#I see... so you lost faith in a ship that you should forever love... you lost faith in their bond

[epickiya722]

You folks are breaking my heart, for real. (╥﹏╥)

You really out here thinking BakuDeku won't be close anymore after 431 (a chapter that can freely be ignored, if you choose) when we all know darn well the moment they arrived to their respective homes they texted or called each other to tell the other they made home safely and discuss their next meet-up?

Just because Midoriya said "no" one time doesn't mean the relationship is forever tattered.

You can say no about something to someone and still be close to that person, especially if said person understands you and respects your decision. Which I'm sure Katsuki Bakugou is capable of.

Come on!

Like, "no" is really going to stop those two from ever talking again and fighting villains together. As if they won't go see the next All Might documentary or something together.

[lords-of-mayhem]

Lords Of Chaos characters as Fall Out Boy songs <3

Pelle // Heaven, Iowa

I've unspooled on the floor, I feel so A Star Is Born. Kiss my cheek, baby, please. Would you read my eulogy?

I will never ask you for anything except to dream sweet of me. Tell me, when the party ends, will you still love who I am?

Scar-crossed lovers forever, I'm checking myself out forever. I'm saving this all for later. Scar-crossed lovers, here we are, untouched forever.

They don't know how much they'll miss, at least until you're gone like this. Talking to the mirror, say, "save your breath. Half your life, you've been hooked on death." Twice the dreams, but half the love. Be careful what you bottle up. The chemistry is a mess, it seems. But me, I'm still a sunbeam.

I closed my eyes inside of your darkness and found your glow.

Faust // Alone Together

Cut me off, I lost my track. It's not my fault, I'm a maniac. It's not funny anymore, no, it's not.

My heart is like a stallion, they love it more when it's broken. Do you wanna feel beautiful? I'm outside the door, invite me in so we can go back and play pretend.

I'm on deck, yeah, I'm up next. Tonight, I'm high as a private jet.

I don't know where you're going, but do you got room for one more troubled soul? I don't know where I'm going, but I don't think I'm coming home. And I said, I'll check in tomorrow if I don't wake up dead. This is the road to ruin and we're starting at the end.

Let's be alone together, we could stay young forever. Scream it from the top of your lungs.

Occultus // Young And Menace

We've gone way too fast for way too long and we were never supposed to make it half this far.

And I lived so much life, lived so much life. I think that God is gonna have to kill me twice, kill me twice like my name was Nikki Sixx.

Woke up on the wrong side of reality and there's a madness that's just coursing right through me. Not sure I'm there yet, but I'm certain I've arrived.

I forgot what I was losing my mind about, I only wrote this down to make you press rewind and send a message: I was young and a menace.

Varg // Save Rock And Roll

I need more dreams and less life, and I need that dark in a little more light. I cried tears you'll never see, so fuck you! You can go cry me an ocean and leave me be.

You are what you love, not who loves you. In a world full of the word 'yes', I'm here to scream: no, no!

Wherever I go, trouble seems to follow. I only plugged in to save rock and roll.

Blood brothers in desperation, an oath of silence for the voice of our generation. Well, how'd it get to be only me? Like I'm the last damn kid still kicking that still believes.

I will defend the faith, going down swinging, I will save the songs that we can't stop singing.

Hellhammer // I Don't Care

Say my name and his in the same breath, I dare you to say they taste the same. Let the leaves fall off in the summer and let December glow in flames.

These friends, they don't love you. They just love the hotel suites now. I don't care what you think as long as it's about me, the best of us can find happiness in misery.

Take a chance, let your body get a tolerance. I'm not a chance, put a heat wave in your pants. Pull a breath like another cigarette, pawnshop heart trading up.

On the oracle in my chest. Sweat it out, shut your mouth. Free love on the streets, but in the alley, it ain't that cheap.

Blackthorn // What A Time To Be Alive

"That's the way, the world, it used to be before our dreams started bursting at the seams."

We're out here and we're ready, we're here and we're ready to livestream the apocalypse. I don't care if it's pretty, the view's so pretty from the deck of a sinking ship.

'Cause everything is lit except my serotonin, yeah. Everything is lit but my lightning bolt brain.

But baby, please, I just need someone to hold me even though you don't even know me. Oh, I'm going neon in the night time. Oh, what a time to be alive.

They say that I should try meditation, but I don't want to be alone with my own thoughts.

When I said, "leave me alone" this isn't quite what I meant. I got the quarantine blues, bad news, what's left? So, it seems the vulture's getting too full to fly. Oh, what a time to be alive.

Øystein // I Am My Own Muse

Here I am, not sure you should take a chance. I like playing dumb, letting you figure me out. But I was faded in my own defense, so drop a bomb on all the things we dreamed about.

Smash all the guitars 'til we see all the stars. Oh, got to throw this year away, we got to throw this away like a bad luck charm.

Trumpets bring the angels, but they never came and no one let them in 'cause they didn't know my name. I know I keep my feelings so tucked away, just another day spent hoping we don't fall apart. So, drop a bomb on all the things we dreamed about.

So, let's twist the knife again, twist the knife again like we did last summer. I'm just trying to keep it together, but it gets a little harder when it never gets better.

Necrobutcher // America's Suitehearts

You could've knocked me out with a feather. I know you've heard this all before, but we're just hell's neighbors. Why, why, why won't the world revolve around me?

Build my dreams, trees grow all over the streets, but I don't know much about classic cars. But I've got a lot of friends stuck on classic coke.

Media, please. Let's hear it for America's suitehearts! But I must confess, I'm in love with my own sins.

You can bow and pretend that you don't, don't know you're a legend. Time, time, time hasn't told anyone else yet. Let my love loose again. Oh, I don't know much about classic cars, but I've got a lot of friends stuck on classic coke.

Fenriz // 7 Minutes In Heaven (Atavan Halen)

I'm sleeping my way out of this one with anyone who will lie down. I'll be stuck fixated on one star when the world is crashing down.

I keep telling myself I'm not the desperate type, but you've got me looking in through blinds. I'm sitting out dances on the wall, trying to forget everything that isn't you. I'm not going home alone 'cause I don't do too well.

The only thing worse than not knowing is you thinking that I don't know. I'm having another episode, I just need a stronger dose. I keep telling myself, I'm not the desperate type.

But you've got me looking in through blinds.

Manheim // 27

If home is where the heart is then we're all just fucked. I can't remember and I want it so bad, I'd shoot the sunshine into my veins. I can't remember the good old days.

And it's kind of funny, the way we're wearing anchors on our shirts when being anchored aboard just feels like a curse.

My mind is a safe and if I keep it then we all get rich. My body is an orphanage, we take everyone in. Doing lines of dust and sweat off last night's stage just to feel like you.

The milligrams in my head, burning tobacco in the wind, chasing the direction you went.

You're a bottled star, the planets align just like Mars. You shine in the sky. Are all the good times getting gone? They come and go. I've got a lot of friends who are stars, but some are just black holes.

Attila // Dead On Arrival

Hope this is the last time 'cause I'd never say no to you. This conversation's been dead on arrival and there's no way to talk to you.

A rivalry goes so deep between me and this loss of sleep over you. This is side one, flip me over. I know I'm not your favorite record. The songs you grow to like never stick at first. So I'm writing you a chorus and here is your verse.

No, it's not the last time 'cause I'd never say no to you. The conversation's still dead on arrival and there's no way to talk to you when you're dead on.

Ann-Marit // 20 Dollar Nose Bleed

Have you ever wanted to disappear and join a monastery, go out and preach on Manic Street? Who will I be when I wake up next to a stranger on a passenger plane?

Permanent jet lag, please take me back. The mad key's tripping, singing vows before we exchange smoke rings.

Give me a pen, call me Mr. Benzedrine. But don't let the doctor in, I wanna blow off steam.

The same war his dad rehearsed came back with flags on coffins and said, "we won, oh, we won."

Only one book really matters, the rest of the proof is on the television. It's not me, it's you. Actually, it's the taxidermy of you and me. Untie the balloons from around my neck and ground me.

I'm just a racehorse on the track, send me back to the glue factory. Always thought I'd float away and never come back, but I've got enough miles on my card to fly the boys home on my own. But you know me: I like being all alone and keeping you all alone.

The charts are boring and the kids are snoring, and my ego's in a sling. You say you're not listening and I said I'm wishing.

Metalion // Champion

Champion, champion. I'm calling you from the future to let you know we've made a mistake. And there's a fog from the past that's giving me, giving me such a headache.

And I'm back with a madness, I'm a champion of the people who don't believe in champions. I got nothing but dreams inside, I got nothing but dreams.

I'm just young enough to still believe, still believe. But young enough not to know what to believe in.

If I can live through this, I can do anything. I got rage every day on the inside, the only thing I do is sit around and kill time. I'm trying to blow out the pilot light, I'm trying to blow out the light.

I'm just young enough to still believe, still believe. But just young enough not to know what to believe in.

[weareapackofstrays]

Stray Kids Members as Taylor Swift Albums

Bang Chan | Folklore

"You drew stars around my scars, but now I'm bleedin’. ‘Cause I knew you, steppin' on the last train marked me like a bloodstain, I...I knew you tried to change the ending, Peter losing Wendy, I...I knew you leavin' like a father, running like water, I...And when you are young, they assume you know nothing. But I knew you’d linger like a tattoo kiss. I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs. The smell of smoke would hang around this long, ‘cause I knew everything when I was young."

Lee Know | Lover

"My love was as cruel as the cities I lived in. Everyone looked worse in the light. There are so many lines that I've crossed unforgiven. I’ll tell you the truth, but never goodbye. I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you. I don't wanna think of anything else now that I thought of you. I’ve been sleeping so long in a 20-year dark night and now I see daylight, I only see daylight." Changbin | Evermore

"I'm like the water when your ship rolled in that night. Rough on the surface, but you cut through like a knife. And if it was an open-shut case I never would've known from that look on your face. Lost in your current like a priceless wine. The more that you say, the less I know. Wherever you stray, I follow. I’m begging for you to take my hand. Wreck my plans, that’s my man." Hyunjin | Fearless

"I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain. It’s 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name. I’m so in love that I acted insane. And that's the way I loved you. Breaking down and coming undone. It’s a roller coaster kind of rush and I never knew I could feel that much. And that's the way I loved you." Han Jisung | Midnights

“I find myself running home to your sweet nothings. Outside, they're push and shoving. You’re in the kitchen humming. All that you ever wanted from me was nothing. Industry disruptors and soul deconstructors and smooth-talking hucksters out glad-handing each other. And the voices that implore, 'You should be doing more' to you, I can admit that I’m just too soft for all of it." Felix | Speak Now

"This night is flawless, don't you let it go. I’m wonderstruck, dancing around all alone. I’ll spend forever wondering if you knew I was enchanted to meet you. This is me praying that this was the very first page. Not where the story line ends. My thoughts will echo your name, until I see you again. These are the words I held back, as I was leaving too soon. I was enchanted to meet you." Seungmin | Reputation

"All my flowers grew back as thorns. Windows boarded up after the storm. He built a fire just to keep me warm. All the drama queens taking swings, all the jokers dressin' up as kings. They fade to nothin' when I look at him. And I know I make the same mistakes every time. Bridges burn, I never learn, at least I did one thing right. I did one thing right. I’m laughin' with my lover, makin’ forts under covers. Trust him like a brother, yeah, you know I did one thing right. Starry eyes sparkin' up my darkest night." I.N | 1989

"You got that James Dean daydream look in your eye and I got that red lip classic thing that you like. And when we go crashing down, we come back every time ‘cause we never go out of style, we never go out of style. You got that long hair, slicked back, white T-shirt and I got that good girl faith and a tight little skirt. And when we go crashing down, we come back every time ‘cause we never go out of style, we never go out of style."

-----------------------------

I was inspired by a reel/tiktok I saw of Stray Kids being assigned a Taylor Swift song. As well as a Minsung reel featuring a Taylor song and I just felt like Lee Know gave me Lover vibes and Jisung gave me Midnights vibes and I ran with it. Just my silly opinion. All for fun. Definitely see her albums being interchangeable for any of them. Graphics by @saradika-graphics!

[mirror-to-the-past]

More (Apparently) KH3:Remind and Melody of Memory Stuff

Spiritually pounding on the windows of the Square Enix building- what do you MEAN I find out via YouTube that there's story cutscenes locked behind those egregious Data fights?? (That I'll personally beat... someday...)

(I also just went ahead and watched all the cutscenes for Melody of Memory, because I didn't want to play through a $60 rhythm game, sorryyy)

But first, Re:Mind and its sneaky, sneaky cutscenes...

Everything with Yozora has me Bonkers. I can't believe they've done this. Echoing Sora's first line in the series "I've been having these weird thoughts lately" through his own side of the story, him saying that he doesn't look like how he appears, the 'why do you know that name,' the "save Sora" while immediately drawing a gun on the man in question?? I'm just... *screaming noises* They're bringing everything together with the fiction versus reality stuff they have going on, and guys, I get SO excited when some games go meta. I'm squealing like a little girl; I'm ecstatic. Despite Sora being in (what I now know as Quadratum) and the background of the Yozora fight reflecting that, I can't help but wonder if it was another internal fight due to the arena switching to Sora's Heart Station for a second, akin to Roxas' fight in KH2.

And the music was so pretty... Yozora has a gorgeous theme. The prettier the battle theme, the more insane the KH fight, I say.

Also Riku was dreaming of Sora for a year. Lmao. He just... didn't say anything about it, while everyone was busting their asses. I'll be honest, literally the only way I could take that is that he dismissed his dreams as irrelevant- ah yes, dreaming of Sora? Nothing crazy to see here. Oh, Riku.

Also more importantly than Riku's angst deal- KAIRI WAS LAUNCHED INTO SPACE WHEN SHE WAS A PRESCHOOLER TO ACT AS A KEYBLADE WIELDER HOMING DEVICE, JESUS CHRIST. Kairi 🤝 Megamind 🤝 potentially Superman (I'm not a comics guy):

Getting launched out of their home planets into space in order to escape the destruction of their worlds, given vague and confusing scenarios and instructions to adapt to once they find a new planet, but they really just wanna chill and be loved and keep people safe.

And she's gonna train with Aqua! :D Another professional at getting launched into other worlds (realms). I hope she bonds with Ventus, as I've recently been made aware of their similarities in disposition, and how they are treated by others (hearts of pure light, designated by their groups as "the one who should stay home/be protected", wavering self confidence in their own abilities and self worth). Additionally, the hilarious potential scenarios of Kairi being like "yeah, and my favorite color's actually-" and Ventus interrupts with "Purple. I know," because the man essentially vicariously lived Sora's childhood. I'm super stoked for future Kairi screentime! Loved when she saw Xehanort in her memories and was like 'I don't care if you're a memory, data, manifestation of my heart or any other thing- I hate you, get out of my life forever. Hugs and kisses, die.' Like, 10/10, girl. Fair. Kairi's a volcano wrapped in a sweet package ready to snap at someone.

Riku's like "Y'know Ansem, I'm gonna miss you... 🥺"

And Sora's like "Xemnas, stooop all the violence. How can you take advantage of people with hearts? You should feel your feelings. You're valid, bestie. ☺️"

Kairi's no bleeding heart for baddies, she just wants everyone to get off her damn case, lol!

Also LOL at the fairy godmother of all people being the one to ship Riku off to Quadratum after Sora. My Cinderiku jokes (as well as my previous KH3 post's blurb about Riku determinedly walking into the ocean to find Sora) may not be completely unwarranted, now. Like, Miss 'specialty in dreams?' Miss "If you'd lost all your faith, I couldn't be here. And here I am." Not even to mention "a dream is a wish your heart makes," a very relevant lyric for this set of circumstances, if I do say so myself. I guess that's just gonna be another song I love and sing to myself that now makes me think of KH. 🤷 There's worse things I suppose, for example, like Buddy Holly being stuck in my head for three days straight and making me feel like I'm trapped listening to my uncle's records (thanks, Good Omens).

I ended up re-watching "Cinderella" for the first time in a while because of that part of Re:Mind and MoM. The KH association of the part with Fairy Godmother's appearance is now semi-heartwrenching, given the context of her appearance in "Cinderella," as well:

You have the vocalizing chorus throughout the opening of the scene acting as a callback to Cinderella's "A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes" song as well as reflecting her inner thoughts, and she has a dialogue with it while she sobs alone in the garden:

Chorus: Whatever you wish for, you keep...

Cinderella: "Oh, no... no, it isn't true."

Chorus: Have faith in your dreams and someday... your rainbow will come smiling through!

Cinderella: "It's just no use. No use at all."

Chorus: No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing...

Cinderella: "I can't believe! Not anymore..."

Chorus: The dream that you wish... *lyric trails off, unfinished*

Cinderella: "There's nothing left to believe in... nothing..."

[Fairy Godmother materializes next to her]

FG: "Nothing my dear? Oh, now you don't really mean that."

Cinderella: "Oh, but I do-"

FG: "Nonsense, child! If you lost all your faith, I couldn't be here, and here I am!"

[the violin and cello come in to finish the last part of the lyric] "...will come true."

Beautiful scene, really. The chorus assisting the animation is delightful... I watched Bambi and Lady and the Tramp (Bella Notte <3) a lot growing up because I loved that old-timey choral work. So dreamy...

Additional funny/sweet bit: I like how Mickey was freaking out to the point of being pinned down over Riku being unceremoniously dropped into Quadratum via Fairy Godmother's spontaneity and enabling.

'You sent my son to the big city ALONE?! He could get mugged, he could get lost, he could get hate-crimed, he could-'

*jump cut to Riku, and he's trying to gauge the value of Earth Money by spying on hot dog stands. He sheds his first known tear of the series by trying to figure out public transit routes*

Anyway, in the words of Cid:

"But what happens next?!"

[despapillon]

stupid how you managed to make a dick joke out of innocent shot. and hosegate oh no that is awful. Byler is not going to be in relationship. what show have you been watching certainly not Stranger Things more like Gayer Things. Duffer have had an emotional love declaration by Mike and you believe Byler? that is sad. it may not be romantic but to Duffers it is. same men that wrote in Steve talking about his breeding kink to Nancy and framed it as romantic. just because something is the better choice in your eyes does not mean that will happen. after events of show i can only see Mike and El get married. Duffers try to convince he is straight and they intend him to be but Mike reads as deep in closet. fans dw Will is going to get over Mike and find a bf that is give him happiness he deserves. but Mike? Mike will forever be in loveless marriage and he is never ever going to get over Will. in his thirties and beyond that he is going to suffer and not stop thinking about how everything would be different if he accepted his sexuality and chose Will not El. he is going to hate himself for making such a mistake

listennnnnnnnnn. ppl were talking about hosegate so i just made a reference to the rolled up painting shot. i wasnt the one that noticed it first. i only knew it was a thing because of Bylers discussing it. i had the pic saved, as i was preparing a post that i scrapped that was about Will and the allegations he had, including fake stuff spread around that S3 Will would have a p*rn magazine and the speculations that Will is going to sleep around with random men in S4 and my thoughts on this plus the sexualization dramas like Byler sex in the show, Byler kiss not being chaste, writing Byler smut, Mike supposedly checking Will out, hosegate and other phallic imagery. i decided against that and now i think that was a good choice because it would drive some wild.

i never truly meant the rolled up painting thing was intentional i was simply saying what was a regular shot became dirty to me thanks to Bylers influence. i’m sorry i didn’t mean to offend anyone. i still find it funny but i feel bad for making that post. i guess i should have kept it to myself. i had no idea it would come off this inappropiate. though the characters are only 15 (i think) so that is on me for not caring how uncomfortable it could make others.

now onto the rest of your ask. i don’t know if Byler is going to be together. i don’t. i ship it because i like it. when we get the next season we will see. i willingly choose to spend my time on discussing Byler knowing i’m not really that confident in it. nobody is forcing me to do this. i know we may get queerbaited. but i don’t care.

there is that section of Bylers that got utterly destroyed by vol 2 and either converted to M!leven and now mock us for still shipping Byler (there must be a name for that phenomenon because how) or are bitter and lashing out at Duffers because they lost their faith and now Byler bad. i assume you are the second. i hope you are proven wrong because you seem heated about the topic. to the point you sent me an ask about it.

Duffers did make a lot of writing mistakes and choices i disagree with. whether Byler happens or not i do plan on discussing what i had a problem with after watching s5 because i need to see how they will handle the characters’ arcs to make a post as there could be surprises awaiting us. and talk about how i’d handle certain plotlines as a person that can’t write anything coherent.

keep in mind that Montauk, the original ST, drew inspo from It, and if there was a potential season 2 to Montauk, they wanted to straight up go the It route by having the characters grown up and some leave the town then come back when it all gets fucked up again and join forces for the second time.. they do also mention It, and Stephen King as inspiration. you can see it in the current series too. Willelmike is literally a ripoff of the love triangle between Ben, Bev and Bill. Ben’s poem and Will’s painting.. it’s so blatant. and those that watched the movies know how said love triangle ends.

Gayer Things is a great series that i suggest you need to have more faith in.

[daisychainsandbowties]

I'm sorry if my question made you feel that way, it wasn't my intention.

you know i never mind talking about why i find certain character dynamics compelling or interesting!!

and much is lost in translation when the anon sunglasses emoji comes into play but um, i think my feelings this time come from just having seen a… disheartening degree of negativity around what is a brand new thing, something we don’t have all the material for yet - and in any case a pairing between two characters i have love for individually and not simply through my shipping goggles (sexy as i know i look in those).

and there’s a reason i made a separate post instead of answering an anon - because i was just made aware of a feeling i’ve had forever about sapphic ships. i tell everybody how i didn’t believe avatrice would happen until they literally kissed in front of me (and yes, that’s very beatrice of me 😂). live slug reaction was me crying for an hour and yes that’s funny and YES, it makes me sad.

because it’s still so astonishing to me, and part of queer survival has (sadly) always been a matter of separating that hope from how i engage in things like shipping.

i’m very fascinated by shipping actually from a technical perspective! (i write at doctoral level about T4T and touch a great deal on this form of queer community, knowing that it helped me to survive when i should have been squashed by the machine that seeks to kill things like me before we get to be adults)

i don’t mind talking about why a ship just works for me; not many things can make me pick up my pen (if not for avatrice i wouldn’t be sharing my writing on here at all, and indeed i would be writing a lot less if not for the wonderful people who actually read it 🥰🥰) and so i usually have things galore to say about characters and why they work for me, but i like to discuss things in what i call “good faith” and that usually means that i don’t answer things that i feel i could respond to rudely or in a way that’s hurtful.

simply put it’s not what this is to me. um, not to drag out that Malatino quote again but i’m gonna because it’s everything

(Hil Malatino. “Future Fatigue.” Transgender Studies Quarterly, pp. 656.)

so, yeah! it’s all about witnessing, being with my friends not in a manner that precludes the acknowledgment of difficulty but one that is, at least, centred around love, seeing and being seen. i know it’s hard to express tone in that grey anon box, but in a sense it’s an old hurt to me; most of my work in fandom turning into justifying the fact of “making them kiss”. having to defend it like a position in chess, over and over again.

the reason i made a separate post was just to acknowledge to myself that i felt sad about it and weighted down by a lifetime of feeling invisible, having my hopes belittled and i suppose some of that hope (certainly as a teenager) being distilled into silly fandom ships but always having to say “this is a crack ship” or “lol i know the creators either hold me in contempt or simply don’t see my existence as important… but!”

it’s not your fault, and as always with humans we sometimes just encounter people at the moment something tips them over into an emotion we don’t deserve to be met with. that’s why i would never angrily answer an anon (certainty not one that, more than anything, i was struggling to read the tone of), because the issue is much bigger than me or one instance but it just made me think and then… feel sad about larger trends and how those trends made me feel so small when i was younger. so invisible.

i don’t want anyone to feel like it’s their fault because it’s not!! it’s the line we push and push and push in queer solidarity and yeah it can seem like these things (shipping) are inherently stupid and petty and unimportant but speaking for the kids who are alive because of it i don’t think that’s true. i agree with realism, and i think when it comes to canon we sadly still need to proceed with caution. more and more it seems like you can have your show, or you can have canon sapphic ships (this term - sapphic - used as always and forever in a trans-inclusive sense).

this is as usual a lengthy way of saying that (i hope) i went out of my way not to put this on anyone. it’s just a thing that makes me sad to reflect on as the flinching of a lifetime, so afraid to hold what i love and to talk about it because that hope is seen as pointless. but what’s the star wars rogue one quote again?

rebellions are built on hope 💖💖

[lifesver]

FIVE SONGS / FIVE QUOTES.

