#I find her oddly charming despite her abrasive nature

[onceuponalegendbg]

Don’t tell me if I’m right but the characters I think are safe for the first chapter:

- Damon

- Eva

- Wolfgang

Ones I just don’t want to die this early on (or at all):

- Grace

- Wenona

- Eloise

[insanityclause]

When coronavirus closed the theaters on March 12, there were still 16 shows left to open in the Broadway season. Audiences will get to see some of them later, others probably not — but what of the more than 20 plays, musicals and miscellaneous offerings that had already faced the press? It seemed unfair not to celebrate them, so on Friday, just after it was announced that the Tony Awards will not go on as usual this year, we sat down (in cyberspace) to devise a Tonys of our own. Naturally, we made our own rules.

BEN BRANTLEY Well, Jesse, even in a season that’s 16 plays short, there’s still a fat if imbalanced roster of intriguing shows. Have we ever before had such a preponderance of jukebox musicals that might qualify for Best Musical? The good news is that some enterprising minds managed to inventively retool the genre you once described as the “cockroach” of Broadway.

JESSE GREEN The cockroach has evolved! “Jagged Little Pill,” “Tina: The Tina Turner Musical,” “Girl From the North Country,” “Moulin Rouge!” and — since we’re playing by our own rules here — even “American Utopia,” the David Byrne show that was deemed ineligible for the real Tonys, are all jukeboxes, all worthy and all eligible for ours. Maybe not quite all worthy.

BRANTLEY Perhaps it’s appropriate then that the last show to open on Broadway was the most unorthodox of the “jukebox” shows. I use quotation marks here because that label seems too confining for “Girl From the North Country,” the Irish playwright and director Conor McPherson’s work that uses the songs of Bob Dylan to imagine life during the Great Depression in Duluth, Minn. The more I think about “Girl,” the more innovative and haunting it seems to me.

GREEN For me it took some time, and the show’s move from the Public Theater to Broadway, to appreciate how McPherson was deploying the music in this musical. The songs do not function the way songs normally do; they never address the situation at hand, and sometimes even contradict it. Yet in that gap, poetry grew.

BRANTLEY For me, “Girl” deals with the ineffable and unsayable through song in a way that makes it the most religious, or at least spiritual, show on Broadway. I have found this aspect of the show stays with me, as an oddly comforting reminder of the hunger for communion in this time of isolation. But moving on to matters closer to profane than sacred, what about another mold-breaker in a very different sense: “Moulin Rouge!,” based on the Baz Luhrmann movie about la vie bohème in gaslight-era Paris.

GREEN Here was a case where the gap between the story, such as it is, and the musical materials — found pop from Offenbach to Rihanna — did not produce poetry. For me it produced a headache.

BRANTLEY Ah, I had a swell time at “Moulin Rouge,” and I thought the far-reaching songbook became a kind of commentary on how such songs form the wallpaper of our minds. And then there was “Tina,” which was more business-as-usual bio-musical fare, although illuminated by a radiant, cliché-transcending performance by Adrienne Warren as Turner.

GREEN The creators of musicals really offered a sampler of ways to respond to the jukebox problem. “Jagged Little Pill,” built on the Alanis Morissette catalog, made the smart choice of abjuring biography and instead attaching her songs to a new plot (by Diablo Cody) that grew out of the same concerns and vocabulary. Or perhaps I should say “new plots,” because it is not shy with them. There are at least eight story lines.

BRANTLEY To be honest, this was the show that gave me a headache, because it was so insistently earnest in its topicality and, even when it was trying to be funny, humorless. So, of the new musicals (and we haven’t touched on “The Lightning Thief,” your personal favorite) what would you give the premature Tony to?

GREEN The one that wouldn’t be eligible: “American Utopia.” Joy and sadness bound to each other through David Byrne’s music and Annie-B Parson’s movement: What else do you want from a musical, even if it’s just a concert?

