#I did notice the heightened sense of hope (very in line with the faith in our football team)

[theirloveisgross]

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[yel-halansu]

Pre-Reform Vulcan isn't what you think it is

So I've seen a lot of confusion in the fandom regarding Vulcan history, which is a shame because it's really detailed and interesting! I've compiled this summary of the main eras and events in Vulcan history which I hope you will find informative and useful (just as a note, all dates will be given in standard Earth years and centuries for clarity). Let's begin!

THE TIME OF THE BEGINNING

Life was seeded in Vulcan by a preserver race around 6 million years ago, which explains the similarities with other kinds of humanoid life in the galaxy. Evolution took its natural course, and by 600,000 BCE, a humanoid species had developed from a feline ancestor.

Proto-Vulcan humanoids were a peaceful people with an aptitude for logic. They lived mostly in the plains and kept away from mountain areas due to the danger posed by volcanic eruptions. They learnt to use fire early, and the abundance of metals made for a short Stone Age as they quickly developed rudimentary metallurgy and agricultural techniques. They soon started to domesticate animals and developed other basic technologies such as weaving. During this time period, strong solar flares and increased volcanic activity desertified the planet. The lack of resources such as water and fertile land that ensued would mark Vulcan history for thousands of years to come.

THE AGE OF ANTIQUITY

By 2,700 BCE, society was organized around tribal lines in clans that banded together for protection. Most tribes were nomadic, crossing the desert in search of water and following the migrating herds of the animals they hunted. It is theorized that groups were female-dominated, with the clan matriarchs overseeing most aspects of life.

Around that time, however, settlements had also started to develop across the territory, mostly near the shorelines of the small seas of Vulcan and by protective rock formations near oases, in order to utilise these precious resources and guard them from outsiders. These settlements eventually developed into fortified city-states. Conflicts over water and arable land became common as the cities fought to monopolise them, and technological development quickly stagnated as they fought for survival, ushering in a dark age. Political intrigue and violence were rife, with the warlords of the city-states securing alliances through arranged marriages and concocting elaborate plots of betrayal.

It is also thought that it was around this period of time that Vulcans as a species started to develop psychionic abilities, with members of the population who displayed these abilities being highly sought after and respected. As early as 2,500 BCE, some isolated Vulcans appear to have began to mentally train themselves to suppress their emotions, noticing that doing so resulted in a heightened control of their telepathic abilities.

The Age of Antiquity lasted thousands of years, but due to the uncontrolled destruction of the environment during the wars that were about to ensue, little archaeological evidence remains of it. Most accounts about this period are now shrouded in legend.

THE AGE OF EXPANSION

Eventually, an arms race began as the Vulcan city-states, locked in constant skirmishes, rushed to overpower their neighbours and defend their scarce resources. Technological advancement, which had up to that point been slow, quickly sped up and focused on weaponry, until Vulcans came to create weapons of mass destruction such as atomic and neutron bombs. The wars that ensued ravaged the surface of the planet, permanently distorting a region of its magnetic field, and leading to frequent energy discharges in the red sands.

By the 9th century BCE, Vulcans were capable of space travel, though they did not yet possess warp capability. Legend states that the first spacecraft was built by the warlord D'Vir in 855 BCE. At the time not many species were warp-capable, and so the Vulcans did not come into contact with other civilizations. They quickly landed on Vulcan's sister planet, T'Khut, and started mining it for resources.

Wars were now worsened due to the shifting balances of power caused by the destabilizing factors of the discovery of new off-world territories to colonise and the new incoming resources taken from T'Khut, the nearby asteroid belts, and other neighbouring planets. The wars in Vulcan continued for centuries.

SUDOC'S HEGEMONY

The landscape suffered greatly, and the Vulcans came close to extinction just around the 3rd century CE. It was around this time that a warlord called Sudoc took power in the city of Jaleyl by assassinating the previous ruler. His psichionic abilities were renowned and he used this power to control his followers through mind-melds and telepathic torture. He cultivated a close circle of ardent brainwashed followers. He quickly became very popular in Jaleyl by appealing to the majority of the populace with propaganda techniques, and began to expand his kingdom quickly and violently. Initially, other neighbouring city-states resisted, but Sudoc fought them mercilessly and invaded them. He is said to have slaughtered entire cities except for a single survivor, who would then be sent to the next town with the following message: “Your rulers are responsible. They would rather see you dead than out of their control.” This would cause neighbouring city-states to either surrender or be torn apart by internal conflict, as the leaders would be overthrown by their fearful citizens. For over a century, Sudoc's armies advanced across the planet.

THE TIME OF AWAKENING

Surak was born to a general in Shi'Kahr just as the city was entering in conflict with Sudoc's expanding kingdom. As a well-off youth, he was spared the horrors of the war and was not drafted into the army as most common citizens were. Instead, he spent his youth reading, studying and discussing philosophy with his friends at the sumptuous feasts of the upper class. The turning point in his life came when his entire family was assassinated by Sudoc's agents. Surak was spared as he was at a party that evening. Many other influential families were killed in this coordinated attack, including that of Surak's closest friend, Senet. Senet was consumed by rage, and immediately joined the front lines of the army, wishing to get his revenge on Sudoc. He was promptly killed.

This event changed Surak permanently, and he began to write. He theorised that all the problems of the Vulcan people stemmed from their excess of emotion. He started to develop his discipline of logic, which he believed was the only thing that could temper emotion and allow Vulcan society to develop past the horrible struggles of war. Many of his former friends deserted him during this time, but others stayed as he developed a close circle of faithful followers. Surak surrounded himself with masters of all disciplines, such as law, calligraphy and mathematics, who would in time go on to apply his principles of logic into these disciplines.

Surak faced great opposition at the beginning, as he was perceived by the population of Shi'Kahr as a spoiled kid who knew little of the horrors of the war. Sensing their apprehension, Surak and his followers started crossing the enemy lines and teaching their philosophy of peace among the armies of Sudoc. Many warriors began to desert the army, and propagated his teachings in turn as they travelled through the desert, fleeing the conflict.

From that point on, Surak's teachings gained popularity and sparked unrest in many of the territories of Sudoc's kingdom, which soon rebelled against the warlord. By this time, Sudoc had grown old, and in 331 CE, he died in a telepathic accident during melding session with his inner circle. His empire collapsed quickly after that and the war came to an abrupt end. The Vulcan people were still fractured into various groups while Surak spread his message, but in the vacuum left by Sudoc, many more Vulcans found comfort and hope in Surak's teachings.

THE SUNDERING

Even though Surak's teachings were extremely popular, not all Vulcans felt inclined to follow them. A group of Sudoc's most ardent supporters, led by a warrior named Tellus, found themselves increasingly disturbed by the new philosophy that was sweeping the planet. They would come to be called the "those who marched beneath the Raptor's wings". After attempting to start a new war against the followers of Surak, they saw themselves forced to leave the planet.

In 369 CE, hundreds of thousands of Tellus' followers took to space in the rudimentary crafts available at the time, looking for a new planet to call their homeworld. They would eventually arrive to a distant planet named Romulus and their culture would develop to become the Romulans we know today. It is a mystery how they managed to survive in space and travel that far a distance in non-warp ships, and it has been suggested that they may have accidentally entered a wormhole or been aided by some poweful interstellar entity.

With the exodus of the proto-Romulans, Vulcan was left mostly unified in thought and belief. However, Surak always considered the societal rift responsible for the Sundering to be one of his greatest failures. Surak died of radiation poisoning on Mount Seleya in 481. Selok, one of his disciples, took to the task of building a new system of government that would align with the new philosophy of pacifism and planetary unification, emotional supression and logic.

THE GOLDEN AGE

With a renewed spirit of unity and cooperation, Vulcans ushered in a new age of technological development. Within the space of a few years, Vulcans mapped the geothermic activity of their planet to contain its destructive force and harness its power, and used this new energy source to construct desalinisation plants and supply water to the cities and the cropfields. For the first time in Vulcan history, resources were plentiful and the constant threat of famine was erradicated. Science progressed quickly, with the Vulcan Science Academy being founded in 399 CE. Psichionic techniques also developped faster under the discipline of logic, and by the 6th century they had become cemented in the population as the new techiniques of meditation and self-control developed in their mainstream culture.

THE ROMULAN WAR

The Golden Age came to an abrupt end in 1270, when mysterious spacecrafts entered Vulcan aerospace and attacked their planet. These were, in fact, the Romulans, who has returned to their homeworld with the intention of conquering it. Both civilizations lacked warp drive capability at the time, and it is theorised that the Romulans were using an unstable wormhole to travel between the two worlds when permitted. Because of this, the timing of the incursions was unpredictable, and sometimes long periods of time would pass between attacks. The war lasted around 100 years in total. Romulan strategy dictated that their vessels must self-destruct rather than being captured, and because of this, the Vulcans never understood who was attacking them or why. However, they defended themselves with tenacity and avoided being conquered, until the wormhole closed permanently, putting a stop to the war.

SPACE EXPLORATION

The Romulan war drove technological advancements in many fields, including aeronautics, and after many years of avoiding space travel, the Vulcans took to the stars once again. Initially motivated by the potential discovery of their enemies in the recent war, they developed warp-drive capable starships. However, as they were still weary of other civilizations due the recent conflict, they avoided first contact with other races, preferring studying them from afar until they had gathered sufficient data to judge whether they posed a threat. First contact with Earth took place on 2063, and by that point they had already had encounters with the Tellarites and the Andorians, among others.

THE REFORMATION

Relations between Vulcan and Andoria were always tense, and by the 22nd century they had reached a boiling point when the Andorians sacked the Vulcan monastery of P'Jem, believing it to be an undercover spying operation. In the political fallout that ensued, the Vulcan High Council came under the control of Administrator V'Las, an undercover Romulan agent who was working to instigate the Vulcan invasion of Andoria.

In 2137, a Vulcan named Syrran created the Syrrannite movement, with the goal of returning Vulcan to the true path of pacifism and logic laid out by Surak. The increased militarism of the Vulcan High Council did not go unnoticed, and the Syrranites stood in stark oposition. The Council, weary of their influence, commenced a long campaign of persecution and slander against them.

In 2154, V'Las attempted to bomb the Terran Embassy in Shi'Kahr and blame the Syrranite movement, now led by T'Pau. However, his plans were foiled when T'Pau uncovered the Kir'Shara, an ancient artifact containing some writings of Surak that had been lost for centuries.

As a result of this discovery, the government of Vulcan was reformed and restored to a less militaristic democratic government in 2155. T'Pau stood for election and was elected as First Minister, and during her term she became one of the most influential Vulcan politicians of all time.

THE FEDERATION

The Federation was founded in 2161, with First Minister T'Pau as one of the signatories. Vulcan was proposed as capital, but the more conservative elements of government rejected the idea as it seemed culturally dangerous. Instead, Earth became the capital, though Vulcan remained a core member in spite of the warnings from conservative Vulcans that too much involvement in the affairs of other worlds was illogical and could be contrary to the philosophies of autonomy and peace that guide Surakian thought. In 2241, T'Pau refused a seat at the Federation Council, the only person to ever do so, and Suvok volunteered in her stead. This reticence to become overly involved in offworld affairs extended to Starfleet, as many saw the paramilitary organisation as having the potential to become violent. While enlisting in Starfleet was not forbidden, and many Vulcans did indeed choose this career path, it was mostly frowned upon in Vulcan society.

Though the majority of Vulcans support the Federation, the growing influence of Terra and other alien worlds in the affairs of Vulcan crystallised the radicalisation of more xenophobic elements of society, such as the Logic Extremists. During the 23rd century, this terrorist group bombed the Vulcan Learning Center to kill young Spock and Michael, the children of the mixed family of Ambassador Sarek. In the following years, they went on to sabotage several diplomatic missions until they were disbanded. In 2370, the Vulcan Isolationist Movement, the spiritual successor to the Logic Extremists, was discovered and also disbanded.

And these are the main periods in Vulcan history so far! In spite of their rapid advances in technology, Vulcan remains respectful of its traditions, ever logical and reserved, ever holding the violence that plagued it for centuries as a reminder of the past they wish to distance themselves from and the bright future that lays ahead.

Sources: VLI: Planet Vulcan History, The Way of Kolinahr: The Vulcans, Memory Alpha, Memory Beta.

[senorarelojes]

Ficlet: The One Where Fletch Has Sex Powers

A crackfic based on @pinksyndication's running joke about how Fletch always teleports to wherever Dave and Alan are having sex.

Tags: Crackfic, Nonsense, Getting Caught, OOC-ness Rating: Mature

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All in all, Andy Fletcher was a Very Good Boy. He didn't take drugs (he didn't care what anyone said, pot wasn't a drug) and he liked drinking, but he treated the fans well and he never slept with any groupies. And it appeared that the other guys were starting to be swayed by his good example; all right, Martin was Martin, but Dave and Alan seemed to have stopped bringing girls back to their rooms. In fact, now the two of them would often head back to the hotel together after their gigs and afterparties, grinning and whispering about something or other.

“What do you think those two are up to?” Martin said, when he and Fletch were waiting for their drinks at the bar one night in New Orleans. They were watching Dave and Alan leave the club together, and Dave must have been drunk because he was holding onto Alan’s hips for balance. He did that a lot these days. Fletch thought Alan was a very good friend for tolerating that much touching.

“Dunno,” Fletch said, knocking back the whiskey a grateful fan had bought him. It burned all the way down, warm but funny in his stomach. “Dave said sometimes they read the Bible together.”

Martin laughed until he almost choked on his drink, Fletch patting him on the back until his airways were clear again. “He really said that?” Martin gasped.

“Yeah, must’ve heard him wrong,” Fletch said with a grin. “He said something about getting to know Alan biblically? Must have been stoned out of his mind.”

Martin’s brow was now wrinkled in confusion, his mouth open to ask something before they were waylaid by a group of very excited fans in very little clothing, and Fletch got distracted (okay he was faithful to Grainne, but he wasn’t a priest) and he forgot all about their topic of discussion.

Besides, the whiskey earlier was making him feel a bit odd.

***

A few days later, Fletch was still feeling the effects of the whiskey that fan had given him in New Orleans. He wasn’t sick or anything like that; he just felt like a toy soldier whose key had been wound too tightly, like all his senses had been heightened. If Martin was flirting with someone, Fletch could almost hear Martin’s heartbeat racing as though it were his very own. When one of their female roadies bent over their synths and treated Daryl to a view of her cleavage, Fletch could smell something warm and vanilla-ish, like the spiced fruit cake his mother used to bake.

The worst one was that he also seemed to have gained the knack of accidentally walking in on people making out or about to have sex. On tour, this was a most awkward scenario as Fletch had to work with these people day in and day out for months, so he most definitely did not want to get a glimpse of anyone’s arse or naughty bits. He got into the habit of knocking on any doors to announce his presence beforehand, which was most annoying as Fletch liked the freedom of going where he pleased on tour.

He almost wanted to tell Martin about the very odd things happening to him recently, but he knew Martin would just laugh it off so he decided not to. Strange things happened on tour all the time, and Martin would just tell him to be careful and watch where he was going. Besides, Fletch felt fine beyond the odd thing about his senses being magnified.

Then it all came to a head one night.

After their gig in Los Angeles, Fletch had decided to skip the afterparty because he was a bit too flushed and sweaty. Afraid that he might be coming down with the flu, Fletch went back to the hotel shortly after Dave and Alan themselves did. Ringing room service and ordering himself a nice hot tea and a bacon sandwich, Fletch decided a bath might be the best thing after a long gig; he didn’t care what Alan had to say, all that clapping would tire anyone out.