------ songs.

sun bleached flies. ethel cain.

what i wouldn't give to be in church this sunday listening to the choir so heartfelt, all singing / "god loves you, but not enough to save you". so i said fine, 'cause that's how my daddy raised me / if they strike once, then you just hit 'em twice as hard / but in the end, if i bend under the weight that they gave me / then this heart would break and fall as twice as far. we all know how it goes / the more it hurts, the less it shows / but i still feel like they all know / and that's why i could never go back home.

welcome home, son. radical face.

sleep, don't visit / so, i choke on the sun, and the days blur into one / and the backs of my eyes / hum with things i've never done. ships are launching from my chest / some have names but most do not / if you find one, please, let me know what piece I've lost / peel the scars from off my back / i don't need them anymore.

plastic flowers. the front bottoms.

you should fear what you already know / and hope that you never find out about the things you don't know yet / 'cause i believe that someone's got a plan for me / got a plan for me, even if i don't know it yet, not quite yet. listen, just because something burns bright / doesn't mean it's gonna burn forever / so, all these people around you saying "you got so much further to go", "it's gonna get worse before it gets better" / i don't know, i don't know if that's true.

strangers. ethel cain.

i tried to be good, am i no good? am i no good? am i no good? / with my memory restricted to a polaroid in evidence / i just wanted to be yours, can i be yours? / can i be yours? just tell me i'm yours / if i'm turning in your stomach and i'm making you feel sick. when my mother sees me on the side of a milk carton in winn-dixie's dairy aisle / she'll cry and wait up for me.

never tear us apart. paloma faith.

don't ask me, what you know is true / don't have to tell you, i love your precious heart. we could live, for a thousand years / but if i hurt you, i'd make wine from your tears. i was standing, you were there / two worlds collided, and they could never tear us apart.

------ quotes.

i've never needed an excuse to sacrifice myself for love; i'm a martyr for anything soft. i confess to you: i'd bleed for anything if it held me the right way. i confess: i have, i have. caitlin conlon.

most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. sometimes you'll put up a good fight and lose. sometimes you'll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. acceptance is a small, quiet room. cheryl strayed.

did we deserve to go all the way out in the rain and see no one waits for us at the end of the street? muhtesemz.

there is a fate worse than death, and it's living to hear eulogies for the person you could have been. saul williams, dufflyn lammers, aja monet.

so i will wait for the next time you want me, like a dog with a bird at your door. phoebe bridgers.

[cristobalrios]

CW: Suicide mention, mind control, manipulation and reality distortion. Religious imagery. Inspired by the Chilean myth of the ghost ship Caleuche.

La Leyenda del Caleuche

Slowly I felt I lost my mind. What did I expect to find? To see you as the realms collide And find you waiting on the other side?

The storm rages on and their song calls to me, Luring me in to drown in the sea. I don’t know why I thought I might find you there But I felt I’d regret it if I didn’t dare.

On this eve before the hallowed saints And lost loved ones are honored, I have no restraint My love is beside me, loyal and strong, Trying to keep me away from their song.

He doesn’t understand what I need to do That the only way to get to you Is to throw myself into the ocean deep And let her gently lull me to sleep.

But when I do, will I find you there? To rescue me from the depths of despair? On this night when lost loved ones are near, Will you come to me, will I find you here?

But this won’t change what happened to you. You won’t come back no matter what I do. You didn’t drown in the sea, you took your own life, Did Caleuche still come for you in the night?

Did La Sirena guide your soul to her mast, Will I ever be able to make up for my past? When you drowned in your guilt, did she rescue your soul, And give you a place where you can still be whole?

Did she give you a second chance at life, Will I finally be released from my strife? Or did she enslave you to her decks forever? Would we be trapped with her here together?

But my love waits for me faithfully, I have someone true who is dear to me. I can't let him down when he gives me his heart, Even though I'm so close to falling apart.

I'll be strong for him, so maybe I'll try To guide you to be here by my side, We'll meet again, but just for tonight, When I finally see those sails of white.

But after that we will say goodbye, And my love and I will return to the sky, Knowing you have found a home, And you'll be watching us wherever we roam.

La Pesadilla del Caleuche

Slowly I knew I lost my mind. Why did I expect to find You ready to absolve my sins, And waiting there to let us in?

Did I think that I could make things right, Finally make up for what happened that night? Instead I bound you to this fate, My attempts to reconcile would be too late.

My desire to reconnect with my past, And put you to rest at last, Made you appear as an enemy When I should have been honoring your memory.

I knew the stories, and thought she’d be kind, Not knowing she fed off of my mind Appearing as what I expected from her; Her manifestations a twisted mirror

Reflecting my own thoughts back at me, Showing me what I wanted to see. But my mind is so twisted and filled with despair, This dream could only be a nightmare.

She showed me what I thought I'd deserve To make me bend to her will and to serve Trying to manipulate my mind So my soul to her I would willingly bind.

Why would I be so naïve? Only seeing what I want to believe? With everything we’ve been through Caleuche, I still had faith in you.

But that was just the faith of a boy, That has had all he loves ripped away and destroyed Who clung to one last thread of hope Of having a father to help me cope.

I endangered everything I held dear, Just for the chance of finding you here. I dragged him here and put him through hell, The man I should put above all else.

And without a thought he followed me And when I was trapped, fought for me to be free. I know I can always depend on his love, He is the one who was sent from above.

Captain, I must let you go To break from her spell I must tell her no, He's the only one I trust with my soul, My mind and my heart, and all my control.

[clairecrive]

hiii! um i had a request if that’s alright? umm a darkling x tidemaker!reader where the reader slowly grows more and more jealous of alina until she finally snaps and tries to leave with another tidemaker to train with master tidemakers for the kings army but then darkling stops her. with a happy ending please 🥺🥺

Where your heart is

A/n; this took a life of its own but I'm still not too sure about it even though I had lots of fun writing it. Hope you'll like it, 🌻x

Word count: 2.4K +

Warnings: angst, darklina, jelousy

Tags: @blackst0nes7077 , @thefictionalgemini , @louweasleymalfoy , @jupiterandbutterflies , @for-bebbanburg , @tarkanelima-blog , @pansysgirlfriend , @acciorudolphx , @kaqua , @hannaxmaria , @vintagebitc , @deardiarystuff, @emmaev , @aleksanderwh0r3 , @hazelrose14, @crowssixof , @qhbr2013 , @odetostep , @strawb3rrydr3ss , @lizzie-he4rts , @korol-lantsov , @shadow4ndbone, @subjecta13-thefangirl , @mriddlemethis , @secretsthathauntus , @carnationworld (tag list form)

SHADOW AND BONE MASTERLIST

He was her mentor. He was the only one who could help her through the discovery and understanding of her powers. That's why he was spending so much time with her. No other reason.

At least that's what you've been telling yourself over and over in hope that you'd start believing it. So far, you had no success. And this had been going on since the day Alina had arrived at the Little Palace a month ago so you didn't harbour any hopes that it'll start working.

But what could you do?

He was spending every waking moment between his War room and the training grounds with Alina. You could see the allure that she had to have in his eyes.

He had been waiting for her for a long time, after all. You couldn't even be mad at him for investing his energies to help her harness her powers since she was the key to Ravka freedom. And, to be fair, Alina wasn't that bad.

Sure, you had to get through many layers of snarky remarks and dry humour that most of the times felt a lot like rudeness rather than humour. But she wasn't that bad. Not when there were people like Zoya walking around.

But the days without seeing him, with just a passing glance or a touch of his hand on your back were taking their toll on you. You missed him.

You had gone from seeing him every day to not seeing him at all.

You had tried to talk to him about it but he.was.always.busy. Or with Alina. You weren't proud to admit it, and you probably never will out loud, but a certain green monster had taken residence on your shoulders.

You were taking your usual stroll around the gardens when you spotted him outside the Palace's main entrance. Hurrying your steps, you called his name to catch his attention.

"Aleksander!"

Fortunately, he heard you and turned to see who was calling him. There were few people who knew his name and there was no chance in hell it would be Baghra. His lips morphed in a small smile as he watched you approaching with a sprint in your steps.

"Hey, I'm so glad I've caught you, it's been ages since I've-" you stopped when you saw Alina's approaching figure. Your eyes darted from her to Aleksander in front of you and you've finally noticed the two horses.

He wasn't wearing his cloak and of course, where Alina was Aleksander followed. Your lips thinned in a line as you rolled your shoulders back. You knew that Aleksander had noticed your expression change but you hadn't had centuries of practice to scholar your features into betraying nothing. But you forced yourself to at least keep up the appearances with Alina.

You gave her a smile when she stood before you complimenting her hair.

"Genya's handiwork," she simply said as it was enough to explain everything.

"Well, I'm going to leave you to your outing," you said hoping they couldn't notice the strain in your smile. Turning around, you retraced your steps to where you had been standing before and where you should have stayed all this time.

It was clear now- what other signs did he need to give you? Swallowing the lump in your throat, you forced yourself to not let the tears fall. You could feel his eyes on you until the sounds of hooves hitting the gravel told you that they were gone.

However much it hurt you to see again and again the proof that you were losing him, there was still a part of you that told you that this was just a phase. A temporary arrangement, given Aleksander's plans for Ravka. You just had to bite the bullet until it was all over.

And so, with renowned hope, you decided that you were going to talk to him. Even if you had to wait for him for hours or meet him at the brink of dawn, you had to do it. You needed to know where his heart was and from that, you could decide where to go.

However, to your luck, today was the day of the Winter Fete. Everyone, including you, was going to be super busy with finalizing the last minute details and rehearsals. Every Grisha had a role in tonight demonstration even though the star of the whole night was, of course, the Sun Summoner.

Since you were a tidemaker, your manifestation was scheduled before Alina's grand entrance. You and the other tidemakers had prepared a light show, along with Alina, to use water to reflect and amplify Alina's light so as to create a beautiful play of light.

The whole ordeal ended in time for Alina to get back inside the Palace and get on stage and for everyone else to get inside too to witness her exhibition. You followed along with everyone else but alas, you really wished you hadn't.

Aleksander had eyes only for Alina, he never looked away from her even when the light got blinding for everyone else in the room. And you couldn't blame him- Alina was literally glowing. She looked amazing in that black kefta and the symbolism of the colour wasn't lost on you.

You had been a fool, that's what you were. It was painfully obvious how whipped Aleksander was for Alina. Each of those signs was a painful blow to your heart and faith in him. His outings with her, her black kefta, the smile she sent his way and how enthralled he was by her.

Shaking your head, you fought to keep your composure. You had lost him, you realized. You had to accept the fact that it was over. Whatever you had, it had come to an end. The moment it did, was lost on you but you knew it had to coincide with the moment he had met Alina.

As if to confirm your inward musings, Alina and Aleksander walked out of the room, her under his arm.

Well, it was settled then. You couldn't stay here anymore. It was one thing to break up and grow apart but it was a whole other thing to watch him being in love with someone else.

You had to go. That was certain.

Nodding to yourself, you took your final decision just as they walked past you. Aleksander's eyes met yours briefly, just long enough for you to send him a teary glare.

This was the last time you were going to see him and as much as you could feel your heart breaking, you knew that it was something you had to do. They walked out of the room and you wasted no time in leaving as well.

However, before going to your room to pack the few belongings you had, there was somewhere else you needed to go first.

The wind blew harshly on your face, the salt of the sea breeze mixing with that of your tears. Alone on the dock, you allowed yourself to cry. To finally let out everything you had been keeping under lock and key for so very long.

You tried to comfort yourself by reassuring yourself that this was the right choice. The best choice. To stay in a place where you had never truly felt at home, where every nook and cranny reminded you of what you had and what you had lost- of the fact that you hadn't been enough. That your love hadn't been enough for him to stick around, to choose you over a girl he had known for about a day. Everything you had shared, the months spent together in intimacy under his sheets or under the comfort of your favourite tree.

Vanished. Erased. Worthless.

You allowed yourself to feel every ounce of pain his dismissing behaviour had caused you because as soon as you boarded, you were going to leave all of this behind. You were sailing towards your future, towards a new land full of opportunities and new people. Somewhere where you could start fresh.

You heard someone shout the name of the ship you had to be on and knew that the moment had come. Here you were about to step into your new life.

Heaving a sigh, you threw a last look in the Little Palace direction, at what-or rather- who you were leaving behind. Turning around, you gathered your kefta closer to your body to shield you from the harsh weather. As you were about to move, a hand clamping on your back, stopped you.

You winced, not expecting the contact since you thought you were the only one on the dock. Turning around, you were met with a familiar pair of onyx eyes.

"What are you doing?" he asked, an edge on his voice that you couldn't figure out if it was surprise, betrayal or boredom.

"I could ask you the same thing, General." Taking a step back, his hand fell from your shoulder as you put some distance between you. Standing so close to him just as you were about to bid him goodbye forever felt like a cruel joke on destiny's part.

"So this is what you do? Leave in the middle of the night without telling anyone?"

"Those who needed to be, have been rightly notified of my departure. I don't see how this concerns you, though."

"You don't see-" he huffed out, a humourless laugh leaving him," how, in the name of all saints, don't you see how this concerns me?"

"This is the first time you've spoken to me in months, Aleksander so please spare me this bullshit. I've got it, alright?" Raising your hands you took yet another step away from him. "There's no need for you to be here and pretend anymore. Go back to your party and your Grisha and your girl."

"You're my girl," he stated somehow still calmly.

"No, I'm not," you scoffed, "and you've done a fine job proving that these past few months."

"I know I've been neglecting you, but what's a few months when we have a lifetime together in front of us?" he conceded taking a step towards you as his arms widened as if to show you the length of time you'd be spending together.

"It's everything, Aleks," you snapped as your emotions got the best of you, "seeing you getting cosy with Alina every day realising that the more time passed the less you were mine was excruciating and I'm done. I'm going away and I'm leaving all of this behind."

"You can't go."

"Watch me," you quipped as you turned around. Challenging you was not the best way for him to go about this. He knew better than anyone who proudful you could be.

"You cannot go," he... begged? the tone of his voice was so weird coming from him that had you pivot immediately. "You cannot leave. You cannot leave me."

You stood there, hair blowing everywhere for the harsh wind, just staring at him. You'd never seen him so emotional. Yes, you'd shared some intimate moments but he'd never been quite this open about his feelings. The sight of his teary eyes was so unfamiliar that made your brain short-circuiting.

Taking a shaky breath, Aleksander took a step in your direction, getting closer to you but still not close yet.

"Everything that I've ever done has been for a sole purpose, y/n, you know it. And you have to believe me, Alina plays a role in this as well."

"I know she does, it's obvious to everyone. It just has become painfully obvious to me tonight just how important she's come to mean to you." You shrugged as you looked away. Admitting this while also looking him in the eyes was an impossible feat.

"She may as well be the Sun Summoner, but you're my solnishko, y/n." He murmured softly as he took another step, this time getting close enough to you to reach for your hands.

"Sweet talking isn't going to change anything, Aleksander. I saw how you looked at her, I saw her wearing your colours. Do you take me for a fool?"

"Of course not," he disagreed vehemently, "but it's as I've told you, my dear, please believe me. Every action had its purpose which was not hurting you or expressing my love for Alina." He insisted, his hands squeezing yours. His eyes flickered between you and you spotted hopefulness as well as sincerity in them. Which made you hesitate.

Could it be...?

"But why didn't you tell me so, then? Why cutting me out dry without a word?" you uttered, afraid to believe him, afraid to let your heart hope again.

"It has been a play, solnishko. Ever since Alina has stepped foot inside the Little Palace, all eyes have been on us. I had a part to play and so did she. Unfortunately, I couldn't risk it." He explained, his eyes taking in your features, noting how hesitant you still were.

"I swear, my love, you should hear her. The only thing she can talk about it's her childhood best friend who seems so boring, I can't see what she sees in him." He added smiling hoping to lighten the mood. And as a matter of fact, he was rewarded with your giggles.

"Really?"

"I'd never lie to you," he murmured solemnly, his head tilting down toward yours. You met him halfway, your nose bumping softly with his.

"You better never start, Sasha," you warned lightly as he gave you an Eskimo kiss, his hands reaching up to hold your cheeks.

"Never," he promised on your lips. His trailed over yours softly before tilting his head to the side and letting them finally touch.

It has been so long since you've last shared a kiss that you'd almost forgotten how it felt like. How soft his lips were, how voracious he could be, how he always tasted of something sweet.

You gasped as his tongue trailed over your lower lip giving him the desired opportunity to sneak in and meet your tongue. Moaning, you moved your lips with his, hands sneaking through his hair to hold him close. The kiss came to a stop when you both were out of breath. He didn't get far away though as he rested his forehead on yours.

"The captain is going to be really mad at me." You murmured as you heard another shout coming from the end of the dock.

"Let me deal with him," he reassured you before giving you another small kiss. With that, he stepped away and headed over to where your ship was anchored.

You stood there, your fingers touching your lips, still in trance after what happened. So, you had never lost him. He had always been yours.

The realisation made you smile and as you watched his cape blowing in the wind you felt reassured. You knew he had plans but those were never the problem. You could bear seeing him with Alina if you knew that you were the only one in his heart and bed. And it seemed that you weren't the only one who wanted to keep it this way.

[tomsmusictaste]

Someone: What's on your mind?

Me: Oh, nothing much

Me inside my head: 'Cause when I barely fuck up you just recoil and weep, what do you want from me I'm just a kid and life is a nightmare, I'm just a kid I know that it's not fair, nobody cares 'cause I'm alone and the world is spinning much too fast, well I can hardly catch my breath and I just hope that this would last, the world is slipping from my grasp, I'm looking round to find the girl I left behind, you were the best I never wanted to say this, you never wanted to stay, I put my faith in you so much faith, and then you just threw it away, away, away from here I'll be, away, away, away so you can see how it feels to be alone and not believe her, it's all she's got to pass the time, believe her, it's over now she's past her prime, believe her, it's all she's got a band tattoo, her clothes are all brand new, she loves to cut me down, down in an earlier round, and sugar we're going down swinging, I'll be your number one more song we can sing along to, our big break, no more mistakes, one more time, we'll do what we have to, to get this off the ground, one more song, we can sing along to our big break me down, bury me, bury me, I am finished with you, don't wanna be just like you, oh what I'm saying is this is the anthem, throw all your hands up, you, don't wanna be an American idiot, don't want a nation under the new media, and can you hear the sound of hysteria, the subliminal mind-fuck America, stuck in America, today, I change, a new town, it's so washed up and all my friends don't give fuck, they'll tell me that it's just bad luck, when will I find you now things would get better, we could leave this town and run forever, let your waves crash down on me and take me away or I'm gonna hurt somebody, take me away right now, how could she say she wanted more, you better take me away…

…right now, I'm feeling this, the air is so cold and null, I'm feeling this, let me go in her room, I'm feeling this, I wanna take off her clothes, nicotine and faded dreams, baby just believe there's no-one else like me, 'cause I'm never going down, I'm never giving up, I'm never gonna leave so put your hands up because attentions like a fire, we'll head south broadway in a matter of minutes and like a bad movie I'll drop a line, fall in a grave I've been digging myself but there's room for two kids in high school, they tell her that she's uncool, 'cause she's still pre-occupied with nineteen, nineteen, nineteen-seventy sumthin', I can't pin down the year, when the romance wasn't dead and love still stood for something 'cause it's burning through your eyes, I try to get it out but all I hear from you are lies, and i can tell you're going through the motions, figured you were acting out your part, once again we're playing up emotion, which one of us will burn this theatre down and pray to God for the strength to help me face the crowd, I wanna live like I lost the script and scream every night like I should go, and through it all, the rise and fall, the bodies in the streets, and when you're gone we want you all to know, we'll carry on, we'll carry on, and though you're dead and gone, when you're dead and gone, nothing left here to say, nothing to celebrate, nothing left here to say it just takes some time, little girl you're in the middle of the ride, everything, everything will be just fine, everything, everything will be alright to forget that we still talk, it's just for fun isn't it? It's my fault that it fell apart, just maybe you need this, and I didn't mean to lead you on, you were everything I wanted but I just can't finish what you started so we can do it again, I know what's bound to happen, the road you take leads right back at it again, just like I’ve always said, if you’re too cool for school I ain’t here to make good sailors, jump ship and head for failure, find yourself some a tragedy, slowly lose your sanity, I’ll be alright, your bark was worse than your bite, left a scar that faded with time after time and nothing has changed, day after day and we’re still the same, and I’m gonna break, maybe we’re just trying to hard when really it’s closer than it is too far, because I’m in too deep, my walls are built up high forever bound to be steep, I’ve got a birds eye view of all the secrets you keep

(P.S. Congrats if you got all the songs I referenced, good on ya, gold star)

(P.P.S. I actually did edit all these songs together into a 'riff-off' but sadly it's too long an audio file for tumblr to handle :/ )

[atlabeth]

everything happens for a reason part 6 - zuko x fem!reader

The thing about forever is that it's a fucking lie

part 5 | masterlist | part 7

a/n: you all know whats coming lmao i got nothing to say for myself

wc: 3.5k

warning(s): pakku's usual sexism, typical siege of the north stuff, mostly angst but a lil bit of fluff in there

chapter title comes from forever is a lie by bea miller!

“I can’t believe that your tribe doesn’t teach waterbending to women!” Katara fumed, the snow beneath her feet packed tightly from her continuous pacing. “I mean, how can they even do that? Master Pakku’s all about ‘his culture and his teachings’ but his teachings are completely sexist!”

Y/N just nodded along as she listened to Katara — Master Pakku had refused to teach Katara, and after a disappointing healing lesson she had found Y/N to rant. “Yep. It’s unfair, but there’s not much we can do about it.”

Katara frowned and stopped in her tracks. “Don’t you want to learn how to fight too? I love being able to heal and help people, don’t get me wrong, but healing isn’t all I want to do.”

A shaky sigh fell from her lips and she shrugged, adjusting her position on the platform of ice she had made to sit on. “Well… yeah, I guess. I know a couple of martial moves, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to know more. But Katara, I—”

Y/N was silent for a moment as flashes of the past played behind her eyelids. “I’m not like you. I’m not the kind of person to challenge the rules. Not anymore.”

Katara shook her head, already back to her pacing. “I think you’re selling yourself short. I saw your healing during your class — you’re really talented, Y/N, and I know that skill will transfer over to fighting.”

“Thank you, but— but it doesn’t matter how good we are. Master Pakku is just as stubborn as he is talented, and I think he’d rather die than be a decent person. It’s a shame though. I’d really like to see someone knock some sense into him.”

“Yeah…” Katara sighed. “Hopefully Aang is having a better time than I am.” She looked up at the sky then fixed Y/N with a wry smile. “Speaking of Aang, I should probably get back to him and my brother. Sorry for talking your ear off the whole night.”

Y/N waved her hand around nonchalantly. “Don’t worry about it. You have my permission to rant to me any time you want while you’re here.”

Katara grinned and offered her hand, which Y/N took with a small smile as she got up from her ice platform. With a slight movement of her hand she bent it back into the ground, and the two girls began their walk back to the city. “I just wish I knew how to get Pakku to let up.”

“You’ll think of something,” Y/N reassured.