BRANTLEY I loved “American Utopia.” I think, though, I’d have to go with “Girl From the North Country,” but I wouldn’t have predicted that after seeing it in London two years ago. I find more in it every time I revisit it.

GREEN Despite all the Best Musical possibilities this truncated season, only one, “The Lightning Thief,” had a new score. Yet most of the offerings sounded new anyway, the result of terrific arrangements and orchestrations. I’m thinking especially of Justin Levine’s magpie-on-Ecstasy song collages for “Moulin Rouge!,” Tom Kitt’s theatricalization of post-grunge pop for “Jagged Little Pill” and Simon Hale’s excavation of the deeply layered Americana in Dylan’s catalog for “Girl.”

BRANTLEY Here, I’d have to say it’s a tie between “Girl” and “Moulin Rouge!,” each a remarkable accomplishment in a very different way. As for best revival, the undisputed winner is Ivo van Hove’s divisive revival of “West Side Story,” but that’s because it is, remarkably, the only musical revival so far.

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GREEN I liked “West Side Story” better than you did, Ben, perhaps because I wasn’t reviewing it. I lapped up the new things it wanted to show me (while also hunting for the old things it wanted to hide from me) and didn’t worry about the elements that laid an egg. (“Gee, Officer Krupke.”) Its evocation of innocence and hopelessness felt more like real life now than I’ve experienced in previous revivals.

BRANTLEY I concede the point intellectually. But the acid test for me with theater — and musicals in particular �� is how much it makes you feel. And to borrow a lyric from “A Chorus Line,” for the most part “I felt nothing.”

GREEN I admit it was odd that there were no obvious breakout performances in “West Side Story” — which brings us to our first lightning round. Who wins our Tonys for leading actor and actress in a musical?

BRANTLEY Best Actress: Adrienne Warren, for “Tina” (though Karen Olivo in “Moulin Rouge!” is pretty fab, too). Best Actor: Jay O. Sanders in, perversely, a non-singing role in “Girl From the North Country.” You?

GREEN Same. I think we are having a socially distanced mindmeld. Will that also be the case with the nine new plays and four revivals that opened before March 12? With one exception, the revivals were not as thrilling as the full slate promised to be.

BRANTLEY For me, the winner is Jamie Lloyd’s spartan, merciless revival of Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal,” which brought harsh clarity to the work’s emotional ambiguity.

GREEN And ambiguity to the play’s harsh formality — its semi-backward construction. It was certainly the best “Betrayal” I’ve seen, yet I hold out some love for the revival of “Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune,” which in retrospect turned out to be a farewell to Terrence McNally, its author, who died last week. I felt that Michael Shannon and Audra McDonald did it, and him, justice.

BRANTLEY It was certainly a reminder of his shrewdness and compassion. I was perhaps a little too conscious of the Acting, with a capital A. But it was a welcome addition to the season. For Best Play, we have a far more varied field, no? I suspect we’ll agree on the winner here, the season’s great iconoclast.

GREEN Yes, “Slave Play,” by Jeremy O. Harris, wins on sheer disruptive energy, even before considering its intelligence as playwriting, its knockout production (directed by Robert O’Hara) and its fearsome challenge to renegotiate race in America.

BRANTLEY But for all its shock value, what made it a wonderful play — as opposed to just a bracing exploration of dangerous ground — was its heart. By the end, you felt so completely the pain of its characters, all trying to navigate the perhaps insuperable hurdles of interracial relationships.

GREEN I think “The Inheritance” wanted to be that kind of play, too: a story of intimate relationships yet also a gay manifesto with the multipart heft of “Angels in America.” It got the heft, anyway; “Slave Play” ran 120 minutes; “The Inheritance,” 385.

BRANTLEY “The Inheritance” certainly gets points for ambition — and for the fluidity of Stephen Daldry’s production. And might I put in a word for the prickly comic abrasiveness of Tracy Letts’s “Linda Vista,” a lacerating anatomy of toxic masculinity disguised as brooding charm?