Fletch had his late dinner, then drew his bath and sat in the steaming hot water for a good thirty minutes, ignoring the moans he was hearing next door. (This was now a nightly occurrence that he attributed to the hotel’s thin walls, trying not to think about how that had never been a problem before). But after it got a bit too obscene for him to ignore, he got up and reached for his towel, drying himself and draining the water.

Fletch was almost done when his eye fell on the bathroom counter, then he frowned down at the items scattered around the bathroom sink. Those were not his toiletries. For one thing, there were too many bottles of cologne and aftershave, and there was also make up - make up! - on the counter. Where the fuck had they come from? Fletch’s heart was starting to thump loudly in his chest in panic. This didn’t look like his bathroom.

Then he heard voices from outside.

Now his heart jumped up into his throat, leaving him stricken in fear. Had robbers come in during his bath, or did fans manage to track him down? He pressed his ear against the door, startled when he heard Alan’s voice. It was both disconcerting and soothing to hear him talking, because at least it was someone he knew and trusted. Then again, what the fuck was Alan doing in his room? Maybe he’d broken in to play a prank on Fletch.

Fletch found himself grinning. Well, two could play at that game.

Flinging open the door, Fletch shouted, “Surprise, Wilder--” but his voice died because a sweaty Alan was naked on his bed, balls deep in someone who was face down in the pillows.

For a long moment, it was hard to tell who was more horrified: Fletch, or Alan, who was staring back at him in shock.

“What the fuck are you doing in my room?” they both asked at the same time, before the person Alan was fucking raised their head.

“Charlie, what--” A red-faced Dave was blinking at Fletch, who just stared at him, then Alan, then him again.

That was the point where Fletch passed out.

***

When he came to, he was resting on the two-seater sofa near the window. Dave and Alan, who were both wearing the hotel’s fluffy bathrobes, were peering down at him anxiously. “Is he alive?” Dave asked, palming Fletch’s forehead.

Fletch batted his hand away with a squawk. “Don’t touch me with-- that! Who knows where it’s been!” he shouted, scrambling away from the two of them.

Dave actually had the good graces to look hurt. Hurt! As though he was the one who had walked in on his two bandmates plowing each other like a cornfield. “My hand’s clean, it’s not like I had my fingers up Alan’s arse or something,” he said huffily. “We did that yesterday.”

“Dave,” Alan said in warning. “Not the time, mate.”

“He insinuated I was dirty,” Dave protested at the same time as Fletch yelled, “Stop telling me things!”

Alan held out his hands for calm. “Okay, look. Andy, why were you in my bathroom?”

Fletch rolled his eyes. “Excuse me, this is my room.”

Shaking his head, Alan looked even more confused. “No, it’s not. It’s mine.” And sure enough, it was only now that Fletch had a good look around. He could see Alan’s various leather jackets hanging in the wardrobe, his suitcases and boots lined up against the wall.

Now Fletch really, really felt ill. “I need to lie down.”

“You are lying down,” Dave said. When Alan shot him another glare, Dave got all huffy. “What? I can’t point out facts now?”

“This still doesn’t explain how Andy ended up in the bathroom,” Alan said, running his hands through his hair. Then Dave flattened down a cowlick that was sticking up at the back, and Alan shot him a very fond smile. Fletch could hear his heartbeat kicking up too, just like Martin’s had when he’d been flirting with that cute girl.

Oh. Oh no.

“I think I have sex powers,” Fletch said faintly.

Dave and Alan just stared at him. “How hard did he hit his head when he fell down?” Dave whispered to Alan.

“No, you don’t understand.” Fletch told them about the whiskey from that fan, then about his tendency to sense people’s heightened lust, as well as the odd thing about walking in on people in various states of intimacy. Dave just looked confused, while Alan seemed thoughtful.

“I think I’ve heard of this before,” Alan said, pacing about his room while Dave not-so-subtly tried to look up his robe. “It must have been a charm a fan had given to you.”

“But why?” For the life of him, Fletch couldn’t figure out why anyone would do this to him.

Alan shrugged. “Happened to a mate of mine. It usually wears off after a week or so.”

“A week’s a very long time to stop teleporting to where people are having sex,” Fletch said in a huff, before he gestured between the two of them. “Also, when did this bloody happen?”

Dave blushed a deep beetroot red, while Alan cocked an eyebrow at Fletch. “Really? You just gained sex powers, but you’re more concerned about Dave and I making love?”

Fletch had to hold his breath before he gagged, while Dave’s blush deepened, hearts practically glowing in his eyes. “Oh, Al--”

“Okay, I’m going to use my sex powers and, um, teleport out of here,” Fletch muttered, but Alan and Dave were starting to get all handsy again so Fletch didn’t wait and bolted out of the room, running straight to Mart’s.

***

As Alan predicted, Fletch’s sex powers went away a few days after the incident with the two of them. But although he didn’t have those powers anymore, it was hard not to notice whenever Alan and Dave snuck off together. So when Martin commented on it, Fletch told him.

“How did you find out?” Martin was half-sober, so Fletch was counting on him to remember this conversation in the morning.

“My sex powers,” Fletch said.

“Your sex what?” Martin goggled at him, so Fletch told him everything that had happened. At the end of it, Martin didn’t quite look like he believed Fletch, but he wasn’t quite laughing him off either.

“So do you still have them?” Martin asked after a long silence, staring down at his own tumbler of whiskey with suspicion now.

“I hope not,” Fletch said miserably. “I probably already need years of therapy after catching Alan and Dave like that together.”

Martin was starting to smile again. “At least Dave wasn’t lying when he said he was getting to know Alan biblically.”

“You’re a silver lining kind of bloke, aren’t you?” Fletch rolled his eyes at him, because he really wasn’t kidding about the therapy.

Martin patted him on the back sympathetically. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink then. What do you want?”

“Anything but whiskey,” Fletch said, because really, he never wanted to get sex powers again.

[anniesocsandgeneralstore]

Normal Love and Superheroes: Two - my city

Summary: Leena gets a meeting with the Bruce Wayne himself and a call from John Blake. 

Pairing: John Blake x OFC (Leena Duckett) 

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: none I think...characters discuss Sexy Times and getting drunk but like that’s it I suppose

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

“Why the heck would he want a private tour with me? He asked for me specifically?”

“Look that’s what he said over the phone, Leena.”

“But did he say why?”

“I’m so terribly sorry I didn’t take the time to ask Bruce frickin’ Wayne, one of the biggest patrons of the gallery, why he asked for a tour from you specifically.”

Leena blushed. “Sorry, Adeline. I just…”

“Don’t worry about it.” The blonde sitting behind the welcome desk smiled with a closed mouth. “I’d react the same way if I were in your shoes. A whole hour or more with Bruce Wayne….”

Another tour guide jogged up to the front desk from the bowels of the gallery. Leena turned and watched her approach. Phoebe had a look of conspiracy and impression on her long face. She came to a halt beside Leena and elbowed her in the side.

“So are you gonna take Mr. Wayne into one of the more….Private rooms of the gallery?” Phoebe asked with a wicked smile.

Leena rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the hot feeling that was spreading from her neck into her face. It was no secret about Gotham that Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, was extremely attractive and constantly single. She saw the tabloid covers as she stood in line at the grocery store. She even ran into him outside of a restaurant one time. But his sexual promiscuity was not what bothered her about giving him a private tour. It was more the fact that he was Bruce Wayne, billionaire enigma businessman that seemed to have intimidation come out of his very pores. Who was she to be giving him a tour of the galleries that he often bought from? A no-name artist who worked two jobs, one of which she hated, to make ends meet? That didn’t sound like the kind of girl that should be giving a Wayne tours of anything.

“No I will not, Phoebe, Jesus!” Leena laughed.

“Oh, come on, have you seen him? Plus, you know he’d be open to it. He’s slept with every hot girl in Gotham and beyond.”

“Just cause he’s slept around doesn’t mean he’d be open to swapping spit in a broom closet with a random gallery tour guide.” Leena rolled her eyes. “Maybe he wants just a normal day out. Like anyone else.”

“God, you’re no fun,” Phoebe groaned.

“I think we know from after hours drinks just how fun Leena can be,” Adeline, the front desk girl, pitched in.

Leena rolled her eyes again and smirked. She always told herself, after those nights out, that she would never fall into the temptation of going again. She always got way too drunk, being a lightweight that fell very easily under peer pressure. And because she always got way too drunk, she always ended up doing something she regretted. Like dancing on top of a table, kissing some random person in the dark corner of the bar they frequented, or possibly recreating dance scenes from Chicago with very little success.

“Please stop,” Leena begged with a red face.

“Excuse me ladies.” An older gentleman with an English accent approached the front desk. He looked very nice in a dark suit with white thinning hair. “I’m here for my tour of the gallery.”

“Of course, what’s the name attached to the tour?” Adeline asked.

Phoebe squeezed Leena’s arm and wiggled her eyebrows before she trotted off, back into the gallery. And Leena was about to do the same, but —

“Bruce Wayne. I run his house and am looking for some new work to be put up. I believe I set aside a tour guide already?” the old man said.

“Oh, yes, you did.” Adeline typed on the computer for a moment, giving Leena a bit of side-eye as she did so. “You’ll be touring with Ms. Duckett.”

Leena let out a breath. A sudden wash of relief and disappointment running through her. She knew that the gallery was the place for many of Gotham’s most elite families to buy art for their various homes throughout the world. Rich folk wanting to support local artists. But she had never given a tour to any actual members of those families. It was always the butlers, the house runners, the managers, the publicists even. But they always state that it is the butler or the house runner coming to assess new pieces that have been put up. So when Bruce Wayne’s actual name was logged into the system, Leena really thought it was going to be him walking through the halls of their gallery. Really laying his eyes on the art and choosing it for himself rather than someone else choosing it for him and barely even noticing that it was hung in his manor. The disappointment didn’t last long, however.

Leena stepped towards the old man with a smile. “And I am Ms. Duckett. A pleasure to meet you…”

“Alfred, miss.” He held out his hand and she shook it.

“Well, right this way, Alfred.” She gestured for them to enter the gallery and she began to lead. “We’ll start with our glassworks suite — “

They entered the first room of the gallery. The Shefield Gallery was extensive, housing several different mediums of art from a variety of artists. Pure white walls to off balance the bright pops of color that the artwork created, heightening the customer intrigue. In this first room there were at least fourteen pedestals strewn about the room, each one holding a different piece of glass artwork. Leena liked to look at glasswork, but would probably never attempt creating any herself. Molten glass just seemed a little too dangerous for her taste.

“Actually, sorry to be a bother, but I was hoping to look at something specific on this trip.” Alfred pulled a piece of paper from his suit jacket pocket. He unfolded it and handed it to Leena. “A piece specifically requested by Master Wayne.”

Leena stopped them and took the piece of paper with raised brows. It was a print out from the gallery’s website. Her eyes widened.

That was her painting. Put up in the employee suite of the gallery after much begging and finally the curator taking pity on her for being a slightly hungry artist.

She looked back up at Alfred to see him smiling at her. She quickly regained herself and asked, “Um — are you sure it’s this one that Mr. Wayne wants?”

“Yes. That’s the one.”

With a resigned nod and a thick swallow, Leena led Alfred to the employee suite. She could feel her fingers going numb. Bruce Wayne wanted her painting? Really? He asked for it specifically? She was sure that the old man had to be lying to her for her benefit. Playing some sort of weird joke that ended with her humiliated and a playboy billionaire laughing at the footage of her misfortune. Or maybe there was no farce and the man really did like her painting so much he wanted to buy it and hang it in his home. Leena rubbed at her neck. He would be the first person to ever like her work enough to do so.

They came to the employee suite and Leena stopped them in front of the painting in question. She put her head down as Alfred looked at it. His thin lips were quirked up in a small smile but she couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

“Pick your head up, miss,” he said, “I know you painted this.”

“Is that why you asked for me for your tour?” Leena asked.

“It is indeed.” His smile widened. “Master Wayne wanted me to see what kind of person could paint something like that.”

He pointed to the canvas and Leena furrowed her brows. She turned to the painting herself. Was there some vulgar message she, the artist, had missed? No. She couldn’t see it. All she saw was a portrait of Gotham at night. Done in oil paints on a medium sized canvas, Leena had always been told she leaned too far into her impressionist influences. But she couldn’t help it. Ordinary subject matter with a heightened sense of romanticism and color was something that Leena was just drawn too. The painting was Gotham at night, looking out over the skyline with the lights from the offices and apartments shining brightly, as if the viewer were looking down from the highest story of some building or other. In the glowing rooms in the foreground, people could be seen. Families, tired office workers, friends getting together.

She had titled the painting My City.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she said, turning back to Alfred.

“Master Wayne sees Gotham as a dark place — a place full of hate, injustice, and cruelty,” Alfred said.

Leena pulled a face. “While I will not disagree with Mr. Wayne — Gotham is full of the worst kinds of things — but it is also still worth saving. And loving. And living in if only to save it and love it more.”

Alfred smiled, a soft and knowing thing that made Leena’s eyes narrow.

“And Master Wayne would agree with that sentiment as well.” He turned to the painting again, hands clasped behind his back. “Which is why he was drawn to your work so much. You share similar views on a city that many have lost faith in — a rare find, especially in art form.”

Leena was puzzled. Bruce Wayne grew up in Gotham, just like she did. But they saw completely different sides of Gotham. Wayne saw only the elite, the rich, the famous side. The side that lived in penthouse suites, owned entire blocks of buildings, and could afford to eat at those fancy restaurants downtown. The faces of Gotham City. While Leena saw the hands and feet, the workers and the heart and soul of Gotham. The side that worked fifty hour weeks, lived in the slums, and had to cut up and burn their own furniture to keep warm. Gotham wasn’t worth saving because of the side that Bruce Wayne saw, that made it worth damnation. Gotham was worth saving because of what Leena saw.

“Um — well — uh — I…I don’t really know what to say. I wish I could tell Mr. Wayne thank you in person.”

Alfred seemed to get an idea. “How about you deliver the painting in person to Wayne Manor? Tomorrow perhaps? You could thank him in person and he would get to meet the artist behind the painting that has captivated him for so long. That is, if you are free, of course.”

“Well, if he wanted to do that he could have come himself today.” Leena couldn’t stop the words before they came out of her mouth.

Her eyes widened as she stared at Alfred. God, she really needed to learn how to control her mouth. She could feel her neck heating up and her face paling all at the same time. Her face scrunched up as she closed her eyes. Maybe if she didn’t look at him he would just go away or she would just sink into the floor. Either option would spare her from the agonizing embarrassment ripping through her right now.

“I’m so — “

Alfred chuckled. He actually started laughing. A polite and somehow very British thing that had Leena’s eyes flying open.

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Ms. Duckett,” he chuckled out, “But Master Wayne has turned into a bit of a recluse as of late. And I really do think he would appreciate meeting you.”

Leena bit down hard on her lip. If it meant making the $500 the painting was priced at, she was willing to do anything honestly. Even it meant borrowing Jamie’s car and meeting the actual Bruce fricking Wayne himself. That was enough money to pay her half of the rent for the month and she only had to do one thing. Not work her ass off at two different jobs. Her need for the money more than outweighed her apprehensions about meeting a billionaire and talking to him about her art and her thoughts on Gotham.

“Alright. Tomorrow at three o’clock. Is that an okay time?”

“Oh, yes. Just in time for tea.”

_______________________________________________________________________

“Please could you stop the noise? I’m trying to get some rest,” Leena sang as she cleaned her paint brushes, “From all the unborn chicken voices in my head!”