-

Katara did indeed think of something. Y/N’s wish of Pakku getting some sense knocked into him was granted when Katara challenged him to a fight, which was quite possibly the best thing that Y/N had ever witnessed. Though she ultimately lost, he still decided to take her on as a student — and in a move that Y/N would forever be grateful for, Katara had gotten Pakku to take her on as well. Katara made history that day, and she felt a shining sense of admiration for the girl for shaking things up.

And now, her days consisted of early mornings spent training, afternoons in classes, and nights doing homework, as well as fitting in time to hang out with Yue — it was a miracle she had any free time at all.

Lately though, it seemed like all Yue could talk about was Sokka. She liked him just as much as he liked her, but Yue was good — no matter how much she cared for someone, her tribe would always come first.

(“Did I hear that you and Sokka have a date later tonight?” she teased. “Aren’t you moving a little too fast?” Yue was silent at her attempt at humor and Y/N frowned. “Yue, are you okay?”

Silence lingered in the air for so long that Y/N almost thought she didn’t hear her, but finally the princess spoke as she pulled down the collar of her jacket to reveal an engagement necklace. Y/N gasped.

“It’s from Hahn,” she said quietly. “He proposed an hour ago, and I accepted.”

“You what?” Y/N cried, prompting a slight grimace from Yue. “Hahn— you can’t stand him!”

“Y/N, please,” Yue sighed. “He’s not that bad — he’s handsome, I guess. And he’s the son of a noble, and he’ll be really good for the tribe.”

“Yue, you’re the one who has to deal with him. He proposed to you, not the tribe — Spirits, half the boys in this tribe like you, why him?”

“It’s best for the tribe,” she repeated, her words an attempt to convince Y/N as much as herself.

“But what’s best for you?” Y/N countered.

Yue hadn’t answered, and had made up some half-baked excuse that she had to be somewhere. She had watched her go sadly, hoping that she would figure something out with Sokka.)

And it’s not like she wasn’t happy that her friend had found someone, it was just…

Y/N was upset that someone wasn’t her. And she didn’t know how to deal with that revelation.

But one morning, while making idle conversation with Katara as their lesson came to an end, a matter much more pressing came to hand.

Black snow. Soot raining down from the sky, tarnishing everything it touched.

A feeling all too familiar brewed in her chest as she met her friend’s eyes, and one thing was clear.

The Fire Nation was coming.

-

The air was even more frigid than usual with the knowledge of an imminent invasion, and Y/N had parted ways with her friends once they reached the town hall to be with her grandparents. The tension in the air was thick as Chief Arnook stepped up to address the people.

“The day we have feared for so long has arrived — the Fire Nation is on our doorstep. It is with great sadness I call my family here before me, knowing well that some of these faces are about to vanish from our tribe, but they will never vanish from our hearts. Now, as we approach the battle for our existence, I call upon the great spirits. Spirit of the Ocean! Spirit of the Moon! Be with us! I'm going to need volunteers for a dangerous mission.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sokka stood up. “Count me in.”

Her eyes widened as she met Katara’s from across the room, and she looked equally surprised. “Sokka…”

“Be warned: many of you will not return.” Several other men stood up after Sokka, including her grandfather. Despite his age he was a skilled fighter, but that was no comfort to Y/N. She reached up for his hand and shook her head almost desperately, but he smiled sadly and squeezed her hand, a sentiment to express words unsaid. “Come forward to receive my mark, if you accept the task.”

As he walked forward to join the line, she found the only solace she could in her grandmother’s open arms, burying her face in the fur of her jacket. “He will be okay,” she soothed. “He’s just as strong as he is brave. You have to have faith.”

She hoped that her grandmother was right. She couldn’t handle another loss.

Once all the men had received their marks, they left to confer about the battle plan. Y/N found her way up to the stage where a tearful Yue sat. It pained Y/N to see her in such a way, and when she sat down and offered her hand the princess immediately took it.

“I saw that your grandfather volunteered,” she said after a beat of silence. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. For Sokka.” Y/N adjusted her position so their shoulders were touching, and she sighed heavily. “I can’t stop thinking about my village. My father.” She met Yue’s eyes, her own beginning to tear up.

“What if it happens again?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I can’t— I can’t do it again.”

Yue let go of her hand to wrap the girl in a hug, the warmth of the embrace managing to chip away at some of their hopelessness. “You won’t have to do it again,” she stated, the reassurance seeming like the truth when coming from her. “You’re not alone this time.”

She finally pulled away from the hug as she wiped the tears off her face, and Y/N nodded. Yue somehow always knew exactly what to say. “What would I do without you?” she asked, her voice slightly watery.

“You’re never going to know,” the princess smiled. “Because whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with me.” That got a laugh out of Y/N and the two of them stood up as Yue gestured outside with her head. “I think I saw Aang and my father out there. It’ll help to talk with them — I think you need some fresh air anyways.”

Y/N nodded and the two girls walked out hand in hand, a small reprieve from carrying the weight of the world.

-

Things were so much worse than she had been anticipating.

After a short talk outside the hall with Katara, Aang, and the Chief, Yue had been transported somewhere safer as Y/N steeled herself for the front lines. After all, as a student of Master Pakku, she could fight damn well — it was just a matter of putting it into action.

But a line of warriors and children alike were no match for the strength of the Fire Nation from afar, and the first few fireballs had done their job at disrupting both the fighters and the wall — Seeing her home get destroyed hurt nearly as much as constantly getting thrown around.

After Aang had taken off on Appa and Chief Arnook took a section of his soldiers off for a different plan, the work on the ground began. The fleet of ships seemed endless , and the same went for their artillery — the fight went long into the day as Y/N worked with various other waterbenders to stop fireballs and repair broken parts of the city’s infrastructure, but just as the full moon began to show, the attacks stopped coming. Limbs heavy with exhaustion from their work in the field, Y/N and Katara met up with the princess back at the balcony of the palace.

“They’ve stopped firing,” Yue noted as they all gazed off into the distance.

“Thank the spirits,” Y/N muttered as she worked out a knot in her shoulder. “I don’t know how much longer I could’ve kept going.”

Just then, Appa came into view and a grin spread across Katara’s face. “Aang!”

He landed below them and the three girls hurried down to meet him. Aang landed on the ground, exhaustion clear in every part of him. “I can’t do it,” he muttered as he placed his head in his hands. “I can’t do it.”

“What happened?” Katara asked as she ran up to him, Yue and Y/N close behind.

“I must’ve taken out a dozen Fire Navy ships, but there’s just too many of them!” His large grey eyes were full of hopelessness, and Y/N’s heart ached for the boy. “I can’t fight them all.”

“But— you have to!” Yue pleaded. “You’re the Avatar.”

“I’m just one kid,” Aang countered wearily. He buried his face in his arms and Katara kneeled next to him in an attempt to comfort him. Y/N could almost forget about the pain in her body at that moment, feeling an odd responsibility to this boy as she looked down at him.

“Aang,” she muttered, following Katara’s example and kneeling next to him. “You’ve already done so much for us. Just by being here, you’ve inspired hundreds of people — you’re a beacon of hope all on your own! We don’t expect you to take out this whole navy by yourself. As long as you’re here, fighting with us? You’re helping us more than you know.”

He managed a slight smile at that and he took her outstretched hand, getting pulled back to his feet with her help.

“We’ll have a better view from up there,” Katara noted, pointing back up to the balcony. “You can help us keep watch, Aang — in case they start attacking again.”

He nodded and the four of them began the walk, the Avatar in slightly better spirits.

“The legends say the moon was the first waterbender,” Yue said once they had reached the balcony, all of them gazing at the sky. “Our ancestors saw how it pushed and pulled the tides and learned how to do it themselves.”

“I’ve always noticed my waterbending is stronger at night,” Katara mused, causing Y/N to hum in agreement.

“Our strength from the spirit of the moon, our life from the spirit of the ocean,” she said. “They work together to keep balance.

Aang’s expression brightened at her words as he popped up from the ground. “The spirits! Maybe I can find them and get their help!”

“How can you do that?” Y/N questioned.

“The Avatar is the bridge between our world and the Spirit World,” Katara explained excitedly. “Aang can talk to them!”

“Maybe they’ll give you the wisdom to win this battle!” Yue exclaimed.

“Or maybe they'll unleash a crazy amazing spirit attack on the Fire Nation!” At that, all three girls met him with strange looks. Aang coughed and straightened his posture. “Or wisdom. That's good, too.”

“The only problem is, last time you got to the Spirit World by accident,” Katara said with a frown. “How are you going to get there this time?”

Yue’s eyes lit up and she looked at them with a smile. “I have an idea. Follow me.”

-

A few minutes later, they were standing in the Spirit Oasis, the most spiritual place in all of the North. Yue, Y/N, and Katara all shed their coats as Aang walked around, marvelling at the beauty.

“I can feel… something,” Aang said as he sat down, getting into a meditating position. “It’s so tranquil.”

Soon enough, after a few moments of silence, Aang’s eyes as well as the arrow on his head began to glow.

“Is he okay?” Yue gasped.

“He’s crossing into the Spirit World,” Katara reassured. “He’ll be fine as long as we don’t move his body. That’s his way back to the physical world.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Y/N whispered, astonishment etched into her face. For as much as she had been taught about the ocean spirits, she wasn’t well-versed in the Spirit World as a whole — she was thoroughly fascinated by every part of this.

“Maybe we should get some help,” Yue suggested, still on edge as she took a few steps away from the gate.

“No, he’s my friend. I’m perfectly capable of protecting him. Besides, I already have some help here.” She smiled at Y/N, a sentiment that she returned happily.

A deep voice, almost mocking, broke the silence as it echoed throughout the oasis. “Well, aren’t you a big girl now? Even got yourself a little student.”

The three girls all whipped around to find the source of the voice, and Katara’s whole body stiffened. “No…”

“Yes. Hand him over and I don’t have to hurt you.”

Y/N immediately eased into a bending stance along with Katara as the princess fled to get help, but her confidence faltered when she took the time to focus on their assailant.

She almost didn’t recognize him — it had been nearly four years since she had last set eyes upon the boy, but it was as if he had become a completely different person. His head was shaved completely save for a ponytail, and blues and reds marked his skin in various cuts and bruises. His eyes held an anger she had never seen before, an expression only heightened with the addition of a large red scar across his left eye.

“Zuko?” she breathed, her chest tightening up beneath the weight of the revelation. Katara stared at her in bewilderment — she had no idea that Y/N knew the prince that had chased them halfway across the world, but Katara supposed that she had no reason to ever suspect she did.

His eyes flashed with recognition as they ran over her, and it seemed as if he had a similar epiphany as he staggered backwards. “I… I thought you were dead.”

“You’re with them,” she muttered, blood turning to ice. “Your nation is invading, and you’re helping them— you’re after the Avatar? What are you doing, Zuko?!”

The momentary surprise was replaced by steely determination as he shifted his weight forward and kicked up his leg, sending a blast of fire that she barely managed to dodge. “You know nothing!”

Y/N fell back into position next to Katara, but the newfound knowledge was like a fog over her mind. “Whoever he was when you knew him, that’s not him anymore!” Katara yelled as she bent water out of the pond and blocked his following attacks. “He won’t hesitate to hurt you, so you can’t either!”

“O-okay!” she stammered. This was the moment she had been waiting for, wasn’t it? After training with both Katara and Pakku, her martial skill had increased tenfold, and she was desperate to try it out — she only wished her first opponent didn’t have to be him. But another fire blast snapped her out of her paralysis, and she jumped into action.

The two girls worked impossibly well together, one stepping forward when the other fell back, the bending between them nearly seamless. Any fire that the prince sent their way was quickly extinguished, and with two against one on home turf, Y/N and Katara were able to hold him off with relative ease.

Y/N bent another jet of water up from the oasis and shot it at Zuko, the force of which knocked him several feet back. Katara took the opening and froze his feet to the ground, then began to move her arms about as she formed a ball of water around him — one more movement and it was frozen solid.

“You little peasant,” he growled. “You’ve found a master, haven’t you?”

The orb of ice began to glow, the air around them becoming hotter and hotter until it melted around him. Blasts of fire were flying at them as soon as Zuko hit the ground, and they were forced to retreat back towards the oasis as they grew more intense.

Y/N drew up a shield of water, extinguishing the flames on impact. Zuko dodged around them, his fingers inches away from Aang’s collar. Y/N propelled the water already at her fingertips towards Zuko with a grunt of effort, which sent him flying into the shallows on the other side of the oasis. She conjured up a large wave and sent it towards the prince, sending him up the side of the wall and trapping him once Katara froze it.

She breathed a sigh of relief and let her arms fall, a part of her wondering how they were still connected after the tediousness of the earlier battle. But this, one on one in a fight with real stakes? It was as exhilarating as it was nerve wracking, and she had never been so thankful that Katara had gotten her in with Master Pakku. Y/N felt intensely guilty over the pain she had inflicted on Zuko, but she tried her best to push it out of her mind — like Katara said, he would’ve done worse if she hadn’t fought back.

“You fought well,” Katara smiled. “I told you that you were talented.”

She chuckled and shrugged, cheeks heating up slightly at the praise. “It’s not exactly my first fight, just… the most intense.” It reminded her of the early mornings and late nights spent sparring with Zuko, a memory that only twisted the dagger in her heart even more.

The two girls smiled at each other as they began to walk back over to Aang — it seemed the boy was undisturbed by the fight by virtue of his glowing tattoos and closed eyes — when Y/N found herself squinting from the rays of light filtering in.

“Huh,” she mumbled. “The sun’s out. The sun’s out— Katara!”

Y/N turned to find the prince free from the ice, and the pair barely had time to draw water from the pond to shield themselves from the impending flames. But it was too little too late, and the power of the blast sent them back several feet. They slammed into either side of the gate, the force of it immediately knocking Katara out.

Y/N gasped in pain as she tried to push herself up, but the fight combined with the impact of her landing had taken a toll on her and she collapsed once more against the gate. When the smoke from the fire cleared, Zuko was there with Aang’s collar in his grasp.

“You rise with the moon,” he muttered, his face tinged with the slightest bit of guilt as he met her eyes. “I rise with the sun.”

The last thing she saw before her consciousness faded out was the boy she loved escaping with the Avatar.

-

why did i make yue and y/n like this when i KNOW what i have to write next omg i hate myself

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ehfar: @chandies-sideblog @persica27 @anzanity @randomthingssss @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @shanksfav @shephard17895 @ilovespideyyy

atla: @marianne1806

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

I'd love to see your take on Cullen's recovery arc as an alternative analysis! I feel like we're only ever presented with the two options of: "he needs to atone!" Or "he was a victim that needs protection!", neither of which I've ever fully agreed with. I think it's a result of the lack of attention given to his arc in DAI, which leaves a ton of room for interpretation, and results in people swaying towards either camp depending on how sympathetic they are towards him and his history.

I totally agree with this. 

The problem with the way Cullen is presented in DAI is that he’s presented in an unambiguously positive light, and as @tokutenshi pointed out in this post (which I do agree with) if your Hawke was hostile to him you don’t get some of his dialogue about questioning Meredith. Additionally if you side with the mages rather than the templars Cullen has some realizations about the Order that you’re not going to hear. It’s too little too late for a lot of people, though I would also argue with what tokutenshi said, he was severely traumatized after the Blight (if you take a female mage Warden in the tower during the Witch Hunt DLC you will get lines that indicate he is suffering from PTSD, notice the lines about him being “twitchy” and “jumpy”) Personally I think we can find a middle ground between Cullen being a victim of manipulation and indoctrination, someone who suffered after experiencing trauma, and someone who works hard in the moment to do some good, whether we can or should call it “atonement” or not. That being said, he does acknowledge in Inquisition that the war against Corypheus is his chance to atone, and he works overtime to the point where it’s commented upon by several characters including the Inquisitor how hard he works.  

By the time we meet Cullen in Inquisition a couple of years have passed since the chantry’s explosion. This is where I will be critical of the writing because I do think the game should have better established what exactly Cullen was doing in the time in between, though we get bits and clues from dialogue if you pay attention: He served as Kirkwall’s knight Commander after Meredith died, and he and presumably Aveline’s guard worked to basically repair the city, as Rylen says in Griffon Wing Keep that there was a lot of rubble, a lot of people without homes. Cassandra noticed Cullen’s work and recruited him to the Inquisition. (Also, keep in mind that the Inquisition was originally going to help quell the worst excess of the mage and templar fighting, restore order because the chantry lost control. Then the conclave happened, it went boom, and suddenly the Inquisition’s purpose became far greater than anyone would have expected. So Cullen as Cassandra’s choice of Commander makes total sense to me, considering he was a former templar and bringing him in basically acted as a symbol to any wayward templar, letting them know that there could be another way. But I digress on that part, haha.) 

I *think* some people are dissatisfied with Cullen’s “redemption” arc in DAI because we don’t really see him fall on the sword or beat himself up for his past. There’s also no moment where he like, faces a mage he maybe knew in Kirkwall or has to deal with the mages not trusting him. Obviously of course there is nuance there as well as Toku and I mentioned--he wasn’t allowed to heal as much as he should have before being shipped to Meredith. However, here’s an interesting bit of dialogue you can get if you pick the right options after Perseverance if you tell him he doesn’t need lyrium:

Quiz: The man you were. You can’t pretend like he never existed.

Cullen: Not even if I wanted to. But I’m here now. I can make that mean something.

Cullen knows he screwed up. What’s more, he doesn’t want to forget he screwed up. But he lives in the moment to make things right. Blackwall’s arc actually shows him falling on the sword and wanting to atone, versus with Cullen it’s implied he has come to terms with his screw ups off screen. He doesn’t continuously beat himself up, he does what he can for the Inquisition to the point where if the Quiz tells him to go back on lyrium for the better of his soldiers, he does, knowing it just may kill him. There is also limited dialogue that challenges his views which turns some people off, but I know for my Inquisitor she’s very much about the now and what they both can do in the now. I won’t blame anyone who wants to be able to challenge him more, but frankly I find the fact he doesn’t continuously fall on the sword or beat himself up interesting. 

All that being said, I do think of his arc as more of one of recovery versus redemption. And to be frank I’m kind of critical of the term “redemption” and what makes good redemption arcs or not. Someone having a “redemption arc” seems to imply that there’s only one road to the top of the mountain when maybe redemption is something you should always strive for? But as for the “recovery” arc: the chantry, IMO, purposely devoids both mages and templars of a personhood or life outside the order and Circle and treats them as objects. Many templar recruits are children and are basically indoctrinated to believe they serve the Maker and they are needed and that they do the Maker’s will. There’s an interesting bit of dialogue you can get if your character is a warrior and talks to Cullen about the templar spec, basically if the Quiz says “templars serve the Maker, I’d do the same.” Cullen basically replies, “uh, yeah, that’s not going to make you righteous, believe me,” implying this was the way he once indoctrinated to think, but he no longer believes it so. Templars are given lyrium for their abilities, but also to placate them, something Alistair says in DAO. 

After Kirkwall Cullen sees where the Order is going, gets an offer from Cassandra and decides that if he removes the “part that kept [him] chained,” he would find his own purpose again. (He says this is your Quiz makes him take lyrium.) In Inquisition we learn he always wanted to protect people. (Our local mind reader Cole says “some templars want to only protect, like Cullen” if you ask him about templars.) And as a kid living in rural nowhere Ferelden, he saw the templars as protectors. Why I interpret his arc as more about recovery than redemption all has to do with Perseverance and the way you as the player can handle it: You can either let him know he can start over, he can endure and one day find a life of his own away from duty and battle, or you can make him take it and thus let him remain indoctrinated to what the chantry taught him, that there is nothing outside of duty and battle. It comes down between a choice of “you are leashed to what the chantry made you till you die” to “you are more and you can recover and make your own life,” which he does do by Tresspasser, romance or not. At the end of the game if you keep him off lyrium he basically thanks the Inquisitor for giving him a chance, letting him know he could be more. Additionally, a lyrium free Cullen in Tresspasser speaks of meeting his siblings again, developing a relationship. If you make him take it forever he refuses to see them. 

I could also see the arc as one of faith, and finding it again. If you keep him off lyrium the prayer in the chantry he speaks is one of quiet reassurance and finding strength through his faith, but if you make him take it the prayer is “blessed are the peacekeepers” and it’s uttered desperately as if he is trying to believe it. He also mourns how far he fell. All this to say that I find it very interesting his writer focused his personal quest around the lyrium and what lyrium represents rather than say, him meeting a mage who lived in Kirkwall or something and him trying to atone to them.  

When I wrote my post about why Cullen gets so much fandom related wank I got a lot of different responses that echoed the same thing about Cullen’s arc not getting a lot of attention. I think there is a lot of good writing there with his personal quest,  but his writing doesn’t fill in every single gap---not to mention people are going to have vastly different experiences on how they played the games till Inquisition. And my examples of dialogue are things you may not get if you don’t pick the right options. And heck, some people only have played Inquisition. 

So, I think me calling his arc in Inquisition a recovery arc has partially been not me trying to justify why I like him, but analyze a differing way a character who has screwed up in the past is written. Blackwall’s arc is a true redemption arc IMO. Cullen’s isn’t so clear cut as a redemption arc, but at the end of the day it is truly about him finding his own purpose again, which leads me to lean more toward calling it a “recovery arc.”

[washymylifeaway]

Haikyuu fanfic recs but it’s just more of my faves pt 2 LOL

Hiya loves! My other fic rec (linked here) did well enough that I decided to make a pt 2 :D Here are some more of my faves that I didn’t get to recommend last time!!!! Again the rules are the same, two per ship and no cp (but of course I AM SUFFERING UGH) :’(((

As always, pls check WARNINGS, TAGS, and SUMMARIES for fics before reading and make sure you’re taking care of yourselves (since mental health is key!) Stay healthy loves <3

IwaOi (I made a top ten linked here):

darlin', your head's not right by aruariandance (T) 13.6k // AJKFFJA THIS ONE!!!! I really love this one and unconfident Oikawa is THE MOVE. I really liked the portrayal of Oikawa in this one, it’s done SO WELL :D Everything about this fic is amazing and the ending was SO CUTE,,, I love recursive endings!!!!!

nevermind (but i mind) by seabear (M) 9.9k // TELEPATHY. Okay prefacing this with the fact that there is SMUT in this, so be careful as you read! But the communication in this one? Nonexistent. And like Iwa’s mom? The mfing mvp. It’s a great fic and the ending was FLUFF.

KuroKen:

Addiction and Attachment by eevaeon (T) 41.8k // I’VE BEEN WAITING TO REC THIS OMG. You want a Kenma taking care of Kuroo? HERE IT IS :DDDD The feels in this one are high and it’s just SO GOOD. And they’re so cute the fluff is just so fluffy in this :D

Step by Step by dgalerab (M) 14.7k // inclusivity!!! I really like this one and it’s another where Kuroo gets kinda comforted by Kenma and Kuroo’s a bit desperate in this as well LOL. Also some BokuAka plot and poor Akaashi with the shirt omg. There’s some homophobia and smut so be careful as you read! 

BokuAka:

In the Absence of Light by meeks00 (E) 50.7k // WITCHES AND WITCH HUNTERS LETS GOOOOO. I really love this one because 1. Akaashi and Kenma’s friendship is one of my favorite hc! And 2. because of MAGIC AHHH! It’s a whole mess, but it’s such a good fic omg. CHECK TAGS AND WARNINGS cause fighting and SMUT!

Karma by dgalerab (T) 9k // PETTY AKAASHI? Sign me up. But no really, I love how Akaashi is in this fic and I think he’s characterized SO well! Also I too would get distracted as Bokuto does yoga with me ahaha. Anyway, I love the dynamics between everyone in this fic and it’s CUTE.