GREEN I liked what “Linda Vista” wanted to do but found it flabby. Perhaps straitened times demand slender plays. Certainly, the other new drama I greatly admired was whippetlike: Adam Rapp’s “The Sound Inside,” an existential mystery wrapped in a literary one, or vice versa. Among other things, it allowed Mary-Louise Parker, as a Yale writing instructor, to deliver a Tony-worthy performance. And now that “How I Learned to Drive,” the other play in which she was set to star this season, has been postponed, she doesn’t have to compete against herself. Is she our winner?

BRANTLEY I am going to declare a tie between her and Laura Linney, who gave a very subtle, and emotionally transparent, performance as the title character of “My Name Is Lucy Barton,” adapted by Rona Munro from Elizabeth Strout’s novel.

GREEN I buy that. But let’s not forget Joaquina Kalukango in “Slave Play,” Eileen Atkins in “The Height of the Storm,” Zawe Ashton in “Betrayal” and Jane Alexander in “Grand Horizons.” It was a very strong semi-season for Best Actress in a Leading Role.

BRANTLEY And for Best Actor?

GREEN The real Tonys decreed that Paul Alexander Nolan was eligible for his “supporting” role in “Slave Play,” but in my Tonys he’s a strong candidate for “leading.” Still, I’ll go with Tom Hiddleston, in “Betrayal.” Or at least he wins in my newly invented category of Best Use of the Lack of a Tissue. His facial leakage was Vesuvian.

BRANTLEY He was superb — and a reminder of the cathartic value of the tears of others in theater. Of course, there’s so much to cry about now in terms of opportunities lost this season. But I’m not writing an elegy for, or even a definitive summary of, this season yet. It will be fascinating to see how it reincarnates itself, won’t it?

[sunflowerspectre]

Overtime | Dungeons and Dragons Commission

 This is a 5k commission piece for an anon with their DND characters.

Title: Overtime Fandom: Dungeons and Dragons (DND) Summary: Neronvain never expected anyone to find him after he left his family, but here he is. On a stranded island after getting ‘caught’ twice by the same dragon slayer who is determined to do her job and get him back home to face his punishment only for their ship to get completely destroyed. Character(s): Neronvain, Algatharas, Original Tiefling Character (Desire) Rating: Teen Requested Word Count: 5k Final Word Count: 5,028

This is a sequel to Stranded 

Read it on Archive of Our Own

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Overtime | Word Count: 5028

Neronvain watches Desire from a distance, out of place and uncomfortable being in the middle of town. No one pays him too much attention, but he still does his best to stick to the shadows and the walls, avoiding the middle of the street and the vendors as much as possible. He had to argue with the ones that he did buy from until they gave him a decent, actual price.

Desire, however, does not seem to argue with the vendor much at all. She starts to, at first, get the price lowered from outrageous to slightly less outrageous but still overpriced. But the more that the vendor talks, the more she listens. The more that she begins to ooh and awe at all the right moments. He  could see the way that the vendor’s eyes lit up when she handed them the money. 

This absolute idiot. Neronvain mourns the fact that this is the person who he has to follow. How could someone so easily swindled be the same person who somehow convinced the High Council of Elves that he, of all fucking elves, can be redeemed? 

He really feels like he has reached what is certainly the lowest point in his life; though it may not make sense, this somehow, at times, feels worse than the cult. It is as if just being near her sucks out whatever little dignity he has left.

It makes it worse at how many times he’s failed at getting away. He learned really fast when he was forced to join her that running away simply does not work. She tracks him down too fast for him to make any headway. To make it worse, she is not scared of tackling him on sight if she so much as thinks that he is going to try to run. She is, surprisingly, strong. And quick.

He’s still sore from the last time she tackled him.

A few weeks in and he’s already given up trying. After all, what is the point? If she does not catch him and he does manage to get far away, what is he supposed to do? Go back to the kingdom that kicked him out? Go back to the cult that is definitely pissed at him? Chuth is not the forgiving type. He is sure that the dragon would find him. He may as well stay with her; at least he knows that she won’t kill him in his sleep and at least she has some decent dragon slaying abilities. Even if she’s failed to slay Chuth - twice. 

