born again,” sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, “first you have to die.” The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie (1988)

It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (1963)

Most really pretty girls have pretty ugly feet, and so does Mindy Metalman, Lenore notices, all of a sudden. The Broom of the System by David Foster Wallace (1987)

If I am out of my mind, it's all right with me, thought Moses Herzog. Herzog by Saul Bellow (1964)

Francis Marion Tarwater's uncle had been dead for only half a day when the boy got too drunk to finish digging his grave and a Negro named Buford Munson, who had come to get a jug filled, had to finish it and drag the body from the breakfast table where it was still sitting and bury it in a decent and Christian way, with the sign of its Saviour at the head of the grave and enough dirt on top to keep the dogs from digging it up. The Violent Bear it Away by Flannery O'Connor (1960)

Granted: I am an inmate of a mental hospital; my keeper is watching me, he never lets me out of his sight; there's a peephole in the door, and my keeper's eye is the shade of brown that can never see through a blue-eyed type like me. The Tin Drum by GŸnter Grass (trans. Ralph Manheim) (1959)

When Dick Gibson was a little boy he was not Dick Gibson. The Dick Gibson Show by Stanley Elkin (1971)

Hiram Clegg, together with his wife Emma and four friends of the faith from Randolph Junction, were summoned by the Spirit and Mrs. Clara Collins, widow of the beloved Nazarene preacher Ely Collins, to West Condon on the weekend of the eighteenth and nineteenth of April, there to await the End of the World. The Origin of the Brunists by Robert Coover (1966)

She waited, Kate Croy, for her father to come in, but he kept her unconscionably, and there were moments at which she showed herself, in the glass over the mantel, a face positively pale with the irritation that had brought her to the point of going away without sight of him. The Wings of the Dove by Henry James (1902)

In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway (1929)

“Take my camel, dear,” said my Aunt Dot, as she climbed down from this animal on her return from High Mass. The Towers of Trebizon by Rose Macaulay (1956)

He was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head forward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging bull. Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad (1900)

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. The Go-Between by L. P. Hartley (1953)

On my naming day when I come 12 I gone front spear and kilt a wyld boar he parbly ben the las wyld pig on the Bundel Downs any how there hadnt ben none for a long time befor him nor I aint looking to see none agen. Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban (1980)

Justice?—You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law. A Frolic of His Own by William Gaddis (1994)

Vaughan died yesterday in his last car-crash. Crash by J. G. Ballard (1973)

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith (1948)

“When your mama was the geek, my dreamlets,” Papa would say, “she made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing.” Geek Love by Katherine Dunn (1983)

In the last years of the Seventeenth Century there was to be found among the fops and fools of the London coffee-houses one rangy, gangling flitch called Ebenezer Cooke, more ambitious than talented, and yet more talented than prudent, who, like his friends-in-folly, all of whom were supposed to be educating at Oxford or Cambridge, had found the sound of Mother English more fun to game with than her sense to labor over, and so rather than applying himself to the pains of scholarship, had learned the knack of versifying, and ground out quires of couplets after the fashion of the day, afroth with Joves and Jupiters, aclang with jarring rhymes, and string-taut with similes stretched to the snapping-point. The Sot-Weed Factor by John Barth (1960)

When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon. The Last Good Kiss by James Crumley (1978)

It was just noon that Sunday morning when the sheriff reached the jail with Lucas Beauchamp though the whole town (the whole county too for that matter) had known since the night before that Lucas had killed a white man. Intruder in the Dust by William Faulkner (1948)

I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus This-that-and-the-other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles) who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as “Claudius the Idiot,” or “That Claudius,” or “Claudius the Stammerer,” or “Clau-Clau-Claudius” or at best as “Poor Uncle Claudius,” am now about to write this strange history of my life; starting from my earliest childhood and continuing year by year until I reach the fateful point of change where, some eight years ago, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly found myself caught in what I may call the “golden predicament” from which I have never since become disentangled. I, Claudius by Robert Graves (1934)

Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I've come to learn, is women. Middle Passage by Charles Johnson (1990)

I am an American, Chicago born—Chicago, that somber city—and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent. The Adventures of Augie March by Saul Bellow (1953)

The towers of Zenith aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as silver rods. Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis (1922)

I will tell you in a few words who I am: lover of the hummingbird that darts to the flower beyond the rotted sill where my feet are propped; lover of bright needlepoint and the bright stitching fingers of humorless old ladies bent to their sweet and infamous designs; lover of parasols made from the same puffy stuff as a young girl's underdrawers; still lover of that small naval boat which somehow survived the distressing years of my life between her decks or in her pilothouse; and also lover of poor dear black Sonny, my mess boy, fellow victim and confidant, and of my wife and child. But most of all, lover of my harmless and sanguine self. Second Skin by John Hawkes (1964)