She moved back to the canvas she had set up by the windows overlooking the city. Who knew getting a meeting with one of Gotham’s most influential men would give her inspiration for a new painting? The reference photo of Bruce Wayne was tacked into the corner of the canvas. She had gotten the idea on the train ride and subsequent bus ride back to her apartment when her shift at the gallery was over. Something about Bruce Wayne being a recluse and seeing the good in Gotham just gave her a spark of inspiration. A spark of inspiration to lesson her fears about meeting the man by painting him as a vigilante sasquatch.

It was at least making her feel better about the whole thing. Jamie had walked in from her own work shift with many questions about it. But Leena had only held up a finger for patience and put her headphones back in. Jamie knew what that meant. Her roommate had had a weird day and needed to vent through her art.

Leena continued to paint for some time. Lost in the music and the colors and shapes that flowed from her paintbrush. Leena’s mother had given her paints and paper when she was very little as a distracting craft while she tried to clean around the house. But her mother could not have known that that would have sparked a lifelong love for art and painting. A dedication to get better and better and find her own style. Winning contests, medals, and even studying art in college. Leena felt the most at home when she was painting. Felt the most herself when she had a brush in her hand and a vision in her head that just needed to be let out.

This was one of those ideas she just knew would consume her every waking, and possibly sleeping, thought until she got it out and onto the canvas. Vigilante sasquatch Bruce Wayne was going to camp out in her cerebral cortex until she had brought him to life. Trekking through the woods, covered in body hair, wearing a stupid bright red face mask. If he thought the city was so worth saving, then why didn’t he give money to the police department so they had the tools to catch the criminals loose on Gotham’s streets? Why didn’t he donate money to improve Gotham’s infrastructure, education, hospitals, mental health services, or literally anything else besides funneling money into his own company?

If she were to see him right now, she would have a piece of her mind to give him that was —

Her phone started vibrating in the pocket of her apron. Leena groaned. She had gotten into such a good groove, too. She pulled out her iPod first and paused her music. Then she flipped open her phone and held it up to her ear. She didn’t even bother to see who was calling. Her mother usually called around that time of day anyway.

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?” she asked as she pinched the phone between her cheek and shoulder.

“Uh — “ A distinctly male voice came through. “Sorry, this is John Blake. Were you expecting your mom to call you? Cause I can call back later.”

Oh, God. After realizing that, in her euphoria, she had forgotten to get his number, she had been waiting to hear from him for nearly two days.  

“Oh, shit,” she said, quickly wiping her paint stained hands off on her apron, “Um, no — sorry. Sorry. I wasn’t — with my mom. I can talk now. Officer Blake — John. Officer Blake?”

At the mention of that name, Jamie peeked her head out from the gap in the curtains surrounding her bed with a look of pure interest on her face. Mouth open and her eyebrows raised as she looked across the room. Leena shooed her away with a wave of her hand and an uncontrollable smile.

“You can just call me John,” he laughed, “You getting around okay without the bike?”

“Uh, yeah. Taking the train and the bus — definitely throwing my budget out of whack but — that doesn’t matter…At all.” Leena glanced over at Jamie, still listening in, only to see her roommate roll her eyes.

When did she get so terrible at talking to men?

“Well, I have some good news for you.” Leena could feel her heart jump into her mouth, making her physically stand on tip toe and stare out the window as he continued to speak. “I found it. So — uh, where do you wanna go for our date?”

Leena squeezed her eyes shut, the smile on her face nearly hurting her cheeks as she tilted her head towards the ceiling. Was this really happening? After Jacob, she didn’t know if she would ever find anyone else. If she would be willing to put herself out there like that again. But with John, something felt different. He was safe, kind, and somehow she just knew that he would never hurt her like Jacob did. She twirled around once and she could hear Jamie whispering, asking what was going on. Leena ignored her roommate.

“How about Superdawg?”

Superdawg? Jamie mouthed with an unbelieving face.

“That hotdog place over by Robinson Park?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She heard him chuckle. “Sorry. I just suppose I expected you to pick something a bit more…I don’t know…”

“I’m not a fancy kind of girl, trust me.” Leena laughed. “We could eat and then maybe take a walk around the park or something? If that sounds good to you — I don’t — “

“No, that — that sounds great, actually.  Honestly, kinda glad you didn’t pick something fancy.”

“Okay, cool.” Leena looked over at Jamie with raised brows and a wide smile. “Uh, what time?”

“Saturday — tomorrow at six? I can pick you up?”

“Yeah, that sounds great. I’ll see you then.”

“See you then, Leena.” She loved the sound of him saying her name. “Bye.”

“Bye.” She flipped her phone closed and turned to face Jamie with fists triumphant in the air. “I have a date! And I’m getting my bike back!”

[brokenjardaantech]

Blue-tinted Red Walls (Chapter 1: Beginnings, never expected)

my entry for the @dbhau-bigbang​. also part of the groom lake aftermath series.

chapter summary:

In the past, Sara schemed.

In the present, Connor meets Hank for the first time.

In the past, someone called.

also on ao3

---

Before

Family was instructed to wait outside the room during the final check-up, so she complied and made a call while keeping an eye on the doctors and nurses in charge of her brother; they were much better than the ones in the previous hospital with a far gentler touch and humane approach, but she had had enough people snitching on her, and, after tapping the glass to gouge its integrity, she would not hesitate to flare up and use her powers to break down everything standing between her and her only sibling.

The door to the outer room opened to admit another woman holding a phone, and both of them hung up the call once they saw each other. The new visitor closed the distance between them and moved as if wanting to give the sister a hug, but her arms lowered upon seeing the tension in the sister’s body.

‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Do not celebrate yet.’

‘And neither will being on guard every single second bring you any good, Sara,’ the visitor replied. ‘It will only hurt you and cloud your judgement.’

‘There is no other acceptable opinion,’ the sister - Sara - pressed her thumb against the bottom of the glass. ‘My father tried to send my brother to a boarding school despite fully knowing that they can’t accommodate for his needs, my brother said no, my father forced him to, my brother would rather die than be sent to a hostile environment, and I got him away from our father. I saved him, Amanda, but with my father’s resources, do you really think there’s a place in the country where we won’t be hunted down? So no,’ she shoved the hand into her pocket, leaving a burn mark in the shape of her thumb behind on the glass, ‘I am not relaxing until we have disappeared off the face of earth for good.’

‘It’s hardly a viable plan for us, Sara,’ there was resignation in Amanda’s voice. ‘My guardianship isn’t secure. Scott requires constant medical attention. I know you look highly upon me, but I’m not invincible. Against people like your father…’

Sara raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘And you don’t think I have a plan already?’

Amanda turned her head to take a good look at her student. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ she said at last. ‘It isn’t that I don’t have faith in your abilities, it’s just -’

The door to Scott’s room opened. All medical personnel except for the doctor-in-charge of the boy started vacating the ward. Watching them leave one by one, Amanda pressed her lips together and only resumed when the door was clicked shut behind the last nurse. ‘I have seen people like you. My classmates, my friends, my colleagues. The ones who are successful all know which battles to pick.’

The girl flexed her hand. ‘And those who don’t?’

‘Destroyed, one way or another.’

Sara’s face twisted as if she wanted to laugh but couldn’t, and then her expression softened. ‘Don’t worry, Amanda,’ she said in a reassuring tone. ‘I’ll be careful.’

She entered her brother’s ward while Amanda waited outside. Not only did the teacher not look convinced, the lines on her face only seemed to deepen more from her student’s response as if foreseeing a doomed future for the two of them, not knowing that indeed, things would turn towards a direction totally unexpected to them - and the entire world.

oOoOo

Now

A lone figure stands in the rain, its form dark save for the neon blue triangle on his back and left shoulder plus the armband on its right arm. The drive from the precinct to its current location is bland, nothing like - nothing as stimulating - as…

As…

So Connor calibrates. Turned up his skin’s sensitivity to feel the change in current as he went through the air-conditioning settings one by one. Turned it down again as he emerged from the taxi into the rain to prevent his processors from overloading. Collected information on the rainwater. pH value below levels which can sustain a balanced ecosystem. Minimal contaminants. Suitable for human consumption. When the analysis is finished, he takes out the coin bestowed upon him from one of his developers - at least, according to Ryder. Connor’s memory banks are unable to provide further information on the matter as there were no other relevant memories. 

Another figure which Connor did not notice was there suddenly vanished, its sudden absence alerting him of its existence. He turns his head, his world becoming shades of grey and yellow outlines as he scans his immediate vicinity, and, discovering nothing notable or dangerous, lets the frozen, imaginary world fall away and reality return with all its vivid colours. Calculating the probability of Lieutenant Anderson being in this bar is simple, and therefore he flips his coin to do some further calibrations.

A swathe of blue surrounds the coin and it stays at its highest point.

LED flashing red in alarm, Connor hastily grabs the coin from its position in midair and jolts as it sends a spark through his system, the thirium in his body distributing oddly against the normal flow like… like a conductor suddenly connected to a closed circuit and the free electrons within suddenly having a direction, one that - one that -

The same blue halo sweeps through the surface of his body, too faint to be noticed by ordinary humans but clearly caught by Connor’s sensitive optic units. The shadow shifts again, ducking out of the android’s sight despite being right there, and subsequent scans also fail to pick it up again.

He is being watched. That is certain.

It is getting unsafe to stand in the street alone any longer, so Connor pockets his coin and fixes his tie, steeling himself for yet another unsuccessful search for the Lieutenant. He ignores the ‘No Androids Allowed’ sign on the door and pushes.

o0o0o

Turns out Hank is easily bribed by alcohol. Sated by the double shot of whiskey, the human’s interest is piqued, and with a sharp ‘Did you way homicide?’, he stands and walks out of the bar as if he has not been consuming heavy liquor for the past few hours. The shadow which has been following Connor vanishes as soon as they are out on the streets, the static-charged air it leaves behind quickly washed away by the rain. Hank insisting on driving worsens matters as it allocates more than enough processing power for Connor to pay heightened attention towards his surroundings: the hum of the old engine, the squeak of the dashboard decoration as it swings, the vibration of the speakers as Hank blasts heavy metal. 

The shadow which reappears as they approach Carlos Ortiz’s house, always out of his sight and never detected by his proximity sensors.

He cannot worry too much, however, when he chooses to follow his original mission and get out of the car, the smell assaulting his nose and the roof of his mouth and very nearly overloading his senses. He sneezes - a response programmed to clear the smell from his nose while his sensitivity is toned down - and is startled by how… strong… it is: a full-body tremor and expulsion of air that takes the colour out of his HUD for a few milliseconds before his eyes recalibrate automatically and return to normal. The noise also draws the attention of a few passers-by whose faces display [emotion identified: shock] when they see the neon-blue band on Connor’s arm and the triangle on his left breast. He ignores them, and a few steps later he encounters his first problem.

‘Androids are not permitted beyond this point,’ the PC200 android holds up a hand. Connor could have easily overpowered it and barge his way in, but that will be against protocol and is not beneficial towards the investigation, therefore he shuts down his pre-construction software before it can give him any suggestions. 

Hank turns from where he was talking to an officer and lets him in. ‘It’s with me,’ he says, but the sense of familiarity is gone completely when Connor approaches him. ‘What part of “stay in the car” didn’t you understand?’

‘Your order contradicted my instructions, Lieutenant,’ Connor answers honestly. Surely the human understands?

Hank’s face scrunches slightly in distaste. ‘You don’t talk, you don’t touch anything, and you stay outta my way,’ he rattles, ‘got it?’

‘Got it,’ is the android’s too-quick reply. 

The human turns towards the entrance of the house just to be greeted by another detective. A scan tells Connor that he is [Detective Collins, Ben. Born: 09/12/1989. Police Detective. Criminal record: none]. ‘Evening, Hank,’ he sounds too [cheerful] for the situation. Descending the veranda, he continues, ‘We were starting to think you weren’t gonna show -’

‘Yeah, it was the plan until this asshole -’ Hank gestures at Connor - ‘found me.’

‘So…’ Collins’ voice is [emotion detected: teasing] when he turns away, ‘you got yourself an android, huh?’

Hank gives a good look at Connor. ‘Oh, very funny.’ [emotion detected: sarcasm] A small sigh. ‘Just tell me what happened.’

He ignores the android and follows Collins into the house, leaving Connor alone in his own device. He is not bothered by how they do not include him in the conversation; he can always tune his ears to their voices and record everything down, so being near them is not a priority. He can analyse the scene as he wishes, Connor realises as his world goes grey save for the yellow of the evidence markers.

Fantastic.

o0o0o

The first thing Connor notices is the abnormal electrical damage. The house itself is nearly in ruins, the floor grey from a layer of dust, the walls cracked and mouldy and, in some places, even falling apart and exposing the wooden beams, but the damage seems recent - as recent as the body they discovered, at least. The damage on the curtains are also new, their ends torn and the remains scattered on the ground, and he gets zapped by the static discharge when he pushes them to the side. It is not painful per se, but it comes as a surprise.

‘You found something?’

It is Hank’s second time asking the question. He stands tall for a hungover man, taller than Connor standing at his full height, and the android finds himself wondering what the Lieutenant looked like when he was in the red ice task force. Probably even taller. Even stronger.

‘There is a copious amount of electrical damage on the walls,’ he answers as he adjusts his eyes to view the backyard better. There are fresh footsteps on the soil. ‘And there is an abnormal amount of static in objects. I suggest handling evidence with care.’

‘Yeah, I don’t remember the last time I’ve been zapped this much.’ Hank also squints at the dirty glass. ‘Door’s locked from the inside. Killer must’ve gone out this way.’

Connor runs a scan. ‘There are no footprints apart from officer Collins’ size ten shoes.’

Hank straightens and crosses his arms. ‘Well, this happened weeks ago. Tracks could’ve faded.’

Comparing data… ‘No, this type of soil would have retained a trace,’ he explains as he catches the Lieutenant’s gaze. ‘Nobody’s been out here for a long time.’

Hank looks away with a grunt as if dissatisfied with the results, and Connor, having analysed everything notable, pushes on. ‘Lieutenant, I think I’ve figured out what happened.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Hank shrugs. ‘Shoot. I’m all ears.’

‘It all started…’ the mess in the kitchen flashes in front of Connor’s eyes, ‘in the kitchen.’

Hank uncrosses his arms. They enter the kitchen together, and the human has to duck to go through the door frame. ‘There’re obvious signs of a struggle, but the question is,’ Hank turns towards the android, ‘what exactly happened here.’

‘I think the victim attacked the android,’ comparing evidence… ‘with the bat.’

Hank perks up. ‘That lines up with the evidence.’ Connor hopes that he isn’t imagining the smile on the human’s face. ‘Go on.’

They switch places, Hank’s arm brushing against Connor’s shoulder in the confined space. He is warm even through the coat, and Connor finds his software warning him of instabilities as the edges of his HUD flashes red for a millisecond. ‘The android stabbed the victim.’

‘So the android was trying to defend itself, right? Okay, then what happened?’

‘The victim fled to…’ recalling re-construction… ‘the living room.’

They follow the silhouette of two struggling figures; more like Connor follows them - Hank just follows him. ‘And he tried to get away from the android,’ the human says, a swing in his arms. He does not look pleased being back near the half-charred, rotting body. ‘Alright, that makes sense.’

‘The android murdered the victim…’ he wants to say the knife, but it did not cause the unexplained burns and broken bones. He runs a search again to compare the wounds (electrical burns, severe blunt force trauma) and does not realise that he has trailed off until Hank speaks up.

‘Well, obviously he got stabbed and burnt,’ the frown on his face deepens. ‘You can’t stab someone without a knife, but what about the rest? The android short-circuited and fried its owner?’