“You paid too much for that.”

Desire furrows her brows, her lip curling as she looks down at the trinket. It is an odd looking thing. He thinks that it is supposed to be a sculpture of a dragon, but it could be a dog. Or maybe a deformed cat.

“Good then maybe you’ll appreciate it better.”

Neronvain barely manages to catch it as she throws it at him at full force, the trinket hitting him square in the chest hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs.

_________________________________

To Neronvain’s displeasure, he waits for Desire’s signal. He can see the bandits from his hidden position; none of them have noticed any of the members of their party yet. Each of the bandits have a decent bounty on their head that will last them quite a while even if they split the bounties evenly. Neronvain hates to admit that he could honestly use the coin, even though he doubts that Desire will give him an even cut. 

He doesn’t see why they have to wait. The longer they wait, the higher the chance that they will be spotted and lose their element of surprise. He keeps glancing at Desire's hidden spot. She is the closest to the bandits than any of them, but to his surprise, she has not done anything to give away her location or theirs. 

Her eyes are focused. More focused than he thought she was capable of being. She doesn’t even acknowledge him, staring intently at her targets with a hand hovering at the weapon at her hip. Her eyes lack their usual spark of humor and instead are hooded. Serious. She does not make any motion to signal them to make their move yet. The bandits are all circled around a fire in the dark of the night, drinking and not having too much care for their surroundings. She has one of their members hide near one of the clearing in the treeline - the entryway to a route through the otherwise thick and dark woods.

Desire discretely moves to their horses. She makes a motion for one of the other members to join her and together, they cut the reins of the horses off from the trees. Effectively and quickly, she has disabled the bandits only means of transportation and their fastest getaway route.

Neronvain shifts with furrowed brows and thin lips before he shakes any thought that comes to his head out. Now isn’t the time or place to focus on her change of character or surprisingly good battle focus and strategies. He makes his move at Desire’s signal as she slaps the rears of the horses, causing them to run off into the woods. 

The bandits react fast, but not fast enough. Despite the fight that they put up, Desire manages to take charge and get them all tied up without too many problems. When some of them start to yell profanities, she gives the worst of them a hard knock to the head to render them unconscious while gagging the others.

“See, easy money,” Desire gestures toward their captives with an infectious grin, meeting his eyes with a twinkle, “Wasn’t too hard, was it? I think that’s about a good thousand each at least.”

The acknowledgement of their cut - and more specifically, the way that she meets his eyes as she mentions his half - catches him off guard. He thinks that her math is a bit off, but he doesn’t oppose the statement as he eyes her appreciatively, his own smile threatening to break through before he simply gives her a nod.

____________________________

Neronvain watches her in the bar with curiosity as he nurses a mug of ale. The low light of the tavern doesn’t do anyone any favors, making the entire establishment feel a mix of melancholic and untrustworthy. Everyone else in the bar is either wallowing in their pity, playing pitiful gambling games, or on the brink of fighting. Desire seems to have been roped into playing a gambling game with some of the other patrons - or more so, against the other patrons. 

Her eyes are lighter - a spark gleaming behind them that he doesn’t quite remember seeing before. Even her smile seems more carefree. He wonders what it would be like to be one of those people who can smile as easily as she does. But the most prominent feature is that she looks like she belongs.

He looks down at the mug, losing himself in the swirls of his drink as he downs it and orders another as he reminds himself that even he isn’t completely immune to her strange charm. 

He was never able to do that. He never figured out that part of communication very well, never really understood how to get along. Alagarthas could - his brother does. It’s why everyone always prefers Alagarthas over him, why he’s the one that they flaunt and crowned, why he’s the one that is always mentioned in meetings and is invited to the parties, the balls, the charities. Even when he was still a prince - he never belonged the same way that Alagarthas does. He argued. He fought back. He was too  abrasive. Too rebellious. He could never get anyone to agree with him nor did anyone want to.