He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad. Scaramouche by Raphael Sabatini (1921)

Psychics can see the color of time it's blue. Blown Away by Ronald Sukenick (1986)

In the town, there were two mutes and they were always together. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers (1940)

Once upon a time two or three weeks ago, a rather stubborn and determined middle-aged man decided to record for posterity, exactly as it happened, word by word and step by step, the story of another man for indeed what is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal, a somewhat paranoiac fellow unmarried, unattached, and quite irresponsible, who had decided to lock himself in a room a furnished room with a private bath, cooking facilities, a bed, a table, and at least one chair, in New York City, for a year 365 days to be precise, to write the story of another person—a shy young man about of 19 years old—who, after the war the Second World War, had come to America the land of opportunities from France under the sponsorship of his uncle—a journalist, fluent in five languages—who himself had come to America from Europe Poland it seems, though this was not clearly established sometime during the war after a series of rather gruesome adventures, and who, at the end of the war, wrote to the father his cousin by marriage of the young man whom he considered as a nephew, curious to know if he the father and his family had survived the German occupation, and indeed was deeply saddened to learn, in a letter from the young man—a long and touching letter written in English, not by the young man, however, who did not know a damn word of English, but by a good friend of his who had studied English in school—that his parents both his father and mother and his two sisters one older and the other younger than he had been deported they were Jewish to a German concentration camp Auschwitz probably and never returned, no doubt having been exterminated deliberately X * X * X * X, and that, therefore, the young man who was now an orphan, a displaced person, who, during the war, had managed to escape deportation by working very hard on a farm in Southern France, would be happy and grateful to be given the opportunity to come to America that great country he had heard so much about and yet knew so little about to start a new life, possibly go to school, learn a trade, and become a good, loyal citizen. Double or Nothing by Raymond Federman (1971)

Time is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space. Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood (1988)

He—for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it—was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters. Orlando by Virginia Woolf (1928)

High, high above the North Pole, on the first day of 1969, two professors of English Literature approached each other at a combined velocity of 1200 miles per hour. Changing Places by David Lodge (1975)

They say when trouble comes close ranks, and so the white people did. Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys (1966)

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane (1895)

[blueplanettrash]

Day 3: Stockings Hung With Care

Alright, I’m done with this one! I hope that I get actual today’s one done on my way home! Hope you guys enjoy! ❤️

“Alright guys, it’s time to get to bed,” Rosa said starting to usher the children off to their bedrooms. Cortez followed behind her with a yawn. She gave each of them a hug and a kiss.

“I’ll put them to bed mamá,” Lance offered coming up behind her. She turned with a smile.

“Thank you, Lance,” she said squeezing his face in her hands. He laughed and hugged her before turning and giving his papá a hug as well.

“Goodnight,” he said. “Everybody better be in bed!” He cried running down the hallway before laughter started spilling out of the open doorways.

“You can’t tell me what to do!” Mark yelled in retaliation as Lance tried to push his older brother to his bed. He laughed and grabbed Lance before tossing him on the bed with a laugh.

“Time for bed!” Rosa reminded them sternly, hands on her hips even though none of them could see her. There was a beat of silence.

“Yes mamá,” they all chorused.

She nodded her head and looked over at her husband. They sat down on the couch in front of the TV waiting for the kids to fall asleep. About a half hour later they peeked in the rooms to check in case one of them decided to stay up to see Santa. Rosia quietly closed the door and gave a thumbs up to Cortez to start laying out their presents and filling their stockings. With a smile he did.

They laughed quietly as they put presents under the tree and hung the stockings back on the fireplace. They stepped back to admire their handy work and nodded in approval before heading off to their room.

Lance had always been a light sleeper, despite coming from a family of dead to the world sleepers. He always had strange dreams and would wake up immediately when things didn’t start going right. He had a lot of sleepless nights, but it was better than having nightmares. So when he started dreaming of fire and smelling smoke, he immediately jolted awake. He expected to wake up and instantly feel better and maybe even be able to fall back asleep quickly. He didn’t expect to actually see black smoke drifting in from his bedroom door. His eyes widened and he hopped up, holding his shirt over his nose and mouth, cautiously tapping the door handle to see if it was hot. It wasn’t and he prayed to God, someone just burned something.

No such luck. From down the hall, he could see flames covering the living room and was spreading towards the hallway. He burst into his parent's room with a scream and ran to his papá shaking him until he woke up with a grunt.