DaiSuga:

butterfly in the subway by bigspoonnoya (T) 62.8k // please, I’ve said other fics are a big mess BUT this one might just take the cake. It’s a mixture of ships with DaiSuga being the main one, so read it even if you don’t love DaiSuga (and then you’ll love them LOL). It’s like everything that could go wrong, goes wrong but the AsaNoya in this was SO cute!

you can only take what you can carry by skittidyne (T) 4.2k // Suga is strong. That’s it. That’s literally the whole fic LMAO. But no seriously, I wish I could’ve been there in person to ogle at the muscles cause like think about it. ANyway, Yachi is best. (if this made no sense, go read the fic LOL)

KyouHaba:

if not, winter by knightswatch (M) 54k // YES THIS FIC. THIS ONE RIGHT HERE. I love the development of their relationship,,, IT’S SO GOOD. Like when our boy Yahaba goes on that really friendly field trip and Kyoutani takes matters into his own hands? UGH YES. And when they visit? CUTE OMG. Yes this fic is it.

Isolated Parts by darkmagicalgirl (T) 3.3k // I love this fic cause old men KyouHaba are funny (fight those refs) and I love the nonlinear plot. It really adds another layer to the fic itself, and slowly unraveling the plot through the different years was SO IUAHFJF. I really loved it and piecing everything together :’)

MatsuHana:

Magical Mishaps and How to Deal by plumtrees (M) 10.9k // I lost this fic once and I searched for it FOR THE LONGEST TIME. But that’s cause I wanted to reread this masterpiece. IT’S SO FUNNY AND CUTE AND DOMESTIC AND UGH. Also the small angst made me SO SAD. But the ENDING? THE KISSES AHHHHHHH. (I’m yelling a lot BUT that’s cause I really love this fic <3333)

hang out fall in love by carafin (T) 8.6k // I love the Makki hates Mattsun initially but then falls for the irresistible charm he posses trope. It might be my favorite trope for MatsuHana specifically LOL. Like I really love this fic and it has MAGIC. It’s like a magical version of the VA one LOL. But like no radio shows or reunited best friends in this one :(

SakuAtsu:

the 28 postcards you left me by wheelspokes (T) 8.3k // Okay the whole concept of this fic made me laugh ngl. Like I hate exes to lovers but this concept made me read it and I don’t regret it. I felt Atsumu’s panic when he sent the first one and then later LOL. I loved Omi’s side too OMG, also there’s a timeline at the end :D

the home we built in hell by awkwardedgeworth (T) 5k // I love this fic. I love the execution of this fic. It’s written so well and the development they go through IS SO GOOD. Like the plot is just AMAZING and I literally cannot express in words how much I adore this fic. PLEASE READ IT! But be mindful of the tags FOR SURE!

SunaOsa:

Even forever is too short of a time with you by miyarinnnn (T) 53.8k // C U T E!!!! I really like this one and the way it went through all the time from the beginning. Technically this is the second fic and you SHOULD read the first one! But I loved seeing the references again and being able to read this from Osamu’s POV. I liked how it went in depth into everything,,, IT’S SO GOOD UGH.

Heart Reign by tookumade (series) 42.3k // ngl, I hate the second fic cause it makes me so angry AHHHHH. JK but seriously, it made me angry. Like my favorite is the last one (for obvious reasons), but every time I reread this series, I skip the second one cause I don’t want to GO THROUGH THE EMOTIONS. AGAIN. Like I hate Chuo now AHHHH. But read this series cause it’s AMAZING and makes me happy. The running and catching was the perfect touch to the end of the first fic and there’s a pov swap (the fourth one!) but I love the reminiscing in the third one too :D (but like I said the fifth one is my favorite!!!) 

(Also cause I can’t help myself, if you want another one I love that I’ve recommended before by tookumade, but not for spring to well up is literally my favorite fic of ALL TIME. Like out of all the fics I’ve read, still will be forever in love with this one ok bye. post where I yell about how much I love this fic linked HERE)

Random:

In Good Faith We Swap Our Aces by WInger (G) 15.1k // what’s a post without a chaotic fic? This is just a meme fic, essentially. It’s so funny and all the aces stories made me laugh like,,,, Yeah it’s literally just a crossover event with the schools and it’s just super lighthearted so I liked it LOL.

[itsclydebitches]

PFFFF The newest Witcher trailes LITERALLY throws shade! They have the 'Geralt, but you've been such lone wofl so long, what change' and deadass show JASKIER before later shoving Geralt saying 'Yennefer' like a cheap 'no homo!' excuse. I can't. xD Whoever edited it knows what's on. xD

I feel so conflicted about the Jaskier-Geralt relationship in the show because on the one hand, yeah, they're definitely leaning into this non-romance in a way that can get uncomfortable for some, how shall I put this... jaded viewers lol. We know they'll never be canon. No matter what else we might say about Netflix's inability to accurately adapt the books, Geralt/Yennefer has always and will always be endgame, so getting intimacy between Geralt and Jaskier in these particular ways (flirty jokes, bath scene, argument staged like a breakup), while not explicitly queerbaiting, can make viewers feel... icky about it all. Especially for any show-only fans who might not know that Geralt/Yennefer is endgame. Many viewers, particularly American viewers, approach shows as malleable forms of entertainment that can provide them with the representation they crave, provided the fanbase is vocal enough about wanting it. And the more talk that surfaces about major, crucial changes to the plot that reinterpret huge swaths of the books' purpose and intent, the more it can feel like they might just change Geralt's love life too! Even though they (obviously) won't. And frankly shouldn't given that this is supposed to be a faithful adaptation.

Yet on the flipside, the Netflix versions of Jaskier and Geralt don't feel intimate to me at all. Their hostile introduction, Geralt outright punching him, the continued performance of 'I'm a big strong manly man who can't admit that he cares about others,' reducing decades of their bonding to a surprising, throwaway line, that argument when Geralt blames Jaskier for all his problems... it's terrible and I've never liked this dynamic for them (even as I, somewhat hypocritically, play with it in fic). So I'm like, you're intimate enough that fans are starting to side-eye the creators' intentions and yet simultaneously not intimate in any of the ways you should be if you were actually faithful adaptations of the book. And these problems, I believe, go hand-in-hand. By ignoring the actual friendship of the books, Netflix has been forced to "prove" that they care for one another by falling back on tired buddy tropes that, historically, fans have used as evidence for a potential romantic relationship. By not writing Geralt and Jaskier as having the open, witty, philosophical, caring-but-also-taking-no-shit relationship they had in the books, Netflix has fallen back on a dynamic that isn't doing their show any favors. Fans either hate it, or love it to the point where they expect something of the show that the show can never deliver.

So it's a mess! And that mess hasn't done Yennefer any favors either. I'm really not in a position to be defending that pairing - I've never hid that I'm not a Geralt/Yen fan - but whatever the books did that made others love their relationship... I don't think Netflix is capitalizing on that either. In that other ask I brought up how in the games their relationship seems to revolve entirely around Ciri and sex. If they're not talking about their daughter (or if Yen isn't being cruel) their relationship is just about how horny they are for each other, which... isn't really a relationship to me. Or at least, not the deep, "We belong together forever, we're basically soulmates" relationship that the franchise is going for. Same with Netflix. I never liked the foundation of their relationship being an ambiguous wish that tethered them irrevocably and a quickie in the rubble as a replacement for actually getting to know one another... but Netflix takes those aspects and emphasizes them to a disappointing degree.

"You spent a lifetime alone. What changed?"

"Yennefer of Vengerberg."

Yet when it comes time for the trailer to show us what this deep, insightful relationship is that changed a man after an entire lifetime of wandering alone... it's just sex. That's literally all Netflix is able to show us because that's the only meaningful interactions Geralt and Yen have had together. Here's a clip of them falling into bed together and Geralt, without any of that emotional work shown to the viewer, professes that he loves Yennefer the way she's always wanted to be loved.

Here's a clip of the joke we got where Jaskier is gaping over them having sex on the floor post-Yen nearly killing the lot of them.

I'm like... what out of any of this is meant to be appealing to me? Besides the fact that they're both hot as hell? (The casting does make my little bi heart happy lol.) For me, Geralt and Yen are a classic case of a story insisting they're meant for each other because That's Just How Stories Work, without doing any of the actual, you know, work to show us why they like each other, or how they got there, or why these superficial things (the sex is great!) trump the huge hurdles they should be working through. The games might have their flaws, but god bless 'em for letting the characters point out, "Hey... how do we even know this love is real and not just a byproduct of the djinn's wish?"

Geralt and Jaskier, as established, absolutely have their problems in the show, but I can understand why so many fans ship them over Geralt/Yen. And no, though bigotry can play a part, we also can't demonize the entirety of its popularity with, "You just hate women/are racist/creepily obsessed with queer men/whatever the latest accusation is." Rather, the popularity exists because, whatever their faults, it feels like they actually have a relationship in the show. We see them developing together in a way we simply don't get with Yennefer/Geralt and because that development isn't largely reduced to sex scenes—the narrative trying to pass every bonding moment off as True Love, with True Love equaling physical attraction—it comes across (at least to me) as more realistic and believable, especially given Geralt's character, someone who is emotionally closed off. If Vesemir (I think it's Vesemir) asked what changed and we deliberately cut to that moment of Jaskier leaving after Geralt drove him away... I'd more easily believe that yeah, this relationship is causing Geralt to rethink things in a way he hasn't for an entire lifetime. We've seen them travel together, become (begrudging) comrades, defend one another, do favors for each other, tease each other, have a major fight that they'll inevitably make up from, Jaskier is presented as Geralt's first friend, and none of this is tied to a questionable wish, or passed off as the totality of Geralt's development.

The fact that Netflix would include those lines, cut to a legitimately heart-wrenching moment between Geralt and Jaskier, but when it comes times to show his relationship with Yennefer, the most powerful moments are her without him (smashing the mirror, undergoing her transformation, stepping out in her new body for the first time, etc.) and their moments together are just sex—one of which is used partially for comedy—well... that just illustrates the problem for me. What relationship? The one that supposedly exists simply because the story says it's there? I don't think I'll ever be a Geralt/Yen shipper, but I'm perfectly capable of separating my personal preferences from subpar writing choices. Netflix is far into the latter. The way that they're adapting the story is, imo, hurting both fans of the book material and fans who are on the fence about book material. Because so few of these changes are working well, we've lost all the good the books contained and are now stuck with so much new bad. Basically, "No one liked that."

Except, of course, for the Geralt/Jaskier shippers riding the coattails of those tropes... though many will likely be disappointed and hurt by the series' end when they're not made canonical, with others growing frustrated with how the fandom has turned on them simply for liking what they were given. It's really turning into a lose-lose for everyone involved.

[sonnetthebard]

for one shots maybe a Princess Bride AU of Spies Are Forever? "Life is pain, Mega. Anyone who says differently is saying something" (maybe a Westley!Owen? there was an ask about it and it is now stuck in my head)

Oh yes. Yes yes yes yes yes. You have no clue how happy I am. I had a whole Westley phase, now I'm having a whole Owen phase. Perfection.

Genre: Angst/ Fluff/ Romance

Words: 2055

TL;DR: Curt's encounter with Dread Pirate Roberts does *not* end in the way he expected it to.

TW: Mentions of death and grieving, violent thoughts

Yes Curt is Buttercup, no I will not be taking questions. Also a lot of this dialogue was borrowed from the movie.

___________________________________________________________

How Curt had let himself get here was beyond him. He was exhausted. Truly. He'd had quite the past few days. Why anyone had decided to kidnap one of the kingdom's most valliant knights was beyond him. Why him? Of what importance was he? But even worse (and really more embarrassingly), he hadn't actually been able to overcome his captors. To be fair, as tiny as the man who had kidnapped him was... his two henchmen were more than capable of keeping him right where they needed him. One was very large, and another (a girl no less) was very good with a sword. Better than he was. God, he wished he was home. He wished he hadn't been alone that night, vulnerable to any kidnappers. And that's when all the thoughts he had been trying to push away made their way into his head.

Owen. That's what would have made this all better. Owen. Owen could fix just about anything.

But Owen was gone. Owen had sailed away on a ship, and... that ship was overthrown by the Dread Pirate Roberts and his crew. He was dead. Never to return. In a way, it almost paralleled how Curt was never to return to his days on the farm. Especially not now that the Prince had taken a fancy to him. He didn't exactly fancy the Prince. But hey... it wasn't like Owen was going to come back. At least the Prince was someone to take care of him. Not that he was taking very good care of him in the moment.

No. Curt had gotten a bit distracted in the recounting of his situation. He was not, in fact, captive at all anymore- well... depends on your definition of captive. He suposed he technically still was. Just not by little Von Nazi of Germania and his henchmen. Now, he was being dragged by the arm by a man in all black. His feet were sore, and he could barely keep up the man was walking so fast. He's stumbling, and honestly he could fall any second now. He wouldn't be surprised at all if he simply collapsed. He was hungry. He was barely getting the chance to breathe. His head hurt. Curt was done. Just at the moment Curt feels like he could crash, the grip on his arm is released, and the gravelly voice of his captor pulls him from his thoughts.

"Catch your breath." The man almost seemed to spit it out, as if ever word was bitter to him.

"Please..." Curt panted. "If you stop this... if you let me go... the Prince will pay my ransom. I'm sure of it."

"You're sure, are you?" The man laughed spitefully.

"Yes!" Curt nodded, desperate. In his exhaustion, he almost thought the man might be talking genuinely.

"You're certain?" The man continued on his spiteful tangent. Curt nodded. "Who are you to be certain of anything, good sir?"

"Pardon?" Curt blinked, confused.

"I said who are you to be certain? Are you a god? Or a scholar? Are you, in fact, the prince in disguise?" The man asked coarsely. Curt shook his head, still a bit dazed. "I thought not. I would advise you, good sir, not to make promises you cannot keep."

"I was just giving you the chance to release me willingly." Curt told him bitterly. "You think you're going to be able to escape the Prince? Oh no. He and his men could track a falcon on a cloudy day. He'll find you. And when he does, 'good sir', you are a dead man."

"You think your dearest love will save you?" The man in black seemed to taunt.

"He is not my 'dearest love'!" Curt protested, still trying to catch his breathe. "He's not even my 'love'! He's just my Prince. But yes, he will save me. And, I will add- before you say another word- that he would do the same for any of his knights. We are his family."

"You admit to me that you do not love your liege, then?" The man smirked menacingly.

"He knows that I don't love him." Curt nodded defensively.

"You mean that he knows you are incapable of love." The man in black sighed. Why did everything that came out of this man's mouth sound so bitter?

"I am more than capable of love!" Curt protested. "I have loved more deeply than a wretch like yourself could ever dream!"

"Wretch... that's a good one." The man laughed softly, still bitterly. He grabbed Curt's wrist with an iron grip, and Curt hissed in pain. "Let that be a warning to you, fair sir. I have no tolerance for liars."

And so they were walking again. And walking, and walking, and walking. Far away. Until Curt's feet were so sore that he couldn't feel anything but the pain. The pain consumed his thoughts. Pain, and how odd this man was. He had figured out precisely who this was. With that wit, and that cruelty... It had to be the Dread Pirate Roberts. The man who had killed Owen. A man who Curt had wished dead for years. A man who Curt was going to kill the first chance he got. All of a sudden, that was the thought that consumed Curt's mind. With every step he took it got stronger. And the stronger it got... the happier it made him. God, he knew that was sick, but... revenge would be so sweet. Suddenly, Curt felt himself dropped.

"Rest, sir knight." The man sighed. Curt fell to the ground, propping himself up, unable to move.

"I know who you are." Curt blurted out, filled to the brim with anger. That seemed to amuse the man. "Your cruelty... it gives you away."

"Oh? And who am I?" The man smirked.

"You are the Dread Pirate Roberts." Curt stated plainly. "Admit it."

"Proudly." The man bowed grandiosely. "What can I do for you, sir knight?"

"Die." Curt spat. Dread Pirate Roberts' brows raised in amusement.

"A bit harsh, don't you think?" Dread Pirate Roberts mused playfully.

"Not nearly harsh enough." Curt glared at him. "If it were up to me, you would be torn limb from limb."

"Hardly complimentary, sir knight." Dread Pirate Roberts chuckled. "Why loose your venom on me?"

Curt took a moment, sighing. He didn't want to talk to this man, but he supposed he had been the one to initiate the conversation. And to admit his same-sex attraction to his captor... he could die. Though he had already seemed to guess it, implying that he loved his Prince. Perhaps things were different for pirates. He took a shaky breath.

"You killed my love." Curt croaked quietly. Curt wasn't sure whether the pirate looked more or less amused, but the look on his face had certainly shifted- as had the mood. There was silence for a moment before Roberts responded.

"Perhaps." He admitted. "I kill a lot of people. Who was your love? Another Prince? Pompous, poised, and cold?"

"No... he was a farm boy. Poor." Curt admitted. "Poor, and perfect. With eyes like melted chocolate, and hair to match. Your ship attacked his, and... everyone knows that you take no prisoners."

"Well, I can't, can I?" Roberts reasoned. "People will think I've gone soft! And then any respect they may have had for me goes right out the window."

"You mock my pain!" Curt fumed, sadly and frustratedly.

"Life is pain, sir knight. Anyone who says differently is selling something." Roberts stated. "I remember your lover. Was it not four years ago that he perished?"

"It was." Curt sighed.

"He died with his dignity intact, if that's any consolation to you." Roberts sat next to Curt. "No blubbering, no tears. Only a simple plea: 'Please, I need to live'. I asked him why. And do you know what his answer was?"

"True love." Curt sniffed, looking to the ground.

"True love indeed... I can only assume he meant you, sir knight." Roberts sighed. "He talked of a man of boundless beauty, undying heart and unsurpassable faithfulness. Consider yourself lucky I killed him before he could see you for what you truly are."

"What I am?" Curt blinked in shock.

"Well, good sir... he talked of your unsurpassable faithfulness, if you will remember." Roberts almost seemed to scowl. "Did you run stright to your prince when you heard of his death? Or did you wait a few hours out of respect?"

In that moment, Curt snapped. He was unsure of when he had even registered his surroundings or if he had even fully taken it in. He was on the edge of a hill. He barely remembered thinking about a single thing other than the fact that this man had insulted both him and Owen in one single bound. He stood up, pulling the pirate ith him. Where he found the strength he did not know. Perhaps it was Owen, from beyond the grave. Or maybe it was simply the fortitude of his heart. But there was a fire in his eyes as he looked directly into those of the Dread Pirate Roberts, who stared back in total and utter shock.

"You don't get to insult me or my lover, for on that day I died with him!" Curt growled. "You can die too, for all I care!"

And with that, he let go of Roberts, shoving him over the edge of the ravine. He watched as Roberts tumbled down, a pit growing in his stomach. Why did he feel so terrible? He had just saved his own life and killed Owen's killer. He should feel relieved. The wind seemed to ring in his ears, his hearing acute. So naturally, he heard it more than clearly when Roberts said the words that made his heart stop.

"Curt Mega... you're going to be the death of me!" Roberts called up.

Curt's blood seemed to stop flowing, and he lost any colour he had.

"Owen? Oh, god!" Curt breathed, not thinking twice before throwing himself over the edge of the ravine. Before long, he too was tumbling to what could be his death.

About ten minutes later, Curt regained his consciousness, groaning. It seemed he wasn't too far behind Owen- who was grimacing, starting to stir. Owen crawled slowly, painfully, towards Curt. Curt did his part, trying to prop himself up on his side. Owen got closer to Curt, doing the same and running a hand through his lover’s hair. Curt reached an arm out, wincing, pulling Owen's mask off and taking a look at his lover's face for the first time in four years. It may have been the exhaustion, but Curt started to cry tears of joy.

"Darling... hey, love..." Owen cooed gently, soothing him. "It's okay. It's okay, love."

"You're here..." Curt sniffed, a bit embarassed.

"Can you move at all?" Owen asked.

"Move? You're alive!" Curt started to laugh happily. "I could fly!"

"Why did you move on so quickly from me?" Owen asked him tenderly. "I told you I would come back to you."

"I never moved on, Owen. Never." Curt assured him, still beaming. "I never will."

"Then you really don't have anything going on with the Prince?" Owen asked. "There are rumours, you know."

"Never." Curt shook his head. "He's so far from being my type..."

"Good." Owen sighed in relief.

"You were dead..." Curt sighed, still in shock.

"I'll explain later." Owen chuckled. "Well... I suppose there's a lesson to take from this, 'sir knight'."

"And what would that be?" Curt smirked playfully.

"Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for awhile." Owen smirked back.

"I will never doubt you again." Curt promised him.

"There will never be a need." Owen promised him in return.

And with that, they sealed their agreement with a kiss. It was tender, loving , and gentle- a representation of all of the wonderful things about love. It had been a long time coming... But oh, was it ever sweet. Both tangled their hands in each other's hair, taking in every moment they could to its fullest. And with that kiss, they knew that their love was stronger than anything that any prince, king, or fireswamp could throw their way.

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (12/?)

Chapter Title: Pariah

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Samara

Pairing: I promise this is still leading to Miranda/Samara, you guys

Story Rating: R

Warnings: Heavy trigger warning for suicide and depression. Seriously, strongest possible content warning applies.

Chapter Summary: Samara had everything she could possibly want in life. A successful career. A loving family. Three incredible children. Her soulmate. Then she lost it all, and she was abandoned. Cast out by society. Alone. Not a shoulder to cry on. Not a single word of comfort or support. Not one person who cared enough to ask her if she was okay. All she had to cling to in her lowest moments were her faith, and the pitiless brutality of the Justicars.

Author’s Note: This is the first of what is shaping up to be three chapters from Samara’s perspective. This chapter tackles Samara’s life pre-Normandy. I wasn’t necessarily expecting this to wind up being as long as it was, but so much of this - which, I remind you, I started planning out immediately after the end of Mass Effect 3 - has mirrored things going on in my own life recently that it has become deeply personal for me; I couldn’t not expand upon it.

(Spotify playlist)

* * *

So it is true. You are thinking of leaving.

I am one hundred years old, mother. It is well past time that I left.

You say that as if that means anything. Samara, you are still little more than a child. You have always believed you know so much, but you are foolish - ignorant! That you would act so rashly proves you are too immature to make your own decisions.

Then so be it. If I should make mistakes, then at least they will be mine to make instead of dictated to me as everything in my life has been until now. You cannot control me forever, although I know it pains you to think otherwise.

And if I did not, you would do what? End up an aimless layabout like your father? That is as high as your ambitions ever lie without me pushing you.

Why should I not aspire to be more like her? My father has seen more of the galaxy than you ever will. Unlike you, she does not cower in the shadows, afraid to experience anything further afield than her front door.

How dare you speak to me that way. You have no idea how much I sacrificed for you, Samara. I showered you with opportunities I never had - your sisters never had. You have always been so ungrateful. I admit, I have grown accustomed to your cavalier entitlement, no matter how much you endeavour to hurt me with your spite, but even I expected better than this from you. I have given you everything. How I managed to raise a child so stubborn, arrogant, and selfish—

You speak to me of selfishness, mother? You cannot keep me trapped here by your side, chained to your destiny because you are bitter that you wasted your potential and never amounted to anything more than a lonely, pathetic old woman. I have seen your fate and I would rather die than end up like you.

…

My ship leaves in three hours. I have nothing more I need.

I warn you, Samara. You are making a terrible mistake. If you walk out that door, you will not be welcome back here.

I am not welcome here now, so I fail to see what has changed. Goodbye, mother.

Samara knelt alone in the vast emptiness of the Temple of Athame. At least, she thought she was alone. In truth, she would not have been able to tell if she were surrounded by thousands.

She had returned there day after day in her bereavement. Praying to hear the voice of the Goddess, but yet to receive any response. Desperate to make sense of all that had happened to bring her back to Thessia, but unable to do so.

Why? Why hadn’t her sisters told her that their mother was sick?

Samara hadn't had the faintest indication that her mother was dying, until after she had already passed. The first time Samara had even learned of her mother's illness, was when she opened the invitation for her funeral.

That level of cruelty was unfathomable.