His eyes drift to Desire. Her face is partly hidden by the cards she holds in her hands, coins in neat stacks along the table. He sighs deeply - the reason she holds her cards so close being too obvious. Everyone else at the table sees through it; she’s trying to hide her expressions because as smart (and dumb) as Desire can be, she still has her tells. Hers, in this case, is that the whole game she has kept her face steady until now; which means she either has the best hand or the worst, something in her hand changed so much that she has to hide her face now to keep her emotions a secret. 

Either way, it won’t be too hard for the other players to figure it out and Desire is going to be losing the coins she stacked very soon. 

He almost doesn’t do it, but after a brief moment, he takes one last drink before he saunters over toward the game table. He stands behind the person across from Desire discreetly, but she spots him the moment that she looks up. He presses a finger to his lips as a signal to stay quiet as he looks at the fellow’s hand. He gives her a few signals and she catches on fast.

They work like that - together - until each player at the table has to give up their hand as coins get pushed Desire’s way. Oddly enough, his chest feels warm and lighter as the corner of his lips twitch as she gives a few loud cheers. When Desire meets his gaze, he gives her a discrete nod before returning to his spot at the bar. 

To his surprise, as the attention died down on the game and patrons dispersed - some cursing at the win while others mourned their losses - Desire sits down beside him at the bar. She makes a bit of a show settling a heavy coin bag on the counter in front of her.

She doesn’t acknowledge him at first, ordering her drink, before Neronvain realizes the discrete small coin bag that is behind handed to him under the counter. He takes it with confusion, looking at her for answers.

She doesn’t give him any, instead smiling with a wink before she disappears with her drink.

________________________

Neronvain almost doesn’t notice it at first, the shift in their dynamic. It happens so naturally and organically, that he almost forgets that they used to be enemies. But it seems like all he does is blink and Desire is the one that is helping him back on his feet in a fight or hitting the guy behind him that he misses. She gives him that cheeky wink and grin every time too - as if she has always had his back. Like she plans to always do. 

It’s strange. Neronvain never really had any friends growing up, but here is with more friends than he’s ever had in his lifetime. Even the other members of their party have begun to accept him, inviting him to their parties and to their missions.

But something about Desire is different from the rest. He can’t put his finger on it, not yet. He doesn’t know if it’s because she’s the one who saved him or if it’s because she’s the first one to reach out to him, but something about her friendship feels different than the others. 

Deeper, almost. More natural. There’s no awkward tension or wall that he has to break down. He doesn’t have to explain himself to her and she never asks him to. It is as if she accepts him, but he didn’t think that type of acceptance is possible. He didn’t think that there is really anyone that is just that good that they can just accept him fully as a friend knowing what he’s done. And yet, in comes Desire with her dazzling smile and mischievous eyes.

He didn’t think anyone could be so charismatic and unintimidating, yet so strong either. He’s seen it in the cult and in his brother. You are either strong, intimidating, and solid, or you are charismatic and soft-willed. He’s tried to balance his wit with his strength, but even it gets shaky for him sometimes. But yet again Desire has proven him wrong; her strength in every fight makes her intimidating, but her strong heart is what makes her charismatic and likable. 

“Come on, we’re going to town.”

Desire’s grin spells future disaster - the type of disaster that is likely going to get them kicked out of another bar or get yelled at by a barmaid. Last time, a woman splashed her drink on his head and it wasn’t even his idea in the first place. 

Desire does not hesitate to grab him by his arm to drag him into town with her. Her grip is loose and gives him the chance to break free if he wanted. But he doesn’t object nor does he pull out of her grasp as he thinks about all the things that she has proved him wrong on; the number is staggering, honestly, but it doesn’t upset him. 

Oddly enough, it makes him happy. 

___________________________________

He tells himself that the parchment he received is not the reason that his hands are shaking. It’s not - it’s not - it’s not. His throat feels dry, a soreness building up around his neck as his chest feels warm.