Connor draws up experimental data from CyberLife and compares it to the current needed to cause the damage in front of his eyes. ‘No. It is unlikely for androids to short-circuit, and even if that is the case, the current is not large enough to cause severe burns on humans. Common household models are unable to reach the speed capable of generating enough force to break an adult’s femur either.’

‘But it doesn’t tell us where the android went. If we find it, we can just ask.’

Connor finds himself… liking that line of thought. ‘It was damaged by the bat and lost some thirium.’

‘Lost some what?’

‘Thirium, you call it “blue blood”,’ the android explains as he secretly adds [Hank is not familiar with android mechanics.] into his file. ‘It is the fluid that powers androids’ biocomponents. It evaporates after a few hours and becomes invisible to the naked eye.’

‘Oh…’ Understanding dawns in Hank’s eyes and he smiles, approval in his voice. ‘But I bet you can still see it, can you?’

The edge of Connor’s HUD turns red again as thirium rushes onto his face, and he looks away to begin scanning, not to hide his blush but to quickly search for the deviant. Now that he knows what he is looking for, the blue of evaporated Thirium 310 contrasting starkly with the grey the rest of the world has changed into and forming a trail leading to… a dead end. What he can see, however, is the shadow of a ladder that used to be there, so he looks up and - there. A handprint.

Hank follows his gaze despite not being able to see the trace. ‘You think it’s up there?’

‘I’ll need something to climb.’ Find something to climb, his processor offers, so he turns towards the human and asks, ‘Hank, may I climb you?’

‘Oh for fuck’s -’ Connor’s face must have changed and caused the man to stop ranting, but exactly what that is, the android is not certain. ‘Alright, Jesus, gimme a sec.’ A deep breath. ‘Yeah. How do you want to do it?’

‘Please hold me up, Lieutenant.’

Connor drapes himself on Hank’s back, and the human, finally getting what Connor means, places his arms underneath the android’s thighs and lifts him with a grunt. With his thighs at Hank’s waist, the extra height allows Connor to easily slide the trapdoor to one side. Hank lets go without being prompted to let the android climb further up.

‘I’ll wait here,’ he says as he pops his spine back in place. ‘Yell if you need anything.’

‘Got it,’ he whispers even though the Lieutenant probably cannot hear him. Already missing the human's warmth, he hoists himself fully into the dark attic - 

- and everything hits him. The static, the floating pieces of furniture, the eerie blue glow they give out; the hum in the air, the strange force threatening to tear him apart on the molecular level, the distortion of - he doesn’t know anymore. He has never seen anything like this before, there is nothing in his databases that talks about scenarios like this, and he is very glad that Hank did not come up with him. [Kinetic barrier at 100%] appears on his HUD, but he has no idea what it means.

A piece of cloth waves despite the absence of wind, and since it is blocking his sight, Connor brushes it away and hunches so that he doesn't hit his head against the supporting beams while he watches, fascinated, the fabric float away in a wave of white against the darkness of the room and get caught in the splinters of a beam. He continues forward, at first brushing a few pieces of furniture aside and causing them to fly straight to the other side of the attic, then holding them in both his hands and gently moving them away. If he must speak in an analogy, he would equate it to rearranging furniture: randomly pushing them will send them towards unpredictable directions, but if you lift them and put them exactly where you want them to be, they will not move away. The only difference is that vertical distance is also considered.

[Kinetic barrier at 64%]

A loud crash. Connor’s head snaps towards the direction of the noise just to see a broken mannequin sailing directly towards him across the air. Catching the rapidly-approaching footsteps, he swats the mannequin away and dashes across the source, his veins tingling in an unfamiliar power as he runs into the blue distortions supporting some of the larger furniture and sending them either crashing onto the floor or flying unpredictably away from him; he can faintly hear Hank’s ‘The fuck’s going on up there, Connor?’, but his attention is divided between pre-constructing the deviant and the furniture’s path. The deviant probably knows where he is now, but then again, deviants are known to be unstable and act illogically, so he decides against answering the Lieutenant to attract less attention. 

One final crash. The last wisp of blue breaks and dissipates, plunging the entire attic into darkness except for the yellow glow of an android’s LED. All footsteps halt. 

[No gravitational anomalies detected. Kinetic barrier deactivated.]

The room suddenly lights up again, and the deviant is right there in front of Connor, its face a look of utter [emotion identified: terror]. His HUD flashes with warnings about abnormal thirium flow, and Connor realises that he is the one glowing blue all over and lighting up his immediate vicinity. The tingle in his circuits, the crackle of static, the distortion in front of his eyes - they now originate from within himself instead of his surroundings. 

[DEVIANT LOCATED]

Connor adjusts his eyes for the impending darkness. He relaxes by overriding his muscles, and despite the darkness engulfing them once more, he can see the blood spattered on the deviant’s skin and clothes, the exposed chassis on his arms, the burn marks all over its body. It is to no one’s surprise that it says, ‘I was just defending myself.’ A trembling breath. Red starts to appear at the edge of Connor’s vision. ‘He was gonna kill me. I’m begging you…’ The deviant never stops shaking, and the red climbs towards the centre of his HUD for the first time in his existence, ‘don’t tell them.’

For one split second, the red completely takes over Connor’s sight and forms a crumbling wall a few feet in front of him. A figure - himself, Connor realises - hesitantly steps forward and slides a hand into a crack in the wall, fingers curling in and tearing a piece of it away.

‘Connor, if you don’t answer this second I’ll haul my fat ass up there!’

It is Hank. His warning reminds Connor that he still has a mission to complete, and the red wall recedes as if it is never there. Raising his voice, he shouts without tearing his gaze away from the deviant - 

‘- It’s here, Lieutenant!’

‘Holy shit… Chris, Ben, get your asses in here now!’

The deviant’s expression alone is enough to turn half of Connor’s HUD red again, but even that fails to hide the shadow disappearing from the corner of his line of sight. One thing is sure: either there is a critical error in his software…

Or there is someone following him.

oOoOo    

Before

Somewhere, a figure bearing surprising resemblance to Captain Allen stood with their hands behind their back in front of a large plane of window and stared at a blue sunset and an endless expanse of red desert, and when they shifted, blue light reflected off their face to reveal thin wires outlining every muscle, every nerve, every piece of bone that formed their head. There was tension in their jaw, their temple, and soon we knew what caused it.

‘It doesn’t sound safe,’ they said to no one in particular. ‘As much as I hate to admit it, we need you. Our future is out here. Earth can rot.’

They did not speak for the next few seconds, but when they did, it was something like, ‘I’m glad that you plan to uphold your side of the contract,’ they said sarcastically and turned serious, ‘but I still don’t like where this is going. So many things can go wrong and none of them knows which side you are on. You’ll be caught in the crossfire.’ A pause. ‘I trust your ability and your intellect. What I don’t trust is the stupidity of the general public. That’s why we left. Why we moved forward.’

Whatever the other side of the call made them frown. ‘Then how many years will you wait for? Five? Ten? Twenty? I know you’re smart, Ryder, but that’s just fucking stupid.’ A deep breath and they went on, ‘Not everyone is fucking immortal. How long do they design the androids to last again? Ten years? How many more will die before you leisurely stroll in and burn everything within a fifty-mile radius to the grounds just like last time? How much time do we have before someone points their telescope or satellites in the right way and somehow bypasses all our shields and finds out what’s out here, where I’m standing right now, or what Charon actually is? We get out of that shithole specifically to prepare the world for all of this!’ 

They inhaled as if to calm themself down, and then, ‘Don’t flatter me, Administrator, and you still have that unfinished project you sneaked out right under your dear papa’s nose. Of all your talk about android humanity, you sure as fuck leave a lot of them behind.’ They rubbed their eyes, and when they opened again, glowing rings akin to the lens of a camera were edged on sea-green irises. ‘Fine fucking fine. Make sure to win. Anchor out.’

A loud sigh. Blue tendrils the same as the ones the deviant summoned snaked out of their body and supported their back as they fell backwards, but it did not last long as they straightened and walked through stark white hallways, entering a room at last after passing through a few doors and one that seemed to be an airlock. It was dimly lit by the glow from a pod placed at the farthest corner and the screens connected to it and wires ran like a nest on the floor, however the person seemed to know their way through without tripping and reached a holographic keyboard where they typed something to start a total system diagnostics, and as the screen darkened and the keyboard disappeared to prevent the further input of commands, they manoeuvered themself through the wires to stand at the head of the pod and placed a glowing hand on a hidden interface. The glass allowed them to see the face of the android sleeping in the pod.

Connor’s face.

[haztory]

don’t think twice, it’s alright.

based off of the request: “Can I request imagine with Matt Murdock where y/n has some troubles and she goes to him and they just sit on the roof at night. Then she says she wished they were madly in love with each other because it would be easier. Just a cute moment between two best friends? Thank you”

A/N: entitled after a bob dylan song that i listened to when writing this. i’m very sorry for my disappearance. i will be trying to make a comeback. just got out of a manipulative relationship and it has taken a heavy toll on me. i hope you all enjoy.

warnings: mentions of a crappy boyfriend, slightly insensitive comments

(3,888 words)

"So do the sounds ever overwhelm you? Like, to the point where you wanna shoot yourself in the head?"

The door hasn't even closed behind him completely when he is confronted with the question. The rusty spring at the top prevents it from shutting quickly, instead slowly bouncing its way back to a closed position behind him with a resonating croak.

Your voice stuns him, stopping him in his tracks as he reels in from the suddenness of it.

It should feel rather awkward, what with him standing atop of the gravely rooftop of your apartment building holding two small plastic cups and your third cheap bottle of wine in his hands, still dressed to the nines in his formal attire from his earlier session in court.

But, with the wind bringing in a slow breeze that cools the exposed parts of his heated skin and gently displaces his hair, while the nightlife of the city begins to play it's lively anthem in the background, it strangely doesn't. It floods him with nostalgia, images of two giggling children sneaking out of their apartments way past their bedtimes popping into his head.

"That's a bit insensitive, don't you think?" Matt asks, with a wry smile on his face, whether at the question or the lingering memories, he doesn't necessarily know. His feet stay glued in his place near the roof door, his blind eyes seeing a vast array of memories from his youth. It gently pulls at his heartstrings and his cheeks begin to tingle from his incessant grin.

"You didn't answer the question." You respond back in a teasing tone from your position on the blanket. You lie on your back, contentedly staring up at the dimly lit stars in the sky.

He can hear your even breaths and the gentle thrum of your heartbeat from where he was standing. It beats steadily, like a metronome, keeping him balanced in his place while his surroundings begin to swirl and his focus seems to pull in and out at a more rapid pace.

"I love this city," He says nonchalantly, his words slurring slightly as he begins his slow saunter towards your supine body and the worn-out blanket you were laying on. There was no need to rush over to you, not when the moment was perfect, as it was now. If he rushed or moved too fast, he would ruin the ambience of this rare moment between you two; He would ruin the peace of it all.

And he might throw up.

You scoff, tilting your head upwards to turn your gaze from the decorated nighttime vista towards his face. You took note of his face as he stood above you: He had a scratch on the underside of his chin, something remarkably tame considering the hell he is usually put through. His smile remained unwavered, shining brighter than the full moon in the sky. He wasn’t wearing his usual red glasses allowing his eyes to meet yours perfectly.

Iris to iris, pupil to pupil.

You'd think that after all these years, you'd manage to get used to it.

"That still doesn't answer the question."

"What kind of an answer are you looking for?" He shuffles around in his still posture, swaying forward and backward on the balls of his feet, his hands still holding the drink and cups rather tightly. "Obviously not the one I'm giving you."

You sit up, letting out a small grunt as you change positions, an instant relief being placed upon your back as you no longer lay on the rough concrete. You're sure that you could place a hundred blankets on the floor and still feel the gravel on your back.

You raise your hand up, opening and closing your fists rather quickly, motioning to him for a cup. He indulges. "Exceptional deduction skills, counselor."

"That's what I'm paid to do."

He sits beside you on the rather thin comforter you've placed, listening intently to the sound of the cork popping out of the cheap bottle and the  wealthy amount of the liquid you were pouring into your cup. He holds his out to you, silently asking for you to fill it.

"What are we toasting to?" You ask with a drunken giggle, holding Matt's arm with your own to steady to his slightly trembling hands. He scoffs in response, shaking his head with furrowed brows and a smile as he stares off to the side in question.

"Well, our first toast was for thanking Fridays--"

"Praise our heavenly father for making such a momentous day--"

"--Our second toast was to ‘Cheez-Its’, so I think we should make this one pretty serious."

You can’t tell whether there was sarcasm in his voice or not. His face gives no indication to the question either.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?"

He rolls his head over to you, his brown eyes once again finding yours immediately, with pinpoint precision. Despite his drunken fidgeting, his eyes maintain a still gaze, never darting around or looking off to the side, indicating his seriousness.

Matt manages to always-- with little to no hesitancy, mind you-- find your eyes instantly in any situation. Whether surrounded by a crowd of people, or separated at the opposite sides of a room, a quick glance upward and you could find his gaze staring right back at you. It still startles you at times, to be talking rather candidly with him about something or other to then find him staring straight into your soul as though he actually could. It catches you off guard sometimes, seeing his beautiful eyes unabashedly watching you without actually be able to see.

You wouldn't trade it for the world.

You snort, "Alright. You do the honors."

You release his arm, having filled his cup to the brim. He quickly raises it in the air, spilling some of the contents while he looks over the ledge of the roof as if he were addressing a large crowd seated before him. The corners of his eyes crinkle and the lines around his mouth deepen as the grin widens. He clears his throat.

"To (Y/N)'s promotion!" He calls out to the imaginary group, pride seeping through each syllable he speaks. His face resembles one of pure joy and if you knew any better, you would think he was the one who received the promotion instead of you. Matt wore it with more pride in two minutes than you did in two hours.

If you could have frozen time and lived in a moment for the rest of your life, this would be it.

You'd live in the constant memory of this Matt, with a smile brighter than the moon above you and cheeks tinged pink from the previous bottle of wine he drank. His sleeves messily rolled up his arms with no care in the world as the various snack you have brought surround him at this midnight picnic in the city you both love.

There were few moments in life when you saw Matthew Murdock truly happy. Those times came far and few nowadays, what with the world seemingly being placed upon his shoulders every time he donned that damned suit.

Ironically, you can't make the distinction between which suit: his fancy three piece suits, or the red leather one. They were both devilish in your eyes.

The two worlds collided in more ways than one, always leaving Matt as the injured party in their vicious war between each other. You could see him grow more tired with each day that passed, if you at all even got to see him that day. His body was permanently decorated in scars and bruises and his job never felt done.

They took your Matthew, chewed him and spit him out, crushing every pure and precious part of him, leaving the hollow silhouette of the man you once knew.

But, in all the dark fog comes a sliver of a joyous moment, like this one. Where a smile washes away all the hurt and the virtuous man you loved rises from the shadows.

You wanted more than anything to freeze this moment, and keep Matt in this suspended nirvana for as long as possible. You would be content to sit and watch him for hours. Anything, anything, to give him this slight moment of happiness.

The happiness he deserves.

You hadn't realized you'd been staring until his head turns to you again.

A laugh slowly dies on his lips, his smile disappearing as he notices you studying him. A comfortable silence befalls the two of you.

A pause seems to come over you two, the surrounding environment slowing down to a complete halt and only your heartbeat resounding in his ears, beating like a drum. It was loud, but not overpowering, drowning out the sirens and horns of the city below you two. Just a present reminder of your company and your liveliness. It calms his breathing and the frazzled thoughts his tipsy mind brought forward.