And Samara was so...angry at them over it. Every last one of them. So bitter. So resentful. She had never known any rage that came close to it. So much so that she didn’t even recognise the person in the mirror who could feel this way - a soul that could be this blackened and twisted by the all-consuming fire of her fury. The things it made her think. And say. And want to do.

How dare they. How dare her half-sisters do that to her. How dare her mother do that to her. Samara would not have withheld information like that from her worst enemies, let alone her family, no matter how distant they were.

They had not spoken in over three centuries, but Samara had not held any anger towards her mother over that conflict in a very long time. Why would she? She was little more than a child then. And, against her mother’s wishes, she had gone on to live the adventurous life she always wanted. Had they not known she would come home in a heartbeat if they had only asked her to? Had they really been so foolish as to believe she still held a grudge over such a petty squabble?

Although asari were encouraged by the matriarchs to move forward and never dwell in the past, Samara had always intended to reconcile with her mother some day. It had been a question of ‘when’ rather than ‘if’. An unspoken assumption. A silent intention to return when the time was right. When she was ready.

Now that chance had been stolen from her.

As soon as she had found the wherewithal to put her anger into words, Samara had unleashed viciously on her three half-sisters in a verbal assault that had gotten so heated and personal that biotics were nearly thrown.

Her sisters, mostly as a united front, had turned the blame on her, saying, in essence: “Why should we have expected you would care? You were the one who abandoned our mother. You had every opportunity to reach out to her and apologise for leaving her all those years ago, and you never did. You shame yourself, Samara. Have some respect.”

When it had become clear that not a single one of them would give her the simple decency of an apology for wronging her as they had, Samara had stormed out in the full and firm intention of never speaking to any of her sisters on her mother's side ever again - which was no loss, since there had never been any sisterly relationships between Samara and the rest of them to lose in the first place. They had never been close, even at the best of times, if there were such a thing.

But what little relief that had been gained from fighting with them and venting her open wounds after the funeral had quickly faded after Samara returned to the cold, sterile silence of her hotel room. Alone. Finding no peace at all from laying her mother to rest. Only torment.

The worst part was, the longer her sisters' words lingered in her mind, the less she could fault them. For as stubborn and proud as their mother was, Samara was the same. She held her ground, waiting, refusing to be the first to concede over a long forgotten argument that hadn’t mattered for centuries, for no reason other than because part of her still could not bear the injury to her ego of tacitly conceding defeat when she did not believe she had ever been in the wrong.

She was three hundred years older than when she’d left - more than that, even - but perhaps not any wiser. Still the same foolish child she always was.

And that was the hardest thing of all to forgive.

Her anger towards her mother would subside with time, as all such things inevitably did. Even towards her sisters, eventually. But how could she ever look at herself again, knowing she could have avoided all this by doing nothing more than putting her pride aside for a single moment in the last century, calling home, and telling her mother she was sorry?

How could she ever stop regretting a senseless tragedy she knew had been entirely within her power to avert?

And it was that unceasing ache which had left Samara so hollow and listless ever since red hot anger began to give way to the creeping fog of guilt. Why, in her heart, she blamed herself for not being there more than she blamed anyone else.

When that realisation had set in, Samara had scarcely felt able to get out of bed. And she had done something very uncharacteristic. She had missed her flight off Thessia. Didn't even call into work to say she wouldn't be back as anticipated, though she'd eventually summoned the wherewithal to reach out to them and make her excuses. Taken more time off.

Having nothing else, Samara had turned to the one thing she could in her hour of need, once her limbs had the strength to carry her out of bed. Her faith. Where else could she go for answers to such profound crises? Though it seemed her questions fell only on the deaf ears of the statues at whose feet she pleaded for aid. Because, as in all her years, Samara had not received a reply.

At what point would it start feeling like futility rather than faith to keep pleading for divine intervention and guidance when it never came?

“Would you like some company today?” a voice intruded upon her sombre prayers.

Samara had been so lost in her own thoughts, her own grief, that it took her a long moment to register those words, stir from her trance and lift her head towards the stranger, glancing up through tear-tracks seemingly permanently stained into her skin by that point. She had naturally assumed that whoever had spoken to her would be a priestess, but the woman she found at her side was not dressed like one. She was wearing regular clothes, more casual than Samara’s, who had barely changed since the funeral - after all, she'd packed so little.

“Forgive me for interrupting, it is just...I have seen you here so often recently. And you always seem so sad.” The compassion in the stranger’s voice was audible, unfeigned. A heartfelt sympathy and concern that, by her own account, had grown from watching someone she didn’t even know weeping in the temple day after day, until it prompted her to be brave enough to intervene.

“...I am sorry. Do you work here?” Samara asked on a bit of a delay, her wherewithal somewhat lost in her haze, clouded by sorrow. That being said, she had retained enough sense to be suitably wary, wondering why this unknown person was so interested in her affairs.

“No. Or, rather, not anymore,” the stranger answered honestly, if somewhat self-consciously, either sensing none of Samara’s caution or deliberately ignoring it. “I trained here for a time, when I was younger. But it was not my path. I still come here often, though. Both to worship, and to aid as a volunteer. So I could not help but notice you. I do not mean to impose, but, if I may, it pains me to see you here alone when you are clearly upset. I cannot claim to speak for the Goddess, but I wondered if you could use some help, or at least...someone to talk to?”

In her sorrow, Samara’s first instinct was to lash out and push this woman away. But she held her tongue. She was so tired. Too tired to fight with anyone, more than she had already fought with her half-sisters for keeping her mother’s illness from her. And this stranger, however misguided her intentions, was only trying to be nice to her. It seemed needlessly malicious to snap at her for offering kindness, even where such kindness was unwelcome.

“Forgive me. I mean no disrespect, however...my burdens are my own,” Samara spoke quietly, her voice lacking any inflection. “And, although I do not wish to be rude, my affairs are private. I do not even know who you are.”

The woman paused and glanced upwards in thought, as if considering her words. Then she politely bowed her head, tucking her hand against her chest. “I apologise. Where are my manners? My name is Lyla. Lyla T’Loras.”

Samara eyed her, before courteously returning a nod. “Samara T’Serra.”

Lyla straightened back up instantly. “See? Now we are no longer strangers,” she told her, lifting a finger and winking cleverly.

Samara blinked, finding herself curiously lost for words. It was odd. Lyla’s friendly demeanour should have been borderline overwhelming in contrast to her current mood - the very last thing Samara wanted to deal with in her dour gloom. But Lyla didn’t come off that way at all. Quite the opposite.

Unexpected as it may have been, Lyla’s passing concern for her welfare was the first display of sensitivity anybody had shown Samara whatsoever since her mother’s death. Nobody had asked her if she was okay. Nobody had displayed any shred of sympathy for how she was coping. Nobody cared how she was feeling. As always, everyone who knew Samara expected her to be strong. Unfailing. Unfaltering. To carry all her burdens alone. As she should.

And it was only as she stood there in that brief silence, reflected in the warmth of a complete stranger, that it suddenly came crashing down on Samara just how much the grief was tearing every fibre of her being apart, and that she didn’t know how she was going to make it to the end of another day, forced to endure this yet again all by herself. Her rage. Her guilt. Her memories. Her missed opportunities.

But how could she say that?

How could she possibly lay that at the feet of another person?

Lyla’s expression shifted into a small, understanding smile when Samara didn’t react to her lighthearted remark about no longer being strangers.

“You have been here for some time. You should at least have a short rest. I was just about to take lunch, as it so happens. I would very much like it if you would join me. Consider it my treat, to make amends for my intrusion,” Lyla offered, extending her hand.

At that, Samara held Lyla’s gaze, her guard beginning to falter. She couldn’t quite explain it but, for as absolutely certain as Samara had been earlier that morning that the last thing she wanted to do was ever talk to another person again, as soon as she saw that sweet twinkle in Lyla’s eyes, there was not a force in the universe that could have compelled her to utter a mean word to her.

And, even though she did not want to admit it, deep down, Samara needed this. Because her pain had reached the point where it had become unbearable. And if she dwelt alone on it any longer, she would shatter.

So Samara accepted Lyla’s invitation. And the two of them retreated to a quiet corner in a small tea house nearby. And, before she even knew what she was doing, almost as soon as she had settled against the cushions, Samara found herself just…unloading. Baring her soul to this woman she had only just met. Explaining everything. Her whole separation from her mother leading up to her death. The fight with her sisters. All the things she had thought and felt over these past several days. Was still feeling.

For as much of a deluge as it must have been, Lyla seemed completely unfazed. Listening to her with those open, shining eyes. Letting her speak uninterrupted. Chiming in only when appropriate, with small but heartfelt comments of support that encouraged Samara to continue sharing.

By the time it clicked how long she had been talking, nearly three hours had passed, and the tea shop was about to close.

“Forgive me.” Samara dabbed at her eyes. “You must think me a raving madwoman.”

“No. Far from it,” Lyla assured her, reaching out to gently cover her hand. “I think you are a daughter who loved her mother very much. I think you are understandably very hurt that you did not get to tell her that one last time before she died, or hear the same from her.”

“…I mean no offence, but you have just been accosted by the incoherent ramblings of a person you do not know for an entire afternoon and somehow you have not fled for the hills.”

"Oh, please; I am a political activist. If I could not tolerate incoherent ramblings, I would have to cancel our meetings," Lyla remarked. That was the first thing anybody had said in days that elicited an actual snort of laughter from Samara. "For the record, you were perfectly coherent the entire time you were speaking."

"I will have to take your word for that." Samara sighed. "Even so, I think your tolerance of me proves one of two things: that you are either very peculiar indeed, or that you are the kindest person I have ever met.”

“I cannot be both?” Lyla asked jokingly, earning a small smirk from Samara. Lyla's gaze dipped as she stirred her tea. “You have not met many nice people out there in the far reaches of the galaxy, have you? Since you left Thessia?” Lyla intuited, guessing as much from how unfamiliar Samara seemed with the prospect that another person might actually have enough of a heart to want to sit and listen to her for a bit, let alone be willing to offer her help with her problems.

“No, I have not,” Samara answered honestly.

It had been many long years since she traded her mercenary ways for a life in business, but suffice it to say the circles Samara travelled in even now were equally cutthroat in their own ways. Corporate boardrooms were not places where people held hands, hugged and talked about their feelings, which suited Samara perfectly well. She’d always taken after her mother like that. She was a hard woman. Strong, capable and self-sufficient. Just as she should be.

In hindsight, maybe if Samara and her mother had both been a bit less like each other, they would have talked a lot more.

Lyla’s expression softened as she watched Samara’s thumbs brush the teacup that had been empty for an hour. After a moment of hesitation, she reached out and gently touched her wrist, calling Samara’s attention away from her lamentations, and back to her.

“It…sounds like there is little left for you here, but…if you were thinking about staying on Thessia for a while longer, then…” Lyla scrawled an address and some contact details on a napkin, handing it to her. “Here. No pressure, of course, but…whenever you feel up to it, I would like to meet with you again.”

Samara managed a faint, self-deprecating smile. “I would as well, if only to prove that I am actually capable of having a decent conversation under different circumstances. I know it may be very difficult to believe based on first impressions, but some deranged sorts have even found me charming. Allegedly.” Samara’s fingers brushed Lyla’s as she took the napkin from her.

“Am I a deranged sort, then?” Lyla’s eyes twinkled under the lights. “Because I never said I did not.”

Samara’s voice caught, not expecting that response. But Lyla was just being kind. “No,” she answered, taking a moment to appreciate just how much better she felt for having not spent that day alone - and better yet for having spent it with someone as affirming and empathetic as Lyla. “No, I do not think you are at all.”

On her way to work the next morning, Lyla was pleasantly surprised to find a small bouquet of flowers at her door together with a card that read:

‘Thank you for the tea.

It was surpassed only by the company. -- Samara’

Lyla smiled, clutching the card fondly to her chest as she took the flowers inside.

She didn’t know it then, but Lyla would keep that card until the paper became soft and torn, and the ink faded and illegible.

* * *

Samara and Lyla did meet again, of course. Each meeting led to another. And, as quickly as they had met, they grew from total strangers into friends. And not merely friends, but good friends.

Before she knew it, Samara had completely abandoned any lingering thoughts of leaving Thessia. She handed in her notice at her current place of employment, and relocated with all her possessions back to the planet she’d once called home. Lyla was kind enough to let Samara stay with her while she searched for an apartment.

“Ah, for the love of fuck. You’re becoming a stereotype,” her father remarked with mock-disappointment during one of their semi-regular calls, which had since become something Samara made more of an effort to maintain with a little extra frequency than before following her mother’s passing.

“I beg your pardon?” Samara asked.

“Of all my daughters, you were the last one I expected to do this. But no. The second you hit the matron stage, boom! You head right back to Thessia to settle down and become safe and boring for the rest of your life.” Samara rolled her eyes at her father’s teasing. “Don’t tell me you’re going to get a tedious office job and a four bedroom house in a dull suburb with a bondmate and a buncha kids too--”

Samara hung up, later receiving a follow-up email that read: ‘YOU WERE THE COOLEST OF MY DAUGHTERS SAMARA. WHAT NEXT? YOU GONNA BECOME A FUCKIN’ COP OR SOME SHIT?!’

Samara replied back: ‘If I do, I will arrest you first for using all capitals. You know very well that is a crime punishable by death.’

‘Fine. Fine. Goddess, how did my own daughter get it into her head from such an early age that she could boss me around and tell me what to do?’

‘Did you meet my mother before you melded with her?’

‘Hahaha. You got me there.’

Despite her father’s protestations, Samara had long since traded her mercenary adventures for the competitive and ambitious world of corporate actuarial work. Samara was quite the natural at it, really. It helped her rub shoulders with some of the biggest companies and the richest people in the Asari Republics, giving them financial advice and assisting with their financial reporting and regulatory requirements. And, for what seemed complex to an outsider, once the appropriate factors were considered, it took all the seemingly unforeseeable uncertainties of the future and reduced them down to objective mathematical assessments.

While the world of business was never devoid of risk, if the numbers supported that the benefits of a particular choice outweighed the risks, then their advice gave that company the clarity to devise business plans and make investments. If the numbers did not support specific choices, then, based on their advice, companies rejected clients who were likely to default on loans, or refused applicants who were frankly too risky for a particular insurance policy, or made cuts of employees who added the least value to the company while costing the most in an M&A, or whatever other matter Samara happened to be advising on at the time.

Her job was numbers, which could never be moved or influenced by subjective personal feelings or sympathies. And she was damn good at her job.

It wasn’t difficult for Samara to find employment in her field on Thessia given her experience, so the transition back to life on the planet she’d grown up on was a comparatively smooth one. She settled in and started working for one of Thessia’s largest finance companies, with clients all over Council space, and moved into a two-bedroom apartment under a long-term lease. If she stayed at her new company for a few centuries and proved her talents there, Samara’s opportunities for advancement and growth were potentially limitless.

By contrast, despite having never left Thessia, Lyla’s future was far less certain. Lyla had been in search of her own path ever since deciding religious work wasn’t her calling, despite her dedication to her faith. No answers had presented themselves in the decades that had passed since she left the temple.

It wasn’t that she didn’t have interests. She did. Profound ones, which she devoted much of her free time to in between the retail and hospitality jobs she used to pay the bills. There was rarely a day that went by that she wasn't passionately promoting some activist cause, or raising money for some charitable end. But there was nothing Lyla could really think of that could be monetised, or which she personally wanted to convert to a career.

Besides which, while there were exceptions, on the whole, asari society did not favour the young. There was an unsubtle ageism in their society. Everyone knew it. Asari were taken more seriously the older they were, based on perceived experience and wisdom. While Lyla and her friends were at liberty to go and participate in their open democratic forums...she and her fellow young activists already did that. And they mostly got laughed at for doing so.

Asari society tended towards slow change. Moderation. Consensus. On the whole, Thessians especially were reluctant to let go of longstanding traditions, except in the face of clear new evidence or the overwhelming agreement of the wise and all-knowing matriarchs to embrace something forward-thinking and progressive, because the existing ways worked. For them, anyway.

The point being, if Lyla wanted a meaningful career in politics, she was first going to have to wait about three hundred years and most likely become a mother in order for most other asari to value her input and take her seriously.

Even then they might not listen.

Lyla's second-stage crisis wasn’t a rarity. It wasn’t uncommon for asari entering their matron stage to undergo radical career shifts where they finally decided to get serious about what they wanted to do with themselves, including returning to higher education for that purpose. It was almost a given after the expected free-spiritedness, wandering and transience that was socially accepted (if not outright encouraged) in their maiden stage came to an end. Everyone essentially got one free pass in and around their fourth century to change the direction of their life with no judgement or questioning at all. Samara had already cashed in hers, so to speak, when she was in her three hundreds.

But, then again, many asari presented with that option often underwent a kind of choice paralysis. If there was an implied freedom that they could now rethink their whole life and become anything they wanted, but they had to get it right the first time or they might be perceived as indecisive or bad decision makers if they changed paths multiple times, it wasn’t surprising that some women froze under the pressure. Even by their fourth century, not every asari knew with any degree of certainty what career path was right for her, or who she wanted to be for the foreseeable future, given that the next time it was socially normative for an asari to dramatically alter her life’s direction wasn’t until she hit her matriarch stage.

Even if the backlash against changing life directions may have existed largely only in people’s minds and may have been more of an imagined obstacle than a real one, that didn’t change the fact that it was still a frightening prospect for many. Including Lyla. She’d confessed to feeling a looming dread that she was falling behind her peers - that, all of a sudden, around the time she hit her matron stage, she’d been struck with this ominous sense that time was leaving her in the dust, and if she didn't catch up now, she never would.

Catch up to what exactly, she didn’t know. Things society considered important achievements? Having a respectable career? A house? A family? Children?

"Maybe things would have been different if the religious path had worked out for me like I thought it would, but it is as if...where have the first three hundred and fifty-five years of my life gone? And what do I have to show for them?" Lyla asked aloud over drinks late one night as the subject of conversation came up again. "What does it say about me if over a third of my lifespan can feel wasted?"

"Do not say that." Samara shook her head at that defeated sentiment.

Lyla shrugged. Perhaps it sounded harsh, but... "It is how I feel."

“...Have you considered law?” Samara encouraged beneath the noise. “You are highly intelligent. And you are more passionate about justice than any person I have ever met. I think you would be well-suited for it.”

Lyla pulled a face. “I do not know if it suits me. Every lawyer I have ever met seems so…competitive. And I do not like the idea of arguing for something I know to be wrong just to earn a paycheque.”

“Perhaps you do not. But there are different types of advocacy. There are lawyers, as you well know, who solely help those without the resources to fight for themselves,” Samara noted.

"Oh, you mean the lawyers who shoulder the biggest caseload and make the least money?" Lyla dryly retorted, holding a drink to her lips.

"Yes, those ones." Samara's comment elicited a snort. "Do not pretend to concern yourself with credits. If you do, that would be your choice to make - whether you would rather earn more at a larger firm, or stay true to your values and do community work. Personally, I have never seen anything so inspiring as when you champion a cause that truly matters to you,” Samara spoke truthfully, nursing her drink. “You always speak up for the rights of the downtrodden. And, though you have less than I do, you always dedicate what little free time and spare income you have to your causes, both political and charitable, which is nothing if not admirable. The fire with which you campaign against inequality and injustice is almost enough to convince me to join you in your battles.”

“Even though you do not always agree with me,” Lyla wryly remarked.

Samara sighed. “Even though I do not always agree with you, no.” Lyla gave her an amused look. Samara shrugged, unable to pretend otherwise after her many centuries exploring the galaxy, seeing things that Lyla had not, and being raised the way she had. “You are a softer person than I am. You know very well that I believe that people are best helped by allowing them to help themselves, not by teaching them to be weak, dependent and submissive.”

“It cannot always be thus, Samara,” Lyla insisted with a faintly exasperated shake of her head, as if she had predicted that response. They had debated such things many times, though no matter how much their ideologies differed or how impassioned and lively their arguments got, it was always in good spirits.

“So be the idealist that you are. Live by your principles,” Samara encouraged. “Fight for those who you say cannot fight for themselves. I may not agree with everything you say, but if there is one thing that will never fade, it is that I believe in you, and your sincere desire to help others.”

Lyla’s lips curled into a genuine smile. “Thank you. I know you would not say that if you did not really mean it, so…that actually means a lot more to hear it when it comes from you.” She paused, thumbs tracing circles on her glass as she reflected on Samara's advice. "You know, come to think of it, I would like to do tenants' advocacy. I already fight for tenants' rights for free. Why not make a career of it?" she thought aloud, finally seeing a direction for her life that made sense.

"Precisely!" Samara’s eyes sparkled as she reached out across the table and took Lyla’s hand. “Whatever you set your mind to, if you are truly committed to it, I am certain you will make a difference in the lives of others, as you have already made in mine. Whatever you decide to do, however long it will take, know that you will have my full support in achieving your goals.”

Lyla caught onto her meaning. “When you say support…” she began, as if prepared to refuse.

Samara shook her head, gripping Lyla's fingers a little tighter. “Money is no object for me right now. I earn more than enough to cover my rent. If you need to work less to focus on your studies, you do not need to worry how you will be able to afford it. You would at liberty to move in with me if you needed to.”

“Samara, I...I know that you mean it, and I am truly thankful, but I could not…” Lyla trailed off, glanced aside and sighed. “Why are you offering me this?” she asked. “Were you not just saying a moment ago how people should help themselves and not rely upon the charity of others?”

Samara smirked at her half-joking remark. “Firstly, I offer because I care about you, and I want to help you, just as you have already done the same for me. And, secondly...I am offering because you are precisely the sort of person who does work tirelessly to help not only yourself, but also others. You volunteer so much in aid of your causes, and yet you never accept handouts from anyone. For the life of me, I do not believe I have ever seen you accept a gift without repaying the kindness, in some way,

"By that measure, I can say without any falsity that you are precisely the person who most deserves this, because I know you would never take advantage of another person's generosity. So, please, let me do this for you. And, make no mistake, if you accept, then you are under no obligation whatsoever to repay me,” Samara made that clear. Because, as far as she was concerned, Lyla already had.

Lyla smiled, her eyes shimmering at Samara’s sincerity. “I may yet find my own way to,” she mock-warned her companion across the table. “Just you wait.”

* * *

It was a little over two years before Samara realised she had fallen in love with Lyla.

She had to admit, it took her somewhat by surprise. Samara had lain with enough lovers over the centuries to know herself and her desires. Or so she had thought.

Although she had slept with a colourful spectrum of people of different species, genders and from all parts of the galaxy that a person could imagine, it was from that experience that Samara had come to the conclusion that she was not attracted to soft people. Far from it. She was never normally drawn to those who were gentle, selfless and kind. People like Lyla. In fact, it was usually the opposite.

In her youth, she was most enamoured with dangerous sorts. Cunning people who lived on the edge and flirted with death. Killers. Renegades. Mavericks. People who never took no for an answer, and didn't play by society's rules.

Such attraction had tempered with age, ever since Samara witnessed the darker side of what those kinds of people were capable of and that it often involved crossing moral lines she could neither tolerate nor condone. But, even now, Samara would have described her type as people who impressed her with sheer force of personality. Strong, shrewd, confident, self-assured people.

She liked someone who knew what they wanted and who wasn’t afraid of doing whatever it took to get it, naysayers be damned. Someone skilled, capable, ambitious and intelligent. Someone who never backed down from a challenge, and didn't let others stand in their way. Someone who shared similarities with Samara, but who also thought differently than she did, whose views weren't confined to the same box as hers, and wouldn’t cower from her if a conflict arose between them. Someone who stood firm enough in their beliefs and principles to butt heads with Samara and tell her if she was wrong, if indeed she was in the wrong.

When it came to relationships, Samara had always struggled to find someone who could be a true partner to her in all those ways. An equal. Her match.