Neronvain finds himself glad that instead of camping out, that they have rented rooms at the tavern for the night. It gives him a chance to go over this - what it means, how it makes him feel, how is he supposed to respond - in private. 

He sits down at the small, slightly rotting desk and chair in his room. His mug is already empty, but he can’t bring himself to go back down for another drink. Not right now. He doesn’t think that he can see anyone right now, not even the barkeep or his other party members that are most definitely still partying and drinking downstairs.

Alagarthas. 

He didn’t expect his brother to write him a letter; he didn’t expect his brother to do anything actually. It would be too dangerous, too risque. It would risk a scandal. Why would his brother risk so much just to get a letter out to him? The simple fact that he was able to do this without anyone else in the castle knowing about it is impressive. 

His brother has always had a habit of writing long letters that are often full of needless details, yet the letter he wrote is shorter than normal. It is more to the point and there is no beating around the bush or useless gossip. All the more reason that he can tell that his brother means every single word that he wrote - that he actually cares. The tremble in his hands worsen as he looks it over for the tenth time.

Desire told me where you are all staying. Alagarthas had written. It was a risky thing for her to do, but I cannot thank her enough for it because it gives me a chance to reach my brother and to apologize. For everything. 

Neronvain could feel his heart beating wildly against his chest and he venmously wipes at the corners of his eyes as he continues to read on. Everything that his brother wrote is like an arrow to his heart. Every single word is full of heart. Love. Care. Warmth. As Alagarthas writes about his mistakes, about how much he misses him, that he wants to see his brother again. 

Emotionally, it is a lot to process. A lot to take in and really believe. But the letter is in his brother’s handwriting and there are no signs of it being fraud or forced. His brother actually wanted to get a hold of him - to apologize for all things. Risking everything just to say sorry? To say that he cares?

It takes some time, a lot of time. But eventually Neronvain is able to write a letter to be sent back. He is careful to keep his hands steady with each word. He tries to keep his emotions in check, tries to keep it casual, but he thinks that a bit of his emotion seeps into a few words here and there. He rereads it over and doesn’t have the heart or the emotional energy to rewrite it.

With a heavy heart so full of emotion that it makes his chest feel heavy, he drags himself downstairs to be able to get his letter sent out. He sticks to the shadows and discretely stops at the bar to have a few more drinks sent to his room when he passes by the barkeep. He can see the others drinking, laughing, and cheering as a group with their mugs raised high. He can practically smell the alcohol on their breath from his position. None of them notice his presence or if they do, they don’t acknowledge it.

He does not see her. Not at first.The one person he does feel like seeing right now, the one person that made this possible. Desire is not partying with the others, at least not anymore. He isn’t sure if she got worn out from their shenanigans or if she is just getting one last drink before retiring for the night. She is not cheering or gambling, instead she is situated calmly at the bar with a particularly thoughtful expression on her face. Her eyes look dazed and hooded, like she isn’t all there.

He hesitates for a moment when he sees her, unsure about what he could say to her or even if he should say anything in the first place. He even briefly wonders if she is going to be sober enough for anything that he has to say at all. His eyes shift to the letter in his hands and makes a decision, stepping forward firmly.

He reaches out to her. 

She looks up at him with startled eyes when she feels his hand on her shoulder. He pauses, his eyes softening as he tries to find the words before he finally settles on the right choice of phrase.

“Thank you.”

Emotion drips from his words, even if he is not sure what emotion it is. But he feels raw like an open wound, exposed like a nerve. It’s unfamiliar and new. Different. It makes him regret all the drinks he had up in his room and the drinking he did before he retired to it in the first place. 

If he was sober, he isn’t sure if he even would be here in the first place; if he would let himself be so uncomfortably open. But he isn’t sober and instead, he squeezes her shoulder tightly and her palm settles on the top of his hand for a moment, their fingers almost entwining. The touch sends bolts through the back of his hand, shooting electricity through his veins in a way that makes him tense as he bites his tongue with a hiss.