It reminds him of the months after his accident, when you purposely skipped school under the guise of a feigned illness just to spend time with the young and aggravated Matthew. Even as his anger and frustration consumed him in those trying months, your heartbeat managed to calm him down more than any words of encouragement from his father could.

It was the first time he learned to be appreciative of the heightened senses he adapted; It got him closer to you.

In this still and tranquil world, Matt felt all the weights that seemed to take permanent residence on his chest disappear. There was no Daredevil here, no lawyer, no rules based on his faith that he needed to abide by.

Just you and him. He and you. How it's always been. How it always should be.

But there's something off.

He doesn't really know where he feels it or why, but he does. He knows you're looking at him, but your attention isn't on him. There's something beneath the surface.

Is that attributed to his heightened senses or just knowing you that well? He doesn't know.

"Penny for your thoughts?" He gently asks, his hand reaching upwards to tug lightly on your earlobe.

You slowly blink, your attention being drawn away from the thoughts you didn't realize were consuming you, "Hmm?"

"What's on your mind?" He asks again, letting his hand drop from your face and move towards the box of ‘Cheez-Its’ laid between you two. He grabs a couple and pops them into his mouth.

You open your mouth and close it, only to open and close it again. You let out a breathless laugh, shrugging your shoulders and shaking your head. You turn your head towards the view of the city, eyes darting around the numerous figures until fixating onto the neighboring building.

"I don't think I'm going to take it."

Matt suddenly inhales, a piece of the cheesy cracker sucking into the back of his throat, forcing a string of coughs out of his mouth. He hunches over, trying to breathe through his numerous coughs while you hit your hand repeatedly on his back.

"Jesus Christ, Matt!" you laugh out, finding his cup of wine and handing it to him. He graciously drinks it between coughs.

"What-- what do you mean you're not going to take it?" His eyes are wide when they meet yours, shock written over his face at the prospect of your news and from seeing his life flash before his eyes.

You keep a steadying hand on his back until his breathing returns to normal, keeping your voice even as he recuperates. "I'd have to move halfway across the country for this job. I'm not going to leave everything I have here for that."

You explain this to him as though it was normal, like he was the crazy one. His face contorts into one of deep confusion, the skin wrinkling between his eyebrows and his mouth agape as stares at you. He loosens the tie around his neck.

"But, you worked so hard for this." There's a twinge of desperation? disappointment? in his statement.

You take your hand back, fiddling with the stray threads on the blanket below you that have become ten times more interesting than the piercing eyes of the man beside you. You can feel his judgement creep up your shoulders and it becomes very clear that you've made the wrong choice to tell him this. While he was drunk. After he just so graciously celebrated with you.

Queen of good timing is what you are.

"Yeah, well, y'know," you grow quiet with each words, a sheepish tone taking over, "I realized I've got everything I want here."

You still don't meet his eyes. He is still looking at you like you've crushed his dreams.

He is adamantly unhappy, but he can at least understand the sentiment behind your reasoning. He feels it in some ways too, whenever he is confronted by the nightly tragedies both of his jobs seem to throw at his feet. Hell's Kitchen isn't the greatest of places, but it holds everything near and dear to his heart.

He's still displeased with this decision and will continue to argue against you, but he understands it.

"Besides," you resume, and you can hear the little voice in your head to stop where you are. To not go any further and ruin the advantage you have (sentiment for the city has and always will be Matt's weakness). But you're too drunk to really listen to the voice and it ends up tumbling out of your mouth, "David's still getting his feet on the ground and I can't do that to him."

Again, the absolute queen of good timing.

You can literally sense the waves of anger rolling off of Matt's body and you're stuck in the middle of the tide, unable to swim off to the side to get out.

He groans loudly at the mention of your boyfriend's name, the confusion being replaced by disbelief and rage. It settles over him like a mist, putting a dampen on his mood instantly. His teeth grind against each other and his fists instinctively curl up.

You wince at his sudden rising from the blanket, watching him resort to his stereotypical "lawyer stance" with his hands placed upon his hips and an intense frown etched on his face. He slightly sways from the quick movement, swallowing the bile that rose up his throat with a contortion of disgust on his face before returning to the stern father persona he tended to don whenever your disappointment of a boyfriend was mentioned.

You really should've waited.

"David's been 'getting on his feet' for the past four years." Matt spits out, tapping a hand lightly onto his chest to help ease the acid that made a quick appearance back down his esophagus.

"You good?" you ask him as he releases a rather nasty burp, silently wondering if you were going to have to make a quick run down to your apartment to grab some cleaning supplies.

"Yeah, 'm fine." He grunts out.

"You sure? I can go get a bucket if you want."

He sternly points a finger at you, "Stop changing the subject."

"I'm just worried you're going to--"

"(Y/N)!"

You sigh, letting your head drop down. You wish you didn't mention the name of your boyfriend, knowing now that you were going to have to justify the reasoning behind his incompetence in life, and even you knew there was no way you could positively spin his inadequacy.

You place both of your hands over face, rubbing your eyelids deeply, wanting to wake up from this self-inflicted nightmare.

"He's just having trouble, is all." It sounds pathetic in your head and even more so as you say it. You cringe with each word.

“Cause he's an idiot."

"Matt--"

"Come on, (Y/N). You're going to give up the promotion of a lifetime because some loser can't handle you actually being better than him?"

"No! Well, yes and no."

"What?!" Matt's voice raises a couple of octaves, disbelief coating the question like paint.

"He would have trouble adjusting to L.A. and I just want to make things easy for us. It's just one of the things you have to do for love."

Matt, who had been pacing during this conversation, suddenly stops in his tracks. His head snaps towards you and you can imagine the sound of a whip accompanying the curtness of the movement.

"Love?!" He asks loudly, "You call that, love?!"

It was your turn to groan, flopping back down onto your blanket as you have to repeat the same argument you've had with Matthew since you first started dating David five years ago.

"Love is not holding your partner back from success based off of your own insecurities, which he has done to you multiple times might I add. Love is not dragging your feet in the dirt because you didn't get what you want, (Y/N)." Each word hits you like a knife; Whether it was the alcohol or the reality of the situation suddenly hitting you doesn't really matter when you realize that the stinging you felt in your eyes was actually due to the tears suddenly springing forth to the surface.

David wasn't a bad guy; He could be funny when he wanted to and particularly kind on a good day, but there was nothing more than that. You dated him out of attraction and combined with the desire to escape from the constant feeling of loneliness, you began to put up with the negatives in favor of a relationship.

"He doesn't love you because of the kind of person you are," Matt continues his tirade, his speech fast and unrelenting as he releases his pent up frustrations, "And you don't love him because of who he is, because we all know what a massive dick he is. You love him because you're in a relationship with him!”

You forcefully lie back down onto your blanket, keeping your focus trained on the stars above than Matt’s anger. You can hear him kick some gravel off the ground.

“You need to be with someone who cares about you, and wants you to live the life you deserve and get all the promotions in the world. You need to be with someone who is willing to go all the way to L.A. for you, or even maintain a long-distance relationship for fuck's sake! I'm tired of seeing that bastard use you because he can!"

Matt opens his mouth to add onto his spiel until he hears the low sniffles emitting from you. His throat dries up and he realizes just how much of bastard he's being. He always tried to approach the situation with a gentle attitude, aware that there was a definitive power struggle in the relationship that just couldn't be solved with tough love. He's done enough cases to understand even the basics of that idea, alongside many classes of psychology.

Apparently drunk Matt didn't care about that.

He runs a hand through his hair and down the front of his face, moving to rub the back of his neck. Shame encompasses his body, replacing the adrenaline shot the anger provided. He kicks his feet around the gravel, uncomfortably listening to your sniffles grow before forcing himself to sit beside you on the worn out blanket.

"I'm sorry," he breathes out.

"No, no," you wipe away the tears and wipe your nose with the back of your hand, "You're right. I just-- I don't think I can do it."

There's too much wallowing in your tone for him to feel any happiness about the revelation you've just made. Instead, it makes him feel like the biggest piece of shit.

Rightfully so.

"Leaving David would mean that I actually have to do something with my life. It would mean that I have to take the job in L.A. and have to leave home and my family and I'd have to leave you. And I can't do it,” you whisper.

He can hear your heart break when you say it, because his does too. The thought of you leaving is unfathomable to him and it's much too depressing for him to even think about it. He can't remember a time in his life when he wasn't with you. He finds that he doesn't want to.

But he has too.

"Yes you can," Matt tells you sadly, his eyes once again finding your red rimmed ones like a boat finding the lighthouse in the dark. "If anyone can do it, it would be you."

He grabs your hand, holding it tightly, "You're going to accept that promotion, you're going to go to L.A. and make a ton of money-- and I mean a ton-- and you're going to come back here and make sure I'm still alive every couple of months."

A watery laugh bubbles out of your throat and Matt responds with a small laugh of his own. A bittersweet smile falls over your face as you look at his soft, unstressed one. "You're gonna be happy, (Y/N). And you're going to forget all the pain David put you through."

You remove your hand from his, placing it on his cheeks and rubbing your fingers over the light stubble he's been growing. He leans into your touch, mirroring your sad smile.

"Y’know, we could've avoided all this if we were in love. Probably would've been so much easier," you murmur to him like you were the only two people on the world, and it doesn't feel too off.

"Who knows? We've still got a couple years left."

"It's been twelve years, Matt. If it hasn't happened yet I don't think it's gonna happen anytime soon."

"Never say never." He takes the hand placed on his cheek and places a soft kiss against your knuckles. He holds it with such delicacy and warmth as though if he tried hard enough, his love could fix all your problems and heal all your pains. He doesn't realize that his presence already does that.

He turns his body, lying down beside you on the comforter, already feeling the gravel poke and prod on his back but he doesn't mind it. He won't until you do. Your fingers intertwine together and you've suddenly been transported back into your days as a youth, gazing up at the sky when you were supposed to be in bed. But like before, you’ll deal with the consequences of your actions tomorrow, much too immersed in the silence and tranquility that comes with being at Matt Murdock’s side.

"You're still going to dump David though, right?"

You laugh loudly, the comment eliciting a hearty giggle that shook the entirety of your body as though you had never laughed before. It clears all the toxic waste that held you down, filling you instead with bubbly liquid that warms your chest.

You lie there in a still silence, breathing in the chill breeze and relaxing in the geniality of each other. On the rough concrete protected only by an old blanket where no pain or hurt can touch either of you.

You have each other, and that was all you really ever needed.

tag list: @mooniessuniverse

[veridium]

Thank You 300 Followers - Here’s Some Heartache!

Thank you for enabling me, everyone

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is not a chronological part of my #Theiaphine romance arc. This story takes place a year after Inquisitor Theia Trevelyan disbands the Inquisition, marries, and moves her sights to the incoming conflict threatening all of Thedas and the world. It is also a very emotional and tumultuous moment in the lives of Theia and her wife, and as such I will warn you: it is some sad shit. Also, if you don’t want to spoil the chronology of their romance, maybe don’t read this...and I’m sorry (lol).

The Inquisition had been disbanded for a year now, and yet for Theia her work never truly ended. She still felt the pressure to perform, to represent something greater than her own identity. Even with all she had sacrificed to save Thedas, she felt spurred to give more – as if her body and spirit had finally resigned to her greater purpose. Still, the concerns of her life did not waver from her heart. She still stood at the side of the woman she loved in a time of war, and now a time of preparation. She still pushed herself to be a better Mage, even with the loss of her hand and forearm. And now, she was preparing for perhaps the most complicating eventuality of her life: becoming a Mother while one of the leaders of a covert operation to stop the destruction of the entire world at the hands of a former ally and friend.

The ocean air laced with salt, easygoing and in no hurry. It was a calm morning for the ports and for the halls of the apartments House Montilyet owned along Rialto Bay. Her healer had recommended remaining near the water for the first few months, in order to relax her nerves and keep her mind preoccupied with the business of the surrounding city life.

She gazed absent-mindedly in the floor-length mirroring metal that stood in their bedchamber, as a servant helped secure her tunic dress from behind. Her hair in wavy curls and tied up into a ponytail, a beautiful façade to a busy mind. Among her thoughts, reports from Leliana – though Thedas called her Divine Victoria – letters from the Seeker’s hideout in the mountains, and intel gathering from various agents scattered across the landscape. She did not need one for the Imperium, however; she had a direct voice from the heart in a dear friend whose voice echoed through a messenger crystal at every chance he got.

Once she was fully ready, she turned and departed her room, single-mindedly heading for her office. Well, their office. The thought of two important and busy women sharing one work space would puzzle some people, but once they were invited into the large room, it was understood why. In two corners were each of their workspaces: one corner, an illustrious library of tomes, papers, and scrolls, along with a fireplace and a bearskin run reminiscent of the décor of the Free Marches. On the other end of the rectangular room was another desk and chair, ornamentally designed, and matching the large window overlooking the sea ports. The window was rarely closed. Framing it were bookshelves, statuettes, and artwork.

Theia entered into the middle of the room, which was bordered by a long and thin balcony which overlooked the small garden courtyard. The sun was bearing down on the rustic stone of the architecture, facilitating a warm and dry atmosphere. That kind of weather did well for Theia’s pale skin, but she grew only slightly darker than she had been in their days at Skyhold; the phenotypes of her heritage were hard to shake off.

Her eyes went immediately to the leather-bound booklet of papers that rested in the middle of her desk. She grabbed it and unbound it from the leather string, opening and searching for the bottom line in all the jargon. It was from the Divine: more detected movements of elves departing their posts and homes and retreating somewhere rural, some place hard to pinpoint. Meanwhile, “special emissaries” – the Divine’s word for her spies – had been monitoring the Qunari advancement on the Imperium with grim conclusions. Her friend and now Magistrate Dorian Pavus was working under ever-increasing pressure, and his faction proved rigorous in the face of not only political opposition, but decreasing time.

With all this in mind, anyone who knew Theia during the early days of the Inquisition would say they felt a shift in her soul, as if she had aged ten years in the span of three. Perhaps it was the betrayal of her friend that hardened her heart and drew the line in the sand. Or, maybe, the loss of her arm that left her permanently jaded to a degree. The core of who she was managed to survive, if in more episodic expressions. The main thing that changed was that she was careful who witnessed it – who still got to see Theia for who she was, and not merely what she must do.

--

Her quiet time alone with the reports was interrupted by the sound of her partner entering with a courier, who was feverishly taking notes per dictation.

“Tell my brother to take count of all the masts we have left-over from the renovation, and see if we cannot find some use for the fabrics elsewhere. Particularly if we can experiment with designs for the several ships I need built,” Josephine ordered as she walked with determination to her desk.

“Yes, My Lady,” the courier nodded, before departing quickly back out the door.

From across the vast room, Josephine sensed her presence, and couldn’t help but grin smartly as she, too, got her eyes lost in some important documents.

“Mi amor, you brood with increased intensity these days,” she said out loud.

“Funny, and I thought the servants were merely joking when they got caught calling me Mistress Ice Dragon,” Theia mused, finishing up a sentence she was writing on the correspondence in front of her.

“You know they were drunk, do not take it personally. Besides, there is something…magnetic about such a title,” Josephine’s playfulness had an ultimate goal: avoid Theia’s now heightened temper at all costs, if it could be out-maneuvered. Such a task proved only possible for the most capable, such as herself.

“Yes, of course, I much prefer it to all the rest. In fact we should combine them all into an ultimate title: The Herald of the Ice Dragon Inquisition? It’s catchy,” her words were laced with a saltiness, as much as she tried to have a sense of humor, she could not help but have low patience these days.