Unfortunately, any time Samara had found prospective love interests who seemed like they could be something serious - people who were strong, independent, and resilient like herself - things had never worked out. Often, their relationships became almost like competitions. They wanted Samara to change, reign herself in, and grew jealous that she was outshining them. Or else, the exact opposite happened. The person she thought they were revealed their true colours. They stopped being self-sufficient, and instead turned totally weak and codependent. As if they wanted less of a life partner, and more of a mother.

But, the more Samara thought about it, for as exceptional as Lyla was from all those who came before, her attraction to her wasn’t that strange at all. Not only because those past relationships had failed for good reason, but because Lyla did have those qualities Samara was searching for.

Lyla was strong. She was confident. She was cunning and intelligent. She did rebel against the system and play by her own rules. She never backed down or stopped fighting for her beliefs. She wasn’t timid or afraid of anybody, including Samara. She should have known by now that Lyla was the last person on Thessia who would ever be scared to tell Samara when she thought she was wrong, given how frequently they liked to debate their differing but equally valid views.

The pivotal point of distinction between Lyla and the other people Samara considered her type in the past was, unlike them, that she fought all her battles with words rather than with either weapons or money, and that she opposed injustice and inequality with her activism rather than furthering it for personal gain. She gave to others rather than taking from the weak like so many others Samara had known in the past. She embodied selflessness rather than selfishness.

So, in her own way, Lyla was as much of a maverick as any of the others Samara had fallen for in her younger years. It was just that she had managed to possess all those qualities while also being the single most kind, compassionate and loving person Samara had ever met.

She had flipped all Samara’s preconceived biases on their head, and proven them false. And, in the process, she’d made her a better, more open-minded person. A more loving and less self-centred person.

Was it any wonder, then, that Samara should have fallen for her? In retrospect, did she have any choice at all in the matter but to surrender her heart to such an incredible woman?

Wouldn’t she be a fool if she didn’t?

On the other hand, plucking up the courage to tell Lyla how she felt about her was another war entirely.

Samara had been with her own kind before. More times than she could count. Both in fleeting one-night encounters, and among those attempted longer-term relationships that didn’t last. That was never an issue for her. Obviously not, given her parentage. But for many asari, it was. Outwardly, at least.

In reality, and from her own experiences, Samara would have bet her life that the majority of asari, even those who spat the slur ‘pureblood’ so callously from their lips, had melded with at least one other asari in their life. It was only natural. They had not survived as a species by not being attracted to their own.

For a species that was renowned for being so open and free about their sexuality, the one area where it grew somewhat muddy and complicated was when it came to the acknowledgement of the reality of intraspecies attraction. To an extent, it was almost expected that young asari would get curious and experiment. After all, their adolescence was so long. At those young ages, before asari were considered adults, and before many of them ever had the opportunity to so much as meet another species, it was not frowned upon. They were seen essentially as practice relationships for the real thing. It was a phase. They would grow out of it.

Not to mention, consorts held a high status in their society. And while consorts offered many services - from mere conversation to the gift of music and song - some of the reasons an asari would visit a consort were a lot more obvious. As many asari spent centuries raising their children alone, with no expectation that they would search for love or another partner until their children left home...they often got lonely. They craved companionship, and physical intimacy. Plus, due to her finance work, Samara was well aware that several powerful clients kept accounts to a consort, as lifelong confidants and mistresses.

Hence, it was not the melding itself that was frowned upon. Nor even meaningful relationships between two asari. It was merely the prevailing view that, for reproductive purposes…nothing would be gained if they mated with their own kind. No new source of randomised genetic code would be obtained, and fewer new random genes would be produced from asari-asari unions and passed from mothers onto their children. Hence, although discrimination was legally forbidden, on a social level, to be a pureblood in asari society was by many looked upon not dissimilarly to how some other species looked upon inbreeding.

So the widespread belief was, anyway.

If there was any scientific basis for it, Samara had never seen it. Apart from the existence of one extremely rare illness that hardly affected anybody. As if that justified the stigma. But that it was irrational did not change that asari like her were considered inferior. And, while many young asari might be happy to casually fool around with one another for fun and for 'practice' in their maiden stage, and many older asari might have secretly sought the services of a consort when they were starved for affection and desperate to be touched, the idea of settling down with one another, and having a serious relationship, was abhorrent.

Samara was no coward. Not by her own reckoning. She had been dealing with judgement since the day she was born. She had had no alternative but to learn to be combative and self-reliant from her earliest memories. To stand up for herself and fight her own battles, because no one else would. Such things tend to weather one's skin. But to disclose her feelings to Lyla was not without great risk, in light of the sensitive position they were in.

If they were not both asari, it would be different. The consequences would be less. If she rejected her, a no would suffice, and they could simply move on, and continue to be friends. But if Lyla truly reviled her feelings, and it pained Samara to admit that she did not know enough to be certain that she would not, then the story would be altogether different.

She would not only have her heart broken, but she could potentially lose her dearest friend. And that was a situation she had never been in before.

Samara had always been so independent, both due to being a ‘pureblood’ - a slur she had learned to wear over the years after being indoctrinated by her mother's lectures on the virtues of strength and resilience to where eventually the word stopped making her flinch - and due to being raised the way she had. Brought up alone, by her stern, strict mother. She had never been in this position before. To have someone in her life that she cared about so much, loved so much, to where the thought of life without them was unbearable. To where she would rather keep her feelings secret, because it would hurt too much to lose her.

Because of that, she decided it was not worth the risk.

And Samara never planned to tell her. She carried her burden alone, in silence, content to leave her love unrequited, satisfied to remain her friend.

It was hard sometimes. With Lyla living with her, needing the free room and board Samara had offered while she finished her law studies (though she paid what she could despite Samara’s protestations), it often pained her to be near her. But it would have pained her more to be without her. So the choice was simple.

For another year, Samara kept her feelings for her best friend buried, saying nothing of what she felt in her heart.

Until she started to see things.

Every now and then when she and Lyla went out together, as they so often did, she would notice little things. The way Lyla looked at her and nobody else. The way she laughed at her jokes. The way their arms linked together on the way home.

She began to wonder if maybe…

No. No, she was just deluding herself. If Lyla felt the same way, she would have said something. Samara was finding signs where there were none, because she wished for it so badly.

But then Lyla finished her final law exams. And got her results. And passed with flying colours, of course. She went out to celebrate with her classmates. Had a bit too much to drink (as she only deserved to do).

Samara got the call to help Lyla home when it was evident her night had ended early. Needless to say, she took her skycar straight there. Samara found Lyla half-dozing off in the bed of the party host, who had very kindly helped her to her room in case she was likely to pass out.

“Mornin’, Samara,” Lyla slurred, obviously not aware what time of day it was. “What time did you get here?”

“I just arrived. Come. Let us get you into your own bed,” said Samara, making sure all of Lyla’s things were in order in her bag on the bedside table. Fortunately, nothing was missing. The party host (whose name she hadn't caught) had done a good job taking care of her. She would remember to thank her later.

“Okay.” Lyla blinked slowly, her eyes glistening beneath heavy lids as she watched Samara lean over and pull the blankets off her. Samara froze when she felt fingers stroking her cheek. “Hey. Promise me something?” Lyla began. Samara did not respond, unable to do anything but stare. “When we get home, do not let me meld with you tonight. No matter how much I want you to.”

At that, Samara softened at the same time as she felt her heart flutter. She covered Lyla’s hand with her own. She knew what state Lyla was in. She would never dream of taking advantage of her like that. Not in a million lifetimes.

“Of course,” Samara promised, coaxing Lyla to her feet.

Samara took Lyla home, the effect of the last few drinks in her system only continuing to grow as they flew to their apartment. Lyla leaned on Samara as she guided her down to their flat, muttering half-nonsensical things as Samara unlocked the door and headed for Lyla’s room.

She tucked Lyla in beneath her sheets, making sure she had plenty of water beside her bed, and simple pain medicine to help with the headaches when she woke up.

“You should have everything you need. Feel free to wake me if you are unwell,” Samara said gently, perching on the edge of Lyla’s bed a moment as she tenderly brushed her forehead. It honestly wasn’t clear if Lyla was coherent enough to hear her, or really understand that she was there. She looked to have fallen asleep.

Just as Samara got up to leave, Lyla’s fingers ensnared her wrist. Then both hands climbed to her shoulders.

“Stay?” Lyla whispered, bedroom eyes conveying only one meaning.

Samara would have been lying if she had not long yearned for the day that Lyla might ask her something like that. Her heart ached that the question had been asked when she clearly was in no fit state to grasp what she was saying, much less consent to what would follow.

Samara gently put Lyla’s hands back down by her sides. She leaned down and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek, nothing more. “Not tonight,” she said.

They could revisit this in the morning when Lyla was sober. When Samara knew that anything that happened between them was something both of them wanted, and meant. When hearing her say these things didn’t come with the doubt of not knowing if Lyla really felt the same way, or if she was merely getting her hopes raised in the expectation that they would soon be dashed by stark reality.

Or, at least, that was the plan. Unfortunately, things did not happen that way.

When Samara awoke in the morning, Lyla had not stirred. Her door didn't open, even as Samara watched it over every moment of breakfast. Before long, the time came that Samara needed to leave for work. She could not linger to wait for her to wake up. The conversation she planned in her head never came to pass. Nor did it follow in the evening. Samara received a message at lunch saying Lyla had picked up a shift at her job that night. By the time Lyla got home, it was so late that Samara was already asleep.

For about the next two weeks, for what little they did see of each other, it seemed as though Lyla was doing everything in her power to avoid her. To make excuses to be out of the apartment whenever Samara was home, and to ensure any moments of contact they had were fleeting and superficial.

It was enough time for Samara to analyse that night hundreds of times. Maybe even a thousand. She knew she wasn’t imagining what she saw in Lyla’s eyes when she grabbed her hand and asked her to stay. That want. That couldn’t be feigned, or invented by intoxication alone. But what did it mean?

The uncertainty was driving her crazy. She had to know.

Eventually, Samara had enough of being ignored.

Samara was at the kitchen table massaging her temples to ward off a headache in anticipation of another day of not confronting the issues as Lyla pulled on her coat and got ready to head out. It was ostensibly a day off for both of them. The sort of day they, without fail, always used to spend together, as best friends do.

“I am going to the Temple. I might meet up with friends from school after. I do not know when I will be back,” Lyla told her, once again not making eye contact with her. Samara had almost gotten used to it by that point. “If you need anyt--”

In her frustration, Samara’s hands hit the table a little harder than she intended. “Stop this, Lyla. Just stop this.”

Lyla hesitated at the door, startled. “I do not know what you--”

“Yes, you do. Honestly, we live together. Were you just expecting we could maintain this charade forever and that I would not notice you were avoiding me? You are a grown woman, Lyla. Use your words,” Samara said, her disappointment in her behaviour plain from her tone.

Lyla reluctantly let her hand fall from the door, evidently having the decency to be humbled by Samara’s piercing insight. Samara had rarely if ever had cause to scold her like this. Angering Samara she could take. Bickering with her was fine. They would forgive each other almost immediately whenever they butted heads. But disappointing her? That actually kind of hurt.

“...What do you expect me to say?” Lyla asked, shrugging her shoulders.

Samara rounded the table as she stood. Lyla was willing to speak; that was a start. And, if Lyla was going to compel her to be the one to be direct about this, then so be it. Unlike most people, Samara was never afraid of being that person. “I thought perhaps you did not remember anything about that night. Judging by how you have refused to be in the same room as me for longer than five minutes since, I now suspect I was mistaken,” Samara pointed out, her voice firm.

Lyla uttered half a scoff, dropping any pretence. “Would that I did not recall. Then perhaps I could look at you without replaying it in my head.”

Samara took a step closer. “So let me put us both out of our misery, and say what I would have said to you that morning, had you only let me; I am in love with you, Lyla,” she confessed. “I have been for a considerable time. I did not say anything nor act on it sooner because I feared, in doing so, I would lose you as a friend. But if I am to remain silent and lose you anyway, then what have I to fear now in telling you the truth?” she said, with an element of resignation.

Lyla swallowed at that, aware of how unfairly she'd been acting. But her body language remained withdrawn. Almost like she was trying to retreat and hide away inside the safety of a shell that didn't exist.

“Samara…whatever you think this is, we cannot act on this,” Lyla refused her, without raising her head. “We are both asari.”

At that statement, Samara just gave her a look.

Lyla averted her eyes, ashamed of the implication of her words. “I did not mean it that way,” she said apologetically. “I have never treated you any differently. I am not...that sort of person. You know I am not. All I am saying is that society is a cruel place. You know this. Some people will not approve. My…My family will not approve. And you cannot pretend that does not affect things.”

“When has that stopped you?” Samara challenged, studying Lyla’s face. “You are the most passionate champion for justice I have ever met. So much that you...frustrate and confuse me sometimes. Now all of a sudden you give up because you are too cowardly to fight for what you want when it will be you who faces bigotry for a change? That is not the Lyla I fell in love with.”

“I am not giving up on anything!” Lyla defended herself. Even so, she found it difficult to meet Samara’s gaze, avoiding it. She was scared. It was one thing to be an ally and fight for others who were victims of society’s unfairness. It was another thing entirely to paint a target for discrimination on her own back. On the backs of any children she and Samara might have together, if they were serious about this. “All I am saying is, do you really see a future for us together, knowing what it means we will endure? Because if either of us is uncertain, then we would be sacrificing our friendship for what? Physical attraction? A tryst?”

“Tell me, Lyla.” Samara got down on her knees before her, clasping Lyla’s hand. “Tell me you do not love me, and I will respect your answer. You will not lose my friendship. I would never force anything upon you that you do not desire in kind. But if you cannot look me in the eye and tell me you do not want this, then...stop lying to yourself, and admit that you do.”

“Samara…” Lyla gave a rather pathetic attempt to pull her hand away. Samara didn’t let go.

“Give me an answer, Lyla. I think I deserve one,” Samara persisted. “If you do not wish to be with me, then why can you not simply look me in the eye and tell me you do not feel the same way about me as I feel for you?”

“Because you know I cannot lie to you, Samara,” Lyla finally broke, allowing their stares to link at long last. “You know I love you. You know this. And, if there was nothing standing in the way of us being together, I would gladly give you my heart without reservation. But there is more to consider. We do not exist in…some kind of romantic novel. There is more to life than love alone.”

Samara stood, drawing Lyla in closer and curling her fingers beneath her jaw. “Not since I met you, there is not,” she whispered to her.

Those words brought an instant shimmer to Lyla’s eyes, as if her heart ached to hear them. “Samara…” If she meant to say anything else, she didn’t. In fact, Lyla offered no further resistance, melting into her embrace when Samara kissed her.

Suffice it to say, Lyla never did leave the apartment that day.

* * *

Lyla did work at a community law centre for a time.

It was not what she expected.

She did not discuss her work with Samara openly. For confidentiality reasons, she could not. But, in the few years she worked there, rather than helping people fight against injustice, all she really saw was the unspoken dark side of Thessia; a shameful inner secret that few non-asari knew about.

Families torn apart by illegal drugs - addictions borne from traumas they brought home with them from centuries living as mercenaries or commandos, witnessing horrific violence. Dependencies which had never faded after carefree maiden stages sampling every thrill, perk and high the galaxy had to offer. Mothers who thought they were ready to be mothers but were not, who abused and neglected their children. Even when Lyla wasn't acting for the mother, she was nevertheless all too often powerless to do anything to help get children out of bad situations.

At one stage, one of her criminal clients was, from what Samara could gather, a former prominent member of some kind of local gang. And, despite Lyla doing what she could to advocate for her and keep her out of prison, she was nevertheless convicted of the charges that had been laid against her.

Lyla started receiving anonymous threatening letters after the trial.

As her disillusionment rose, when a job offer from a larger firm came, Lyla chose to take the money and leave. It didn't align with her values, but then again the tenants' advocacy work she'd been hoping to do at the community law centre was woefully underfunded, with a massive backlog of unresolved cases, and wasn't showing any signs of vacant job positions anytime in the near future.

At least working an easier, more commercial area of law would pay better, and wouldn't come with the vicarious trauma of the things she'd seen already.

* * *

They were together for five years before Samara finally proposed.

“I could have done this the moment after we first kissed, because I already knew then what I know now,” Samara began, entwining her fingers with Lyla’s as the night sky sparkled around them, city lights reflected on the water below as they celebrated the passing of another year. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Deep down, I believe a part of me knew I would from the moment I met you.”

Lyla’s eyes shone as she smiled, the first of the fireworks bursting as cheers erupted from the plaza on the top of the skyscraper. “If you had asked me five years ago, my answer would have been yes then too.”

Naturally, the first person Samara told about their engagement was her father.

“A bonding ceremony? Why d’you wanna do that? Commitment is a terrible idea. It never works. You should be free to meld with anyone who takes your fancy,” was her father’s response, predictably. After all, that was how she had lived for nine hundred years. At least as far as Samara knew. “But, you know, who am I to judge? If she makes you happy, or whatever, then she’s…I dunno, got my blessing, if you needed it? Good for you, I guess.”

Samara sighed, wondering if there was any point in asking her father what she intended to before wrapping up the call. “Do you have any advice for me?”

Her father snorted. “What, just because I’m a matriarch I’m supposed to be full of wisdom?”

“Apparently, yes,” Samara dryly replied. That was what their society decreed. Although, after meeting her father, she was not sure why anybody would still believe that. She was just as absent-minded and irresponsible now as she had been four hundred years ago. Age had changed nothing.

Her father exhaled, thinking about it. “...Have kids. Kids are pretty great,” she said sincerely. “But, fair warning, you’re going to love them so much, it’s gonna break your heart when they inevitably leave you someday. More than you realise it will. But it’ll be worth how much it hurts, though. Yeah. Yeah, definitely have kids.”

Samara couldn’t help but smile at her father’s words. “Thank you.”

Samara and Lyla became bonded at the Temple of Athame. Although the venue was large, the ceremony was small and private. As both of them were somewhat outcasts from their respective families, most of the people who attended were from their inner circle of friends.

From Lyla’s family, only one sister with whom she was particularly close attended. Everyone else abstained, still shunning her for being with another asari, as Lyla expected. Similarly, the only family member Samara had left who she was close enough to invite was her father - and, frankly, knowing her father, she was surprised she showed up, even more so that she was actually on time.

In retrospect, it was somewhat sad to think that Samara had seven half-sisters (though, admittedly, there could have been more on either parent’s side for all she knew, but especially knowing her father it wasn't unlikely), and yet she wasn’t close enough to a single one of them to want them to attend her bonding ceremony. She hadn't been raised with any of them, though. In a way, she had always felt more like an only child than one of eight children. Her sisters felt more like cousins than siblings. Distant relations she only saw once-in-a-while.

As the child of two asari, many of her sisters (especially on her mother’s side) looked down on her as a black stain on their family. A transgression by their common parent. An embarrassment.

Samara had always grown up knowing that she was an outcast, whether her mother tried to shelter her from it or not. The mere act of isolating her from the rest of her family in order to protect her from their judgement only made it more of a reality. To know that one is different, that one does not fit in, and is not accepted, shapes one on a fundamental level, in ways one may not even fully recognise until many years later, if at all. She had always carried it alone, thought it hardened her skin, made her tougher than those who had everything handed to them.

It was only centuries later, that she was in a place where she could truly admit to herself for the first time since her childhood how much it hurt. That not all pain strengthens. Sometimes pain was just pain, and it was pointless, and needless.

On her father’s side, there had been…less of that directed towards her, because Samara was not the only child she had fathered with another asari. But she had spent so much less time with her father, and had barely interacted with any of her sisters on that side. Yet, whenever she did, she sensed a bizarre jealousy and resentment behind their flippancy at her efforts to get to know them. One that seemed to say, ‘You never lived with her. She did not raise you. You did not have to endure the things I did. You did not have to deal with her at her worst. So why are you so special to her? Why does she love you so much? It is not fair.’

And it was these thoughts of family and sisters percolating in Samara's mind that gelled and congealed into a conscious impetus. A drive that had never truly been present before, until she took time to reflect on just what she had lacked growing up, and how much the way in which she was raised had actually affected her, and whether it drove a needless wedge between her and her sisters.

And it was when that thought occurred to her that she began to contemplate that maybe she would have been a happier person much earlier in her life had that not been done to her. If instead of keeping her hidden away because she thought that was safest for her, since being protective of her was the only way her iron-willed mother knew how to show Samara how much she loved her, she had done as much as she could to help integrate her with the rest of her family. To foster Samara’s connections with her sisters. To let her spend more time with her father. To nurture new relationships, searching for love and support and continuing to build a new family of her own while Samara was still a child, instead of cutting herself off from the world and…essentially stopping living her own life in order to raise her alone, because she thought that was what motherhood meant.

For as much as Samara did love her mother and thought there was a lot of good to learn from the example she’d set for her, as much as it hurt to admit it, through no malice or fault of her own, there were still things she had done wrong. Not abuse or neglect or wilful malice or bullying or cruelty or anything said or done with intent to harm. She was a good and decent person. And, despite everything, overall, a good parent. She had done the absolute best she was capable of doing with the skillset she had available to her to raise a child in difficult circumstances - a child who, unlike her other children, society did not want her to have. But, in some respects, she had lacked some of the right tools for Samara. Emotionally.

Her mother’s biggest personal weakness by far was that she had been too proud and too stubborn to learn from her mistakes and change her ways when they did not work. She would rather be wrong her way than right someone else’s. And, at that young age, Samara learned that from her.

That was, in essence, why they hadn’t talked for three hundred years before she died. If nothing else, that was one cycle Samara did not want to repeat.

Some things needed to change.

Suffice it to say, when the matter of children first came up in conversation, Samara made it plain that she was determined to rectify the mistakes her mother and father had made with her - that she never wanted her daughters to endure the same isolation, loneliness and sense of separation from the rest of her family that she once had in her childhood.

“It would mean the world to me if our daughters could be born close together. Say, no more than two or three years apart,” said Samara. In the asari frame of reference, that would make them almost equivocal to twins or triplets in other species. Distinctions of only a few years were effectively meaningless to such a long-lived race as theirs. Even in childhood, milestones were marked more by decades than individual years. “I want our daughters to know what it is to be raised with their sisters. To live together as a family. That way, if anything were to happen to us…at least they will always have each other.”

Lyla reached out to cover Samara’s hand, stroking it with her thumb. “That sounds beautiful,” she enthused, supporting her wholeheartedly.

Samara exhaled, more relieved than she expected. It was difficult to explain how important this idea of a family very different to her own had become to her since it had formed in her head. “I am glad you agree.”

By having several children so close together, their family structure would certainly be a little…unusual. But far from unheard of. And practicality was not a question. In a society where the majority of asari raised their children alone and where childhood lasted decades, their cultural values reflected their biology. The prevailing attitudes towards parental leave, childrearing and employees' childcare responsibilities was generally far more matter-of-fact and pro-flexibility than seemed to be the case among most other non-monogendered species.

All asari, even the childless, valued motherhood. Go figure.

Besides, considering they had each already worked about fifty years for their respective companies, and were still relatively young in asari terms, a short gap of a few years at this age to have children was nothing relative to their lifespan. It would hardly register as a blip in either of their careers.

Just one question remained. Which one of them would be the mother, and which one of them the father. Or would it be both of them?

Even though melding with a father was required to have children, the science was nevertheless extremely clear that all the genes passed to a child came solely from the mother. Exploring the father's genetic code during a meld which produced a child was merely a means by which the mother randomised some of her own genetic material. It was at once sexual, yet asexual (although, that being said, Samara had never met another asari, including herself, who truly believed they inherited nothing from their father). For that reason, the mother tended to enjoy a more privileged status, including that all asari children bore their mother's surname.

Samara's thumb stroked the back of Lyla's fingers, knowing what she personally desired, but not wishing this to become a source of conflict between them. In that respect, she had gone into this conversation fully prepared to compromise for the sake of the woman she loved.