Understanding dawns in her eyes as she glances at the letter that is threatening to get crumbled in his fist. A small smile settles on her lips with understanding. She does not give a lengthy explanation nor does she make a big scene of it. She doesn’t tell him why she did it or ask him if she did the right thing, or even how she managed to tell Alagarthas without anyone else finding out about it. She doesn’t even mention the gleam in his eyes or the raw emotion pouring from him.

She squeezes his hand back, patting it with a smile. Her eyes are shining with warmth that he hopes is returned.

“You don’t have to thank me, Neronvain.”

________________________________________

Desire notices it over time - like a disease that is spreading, except the only thing making them sick is the ability to care. The thought makes her giggle, the idea that happiness is a disease, but she can’t think of anything else that suits the situation with Neronvain.

First, she notices that Neronvain stopped trying to escape. She thought that he was just tired of her tackling him and she kept a close eye on him to make sure he wasn’t planning more discrete ways to get away. But then he didn’t. Then she thought that it was a sign that he’s given up. 

But then he started doing things - things that he didn’t necessarily have to do or say things that are actually nice. Things that are friendly or at least friendlier than he used to be. She’s seen the trinket that she threw at him before still with his belongings and she smiles knowingly that he has actually kept it.

As the months had gone on, Desire noticed that her sort of captive but not really captive actually seems to enjoy being around them - around her. Despite the way that he shuffles away from her at the campfire or tries to hide the twitch of a smile on his lips, he can’t hide his eyes. 

She sees the resemblance to Alagarthas in Neronvain’s eyes; something that she did not really see before since he was always glaring so harshly. But now? Now the edges of his eyes have softened. He still glares, but it lacks the same oomph. She even dares to say that at times, he looks even happy. He’s softer. Warmer. Nicer. Prettier.

She has to admit that when she made the deal with Alagatheris, this is not what she imagined. She knew that Neronvain was not evil. She knew from when they first met that something about him just didn’t fit so neatly into the category of evil. She saw that even more when they were stranded together. His brother even saw it when they were brought back.

But she still thought that he would never stop trying to get away, that he would fight tooth and nail against this decision. And she certainly didn’t think she’d start to see him as a close friend. As her best friend. She didn’t imagine that there was going to be a day where she could be so fully relaxed around him and be herself. 

“You’re making that face again.”

Neronvain sits down beside her at the campfire. He does not try to avoid her anymore. He doesn’t even try to keep a certain distance between them. Not this time. Their shoulders are grazing against each other. She can smell the alcohol in his hands and feel the warmth of his body beside her and she relishes in its comfort.

She takes the drink that he offers as she denies his statement with forced laughter and a scoff.

“What face? I don’t make a face?”

Neronvain just glances at her with a cocked brow and she knows that he sees right through her. He always does. 

“You’re always making faces.” He points out bluntly and her face drops as she pouts playfully, her eyes twinkling. He chooses to ignore the ‘you really do notice me’’ comment from her and continues, “But you always make that face when you’re thinking about something sappy.”

Sappy is the only word that he can think of that suits her expression, even if it does not cover the full force of the expression and how it affects him.

Neronvain’s lip curls on the word, his nose scrunching in mild distaste. It is an unfortunate thing that he noticed with her; the facial expressions that she makes gives away her thought process, even if she doesn’t verbally speak a word. It comes in handy at times - with him being able to pick up exactly what she’s getting tripped on saying or to know what she wants to do before she even lays out the battle plan. Not so much during their gambling matches or betting rings; not that it stops him from being on her side or betting on her every time.

But then there is this face. This puppy-dog, doe-eyed expression that softens the edges of her face in a way that makes him want to - do something. It almost reminds him of Alagarthas, in the way that his brother would give him those big eyes to convince him to do things that they should not be doing. 

But she does not use this doe-eyed, pleading, almost wistful look to get what she wants despite that he knows that she could if she wanted. She never uses it to seduce the enemies or to con her way through things. As much as even he hates to admit it,  but if she used that look on him to ask him for something, he would be inclined to say yes.