With that, Josephine chuckled, and withdrew from her end of the room in order to arrive at her woman’s side. She came around to her side of the desk, sitting on the edge to her right, her eyes glimmering in the abundant daylight.

“What is the latest from the Divine? She sent me a letter a few days ago, but it was more personal in nature.”

“Nothing I didn’t already expect, unfortunately. More elves retreating to somewhere, the Qunari are not backing down from the Imperium’s borders. Solas was right, with their defeat in the Deep Roads, they are now striking at Tevinter with the vengeance of a wounded animal.”

“It was imperative that we defeat them. The Exalted Council’s destruction would have been more disastrous than the Conclave.”

“Yes, but now I fear we have won the battle only to lose the war.”

“Surely not. With the ships my brother is working on in the yard, we can have a sustainable fleet to support our forces if they need it.”

Theia pursed her lips. Josephine spoke of their months-long project they began shortly after she got the Montilyet trading fleet back on its feet. Using some of the smaller ships as conduits, they began transferring correspondences, agreements, and acquisitions in an underground, transactional process. Eventually, they even dispatched explorers to secure new raw materials for their eventual plans of a security fleet that could withstand evacuation, maritime battle, and even land-based natural disasters. A smaller, more maneuverable fleet to stand by should land become too dangerous to undergo operations.

“You still sound the way you did when we were in Skyhold. So full of hope and promise. I wonder how you did it,” Theia admitted with a vulnerability in her tone, now

“I watched the woman I thought would be lost to me forever, come back to me, from a most impossible battle. Now, she and I live the life I thought was foolish to daydream. I have an endless reservoir of foolish resolve,” Josephine played.

At that, Theia smirked. “I am sorry I’ve been so distant. Between the sickness and the affairs we have going on, there are times when I feel like I am more of the kind of person Varric said I’d be: this embodiment of intimidating ideas, and not a human being.”

“You have managed to be both for this long, mi amor, and will continue to. Just take care of yourself, please, for both your sakes,” Josephine referred to the child that was now growing inside of her, the child that would be their heir and their shining beacon of faith in a time of great duress.

“I will. I’m trying. It doesn’t help that no one else knows besides you and Dorian. I’m surprised Dorian has kept it to himself this long, it surely is a sign he has more vital matters to concern himself with. I will need to tell Cassandra and Lelia—Divine Victoria, before rumors or spies gets the information to them first. They would not be pleased with me,” she stood from her chair and took hold of the letter she had finished. Folding it up precisely, she reached for her small bottle of parchment wax, and began warming it over the one candle she had lit for such purposes.

It would only be a month or so before her abdomen would start swelling, and become noticeable even other the shapelessness of her tunic gowns. She had to devise the best and most covert way of letting her closest allies know of this recent development. Surely they would understand if she could just use the right words, or provide the most accurate context.

No matter what, though, she knew it would not be smooth sailing.

--

The Seeker was anxiously awaiting word from the former Inquisitor, seeing as how she had dispatched pages of updates and time-sensitive information for her feedback. The Seekers had been rebuilding and training intensively for months in the mountains, free from the momentum of politics and everyday debauchery of Orlais. She was personally overseeing the reformation, and with that came great power and great nerve. One of the few sources of solace, as well as connection to the outside world, was her frequent communications with Lady Trevelyan and the Divine.

She paced along the floor runner of the foyer, waiting for the courier to arrive with the morning letters. When he finally did so, breathing rather heavily from having ran up the flights of stairs to her wing of the fortress, her eyes sparked with impatience. He handed her a stack about an inch thick; surely one of them would be from Theia.

There were two. One that was more plain, probably of logistical reports and the status of the ship fleet. Then a second, with personal parchment, sealed with her own emblem.

Curious, Cassandra thought. Why the need for two? Has something happened?

Stepping into her private study, first she opened the plainer letter. It was official business, nothing out of the ordinary – a confirmation of support here, a comment in the margins there. So, why a need for a personal note? Typically, when Theia wished to say something personal, she snuck it in at the end of reports.

Her fingers nervously opened the second letter, the wax snapping as it broke open. Her eyes went immediately to the first line:

“Dear friend,

I would have included this in the reports, but, I did not wish for something so private to be shuffled into affairs of business. I know you will react strongly to this, but, it is something I won’t be able to hide from you much longer. I am with child, due 7 months from now. I am well, and well-cared for. Rest assured, I will not shirk my duties or correspondences during the remainder of my pregnancy. I have sent a letter to the Divine relaying this news, so do not feel bound to secrecy with her. After all, who could dare keep a secret from our beloved friend?

Sending well wishes your way,

T”

The Seeker’s heart sank deeper into her ribs as she read the note. How could she do this? Now, of all times? Her body filled with fearful dread. It was not that a child wasn’t a blessing from the Maker, it was the timing of it. Surely, she had thought Theia would remain focused on the responsibilities she had to the forces under her control and advisement, not do something that would require so much of her energy. And what of the child of the Inquisitor? Would such an identity ever promise safety in the face of war?

Cassandra sat down at her chair, pondering how to react to this news in a way that would not alienate a friend she valued so highly. Throughout all the years they had worked together, she trusted Theia to have fair judgment, and to understand the brevity of her choices. Now, something had changed.

Just as she was about to put her hand to paper, and write her response, another courier staffer barged into her study. Her face, annoyed with such a gesture, looked up with tense eyes and posture.

“Yes?” she huffed.

The man stepped forward, holding another letter, one that looked eerily familiar. It was the same parchment that Theia had used, only with a purple seal. It was Ambassador Montilyet’s emblem.

“My Lady, this came expedited from Antiva. Lady Montilyet sent it with most urgent orders to get it to your hand as quick as possible. The rider looked as if he hadn’t slept in two days.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed; she was exasperated with the apparent bureaucracy of the situation. Just how many personal letters would she receive from the same location? Could the two women not collaborate their message into one letter? For Maker’s sake—

As she stared down at the open letter, her heart experienced whiplash.

“Lady Cassandra,

It is with urgency and pain that I write to you to inform of that my wife, and your friend, suffered a miscarriage this morning. She is recuperating, but is under acute distress and pain, as you can imagine. I write to you not as a colleague or ally, but as the partner to your closest friend, and woman: come to Antiva to see her. She needs all the motivation she can get to recover. It would mean the world to me.

Kindest and most astute regards,

Lady Josephine Montilyet”

“Maker,” Cassandra said out loud, to the dismay of the courier standing before her. Her voice was sad, emotional, feeling, a sound that her men did not witness often.

“Have my horse prepared, and get me two guards to accompany me. I must go to Antiva immediately,” she ordered, hardening her resolve for the sake of saving face. As the man departed, she gathered the two letters, folding them into one another.

She rose from her chair and made her way to her fireplace. Without so much as a word or a sentimental expression, she tossed the papers into the fire. No one would know of her friend’s tragedy, lest they be acquainted with her blade or her fist.

--

The heat of the Antivan sky bore down on the back of the Seeker’s neck – this temperate weather was not her choice, nor was it what she was used to after about half a year in the mountains. The roads were hills, and the cobblestone under her horse’s feet was hot to the touch. The two guards that flanked her eyed the scenery with awe: being out of the desolate area they had been in was a much-needed retreat of sorts.

Finally, the Seeker had found the entryway to the Montilyet home. It was a tall stone façade with a gate that gave way into a courtyard, with a large double-door entryway with Antivan rounded columns. Although, the place felt eerily quiet and still, as if something very devastating had engulfed it, making it feel dimmer than the surrounding buildings.

Coming out of the opened doors was Josephine herself, wearing a dark purple gown and silver strands of ornamentation in her hair. In Antiva, mourning was marked by conservative dress and retiring from public social life temporarily – a grim choice indeed in the opulent grandeur of Rialto bay. The Seeker dismounted and immediately approached Lady Montilyet.

“Seeker, it is so good to see you,” she greeted, her hands collected in front of her, a ring being toyed with nervously between an index finger and thumb.

“Lady Montilyet,” Cassandra bowed her head in respect, “I came as soon as I got word. Where is she? How is her health?”

“Come with me, I will take you to her at once,” Josephine reached out a hand, beckoning her forward. Soon, they were walking side by side down a spacious corridor, servants stopping to look at the honorable guest that had come to see one of the Mistresses of the household.

“She bled for two days, so much so she went unconscious for several hours. The Healers were able to stem the bleeding, but, there was no salvaging the…” Josephine’s breath ran out as she blinked, trying to hold herself together. “She is still weak, but her prognosis is good. They cannot tell yet whether or not the damage has been done permanently.”

Cassandra was quiet with reverence towards the loss. “I have been praying for you both, Lady Josephine. I hope you know just how apologetic I am for this travesty.”

“Thank you. It has been…most difficult. Her pain has made her expectantly tumultuous in demeanor. I have been trying everything the Healers suggest to distract her, but, she is very stubborn as you well know.”

“If I may ask, what…was she doing, when it happened?”

Lady Montilyet was quiet, the footfalls of their walking being the only sound to remind them of where they were. Her eyes glazed a bit as she put together her response in her mind.

“We are not exactly sure. She had been preoccupied for many days, but, earlier this week she woke up screaming from a nightmare. When I awoke to the sound, I saw her crying there, hunched over, her night dress doused in blood. All I can hear is her screaming, even still. She will not tell me what the nightmare was of, nor will she sleep for more than two hours at a time, mostly out of sheer exhaustion.”

The Seeker had to hold back her own pang of emotion now, as they made their way up a flight of stairs into a wing with bedchambers.

“I must warn you, Seeker Cassandra, she is not herself. She may say hurtful, ambivalent comments to you. She does not mean them,” Josephine’s words were laced with hurt; her warning came from personal experience, and that made Cassandra feel even more sympathetic to her.

“Lady Montilyet, I…I do not know what to say to make this any easier on you, only that you of all people – both of you – deserve so much happiness for all you have endured.”

“Yes, well,” Josephine looked away, her eyes shifting as she kept hold of composure, “I have heard that many a time, Seeker, so forgive me if I come off as…unaffected. Her recovery room is just down this hall, fourth door to the left. Please tell her that I love her and I will see her tonight,” Josephine nodded solemnly and retreated back down the stairs, leaving Cassandra to stare down the hallway and feel the nerves in her chest dance. It had been many months since she last saw her friend in person, when she came to visit the fortress. Now, as much as she would be happy to see her, she almost with she could fast-forward in time and be visiting several more months from now, perhaps when Theia would feel better.

Making her way into the fourth doorway, the air was thick with incense – what she could only assume was supposed to be a sedative effect, as she felt slightly drowsy the more she inhaled. The room was dark, only lit by the reflection of the sunlight on the tile and mosaic-lined stone. The tapestries lining the balcony lightly shifted in the breeze, but otherwise it felt as though time had frozen them in place here.

There was a large bed, sheets disheveled, but covered a thin-framed figure. She then saw her messy and long blonde waves of hair. It looked as if she was sleeping, no longer able to fight the exhaustion.

Cassandra’s boots made ample noise on the floor, and soon Theia’s figure moved slightly, her legs curling and bending as they stretched.  The Seeker came to a stop, several feet from the side of the bed, her eyes overburdened with sadness seeing her friend, a woman she had seen stand so tall, so resolutely against forces of peril, now facing something so much more destructive to her spirit.

Her stare was broken when Theia’s face looked back at her, her eyes slowly blinking awake.

“…C-Cassandra?” she groaned, the depth in her voice lingering from the days of crying she endured. Her face looked pale, as did her lips. The deep, dark circles under her eyes only comparable to the ones she had when she was in the prison, all those years ago, waiting to be questioned for her part in the Conclave disaster. That forlorn memory made the Seeker’s chest ache.

“Yes, my friend, it is me. I have come to see you,” Cassandra stepped forward, pivoting on her hip as she sat on the foot of the bed, an arm stretching out over the Inquisitor’s legs. Theia rubbed her face softly with the back of her hand, her brow furrowing as the surprise sank in. She pulled herself up, her abdomen still sore as she did so, but she managed. She adjusted her pillow against her back as she lay in place once more, taking pressure off of her stomach.

“I…assume, someone in particular wrote to you. And it was either our blessed Divine, or my wife,” she muttered, a hand resting instinctively on her stomach, the other falling to rest at her side.

Cassandra grinned. “Yes, Josephine wrote that I must come as soon as possible. Surely, you must not think you have to fight every antagonist without me at your side.”

“It is not a battle I face this time, Seeker, unless you wish to disembowel me and remove my ability to bear children. And that, I fear, has been taken care of already.”

Cassandra held her breath, hearing the roughness in her voice as she discussed something so horrific.

“My friend, you do not have to discuss it if you do not wish to. I came here to be of solace to you, in whatever capacity you need.”

“I do not need solace, Seeker, I need my child. Since I have lost her, I am rather satiated with the disappointment of life,” her words stung with resentment, and suddenly Cassandra saw the demeanor that Josephine had undoubtedly been exposed to for several days.

“How did you know it was…” her thinking out loud would be the death of her, but she said it, and now she was at the mercy of Theia’s answer, whatever it was.

Theia paused and looked out at the balcony, her eyes narrowed as they reacted to the contrast in light. “I felt it, it was…just a hunch, I suppose, but. I just knew. They say mothers always know, that they feel things others cannot possibly fathom. I felt her.”

“My Lady, I am so—“

“Do not apologize. I am so tired of hearing the processionals of ‘I am sorry.’ If everyone is so sorry, why can’t they find some way to return to me what was mine?” she seethed, but was too tired to fully express it. The soreness of her abdominal region curbed her fury.

Cassandra felt like weeping, watching her friend be reduced to such carnal emotions of grief. Then, as she saw the absence of her friend’s left arm, she was reminded of just how much more risky it was for Theia to remain enveloped in herself.

“Friend, are you sure you are taking adequate care of yourself, considering your special circumstances?” she asked with careful intrepedation.

Theia picked up on the intent rather easily. She was considerably not herself, but she still had her intellect and intuition in spades.

“Oh, now you fear I’ll be consumed by a despair demon, Seeker? Is this what is supposed to comfort me, my own friend looking at me as a possible target for her blade?”

“I did not say that, but you know as well as I do what the reality is of your existence.”

“I am a mother with no child, Seeker, that is the reality of my existence.”

“I know, I just wish—“

“Get out.”

Cassandra stopped herself, caught off guard by the sharp order she had been given. She had come all this way, dropping everything in order to do so, and she was being sent off as if she were a menial servant. It riled her ego viscerally, but she battled within herself to have compassion for her friend.

“My Lady, with all due respect,”

“No. Get out of my sight. You wish to scold me like everyone else. I want to sit here in my silence and grieve like I deserve. I never asked for you to come here,” she growled. From the narrowness of her gaze, her purple irises began stirring with color.

“Theia, I am not leaving.” She used her first name now, a unique and alarming urgency.

“If you do not leave you will be tossed out on the top of an ice sheet, Cassandra, I am warning you one last time,” Theia hissed back, her hand collecting into a fist that gripped onto her bedsheets.

“No. I have never abandoned your side when you needed it, and I will not do it—“

“GET. OUT.” She yelled now, in the most animalistic tone Cassandra had ever heard come from a woman. The pain almost felt like daggers shooting at her. But, if it was one thing the Seeker was always trained to do, it was to stare down the roaring fire from a dragon’s throat and continue forward, to do what must be done.

“You do not scare me, my friend,” she said calmly, stepping forward and dragging a knee across the bed as she sat close to Theia, who was now lurching away from her.

“Theia! Theia, stop,” she said low, putting her arms out and trying to wrap around Theia’s shoulders. She felt several punches against her chestplate as she slowly pulled the violent embrace of the woman she trusted with her life into her.