"We could--"

“Samara, I have already thought about this at length.” Lyla raised a hand to cut her off, evidently well aware of the thoughts going through her bondmate's head. “Whenever the time is right, nothing would make me happier than for you to be the mother of our children. All of them,” she said sincerely, without so much as a glimmer of hesitation or doubt.

Samara’s smile resonated through her whole body as she embraced Lyla, knowing for certain in that moment that everything was as it should be.

"Thank you."

Samara’s father lived just long enough to meet her three grandchildren before she passed.

* * *

Samara smirked as she noticed Falere and Mirala surreptitiously trying (and failing) to conceal distinctly mug-shaped objects wrapped in brown paper as they approached her skycar outside the school gates.

“What have you got there?” Samara asked wryly.

“A surprise!” Falere enthused, about the loudest and most excited Samara had ever seen her normally shy and soft-spoken daughter.

“Telling you now would spoil it. We must wait until father is present,” Rila stated plainly, ever responsible and rule-enforcing. Even with regard to her own parents.

“Surely you could give me a clue,” Samara remarked as she buckled her seatbelt.

“Hey, the sooner you get home, the sooner you can open it,” Mirala pointed out, folding her arms on the headrest of her mother’s seat. “So, if you want to gun it and run a few sets of lights on the way home…”

“Mirala!” Rila chastised, casting an utterly scandalised look over her shoulder.

“I’m joking!” Mirala insisted, sitting back in her seat with her hands raised.

As it so happened, Lyla had actually called in sick and stayed home to work remotely that day (something she was doing more and more often of late), so she was already there waiting for them when they came through the door. Samara was a little surprised to see her there, having expected Lyla to be at the office, but didn’t comment. Not in front of the children.

“Our children come bearing gifts,” Samara announced, stepping aside to allow them their moment in the spotlight.

Lyla brightened immediately. “Oh, wonderful.”

“...Go on.” Mirala gave Falere a little nudge, encouraging her bashful older sister to be the one to take the lead, suggesting it had been her idea.

Rila looked her usual serious self, as if treating this like a class assignment, while Falere was visibly the most proud of the bunch. Mirala’s smirk betrayed that she was probably having more fun with this than she was letting on.

“Recently, in art class, we have been learning about ceramics. Pottery. That sort of thing. So we all worked together to make you these--oh, wait, I cannot remember which one is which…” Falere trailed off, glancing between hers and Mirala’s.

The girls looked between each other, all three of them equally befuddled as to which present belonged to which parent. Mirala shrugged.

“One moment.” Rila held up a finger.

With that, the three sisters formed a circle and began unwrapping the presents themselves, needing to figure out which one was which.

Lyla’s eyes crinkled with laughter as they met Samara’s.

“Ah! Got it.” Mirala emerged first, having unwrapped her mug fastest. “Dad, this one’s for you.”

With that, Mirala presented her father with a somewhat misshapen colourfully painted clay mug. Written on it in childish brushstrokes was one word. ‘Dad’.

Lyla gazed on it with adoring eyes like it was the most precious gem in the universe before pressing a kiss to Mirala’s forehead. “I love it! I cannot wait for you to tell me how you made it. And such beautiful colours.”

Not a moment later, Rila and Falere succeeded in removing the wrapping from Samara’s mug. Rila exhaled, annoyed that she hadn’t thought about labelling the packaging. She was usually more organised than this. “There. That should do it--”

Delighted, Falere reached for the mug. “Mother!”

“Falere, no!” Rila called out.

In her haste to give Samara her gift, Falere grabbed the mug from Rila too quickly, and didn’t get a proper hold of it. It slipped from her fingers.

Crack.

Colourful shards scattered on the floor. Samara made out a single word. ‘Mom’.

As soon as it dawned on her what she'd done, Falere started to tear up. Mirala groaned, as if part of her had expected her sister to screw up.

“What did I tell you about being more careful, Falere?” Rila chided sternly.

“Rila.” Samara gave her a look, warning her to be more gentle with her younger sister. She moved forward, picking up the pieces of the mug. “Look, the cup is fine. Only a few pieces have fractured.” Samara showed Falere what she meant. “With a little mending, it will still function perfectly. Lyla, where do we keep the glue?”

“Uh, it is in the cupboard in one shoebox or another full of junk that we never use. Give me a moment. I will find it.” Lyla put her own mug aside as she went to go locate the likely very old and rarely used tube of superglue.

Falere sniffled, wiping her eyes. “I am sorry. I did not mean to break it.”

Samara smiled at her. “Do not be sorry. I am so thankful that you made this for me. It was very thoughtful,” she said, caressing Falere’s arm before bringing her into a hug, gesturing for Rila and Mirala to join her, which they both did, at varying levels of enthusiasm. “I shall treasure this forever.”

* * *

“So, Lyla...” Lyla tensed visibly at the colour of Samara's tone as she glued the broken mug together in the kitchen, knowing exactly what the conversation was going to be about. “Why were you not at work today?”

Lyla shrugged evasively, keeping her gaze fixed on her laptop on the counter. “I was not feeling well, so I thought it best to work from home.”

“This has been happening a lot lately,” Samara observed, not oblivious to just how many days Lyla had avoided going into the office in recent weeks. “If you are really feeling sick, perhaps you should do something to get your health under control. Should I call the doctor?”

“It cannot always be so simplistic, Samara.” Lyla shook her head, dismissing her suggestion. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Besides, I do not know why you are so angry with me. It is not as if I am not working.”

“Do I sound angry to you?” Samara asked her.

“You sound like you are interrogating me,” Lyla defensively replied, continuing to evade her stare as she focused on her screen.

Samara said nothing for a long moment, simply leaning on the counter. In the pregnant silence, Lyla's phone went off beside her. It didn't escape Samara's notice that Lyla visibly flinched at the sound.

Lyla made no move to pick up.

Samara nodded her head towards the phone, calmly but expectantly. “Are you not going to get that?” she prompted. “After all, it could be work.”

At Samara's urging, Lyla stared down at her phone, reading the number. She hung up with out answering. “It was not,” she assured her. Her heel bounced anxiously against the floor as she went back to typing.

Samara uttered a knowing sigh, as if she had foreseen this.

“It is happening again, is it not?”

At Samara's question, Lyla's typing stopped. She swallowed.

“What is it this time? Talk to me. Or did you really expect that you could just stop going into work and answering your phone and all your problems would magically go away?” Samara asked, irritation creeping into her voice, wondering how close Lyla was to getting fired, or if it was already too late.

“Well, the last time I was on the phone at the office in the presence of the senior partner, I was screamed at for it,” Lyla muttered, letting her head rest dispiritedly on her hand. "Genuinely. I was berated for speaking to my client. How am I meant to do my job under these conditions when I have to be afraid I will be verbally abused by my boss every day?”

“She is a bully. I do not deny this. I do not like how she treats you. But you are only giving her more ammunition by letting her get to you like this. Be resilient. You know you are smarter than her. Ignore her. And, soon enough, you will find somewhere else to work where you do not have to worry about her. Success is the best revenge,” Samara assured her.

Lyla exhaled heavily, massaging her temples. “...Yes. Yes, I suppose you are right. I am just tired is all. It is exhausting having worked at this place for so long, and feeling like I am less valued now than when I started.”

Samara could sympathise with that, at least. It seemed that ever since that toxic boss had come into her life, Lyla was treated little better than the new lawyers. Hell, despite her qualifications and decades of experience at the firm, her boss treated her as a glorified personal assistant, often giving her menial tasks that were not in her employment contract to do and which interfered with her existing duties without paying her any extra for essentially working a second job for her.

Unfortunately, presumably due to over-saturation in the job market and the recent merger and closure of several firms in the area, she was not having great success finding alternative employment.

“Do you realise that, if I was a turian, I would have long since retired in the amount of time I have worked for these people? Or died?” Lyla remarked.

“You are not a turian; you are an asari,” Samara pointed out.

“That makes it okay, then,” Lyla said with a weary smirk.

Samara glanced down at her broken mug, watching the glue dry. “Everyone needs a break now and then. It is not that long until the end of the school term. When that comes, how about all of us go on holiday somewhere nice? That will get you away from that...horrible woman for a while. You can come back replenished and refreshed. Until then, you can focus your energy on looking forward to that.”

The idea of having permission to get away from work for a couple of weeks was the first thing Samara had said that bolstered Lyla's mood at all since the conversation began. “You are right. I think that would help. I do need to get away from there. Spend more time with you, and the kids.”

“Excellent.” Samara smiled, reaching out to clasp her hand. “Then it is decided.”

* * *

Lyla cracked open the door to the home office. It wasn’t clear if Samara didn’t hear her enter, or simply ignored her to keep typing away at her computer.

“Samara?”

“Lyla, I cannot talk right now. I stress, I really must get this done,” Samara curtly replied, focused on her work for a very important client.

Lyla blinked. “I have a lot of work to do too. I always do. But you remember what day it is today, do you not?” she prompted. Honestly, Samara did not. She leaned back and looked at her bondmate expectantly. Lyla stepped closer. “Today is one hundred years from the day we met. So...happy anniversary?” she offered with a small but genuine smile.

Samara sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Forgive me, Lyla, but I considered our anniversary to be the day of our bonding.”

Lyla’s face fell. “Well, it is. I was just…”

“Being together as long as we have, how many occasions are we expected to celebrate? The day we moved in together? The day I told you I loved you? The day I proposed? I mean, let us not be ridiculous, Lyla, I…” Samara stopped herself when she caught sight of Lyla’s crestfallen expression, realising how harshly she had spoken. Just because she was under a lot of strain at work didn't entitle her to take it out on her family. “...Forgive me. I did not mean it that way.”

“No, you did. You meant it,” said Lyla, her efforts at doing something kind for her bondmate shot down as they had so often been lately. Not in the mood for an argument, she left before Samara could say anything further.

Samara apologised with reservations at Lyla’s favourite restaurant. Of course a century with the woman she loved was something to celebrate.

Sometimes life got in the way of appreciating how fortunate she was.

* * *

“You are going to be late again,” Samara warned Lyla, focusing on her own morning routine.

“I know,” Lyla murmured in reply, not even out of bed yet, even as Samara had already made breakfast, showered and was now putting the last few finishing touches on getting dressed for the busy day ahead.

“I sympathise with you, Lyla. I do. But you are creating your own problems by constantly missing work and turning up late,” Samara chided her, disappointed in her bondmate’s behaviour. So unlike the woman she had known for over a hundred years. So unlike the strong, passionate woman she’d fallen in love with. “At some point, you have to start taking responsibility for your unprofessionalism.”

Lyla was silent for a long moment as she slowly sat up, the sheets covering her lap. “I have been…” Lyla toyed with her fingers. “I have been thinking of handing in my resignation. Effective immediately.”

Samara stopped, releasing an exasperated sigh. “Lyla…”

“Do not react that way,” said Lyla.

“I am not. I just…” Samara stopped, calming her voice and moving to sit beside Lyla on the bed, holding her arms. “I am sorry if I spoke tersely. I understand your work places you under a great deal of strain. So does mine. But you must think rationally about this. You cannot make rash decisions.”

“Stop calling me irrational.”

“I am not, Lyla.”

“Stop implying it, then. This is not coming out of nowhere,” Lyla insisted. “I have been contemplating this for a very long time. I cannot see a future for myself where I am. And I do not mean financially. I mean, I cannot return to a place day after day where I am treated the way I am treated, and where it makes me feel so fundamentally fucking worthless on the inside.” Lyla exhaled heavily, cradling her head in her hands as she collected her thoughts. “I keep thinking I have chosen the wrong path. In fact, I do not think it; I know it.”

“What would you rather do?” Samara asked.

“For a start, I need to take time off. Maybe travel. You know I never did that in my maiden stage. And then, when I come back, I thought perhaps I might enter the service of the temple again. Or if not that then something similar. Social work, maybe. Something more like my volunteering. Like I used to do when we first met,” Lyla rattled off ideas that had been floating through her head aloud.

“Lyla…” Samara tried to keep her expression neutral, rubbing her bondmate’s arm. “You know I will always support you, but things are not as they once were. We have three children in private school. We are still paying for this house. I cannot do this on my own. It is not fair for you to...just decide without consulting me that you want to upend all our lives and quit your job tomorrow.”

“But, Samara, you do not understand. I need this,” Lyla pressed.

“There are other answers,” Samara assured her. “Have you thought, for example, you and I could both arrange to take, say, three weeks? We could travel somewhere, with the children. If that is what you need, of course I will say yes.”

“Samara, we have done that, and it has not fixed this,” Lyla explained.

“No. Of course taking a short leave is not a permanent solution. I know that there are other steps we need to implement, if things are really affecting you as you say. Perhaps we need to get you back into therapy. And I will support you in getting that help. But are you so convinced that you would not regret it if you left everything, only to find yourself equally unhappy in some other line of work?” Samara tested her conviction in this answer. How could she be sure that there were no others, especially without having a single conversation with her?

“Samara…” Lyla did not meet her eyes, staring straight ahead. It was as if she was willing herself to be heard. Willing herself to express things she had long kept inside for the benefit of her family. “It is...killing me how much I dread getting up in the mornings, and going and doing something I hate. I get no support. I am just left. I am floundering. I feel myself spinning in a void, getting nowhere. Every day I wake up and it feels like my very life is slipping away from me. Even the things that should make me feel joy. Even being with you, even being with our children, feels like less of a refuge than it once did, because I know I have to go back...”

“Shhh.” Samara cradled Lyla in her arms, soothing her. “I know you are having a difficult time. You have told me how hard it is, how many…toxic personalities you have to deal with in your workplace. You should not have to. I agree. They do not treat you right. And you should apply to work somewhere else. I agree. But quitting altogether is not the answer. It is not. That is letting the bullies win. I promise you, Lyla: weather this, and it will pass, and you will be the stronger for it.”

Lyla said nothing as Samara held her, staring blankly ahead.

“I believe in you, Lyla. I know you can endure this. Do not quit. Do not set that example for our children, that they should just surrender and walk away whenever they find things hard, or whenever others stand in their way and seek to put them down,” said Samara, trying to motivate her, and be reassuring. “When you overcome this, they will look up to you, and know how brave and strong their father is. And you will know you made the right decision to persevere.”

Samara didn’t see Lyla’s light dim even further as her words went in one ear and out the other. Didn’t realise how much her efforts to be encouraging made the woman she loved feel even more isolated and alone.

“...Okay,” was all Lyla said, submitting to her fate of having nobody truly on her side.

Samara glanced over at the clock. Lyla was already late for work, so perhaps it made sense for her to call in sick that day. Give her time to recover. “I need to get Falere and Mirala to school, but...did you want to come with me for Rila’s test this morning?” Samara asked. A mere formality, of course. Samara did not even remember her own test for Ardat-Yakshi Syndrome; it had been so uneventful and unworthy to remark upon that the memory had faded long ago.

Lyla took a moment to even process the question. “...Yes. That would be...yes.”

They did not know then that Rila would never come home.

* * *

Samara had to physically hold Lyla back when they took Rila away.

Her harrowing cries seared into Samara's soul as she fought to break free of her grasp, nails clawing into her skin, drawing blood in her desperation to get to her daughter before that door closed behind her, and separated them for eternity.

But the harder she struggled and kicked and scratched, Samara did nothing but stand there and grip her tighter, even as it killed her to do so. Because, the truth was, in her heart, she wanted to do the same thing - to fall to the ground and scream so loud her anguish pierced the skies. Because that was how it felt.

But she couldn't.

Samara couldn't let herself feel it. She had to put her despair aside within mere seconds of her world crashing down around her, and somehow steel herself to weather the unimaginable devastation of Rila's loss. Because she needed to be the strong one. For Lyla. For her family. Even though she was drowning in the very same storm, she had to bury her grief, because they were all depending on her now more than ever to be their rock, and carry them through the waves.

The doors closed. Minutes passed. And, before long, it became clear that, even if Lyla broke through them and gave chase, it wouldn't have mattered. Because Rila wasn't in the same building anymore. She wasn't even on Thessia.

And she never would be again.

As that agonising realisation sank in, any semblance of fight Lyla had left evacuated her body. With a primal howl of unspeakable sorrow, she crumpled against Samara's shoulders and dissolved into heartrending sobs as her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor.

"Shh." Samara cradled her, her own legs finally giving out as her facade of strength began to waver, silent tears pouring from her eyes as she kissed the top of her head. "It will be okay. I am here. I am here."

They'd lost their daughter. Responsible, reliable, rule-abiding Rila. The one daughter whose future Samara had been least worried about. The one who, even at this young age, would always make sensible choices. The one who seemed destined for a safe, secure life.

And at the age of forty, that life had already been stolen from her.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

* * *

“Mirala, stop pushing me!” Falere complained.

“Shut up. I’m not pushing you,” Mirala insisted, even though she had been quite visibly poking and prodding Falere the entire ride home from school.

“Yes, you are! Stop it!” Falere whined.

“Both of you, be quiet,” Samara snapped as they approached the front door, the pain in her head mounting. “We are home now. And we all know your father is…sensitive to it when you bicker like this. Do not disturb her.”

At that chastisement, Falere looked guilty and bowed her head. Mirala less so, but she had the decency to bite her tongue as she stormed through the door and let it swing shut behind her.

Samara couldn’t bear to look at the pile of bills that was waiting for her on the kitchen table. The stack kept growing every time she glanced at it. It may have only been small, but it might as well have been an insurmountable mountain. At this rate, she couldn’t see a way out.

Things had gotten out of hand so quickly after Rila was ripped out of their lives without warning. As soon as she was diagnosed, it was as if Lyla had been taken out of that room with her. She had already been on edge. That was just the tipping point that pushed her mental health off a cliff.

Lyla had a nervous breakdown at work only a few days after losing Rila. She was committed to the psychiatric ward of a hospital for weeks. She lost her job. Which meant their family lost essentially half their income.

Nobody could blame Lyla for any of that, least of all Samara. Reacting that way to losing a daughter was the sanest thing imaginable. She would have reacted the same way herself, truth be told, if she didn’t have two other children to care for. How she was still functioning on autopilot was a mystery even to Samara herself.

But, somehow, Samara had kept it together as best she could. Carrying everything alone. Being the calm, stabilising influence her family needed her to be. Ever stoic and self-reliant. At times such as these, she was glad to be her mother's daughter. To have inherited her mental toughness. Her strength was her greatest virtue.

Even so, Samara did not know how she could keep managing the way things were. Endurance alone could not make credits rain from the sky. And, though they were more fortunate than many, their lifestyle was budgeted for two incomes. Not one. She didn’t want to have to tap into their life savings to pay down the mortgage. Savings put aside for their future, and their children’s futures.

She just had to keep hoping against hope that Lyla was on the road to recovery, and that things would start to get better. They had lost Rila, yes. Not to death, but to a fate just as permanent, and in many ways just as painful. But they still had Falere. They still had Mirala. They still had each other.

Their family had been diminished. But what they had was worth protecting. Worth fighting for. And, maybe one day, they would even manage to be happy again.

Samara stirred from her thoughts, hearing Falere watching some adolescent romance show in the living room. It occurred to her that it was a little strange that they had been home for a few minutes now, and Lyla hadn’t come down to acknowledge their arrival yet. Her skycar was in the garage, so she wasn’t out.

“Lyla?” She called out.

No response. Hmm.

Perhaps she was listening to something with headphones on, and hadn’t heard them come in. Samara had been surprised a few times herself like that.

Samara went up the stairs.

“Lyla?”

It was as she reached the top floor that cold dampness squished underfoot in the sole of her shoe. She looked down. That was odd. The floor was wet. Bewildered, Samara glanced up, and saw a trail of water leading down the hallway from the bathroom. She could hear faintly that the tap was still running.

And in the water was a streak of blue.

Her heart stopped.

As the blood drained from her face, she didn’t even hear Mirala coming up the stairs behind her, noticing the very same scene with confusion.

“Mother? Why’s the floor wet? Where’s--”

“Mirala, take Falere outside,” Samara spoke, her voice at once urgent yet lifeless.

She didn’t see Mirala’s expression, but her puzzlement was evident. “What--”

“Go outside!” Creeping dread turned to panic, as alarm compelled Samara to action. Samara darted towards the bathroom and burst through the door.

* * *

My Dearest Samara,

By the time you are reading this, I will be gone.

I am sorry. I will try to leave as little mess as possible. I do not wish to cause any inconvenience.

I know this will hurt you. And I regret that. I regret that I am too cowardly to face it. But the truth is that I cannot go on.

I am not myself. I have not been myself for a very long time.

Every day I wake up, and all I know is fear, and anger, and dread, and despair.

For years, the one thing that kept me going even when all was at its darkest was you, and our children. But now even that is not so.

Ever since we lost Rila, something inside me...changed. Now, when I look at you, and I look at our children, I cannot even feel a single spark of love anymore. All I see is that disease.

Can you imagine how that feels? To look at the woman you used to love - to look at the faces of your own children - and just feel nothing? To just be...repulsed?

They say Ardat-Yakshi are monsters. And I cannot love monsters.

And to not be able to love your own family makes me the greatest monster of all.

I do not wish to linger on as this twisted, hateful creature I have become. If I do, I will only grow to despise you more than I already do, and you me. I do not think that is fair on either of us, nor what little time our children still have with you.

I cannot stand myself anymore, Samara. And, for as cold and dead as I am inside already, I cannot bear to watch them take Falere and Mirala away.

You know they will. Deep down, you feel it, too. They will fail their tests as Rila did.

Maybe we were wrong to be together. Maybe this is our punishment for being so arrogant as to deny the risks and choose our own happiness.

I do not know.

You were always the stronger of us, Samara. I am sorry I let you down by being so weak. I wish I could have kept up with you. I do. But while you were always soaring towards higher things, I was falling deeper into a pit from which there was no escape. At times, it was as if you were so far above me, and I so far below you, that we could not even truly see each other.

I do not know if you even noticed I was not there.

I am sorry I could never be the person you thought I was. The person you aspired for me to be. It should not be so surprising that the only thing I ever succeeded at being in life was a disappointment, and a failure.

I hope you are strong enough to bear what the coming years have in store for you. I really do. For as loathsome and detestable as I have become, I do not wish ill upon you, Samara. I still remember that I loved you. So my last prayer was for you; that you can endure what lies ahead.

If you cannot, perhaps we will see each other again soon.

I am tired. I have been tired for so long. I wonder if I will even recognise how it feels to sleep.

Goodbye, Samara.

Lyla

* * *

Samara stared dead ahead. The house that was once so full of life now utterly bereft of it. So empty. So silent.

She turned the broken mug over in her hand, remembering how Falere had cried when she dropped it. A recent memory. A distant memory.

Falere was gone now. Gone away to join Rila. Wherever she was.

Poor, sweet Falere. Her gentlest daughter. Her kindest daughter.

Falere had always been shy and soft-spoken. The child who hid behind her parents' legs on her first day of school. Afraid of being seen. Too anxious to make friends. But, whenever she did express her voice and show the truth of her heart, she showed a pure and beautiful soul.

So often, Falere would bring home with her dying flowers she had dug out from cracks in the pavement in her school, desperate to save them from constantly being stepped on by her classmates.

"They fought so hard to live; they deserve a chance at happiness," she would tell her parents as she potted the plants on her window sill, or planted them in the back garden. Because that was who Falere was.

If nothing else, at least Samara had been told there were gardens where Falere would be sent. It would have been cruel if there were not.

In her absence, the flowers she'd left behind had withered and died.

In every way but physical, so had Samara herself.

The authorities would not let Samara visit her daughters, though they were alive and well. Would not even let her speak to them, without exceptional permission being granted. They were ghosts to her now. And she to them.

Everything she had built her whole life towards was falling through her fingers. Slipping away from her. Every time another person she loved was taken, they stole another piece of her soul.

Rila.

Lyla.

Falere.

Each one of them, a gaping hole. A gap that could never be filled.