“Lance?” He asked groggily. Lance didn’t wait any longer before tugging him out of bed followed by his mamá.

“The house is on fire,” he said voice shaky. Their eyes widened as they woke up enough to notice the black smoke. They ran around Lance, confident he would follow them, and ran into the other bedrooms. Rosa to Mark’s, Cortez to Caleb and Sophie’s, and Lance to Marie’s. They ran towards the kitchen hoping the flames hadn’t reached it yet, but they had already reached the hallway and were forced to turn around. They ran back to Rosa and Cortez’s room and slid up the window, before starting to crawl through it. Never had they been so glad that they lived in one story house.

They ran away from the fire, clad only in their pyjamas and socks or slippers. They coughed and gagged, eyes stinging from the smoke and soot. Mark shakily pulled his cellphone from the pocket of his sweatpants and called 911.

“911. What’s your emergency?” the operator’s voice asked.

“My house is burning down.” Mark said voice trembling. He couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“Okay sir, is everyone alright?” they asked next.

“Yes, we’re all out of the house,” he told her running his hand down his face.

“What is the address?”

“534 Wentworth Rd,”

“Okay, we are sending help, they are on their way now.”

“Thank you,” he breathed out in relief.

“How many people were living in the house?” they asked after.

“There’s seven of us,”

They lived pretty far from the town, about a twenty-minute drive and surrounded on all sides by trees. Thankfully they would be far enough away from the house that they would catch as well.

They watched in numb horror as their house and everything they owned burned in front of them. Not even the cold snow covered ground could distract them from watching the blaze. Rosa was the first to break down, holding her head in her hands as tears ran between her fingers. Cortez wrapped her in a hug, and rested his chin on the top of hers, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Caleb and Sophie were next. They clung to each other, sobs bursting from their mouths at the sight. They weren’t young enough to not realize that they had just lost everything they had.

Then it was Marie and Mark. They stared into the flames, burning tears making tracks through the black soot on their cheeks. It was obvious that they were trying to stay strong, whether it be for themselves, Caleb and Sophie, or even their parents. It was too much though, it was painful.

Last was Lance. He tried to keep it together, he really did. He was raised on the idea that material things didn’t matter much, but this was more than just a shelter. He and all of his siblings were raised here. It was filled with good and bad memories, fights, celebrations, losses, and so much more. It wasn’t just a house to them. It was home.

He choked and stumbled over to Marie and Mark, who both wrapped their arms around him, trying to protect their baby brother. They unraveled and staggered over to their parents who were now holding Caleb and Sophie in their arms. They opened their free arms and their children huddled as much as they could in them, bawls echoing through the air around them.

They heard sirens in the distance but didn’t move from their spot until they saw them driving between the trees to stop in front of the house. An ambulance pulled up behind them and EMTs immediately headed towards them, bags in hand. They met them halfway and crowded around the back doors as each of them were checked out. Their first break of the day happened as none of them had any sort of injury. Throughout the entire process, they couldn’t stop crying and hugging each other. During that time, the police arrived and took their statements while the EMTs wrapped blankets around their shoulders.

They offered to take them away from the house but they refused. Even though they told them, that it could take hours for them to put the fire out, they remained steadfast. Even if it hurt, they were going to stay with their home until the very end. They used Mark’s cell phone to call the rest of their family to tell them what happened, more tears were shed at their news. Of course, they insisted that they stay with them until they get back on their feet. They cried in relief, thanking their Aunt. They could hear her weeping on the other end of the line.

“Shut up, don’t thank me. We are family, we look out for each other always,”

“Sorry,” Rosa said with a sniff.

“No apologies,” she said sternly. “Call me when you’re done talking with everyone and we’ll come and pick you up,”

“But your Christmas morning,” Rose started to argue before being cut off by her sister.

“That’s not important right now, you will always be more important to me,” she said quietly. Rosa shallowed and nodded shallowly tears once again rolling down her cheeks. She quickly wiped it away.

“Okay, I’ll call you after we’re done,” she said, her voice growing stronger.

“Te amo,”

“Te amo,” she croaked ending the call and handing it back to Mark who shoved it in his pocket. They watched the team fight the flames as the sun rose over the horizon bringing them into Christmas Day. A little while after the sun rose into the sky, the smoke fading to white. They looked hopelessly at the smouldering black ruins of their home. Pain filled their entire chests, everything they had built, everything they had experienced, was gone within a few hours. They huddled together again, tears squeezing out of their eyes as they tried to be strong for each other.