“Get off! I do not need to be coddled!” Theia yelled.

Some more resistance, but then she relented, one last fruitless punch against her friend’s armor. From her chest, Cassandra could hear and feel her friend sobbing, the deep, guttural sound of her voice sending sorrow through her.

Stillness, even if in agony, is still stillness.

Protectively, Cassandra stroked the back of Theia’s head, feeling the slight friction between her hair and her riding glove.

“It is alright. I promise,” she muttered as her friend now held onto her for dear life. They stayed like this for a while, while Theia’s crying seemed to be bottomless, as if the sea itself wished to be the source of her tears.

--

The remainder of the day passed into a night of armistice, and it was not until the following morning that the Seeker saw some reason to hope. While sitting in the courtyard and eating a modest breakfast alone at one of the tables, out walked Theia, slowly, unescorted, but tall. She wore a black dress, a purple sash tied multiple loops around her waist to gather the light fabric into some shape. Her hair was not decorated, but it looked washed, which was more than what she could say yesterday. It was the fifth night she had slept alone, reclusive.

Cassandra flinched as she saw her friend, and her eyes shined with pleasant surprise.

“My Lady, you are walking! Come, sit with me, do not rush,” she said as she chewed through a mouthful of food, standing to beckon her over.

Theia’s face was stoic, but cordial. She nodded once, accepting the offer as she made her way, fingers lightly grasping on the skirt of her gown as she stepped down some shallow stairs. She sat beside her friend, grunting under her breath as she did so.

“Cassandra, I wish to—“

“There is  no need,” Cassandra interrupted, sitting down once more and anchoring her elbows on the table. “I understand that you are in a most difficult moment of your life, and I know the woman you are, underneath it all.”

Theia sighed shallowly, her eyes staring off blankly into space.

“Cassandra, that is just the thing, though – this is the woman I am. I cannot reverse what has happened, as much as I wish I could. I can never be the woman I was in the days of the Inquisition again. I haven’t been her for some time now.”

“Everyone has foundations to who they are, no matter what life’s changes do to impact their outlook. You are still the brave, kind, and strong person I befriended in war. Even if you do not find humor in the things you used to, you hold true to those virtues.”

A silence fell over them as they both sat, straight-backed and contemplative.

“Did you ever have a moment in your life when something was before you. A chance, to make your life about something you could have for yourself. Something that did not have to abide by outside rules or customs, that you nourished, and protected?” Theia’s tone almost sounded like dutiful sobbing the way it as so melodic.

“Yes, I have.”

“What then?”

“I…when I fell in love with a Mage, when I was young. I felt as though all of the rules I had held myself to no longer applied. I loved him, and he loved me, and that was the most sacred truth of us. When he died, I mourned him in private, because I did not wish to share my pain with anyone. I felt as though no one was worthy of such vulnerability. As if, such raw power of emotion could level entire buildings.”

Theia’s eyes flickered to her friend’s face as she spoke; Cassandra never discussed the Mage she once had as a lover, except that once. It was years ago. Theia never pressed her about it since, knowing just how important of a pivot it was in her life.

“That is how I feel about this. I do not want anyone near me. I feel like I have lost myself, and I’m wandering alone in in this spiral of a pathway, one side of it being some form of stability, the other the heart of my devastation. I keep trying to move forward, but I find it’s just the same twisting path, in and out of my despair. I do not know where it leads, or when I hope to stop and rest, my feet just…keep going.”

“But each time you re-enter your grief, you do so having survived it time and time again. You will continue to do so, until it feels like you have more control over just how close it gets to your heart. Trust me, my friend, you are the kind of person who can survive this.”

“I have survived everything, I am getting quite bored of it.”

“The dead would disagree with such a sentiment.”

“Spoken like someone who would know, Nevarran.”

Cassandra couldn’t help but grin in surprise. In a flash of seconds, her friend’s wit had made an appearance. She looked at her, and nodded in concession.

“Theia, I know I cannot possibly relate to your loss. But, I do know what it is to lose someone you love when a piece of your happiness relies upon them staying alive. You are anything but alone.”

Theia sighed, coupling her hands in her lap. “I understand that, but you must also concede just how lonely it is to be recognized as a heroine, someone who has done impossible things, and yet fail at what is supposed to come natural to you. It all feels backwards. I can hardly keep track of the illogical nature of my life.”

“A great deal of things come naturally to a woman, my friend. We are capable of most anything we invest our will into.”

“Yes, but that does not mean it does not bite us back for trying. If I may ask, would you walk with me? The healers say I must get some air, and distract myself,” her voice was half breath as she hoisted herself up from her seat. Cassandra agreed readily.

--

The gardens were lush but reverent in their stillness for Lady Trevelyan’s sorrow. Cassandra couldn’t help but notice just how lively and beautiful the scene would have been if only the fountains were spouting water, and the birds would come to visit on the disbursed seeds and nuts the servants would dish out every morning. Even the walls and facades of the building felt as though it had humbled itself to the concerns of its fair-haired occupant.

“I have had one of my assistants tend to the letters and dispatch responsibilities. I trust her to do so competently, and I will return to the duties myself very soon. I do not have a real choice,” Theia remarked as they walked.

“Theia, no one is doubting your dedication or fitness for your role. Do not race an enemy horse that does not exist,” the Seeker advised, hands behind her back.

“I know. Still, I cannot sit by and know that Divine Victoria must make up for the work of another person whilst she does the job of several. And you, my friend, cannot make such excursions to Antiva lightly.”

“We all make sacrifices for the needs of our allies. You have done more than enough to deserve such measures.”

“We all have, that doesn’t mean the world stops hurling towards disaster with each passing night.”

They came to a balcony view, one of many that overlooked the ports. They could see some of the Montilyet ships at port, secured and ready for whatever they were tasked with transporting. Somewhere nearby, surely Josephine was working, keeping herself busy whilst her mind fought off worrying about her wife, and the desire to go to her at every other minute.

“They are beautiful ships,” Cassandra complimented as they both peered down.

“Yes, Josephine was always one to combine style with pragmatism. They are fast and durable. Just like the ones we’re building for our forces, but those will be better, and well-armed.”

“Tell me, how has it been between you and Lady Montilyet? She seemed quite careful when she greeted me the other day.”

Theia let a moment of silence pass as she overlooked the shore, her throat stiffening with nervous feelings.

“Josephine and I…don’t quite know what to make of each other because of this. I am afraid I have hurt her badly. In the days after the incident I was very angry, and even malicious. I wanted to fight everyone around me. When I looked at her, when I heard her speak, it was as if every bone in my body felt this mixture of shame and resentment. I still resist the feeling that I’ve failed her,” Theia’s candidness was hard to swallow, but it felt good to speak truth to the feelings that had permeated the air.

“I am sorry to hear that. When is the last time you spoke to her?”

“She comes and bids me goodnight every night before she goes to sleep, and comes to bid good morning with breakfast. She sleeps in our room while I have recovered in the guest wing. I feel so out of my element, not having the ego to be the protective one anymore,” Theia leaned over the stone rail, elbows holding her chest up as she walked the people walk up and down the port.

“I am sure she is just as unnerved to see you be so defenseless.”

“Agh, she knows what I look like when I am at the end of my rope. She’s always been the voice inside my head, and in front of my face, inspiring me to find one more foot of it to hold onto. But, I think she is torn between grieving her own loss and being strong for me. And I have made it very hard for her to want to be strong,” Theia could admit when she was wrong, but she hadn’t the time or energy to do so whilst recovering both physically and psychologically. Indeed, she couldn’t even promise that this moment of reflection would resonate with her; perhaps in an hour she would be back to being distraught and mean.

“I have always told you, honesty is the best way to protect what is important to you.”

Theia patted Cassandra on the shoulder as she took a step back from the railing. “This is true, if inconvenient,” she replied. “Come, I wish to show you the rest of the place. Maybe you’ll get some sunburn, if I keep exposing you to the daylight.”

“We can all hope, friend.”

--

The rest of their walk was slow and sentimental, keeping to Theia’s determined pace of exertion. When she needed a break, they would sit at a bench, or stand in front of a fountain. Soon, the midday brightness dimmed into early evening twilight, and Cassandra’s attention turned towards the expectations of dinner and socialization.

“The Antivan people are always ready to share food and drink and spur you out of your grief. They hardly rest for such trivial matters such as depression or sorrow. It is most invigorating up until you suffer a personal tragedy,” a smirk had managed to appear on Theia’s tired face as she described her experience.

“They sound like the opposite society to Nevarra. There, a party is not considered worth it unless several people cry, another brings the tokens of their dead relative to pass around the dinner table, and an hour-long toast to the departed has been recognized.”

“Perhaps I should get a summer home there, so I can stop eclipsing the jovial sun here with my sulking.”

They returned to Theia’s temporary room, which had been cleaned well in her absence. The servants had taken the opportunity to change linens, freshen the flowers, and pull the tapestries back to air out the room; clearly, her leaving the space for longer than an hour had been rare.

“I should go see Josephine. Maker knows she is already aware that I have arisen from my sickbed, and is trying to conjure up the right reaction, the right words, the right tone…” Theia sighed, playing with the pyrophite bracelet on her wrist.

“Is that such a bad thing? You do know what your temper is like, surely.”

“No, but I know once we do collide, it will be as it was when we were at Skyhold: a battle of wits, then of tempers, then of wills.”

“Ah, yes. Now, those are fond memories.”

“Some things change, others remain with their heels dug in, you could say.”

“Then I will go to dinner and then to bed. I can stay one more day, but after that I must return to the mountains. Thank you for spending this day with me, it is good to see you out and about once more.”

“Thank you, friend, for everything. I shall see you tomorrow. Perhaps we can walk by the pier, and I can show you the ships up close.” Theia smiled softly as her friend bid her goodnight, and withdrew from her room. Inhaling slow, she turned and around at the room she had been confined to for days. It was so cold, so desolate to feel it around her. She could feel the energy of her cries, her wailing, her groaning in pain, almost as if it had seeped into the walls. This would haunt her mind for a while.

--

Josephine stood at the foot of their bed, a chalice of wine in hand and held close to her face as she stared at the freshly made sheets. Only one side of the bed had been used for the last week, and even though she tried to sleep, she would jolt awake from the resonating anxiety at hearing her wife cry in alarm.

They had not slept apart unless separated by miles since Corypheus was slain. She had believed that sleeping alone would be impossible. Surely, even in all of her foresight, Josephine had not expected such trials to drive so deep of a wedge between them. They had always been shoulder-to-shoulder, at least, when it was not a battlefield in front of them.

It gnawed at her nerves, worrying that Theia felt so alone in her pain, that she must sequester herself.

So, when her wife stood in the entryway of their chambers, she had to do a double-take to be sure it was her. When it was confirmed, suddenly so many emotions took hold. Defensiveness, sadness, relief…and so much more that couldn’t be named, for it all bled into one another.

“Josephine.” Theia said, before walking towards her. The very sight of her walking, up on her feet, like she had been before…the color in her face now reappearing. It was enough to make her fall to her knees and start crying, if she had felt safe enough to.

“Theia, you are well, and walking?” she said, setting her wine down at the nearest end table, before meeting her halfway. As they stood in front of each other, the palpable awkwardness of being in the aftermath of so much trauma took hold.

“Uh, yes. I got up this morning, and Seeker Cassandra walked with me all day. I feel my strength is returning, which is…relieving.”

“Yes, to say the least. How are you doing besides…besides your energy?”

“Good. I wanted to…to thank you, for inviting Cassandra to be here. It has helped a lot. She…is a very wise and loyal friend.”

“I know, which is why when I thought of who to turn to, she came to mind first and foremost. Are you beginning to feel like yourself, even just slightly?”

“I…am trying my best. I…agh, Josephine, let’s stop this,” Theia took hold of one of her wife’s hands, holding it to her chest as she looked at her. “We are talking like strangers.”

“Forgive me, mi amor, if I prefer speaking like strangers after these days of you speaking to me like an enemy,” Josephine pulled away, turning around and walking further into the room. The act of turning away from her hurt her on the inside, but so did the lingering sting of her words that she yelled and growled at her.

“What do you wish me to say, Josephine? That I regret feeling the pain of losing our child? That I am sorry I could not better prepare myself for the devastation of it all?”

“Theia, we were both underprepared! You forget that this was a joint venture, we did this together, like we have done everything. You turned away from me. I had to grieve alone, away from your vitriol!” Josephine turned around to face her for this argument.

“I cannot control how this affects my body, Josephine. Every hour I feel a whole different emotion, I am not myself, and you know this,” Theia came closer, but only slightly, testing the waters of just how close she could get without Josephine retreating further into the room. This was the room, after all, where it happened, and the memory of it still consumed her senses, even as she tried so hard to remain present.

“I know that well enough! Why do you think I came to you even after all had been said and done. Every morning, every night, I’d come to see you, to be met with your shoulder and indignant words. I felt like my wife had been lost along with…” she stopped herself, still unable to speak it out loud. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, turning away as tears began to form in her eyes.

“My Love, I know how you hurt from this. I want to be here for you, I want to be that protective person you married, the person who would put her body between you and anything coming for you. But I am so…” the tears were evolving for Theia now as she choked out her last words.

“I can’t, I can’t do this, not here. Not with this…this right in front of me..” she motioned towards the bed, the bed where she had woken up to the disaster.

Josephine turned around immediately, and realizing what she was referring to, suddenly the screams began in her head again. The memory of her, screaming as if she was dying, the fear in her voice.

“Neither can I…” she breathed, and she quickly found her way to Theia’s side. Wrapping an arm around the back of her waist, she escorted her out of the room, Theia leaning on her as they walked to somewhere, anywhere, but there.

--

Eventually they found their study, the room where they had always sought congress with each other for the most important of matters and discussions. Some of their most heated arguments, and some of their best reconciliations. Now, as they held each other on the floor, having pulled the ghastly bearskin rug into the middle of the expansive stone floor, the quiet comforted them as they comforted each other.

“I will arrange to have the bed replaced in the morning,” Josephine muttered as she let Theia lay her head in her lap, looking outward towards the balcony. Slowly, she started playing with her blonde strands of hair, another hand resting on her shoulder. Her face was soaked with tears, making her cheeks feel slightly sticky.

“Thank you,” Theia whispered, resting her hands underneath her cheek, feeling calmer now to be close to her wife, her partner, her ally in life.

Josephine’s night dress slipped off her shoulder as they remained there, graceless and fallen apart.

“You know what is going to haunt me forever? The fact that I will never get to meet her. The fact that I will never know what she sounds like, what her voice sounds like, what her hair feels like in my fingers…”

“Theia, darling…”

“No, let me get this out. It’s been resting on my chest like a boulder, I can’t breathe anymore. I…I listened every time they warned me how much it would hurt. How much…how much childbirth would hurt. But, feeling the pain and the agony of losing…all I could think was that I would endure three times whatever pain it was to have my child in my arms, and the pain of losing my arm, all in the same moment.”

A couple of tears streamed down Josephine’s face without notice as she listened to her wife mourn out loud.

“I just want to see her. Just once. Just to see what her eyes were like, if they were purple like mine. If her hair would be dark like yours. How beautiful she would be, the product of us.”

“Between your temper and my will, she would have been a force to be reckoned with. Dorian would have his work cut out for him,” Josephine said through her tears. This made Theia swallow hard, choking back the urge to break down.

“Yes, she would have driven him crazy. There would have been so much laughter….so much…” she closed her eyes harshly, letting the tears overflow and escape her eyelids.