Instead, she gets that far-off wistful gleam in her eyes at the campfire or a few times, at the tavern after enough drinks. 

It makes him wonder about what she is thinking. It’s one of the few times that he can’t directly tell where her thoughts are. He wonders if she is thinking about the past. Does she think about it in such a good light that it makes her happy or does she think about all the things that she could have done instead? Does she think about the things she could have changed? Or does she spend time wishing that certain people around her treated her differently? Does she fantasize about how things could be?

He takes a long drink after that last thought. It’s better if he doesn’t ask. He knows he lacks  any right to ask, that it is not his place, and he gets the feeling that he is better off not knowing.

Desire has always been nothing but straightforward, she never hesitates to talk. If she really wants to talk about it - if it is something that she can talk about - then she will. If she doesn’t, it is probably something that should not even be mentioned about aloud in the first place. It is one of the things that he’s come to like about her.

No hidden motives. No hidden objectives. No backstabbing or betrayal. No sleeping with one eye open. She is an open book and he enjoys that she lets him read her pages. That she can be so open with him, that she trusts him enough to.

“I was thinking about you,” Desire states simply.

The confession makes him sputter over his drink, looking at her with slightly widened eyes. He feels his heart stop. She looks startled before cursing under her breath, a flush spreading across her cheeks.

“Wait - no! I meant about why you’re here, what got us here in the first place.”

Neronvain relaxes a bit at her words. Even if there is this  unexplained stirring in his chest at her sudden denial, as if he would be the last person on her mind. As the second half of her sentence processes, a rock settles at the bottom of his gut.

“You’re thinking about how  you regret it,” Neronvain presses, closing his eyes tightly as his grip on his drink grows tight. A part of him always feared that. That she would come to her senses one day and realize that she didn’t do the right thing. He just didn’t think that it would come so soon. 

He jumps when she slaps him against the back, his drink spilling just enough to leave a wet spot on his knee. Her strength causes him to get winded and he struggles for a moment to catch his breath as he curses under his breath.

“Stop that,” Desire snaps, her eyes narrowing at him, “Stop assuming the worst, not everyone dislikes you or dislikes having you around, you know? I know that I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

Neronvain glances at her as she sighs deeply and leans against him. The close proximity and the casualness of such intimacy makes him tense before he rolls his shoulders and accepts the motion. Her head makes its place on his shoulder and he gently tilts her head in just the right way so that he doesn’t have to worry about his throat accidentally  being gouged out by her horns. Despite the curved tip being pointed toward her, he still tries to be as careful as he can.

“Of course I don’t.”

Desire’s voice is firm as she continues with ferocity, “We’re friends and I don’t regret my friends. I certainly don’t regret helping them when I can either. I was just thinking that I didn’t expect us to become such good friends when this all started or when we first met. I always knew you weren’t evil - but -”

She falters, unsure of how to word it in a way that doesn’t come off as wrong or rude. But Neronvain knows what she is trying to say and he isn’t offended. His lips thin and adjust himself so that she is more comfortable leaning against him. She glances at him sheepishly, but he is the one who finishes her sentence.

“-But you didn’t expect me to be so good either.”

It is not a question, it doesn’t have to be when they both know that it is exactly what she meant to say. He doesn’t blame her - how could he? When they first met, he certainly didn’t give her any reason to think that he had any good left in him, especially not this much of it left. He didn’t even think he was capable of it either, but it seems like Desire has done exactly what she told the council she would - she reformed him.

She shrugs, not denying the statement nor arguing against it. She glances at him and almost expects him to be upset, but he just sits there calmly with sad eyes. 

“I didn’t expect myself to be so good either.” His voice is soft, withdrawn and careful., “I had begun to believe that I didn’t even have any of it left.”

“I used to think that I wasn’t good either,” Desire admits. Her confession is startling, but he doesn’t press for answers as a shared understanding passes between them.

Desire raises her drink and after a moment, Neronvain does as well, their mugs clinking against each other. 

“Here’s to being good.”