They looked over when they heard boots stomping towards them and saw one of the firefighters walking to their group.

“I’m so sorry about your house,” he said solemnly after unclipping his face mask.

“Shiro?” A voice asked quietly before Lance stepped out from in between them.

“Oh God, Lance,” Shiro said just as quietly before Lance ran forward with a sob and wrapped his arms around his chest. Shiro quickly wrapped his arms around Lance, his heart squeezing in pain for him.

Lance worked part-time at the coffee shop and café beside the fire station. He and his team would always take their lunch breaks in the shop and they became good friends with the young man. To see that it was his house and his family that were affected by the fire, hurt him like not many other things could.

“Shiro, did you talk t- Lance?” Keith asked startled as he came around the truck. At the sight of his other friend, Lance wailed even louder. Keith quickly walked over in concern and was wrapped up in another hug. Hunk and Pidge followed shortly after the loud cry and recognized the friendly face at the café, that was covered in tears, snot, and soot. He cried in the circle of firefighters before he pushed himself back to his family.

“What do we need to do?” Rosa asked Shiro.

“We need to do a fire report,” he informed her. “If you want, we could take you back to the fire station, we can get you into some new clothes and shoes and you can get washed up,” he offered. She turned to look at her family, they looked lost even on their own property. She sighed and nodded her head in agreement.

Shiro smiled back encouragingly and lead them back to the firetruck. Hunk and Keith hopped on the back of the truck, not at all perturbed by the fact that it would be a long ride back. Shiro opened the door for them and helped get Caleb and Sophie up into the back. They shared a seat and quickly buckled up. The rest of the family squeezing in behind them.

“Sorry for the tight fit,” Shiro said looking at them over his shoulder.

“It’s alright,” Cortez said quickly. Shiro nodded silently and they started on their way to town. It was completely silent the entire way back.

Lance stared out of the window. His hair was still wet from his shower and he was clothed in and Altea Fire Department hoodie and pair of sweatpants. His two youngest siblings were sleeping on cots provided by the station, his older siblings were trying to find more work from their current bosses and his parents were busy calling the insurance companies.

He looked up when he felt a hand on his shoulder and saw Shiro peering down at him. Keith, Hunk, and Pidge sat down on the other chairs around him.

“Coran and Allura are out investigating the cause of the fire right now,” Shiro informed him. He nodded his head and looked back out the window.

“We’re so sorry Lance,” Hunk said breaking the silence. Lance sighed and looked over at them.

“We loved that house,” he started. “No matter where we were, we always knew that we would be able to go back home there. So many things have happened in there, good and bad but it was always there,”

“Lance,” Keith tried. Lance shook his head.

“Things could have been much worse today, I could have lost a sister, or a brother, or my parents. I could have lost my entire family. I could have died in there myself. We’re lucky that none of us are seriously injured or dead; and when I think about that, I don’t care about the house or the things that were inside of it,”

Their eyes widened at the statement, pride for their friend swelling in their chests.

“We are so much stronger than this,” his voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. The pride he felt for his family overwhelming him. Sure they cried in sorrow at the beginning but mamá and papá were already working hard trying to put their lives back together, only a few hours after it was torn apart. Marie and Mark were trying to cram more into their already hectic schedules, even though they had no idea what was going to happen next; and Caleb and Sophie were so strong. They didn’t know anything but that house, it wasn’t fair to them but they haven’t even complained once. He curled into himself, resting his head on his knees.

“We’ll get through this, we always do,”

“I believe you Lance,” Shiro said rubbing his hand up and down Lance’s back in comfort. He trembled where he sat, he didn’t want to cry again. He was so sick of crying. He couldn’t help it though. He sat there in the comfort of his friends. Hoping for some sort of miracle. He didn’t care when it happened but he just wanted everything to be okay.

Lance’s aunt came to pick up the family, graciously thanking the team for their work before leaving with the family in tow. Coran and Allura ruled the fire an accident, most likely caused by a stray spark popping out of the not quite extinguished fireplace and caught one of the stockings on fire. Since they were filled with presents at the time, it had plenty of fuel to spread.

Their first miracle happened when donations started raking in. The McClains were a well known and well-liked family in the community. Other families were generous with what they gave; food, clothes, money, building materials. Rosa and Cortez cried every time someone would come up to them with a donation for them.

With the donation money, insurance claims, and Marie, Mark, and Lance working excessively they were able to afford a new house much quicker than they could ever imagine.

By next Christmas morning, they were happily huddled around the Christmas tree. They didn’t worry about what would happen next anymore. They didn’t have to fight anymore. They had been through their battle and they had won.