“Shhh, mi amor, it is alright,” Josephine cooed, stroking her hair. She heard Theia inhale sharply, congestion in her nose.

“I am so sorry, my Love. I failed you. I failed us.”

“Theia Sofia, you did no such thing,” Josephine interrupted her, a hand guiding Theia’s gaze forefully up to make eye contact with hers. “Do not even begin to tell yourself you let anyone down. This is not your failure, this is not your fault.”

“You trusted me. I was entrusted with this life, and I lost it. I failed to protect the one thing that could only ever depend on me.”

“Theia, come here,” Josephine pushed her wife’s shoulders up so she would sit up, right in front of her, so their eyes made level eye-contact. Gently, she held Theia’s face between her hands, the glimmer off fresh tears under the moonlight.

“It will take time for us to recover from this loss, and I know each day will be different for you. Some will be harder than others, and I know you will need distance as much as closeness in the coming days. But, I never want you to feel as though you must shut yourself away to atone for something you need not be punished for.”

“Josephine, I have no idea what this will do to me before it’s all over. I cannot promise you I won’t be the wounded person I was these past few days. You deserve to have your wife be there for you through this.”

“I deserve nothing more than you do. We may not have the path written out for us, but we will move forward. When has the lack of precedent ever stopped us from doing so?”

Theia put her hand to Josephine’s, the end of her tears clearing her vision.

“Do you remember our vows? How we made up our own because I refused to have a fully Andrastian ceremony,” Theia chuckled under her breath.

Josephine smiled. “Yes, and everyone cried and cried,” she pulled her wife into her chest, wrapping her arms around her.

“You Mother almost fainted when we told her we would not swear only to the Maker. I thought surely she would pin me to one of the tapestries.”

“She still hasn’t forgiven you, you know. She swears you are provoking Andraste to take back more than just your hand.”

“Maybe I am. But she can try take this away from me all she wants, this…you, you are the one part I refuse to let go.”

Josephine put her lips to the top of Theia’s head. “I am not going anywhere, mi amor.”

[orionsangel86]

The Man in the Mask

It's certainly no secret that one of the biggest themes in season 13 so far has been about villains/ monsters in disguise.

In case you haven't noticed those villains were:

13x01: Becky Angel (can't remember her name) disguised as a drunk girl at Pirate Pete's

13x02: Asmodeus disguised as Donatello

13x03: a wraith. (A creature that disguises itself as a human - his true face revealed by mirrors and seen by the psychic)

13x04: the Shapeshifter disguising itself as lost loved ones and the Empty entity disguising itself as Cas.

13x05: the ghost Doctor in his plague mask. Hiding his face.

13x06: the ghoul disguised as an old western cowboy.

Now thanks to @neven-ebrez we have at least some idea that this is connected to Cas. I figured I would write something speculative on this topic as I have no doubt that some of you guys will be freaking out about this.

It's been a highly volatile summer on tumblr in meta communities surrounding anything involving Cas so I've been keeping my mouth mostly shut on the matter but *shrug*.

Let's start with the obvious. Is this Cas *our* Cas? I still think it is. I think it would be very strange if the empty entity decided to follow Dean around and indulge in his cowboy "fetish" last episode. (Unless Bucklemming have truly lost the plot and Dabb let them off their leash of course).

Could Cas have bought the Empty entity back with him? It's possible. He could have unwillingly hitched a ride with Cas and be with him right now but keeping quiet for the time being. This theory would make sense regarding the disguised villain theme, though I still don't think this quite works with last episode.

I also feel as though it doesn't make sense for a creature who just wants to sleep to follow Cas to earth to cause havoc. It doesn't fit his MO.

The other option which I kind of hope is the one they are going with is that Cas is in some way still controlled (albeit unknowingly) by Jack. So many of us have been desperate for an explanation to what the hell happened to Cas at the end of last season and 13x06 in my opinion called back to that with Cas's conversation with Jack. Cas still sees himself as Jack's guardian and believes the line that Jack will do great things for the world. This could all be true and good sure, but the conversation did nothing but make me think of that whole peace and paradise bullshit that has never been a good thing on this show ever. As soon as I heard that conversation my heart sunk. Imo Cas still wasn't himself. Jack still holds some influence over him.

This is definitely a volatile topic between me and those I speak to regularly who are totally against this view point, but I still feel like the set up, framing and everything else at the end of season 12 was supposed to tell us that this was brainwashing. I had hoped that it would be revealed in 13x04 that Cas's death had broken him free of that, but that didn't happen.

Now it seems that someone somewhere is wearing a mask still. A facade. The mystery surrounding Cas at the end of season 12 hasn't yet been revealed and imo it fits. Does this mean Jack is bad? Or intentionally manipulating him? I don't think so. I think that whilst still in the womb he latched on to Cas because he was scared and wanted protection for him and his mother. He chose Cas, because Cas was desperate for a purpose and feeling lost and was inherently good which Jack sensed. I think that Jack somehow reached into Cas's angel wiring and tweaked some things. Hence all the references to season 4. He's back in that mode of believing in paradise and having blind faith that the angels were installed with in the beginning. Cas isn't himself exactly (but still outwardly himself and believes he is himself) but his overriding function is Jack's protection above all else no matter what - which could be a very bad thing for the Winchesters if Jack unintentionally calls upon Cas to help him (the way the twig people seemed fine until the witch called upon them to do her bidding in 12x20). (Thanks @elizabethrobertajones for chatting this through with me the other day - I know you hate spec so feel free to ignore this wild post no one asked for).

I dont think that Cas would hurt the Winchesters, but I find this concept very interesting in the way it calls back to previous arcs for Cas involving brainwashing and things being done to him without his knowledge. Events that pretty much always culminated in Dean snapping him out of it because of *reasons*. Another arc like this for Cas whilst repetitive, if done from a slightly different angle could be the final prompt he needs to realise what he wants, needs, and who he is.

Then again I may be totally missing the mark here and have no real expectations that this is the case. It's just the option I hope for the most.

Either way whatever we get tonight and going forward, (however nonsensical in the bucklemming episode) I am sure that we will all be driving ourselves mad about whatever is going on with Cas and his character arc. We know that Cas, in whatever form, teams up with Lucifer (and that form of Cas knows Lucifer killed him ruling out an au Cas) so my belief that this Man in the Mask stuff relates to Jack is further heightened for this reason. For Cas to want (however reluctantly) to work with Lucifer, I feel his motivations would have to be majorly skewered away from sanity. Having this *must protect Jack at all costs* system override in place makes perfect sense in this case.

Having said all that it is a bucklemming episode. So "making sense" is generally unlikely in any case.

I guess we'll wait and see. But fellow Cas!girls, try not to worry TOO much. Our angel always bounces back eventually.

Enjoy tonight's episode. Hopefully it will give us some of the answers we seek.

[kainfamilyfortune]

Silas - Journal Entry #42-44

42. Echoes.

I was surprised the most by the change in the air - how the endless fall of the Eversong forest leaves clung to the end of my boots and the area seemed so enriched in the leyline energy. Although it inspired a melancholy for Rustberg, I already missed the snow and quiet village. I walked a distance off the trail, knowing full well of the wildlife in these woods being far more dangerous, I’d rather have to fend off a springpaw, than with the local guard. Or worse.

Luckily the woods were calm on this day, the bright oranges, deep crimsons from the leaves and creme color trunks guided me as I lost myself in distant memories of only a year after I was raised. It all seemed like yesterday - I guess when you’ve been unable to actually sleep because... well...you’re dead, it really does make all the days blur into one another. Like the same day I arrived in this forest nearly five and half years ago is unchanged from today, but I know better. Thousands of lives have been lost in that time span, yet it seems that I walk the same path as I did then. I don’t know why now I heard Vindilah’s words, asking if my history was repeating... “Only now it is elves and you have a choice. Or do we really?"

Do we? Have I traded cowardice for control? Watching my history unfold before me. Do I actually have a choice? Or will I simply be another pawn again. Light. Have you forsaken me? I have been nothing but faithful, letting you guide me - blindly at times, but in the end I have survived and my path was clear. You bestow me with great power, yet pain that is nearly unbearable now. I am nothing but dust, yet you hold me together... What am I worth to you?

My down spiral of thoughts was perturbed by the rustle of a nearby bush, I quickly gathered my senses noticing the coloration of the woods were turning a sickly green and blue up in the distance as I ducked into the trunk of nearest tree. I peered where I had heard the noise as a springpaw cub emerged stealthily, luckily seeming to not notice where I had sneaked off to - but my anxiety quickly heightened as I saw another more threatening visage. The dark haired flowed from the male sin’dorei, with form fitting dark navy leathers, nocking an arrow, eyeing the target. I ducked back down, hearing the whistle of the arrow finding it’s target. Do not move. A few seconds went by, hearing the elf speaking in thalassian, muttering to himself. Do. Not. Move.

I heard him unsheathe his knife and skin the kill, the patter of small feet - I did not dare look to see, what I assumed, would be his hunting companion darting around the woods. After a moment I heard the latching of belts as he stowed away the animal pelt and meat he deemed worthy - footfalls followed after, away from where I had ducked away. I peered across the canopy to see a horde insignia on his bicep, bow at his back, trailing off in the distance, hunting companion no where in sight. I hid there in the brush for what seemed like an hour - making sure there was distance between me and the hunter before scanning the area, ensuring that the coast was clear. I stood slowly and continued my way south towards the Ghostlands - Edmundo’s last project.

43. Blind 

The hut was just how I remembered it from the outside, it bared the forsaken crest in brass on the small wooden door. This was the desolate council’s small little foothold - undocumented of course. Light knows this building wouldn’t be standing before me if it was. The architecture didn’t match anything of the surrounding buildings we would typically research, although they long stood abandoned, the elvish architecture was something to admire. Maybe for another day. No, this hut was inconspicuous, a small wood cabin covered in moss to match the very ground so it could easily be dismissed by any without a keen eye - and then there were the wards as a second measure. I pulled out my forsaken emblem, the very same I had torn off my satchel and lifted it high above my head as I approached the sanctuary, I hope it still held it’s charge.

The crest glowed fervently, the untrained eye would see nothing but a small unassuming hut, but to those that knew what to find would see the barriers, one by one, as they fell - suppressing noise, arcane, and finally truesight - the perimeter of shields swallowed me as I pushed towards the door of the hut. I knocked twice only to be greeted by silence. A grasped the door handle and entered the hut to find the small space, ransacked. Research papers drenched in mud and boot marks line all corners of the space, dim candlelight illuminated the back corner writing nook where I spent my second summer writing my third and forth thesis's on Zul’Aman - I closed the door behind me and took a closer look at the space.

Droplets of crusted blood, sprayed across a large stack of paperwork, with the candle  - Whatever it was... It wasn’t recent, maybe two or three weeks at most but it still filled me with unease as I felt a familiar cold chill. “Did you think he would have answers?” She said wryly, I turned to face the aberration of the dust-like human girl leaning against the opposite counter. I shuddered, stepping back. “What are-how did you-” I was at a loss of words. “Don’t you worry child, your ‘protections’ are still active, I’m just above them. Now, while you are here..”  The candle flickered with an unusual glow as she raised her arm sparking a chaotic dark energy as it flowed into my arm - I tried to gain back control but she bent it to her will. I snapped. “No. No, no, no.” My arm grasped a sheet of paper on the desk, lifting it to eye level, “Read. Silas, it’s the only thing you’re good for.” 

The parchment was burned at the edges, written in Edmundo’s hastily written chicken scratch, in a modified version of gutterspeak. 

Silas,

There is no HopE. you must run. Before they takE you. tAke your Sight. Take your light. she Will be waiting. In the place where it is hidden. Light. Light. Don’t come looking for me. I will be finE. 

Hide. Yourself. Just keep running. All will reveaL itself in time.

-e.a

I read aloud but it only angered her. My arm began to flare in pain and she screamed, and I began to wonder if she could feel it too as she lifted her arm to her head, recoiling as she began to wither slowly. Now was my chance. Clutching the letter, I knocked over the candle stick, fire erupted across the research papers and vials of ink, spreading flames along the hut, I bolted out not thinking twice. I ran, gasping for air I knew I didn’t need, I clutched the crest once more to protect me from the barriers. I didn’t dare look back, but what I could hear from behind was the eruption of flames and the screaming call of the banshee. 

(TW: Self-Infliction, Lite-Gore)

44. Into the Fold

I ran into the forest for hours, heading north for some reprieve. I knew I would need to make camp or find an inn that was off the beaten path - something. My arm still ached, it was a sharp pain, I wondered how much myself I was risking, my sanity was one thing, but my body... no I couldn’t continue to think that I was growing to become a weaker version of myself every day that I walked this earth. I needed to remain somewhat hopeful, despite everything around me being cursed or loaded up with blight. I had to calm down.

The lush forests returned to their orange, yellows and maroons, as I slowed down, leaning at first against a creme colored trunk and then falling to my knees, completely exhausted. I sat under the canopy assessing the damage to my arm. I flicked off the glove on my right arm to reveal the bone dust fading in it’s normal light infused glow. It seemed faded along with what appeared to be a black spot, filled with void energies, the perimeter around the mark seemed to eating away at the light, while the light was fighting back attempting to close the portal. I stared back into the absence, wondering what it could mean.

Nothing good. I thought to myself. I grasped my ceremonial knife, I knew what had to be done... I shaved away under the dust layer, slowly inching away at the top of my wrist before cutting my the hand I had written nearly all my works with. As I did the pain seized into a dull ache before bone dust began to shift like sand on the upper portion of my arm, no longer filling to act as ‘skin’ but knowing I needed my appendages. Fingers began to sprout from the dust, although it was bone-like in structure, it would do better than nothing at all. I prayed silently, thanking the Light for my gift. I knew that the ‘flesh’ would return in do time.

I wrapped a piece of clothe that I exchanged my glove for in my satchel upon my newly formed hand, it would have to do for now to begin the healing process. I concealed myself in my cloak and began to walk down the path, hoping to find shelter for the night.

The tavern I settled in costed me forty-gold for the night but they didn’t ask names and I didn’t frequent with any regulars, simply went up to the room and grabbed Edmundo’s letter. I began dissecting it and noticed the odd capitalization and recognized it as a very simple cipher we used to use back for council meetings:

THE BEAST WILL DIE. HYJAL.

Beast? Hyjal? Like Mount Hyjal in Kalimdor - I’ve never set foot on that ancient ground, let alone know even how I would get there. But beast? This was the only scrap of information I could get. All will reveal itself in time as Edmundo stated, but he knew as patient as I was, they would surely find me. 

She would find me.

(OOC: Gods, what a ride it’s been over the last few weeks, been trying to finish this set of entries for awhile now, been just in a slump with work and life so attempting to not burn myself out and taking my time. I’ve had that little voice in the back of my head of just like ‘Are you doing this right?’ ‘You should really follow up with the people you’ve made RP commitments to’ ‘You should level your alts and gear Thea already’ - Then I launch the game, fiddle on Silas for half an hour and feel unmotivated to go to events or seek out RP.

So I’m sorry - I’m making a conscious effort to get into better habits, like this weekend I got Thea from ilvl268 to 310! I got Silas to 386! Woot! Then I’ve been leveling a B-Elf Hunter and just got him out of Deepholm, he is level 89 [Also he made a special appearance in this entry]! I’m excited to go to Monday Night Mixer tomorrow at the Raven! It’s progress if nothing else!

As always, I love feedback, negative or positive because I’m still really new to all this stuff and like Silas I’m learning everyday, if you ever want to reach out to be a part of the story don’t hesitate, trust me you won’t be bothering me, you’ll be helping me! Thanks so much for reading <3)