She didn't feel like a person anymore. She was just a remnant. A wire frame replica of the Samara who used to live there, with nothing in the middle.

How was Samara meant to go on when what little remained of her was spread so thin? Each day, a pale imitation of the last. Going through the motions. Barely present. Like a wandering spirit who did not know she had long since left her body.

She didn’t even think anymore. Didn’t feel.

All there was was this cloud. This fog. This shadow. Consuming all.

She couldn’t see past it. Couldn’t see where it ended.

No escape.

Just hollowness, and deafening silence.

“Mother? Mom? Mother?”

Samara slowly blinked, drawn from her daze by Mirala’s voice.

“...Yes?”

“I’ve been talking to you for ten minutes.” Mirala shook her head and sighed in annoyance. “You didn’t hear a single word I just said to you, did you?”

“I…” Samara stalled. She had not. “Forgive me, I--”

"Do you even care that I'm still here?" Mirala challenged her, a single crack in her voice breaking through her punk adolescent exterior. Samara froze, too taken aback by the question to process it, or understand what Mirala meant by it. "Or do you wish I'd been taken instead of them?"

"What?" Samara narrowed her gaze in confusion, her mind still far too clouded to register what Mirala was implying. She sighed heavily, rubbing her face, not coherent enough for this conversation. "I am very tired, Mirala. Can we--"

Before she could say another word, Mirala stormed upstairs.

Samara would never realise Mirala had misinterpreted her non-answer as a yes.

* * *

Samara worked so hard, she and Mirala barely talked anymore. Didn’t have the time. Samara had spent every cent that Lyla had left her to pay off the mortgage, to ensure the house was theirs forever. But bills still needed to be paid. And savings needed to be rebuilt from the ground up.

When they did talk, it was only to argue. Stress was mounting. Every other day, Samara would get calls at work, saying she needed to come pick Mirala up from school because she was in trouble. She was getting in fights with other students constantly. Skipping classes to go and shoplift. Disrespecting her teachers.

“How many times must I have this conversation with you, Mirala,” Samara began as she drove her home after yet another day being called off work early. Mirala had been suspended for fighting. Her fingers tapped the wheel of the skycar. “What disappoints me is not even your behaviour at this point. I have come to expect it. It is that you are brazenly not even making any effort to learn from your mistakes.”

Mirala exhaled, arms folded lackadaisically against her chest. “Whatever.”

“Do not ‘whatever’ me, Mirala. You are in no position to be so dismissive,” Samara shot back, urging her to take this seriously.

“‘Do not ‘whatever’ me, Mirala,’” Mirala echoed her mother’s voice, doing a near-perfect impression of her, as she had learned to imitate her over the years.

“Stop that,” Samara warned, sending her a look in the mirror.

Mirala just shook her head, turning away as she pulled her feet onto the backseat. “There’s no point in talking to you. You won’t get it. You never have.”

“Try me,” Samara urged. “I am more like you than you know,” she said sincerely.

Mirala pulled a face. “...No you’re not,” she stated plainly, the distance between her and her mother seeming like a thousand leagues. She sank back further into her seat, staring out the window.

Of course Mirala would fail to see the truth in her mother's words. She hadn't known Samara when she was her age. It was like looking in a mirror, in both the best and worst ways. But Samara lacked the time and energy to have this conversation, and Mirala wouldn't have believed her anyway if she told her.

“Dad would have listened,” Mirala whispered to herself.

Samara tensed at the mere mention of her, but kept driving.

* * *

When a person died, it was tradition for their bondmate or their daughters to be given a memory sphere, if they so desired. It was an amalgamation of recordings and photos of a person’s life, drawn from all sources. People used so many forms of social media throughout their whole lives, uploaded so many photos and videos to the Extranet or stored them on digital devices, that nothing really went away.

Samara had watched the sphere so often.

So many times.

Every single time it hurt more than the last.

The memory sphere focused mainly on their life together, although it even showed fragments of Lyla’s life before Samara. Photographs of nights out back when they were merely friends and roommates. Then those photos got...closer. More intimate, as they confessed their love.

She relived their bonding ceremony. The births of each of their children. The special day her father got to hold all three of her grandchildren. Pictures of their little family of five. Smiling. Laughing. Happy.

It was all such a lie.

For as much as each of those memories were real, they seemed so hollow in retrospect. Of course there were photos and videos of all the happy times.

Nobody ever took pictures of the times she and Lyla fought. There were no memory spheres for all the times when Lyla needed Samara, and she wasn’t there for her. All the times she’d been cold to her. Ignored her. Snapped at her. When Samara had prioritised her work over her family. Dismissed her cries for help. Left Lyla feeling alone. Unloved. Unsupported.

In hindsight, those were the moments that plagued Samara most. Little things she’d said or hadn’t said with thoughtless flippancy which had seemed so insignificant while she was living her life. In retrospect, each one of those careless split-seconds of inattention made her wonder…

If I had done something differently…would Lyla still be here with me?

Losing Rila had broken her, but Lyla had been crumbling before that. Long before that. It was only now that she was gone that Samara realised just how much. And that her decline had been rapidly hastened by the fact that Samara had not been a good bondmate to her at all.

She thought she had. But she hadn’t.

She supposed that was why she kept coming back to this movie, and why it hurt so much. It was the fake plastic life she thought she was living. The fantasy that had been shattered by Lyla’s death. Instead, all Samara could see in the gaps in the pictures were all the warning signs she'd ignored and brushed aside, and her own callousness and insensitivity towards her bondmate’s mental health.

As far as she was concerned, it was those personal failings as much as anything else that had driven Lyla to kill herself. So much so that Samara may as well have stuck that blade in Lyla's arm herself.

It was a cruel mantra that had echoed in her head every single day since Lyla died. A cold, brutal voice that never went away. A whisper in the back of her mind. A constant companion. Guilt. Blame. And a question:

Why are you still here?

What makes you think you deserve to linger on when she is gone?

Consumed in her thoughts and memories as she was, Samara didn’t even notice Mirala standing in the door, watching her stare into the sphere as she had day after day in the years since Lyla had taken her own life.

“Stop it,” Mirala broke the silence. Samara lifted her head. “You’re pathetic. Stop it. Just stop it.”

“Mirala…” Samara’s voice was so raspy it barely reached her.

“She’s dead,” Mirala cut her off, not wanting to hear her excuses for living in the past. “Don’t you get it? She’s dead. She abandoned us, because she hated us. And she hated you.”

The blade in Samara’s chest twisted, because she knew it to be true.

“I’m glad she’s gone,” Mirala hissed through her teeth. Samara knew she did not mean that, but lacked the energy to say it. “I wish you were gone too!”

In her rage, Mirala charged up her biotics and kicked the cabinet by the door. Several contents spilled out onto the floor, smashing on the ground. It was only when her anger subsided that she noticed a strikingly colourful hand-painted piece among the shattered shards. It had one word on it:

Dad.

She blinked, realising what she’d done.

It was the mug she and her sisters made ten years ago.

“...Why did I do that?” she asked herself, immediately regretting her mistake. She knelt down, fingers trembling as she tried to pick up the fragments. “Why did I do that? I didn't know it was there. I didn’t mean to...”

Samara stood up and went over to join her, guiding her to keep back from sharp edges of broken glass. “Careful. Do not cut yourself.”

She wasn’t angry at Mirala. Of course she wasn’t.

“Can you fix it?” Mirala asked, desperate to put that happy memory back together.

Samara sighed. Unlike when her own had broken, half the cup was little more than dust, and its pieces were mixed in with shattered remains of many other plates, cups and glasses. “I am sorry. It is too far gone.”

Mirala broke down, consumed with sobs.

When Samara reached out to comfort her, Mirala pulled away and retreated upstairs to her room, slamming the door shut, withdrawing from her.

Samara swept up the traces and threw them away.

Samara stopped watching the memory sphere. Stopped holding onto Lyla’s things, giving them away. Before long, she stopped using her name. Stopped speaking of her. Stopped thinking her name most days, even in her own mind. How could a name that once brought so much joy to her life now bring so much pain?

Even so, she could not help but to dwell on her constantly, because to invoke her spirit was to hurt, and to suffer in grief was all that she deserved. The memory of the woman she loved became like a shadow latched onto her back - an inescapable ghost who haunted her every step, and followed her everywhere. A reminder of her regrets. Her guilt. Her sins. Her responsibility.

A voice that had echoed in her mind every day since she died.

* * *

The night before Mirala’s fortieth birthday, the day she was due to take her test, Mirala asked her what would happen if she failed.

Mirala did not know when exactly her test would happen, although Samara did. When the subject was considered high risk, the test date was always kept secret from them, and randomised. But Mirala was the smartest of her daughters. She knew it would happen some time after she turned forty. Probably soon after, given both her sisters had failed.

Not knowing what else to say, Samara answered Mirala’s questions honestly. She would be sent to live with Rila and Falere in a life of seclusion and comfort. What more it entailed, Samara did not know, as virtually everything about where Ardat-Yakshi lived or how many there were was shrouded in secrecy. But, if nothing else, Mirala could at least rest assured that she would never want for anything.

That very night, Mirala escaped from her room and murdered her best friend by melding with her.

Samara was detained by police and interrogated for two straight days on suspicion that she had deliberately facilitated her daughter’s flight from the law.

In truth, if she had had the wherewithal to ask for a lawyer, Samara probably could have left at any time. But Samara had been in no fit mental state to be conscious of her rights, or of anything much at all.

Detective Mal leaned on the table, visibly annoyed that this was getting her nowhere. “I’m going to ask you this one more time. Where is Mirala?”

“If I knew, I would tell you,” Samara insisted.

“Liar!” Mal hit the table, making her flinch.

“Listen, Samara, we want to help you. But we can’t help you if you don’t cooperate with us,” said Detective Elara.

“I have done nothing but cooperate. I have told you everything I know, multiple times,” Samara maintained, her patience wearing thin.

Elara pulled a sceptical expression. “I want to believe you. I do. But it doesn’t look good. See, you were the only person who knew when Mirala was scheduled to take her test. And she just so happened to flee that night?”

“It was scheduled on her fortieth birthday - the day she turned the same age both her sisters were when they failed their tests. She is no fool. She knew her test would come sometime after she turned forty. She did not need to be a genius to intuit that they would not want to wait. And she is a genius,” Samara noted.

“You told her, didn’t you, you sick fuck?” Mal rounded on her for what felt like the hundredth time. “You helped her escape.”

“I did not.” Samara shook her head.

“You expect me to believe that crock of shit?” Mal accused.

“We would understand if you did,” Detective Elara chimed in, calm and level-headed. “I mean, knowing what was coming for her, having lost two daughters already, what mother wouldn’t do that for their child? You couldn’t have known what she was planning to do, right?”

Samara said nothing, not meeting either detective's gaze. She had repeated the same story so many times she had lost count, but they still would not believe her. They kept insisting on their own version of events, and refusing to listen to her. It was making her question her own sanity. Maybe she was being inconsistent. Maybe she was saying things that didn’t add up. Why else would they have detained her for so long?

“Look at what you did.” Detective Mal spread out the crime scene photos on the table, showing Samara the aftermath of Mirala’s crime. The murder of an innocent girl. Samara had to cover her face as tears fell. “No. Look at it, you disgusting piece of shit!” Mal pressed, shoving the photos directly at her, such that they fell in her lap. “That child died because of you, pureblood! You’d better fucking look or I’ll staple your eyelids to your forehead!”

And Samara did. She held those photos. Saw that husk of a body. All that was left of that child. She'd heard stories, of what it was like, after an Ardat-Yakshi...

She’d known that girl since she was ten.

Mirala did this.

“You know, it’s only going to get worse for Mirala if she doesn’t turn herself in now,” Elara pointed out. “Because of her age, and because it’s a first offence, there’s still a chance she could get off light if she owns up to her actions. If you tell us where she is--”

“How many times must I tell you fools?! I know nothing!” Samara snapped.

Her outburst set Detective Mal off, as if it was the excuse she’d been looking for. She crossed the table and grabbed Samara with both hands, taking her to the floor, punching her in the face.

“Mal!” Elara called out, starting to sense that this ‘bad cop’ routine had crossed a line. Or that maybe it wasn’t just a routine.

“This is all your fault! A kid is dead because of you! Pureblood garbage!” Mal hit her again and again, the pictures of the dead child sticking to Samara’s face where they’d landed beneath her on the cold concrete floor.

“Mal!” Elara grabbed her shoulder, trying to pull Mal off her.

But it was too late. Samara had already cracked.

“No. She is correct. It is my fault,” Samara confessed. Sobs tore themselves from her throat as she wept like the wrecked ruin of a woman that she was. “It is my fault that Mirala is what she is. And she was so afraid. So afraid that she would be like her sisters. She asked what would happen to her, if she would fail her test as well. I told her the truth. That I did not know what would happen. If she would fail or not. But that even if she did, it would not be so bad. That she would be cared for all her days in seclusion and comfort; she would never have to want for anything. But I knew that answer did not satisfy her. She did not want that cloistered life. Of course she would not. She is too much like me.”

Somehow, Samara pulled herself to her knees, hands balled into fists at her eyes as her entire body heaved with unparalleled torment.

“I knew. I knew. I knew. Mirala was the strongest of my daughters. The most stubborn. The smartest. The most rebellious. If any of them would fight their fate, it would be her. I knew. And yet I did nothing to prevent her escape. I did not think to stop her from finding a way out. I do not know why I did not. I should have. Goddess, I should have. That poor girl is dead. She is dead because of me!”

Samara couldn’t breathe. Her heart couldn’t beat. The agony and guilt that tore through her was unbearable. She looked up, and could barely see the two detectives through the haze that stung her eyes.

“All my daughters are gone. My bondmate...Lyla killed herself because of me. Because of this...disease inside me. Because I am cruel and thoughtless. Because I am selfish and stubborn and prideful and arrogant. It is all my fault. It has always been my fault.” Samara’s resolve crumbled to nothing, her walls crashing down and unleashing all the grief she had held inside. Every silent thought that had dropped like a stone in the emptiness of her soul as she went through the motions these torturous years came pouring out like a torrent.

Whatever she had done to warrant this fate, to be set upon for such cruel punishment, it only proved that she was right. There was something wrong with her. If there was any justice in the universe, so much bad couldn’t possibly happen to someone who was truly good.

Had Samara been judged, then? For the wicked, evil thing that she was? A hateful, spiteful creature, who had been stripped of paradise and cursed to damnation?

But then why did everyone else have to suffer? Why innocents?

Why her children?

Why her bondmate?

Why couldn’t it just be her?

She would have borne it all for them. In a heartbeat, she would have carried all their demons. She would have been punished in their place. But she couldn’t. Instead, they had paid the price for her sins. And she escaped unscathed.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair.

“Goddess, just kill me,” Samara begged them both with every fibre of her being through breaths so ragged she was nearly indecipherable, wishing for the mercy of a swift death rather than going home to face one more day without the family she loved by her side. She had nothing to live for. She had lost everything. The love of her life. Her children. Her will to live. “Please just kill me!”

Mal glared down at her with contempt. And for a moment, Samara could see the thought flashing in her eyes that she agreed with her pleas. That part of Mal wanted to give Samara what she was asking for. After all, why not? But, evidently, she thought a quick death was more than she deserved.

Instead, the detective callously tossed the last photos of Mirala’s victim in Samara’s face, eliciting another heartbroken sob. “Think on how many more mothers are going to lose their children because of you, you fucking monster.”

With that, the pair of them left her there, drowning in a tsunami of tears.

Eventually, someone must have realised that holding Samara there for as long as they had without any charges and without any representation was very, very illegal, especially in light of the fact that Mal had assaulted her. The station did release her, and their investigation into her was quietly dropped, although every now and then Samara was conscious of watchful eyes on her home, just in case Mirala was still in contact with her mother. But she wasn’t.

Those efforts soon stopped once killings started occurring elsewhere, and there were no signs Mirala had any intention of returning home.

Samara was in no fit mental state to even contemplate pressing charges against the police. Besides, even if she had been rational enough to think of it, she knew well enough that the police would deny Mal had attacked her, and there would be no evidence to suggest otherwise. The transcripts would be doctored, and the video footage from the time of the 'alleged assault' would be replaced with tape from hours earlier. They would claim the audio had mysteriously failed. It would be her word against theirs. And her word meant nothing to anybody anymore.

After all, Samara was the kind of monster parents told their children stories about at night. Why would anybody believe her version of the story?

And her life only got worse from there.

* * *

There wasn’t one singular straw that was the last for Samara. Not really. Not being fired from her job. Not having her house vandalised. Not being attacked by the mother of the child Mirala murdered - a woman who had been her friend.

No. If anything, the seeds had been planted from the day she burst through that bathroom door and found Lyla dead. A lingering voice that echoed in the darkest recesses of her soul ever since, condemning her for being selfish enough to go on living when Lyla's death was her fault. After that, the whispers had not questioned ‘if’ she would try to follow in her footsteps, but when.

Everything else that happened afterwards had simply hastened what seemed inevitable in her ceaseless despair ever since that day.

If Samara had been in a more coherent state of mind when she decided to take her own life, she would have taken different pills to overdose on, or gone with a different method entirely. As it was, the ones she took weren’t the most lethal of poisons. She hadn’t known that at the time.

It was that, as much as the intervention of her neighbour, which saved her life.

The pills did, however, make her extremely sick, doing enough damage that she was told, among other things, she could never drink alcohol or its equivalents again. And her body might have trouble breaking down other medicines in future. Even pain medicine, if she was badly hurt. It was what it was.

After that, she was kept under observation, away from anything she could use to harm herself, until they arbitrarily decided she wasn’t an imminent danger to her own life anymore. At which point they released her from hospital. And back into the exact same hopeless circumstances that prompted her to swallow those pills in the first place. It would have been funny if it weren’t so pathetically sad.

If things had continued as they were, Samara most likely would have made a second attempt on her life. But, as it was, fate had other plans.

Samara knelt in the Temple of Athame, praying to the Goddess for guidance, and the strength to carry on. There were few refuges in the world for pariahs like Samara. With nowhere else to turn, and unable to stand being in that hollow shell of a home anymore, she had taken shelter here as often as she could. Almost every day since she was released from hospital.

“Goddess hear my prayer,” Samara whispered under her breath, her eyes squeezed shut, as if the harder she focused, the more likely it was her words might finally reach Athame. “Please help me. I beg of you. Please. I am lost. I am so lost. I do not know what to do. I do not know where I should go. If I should go on. What purpose there is in lingering on when I have nothing. Why am I still here? What must I do? If there is any reason for me to stay alive, please, give me a sign--”

Her prayers were interrupted by a curt slap to the face, the shock of the sudden strike knocking Samara off-balance, and sending her hurtling hard to the floor.

“Stop this pathetic nonsense. The Goddess helps those who help themselves.”

Stunned, Samara glanced up to find the iconic silhouette of Justicar armour standing above her. She swallowed. She had barely noticed her there in her stupor, but she had vaguely been aware of the presence of Justicar Kira in the Temple that day. She had not enquired as to why she was there. Samara’s thoughts had scarcely strayed from her sorrows since she could remember.

“I don’t care why you’re here,” Justicar Kira continued, holding her gaze. “Do you think it matters to me? Do you want me to coddle you and say, ‘Oh, how terrible. What a poor, sad, woman.’ Will it change anything for you if I do?”

Samara hesitated, reluctantly bowing her head. “No, it will not,” she conceded. She didn’t want anybody’s pity. She didn’t deserve it.

“Then stop this charade,” Justicar Kira commanded. “Instead of crying and begging on your knees for things to change, why don’t you take charge of your life, stop being so weak, and do something to change your fate?”

Samara’s heart dropped in her chest, her eyes devoid of any life. “...What if it is too late to do such a thing? What if I have nothing to live for, and only reasons to die?”

Justicar Kira’s brow arched slightly, as though she had not expected that response. And she could tell from Samara’s tone that she was not being melodramatic.

“Then you just might make a decent Justicar,” Justicar Kira answered, causing Samara to raise her head. “That is, if you survive the training.”

Without another word, Kira turned and walked away.

When she got home that day, Samara got the news that Mirala had left Thessia, impersonating Samara herself to do so. She had been able to leave the planet without incident while Samara was hospitalised. By the time anyone realised it had been Mirala and not her mother who took that flight, it was too late. She was long gone. By a factor of weeks.

Her killing spree had gone beyond Thessia now.

It was not going to stop.

* * *

Samara arrived at the Justicars with nothing. And they treated her as nothing.

As it should be.

She bequeathed all her possessions to them. Everything she had. Everything she was. Not that anything remained. She was but a shell of her former self. She even gave up her last name, and forswore any family she had left. She would never speak to Falere and Rila again.

You do not deserve to speak to them.

It is your fault they have been condemned to that eternal prison.

Your disease that all but killed them before they ever had the chance to live.

As she approached the ancient place that would become her new home, a part of Samara wondered whether she had come to the Justicar Temple truly expecting to emerge as one of them, or if this was nothing more than an especially gruelling and prolonged form of suicide. She supposed she would soon find out.

She would not describe the Justicars as cruel, per se, because cruelty would imply malice. But their regimen was certainly extremely physically brutal, mentally strict, and psychologically arduous.

Samara weathered it all without complaint. There was no alternative. But it was not easy. For a start, as soon as she and the other acolytes arrived, nobody spoke a word to her, and she was not permitted to speak a word to another person.

The Justicars had the courtesy of giving a warning strike to the first acolyte to break the code of silence, until the rule had been made clear. Once the rule was established, though, the next person to break it by uttering a word got their arm broken. Future beatings would only be worse.

The first death in training occurred on the very first day. A spray of blue blood splashed across Samara’s face when one of the recruits assaulted another with biotics unprovoked in an effort to show off, and was instantly sentenced to death by courtesy of a bullet to the brain for breaching The Code. That ruthlessness was something which caused about a quarter of the class of recruits to reconsider their Oath of Solitude and leave.

The next death happened a week later, when a recruit failed a test of biotic endurance. She was crushed to death on an obstacle course before the Justicars were able to intervene. They couldn't save her. Following that accident, half the recruits who arrived on the first day were gone. They had been warned the training necessary to become a Justicar would be brutal, and few would withstand it. They would either die, fail, or quit. Such were the high standards of their Order.

The training left her and all the other acolytes bruised and battered on a daily basis. Although she was not in the worst physical shape, Samara had not been a mercenary or adventurer since her maiden stage, and she had not taken the best care of herself lately. It took time to adjust to that rigorous lifestyle.

Their training was primarily overseen by three members of the Order. Justicars Kira, Zoya and Faye. They did not even introduce themselves, in light of the silence with which the acolytes were treated. Samara knew Kira from their meeting on Thessia, and she picked up the others' names in due course from overhearing conversations among the Justicars.

In her first winter at the temple, Justicar Kira tasked her to meditate on top of a fifty-foot pole, exposed to the elements, until otherwise instructed to stop. They left her there overnight. Samara dutifully remained in place, doing her utmost to maintain her concentration, until Justicar Kira roused her in the wee hours of the morning by dumping a bucket of ice water on her.

That she flinched and nearly fell from the tower was deemed a failure of the test. And on that day, the first word was spoken to her.

“Quit,” Justicar Kira said.

Samara, her teeth chattering in the bitter morning chill, simply tightened her grip on the pole, calmly shook her head, pulled herself back up and sat back down to meditate. An hour later, Justicar Kira tapped her on the shoulder, signalling she could climb down from the tower. Still shivering from hypothermia, and in no condition to use her biotics, it was the longest climb of her life. Samara continued to train every day despite being sick for the next two weeks.

In her second year, they decided Samara was physically fit enough to start to learn to fight like a Justicar. She was thrown into a sparring circle against Justicar Faye with no preparation, and they expected her to learn on her feet. By then, it came as no surprise that Faye did not make things easy for her.

Every time Samara got anywhere close to Justicar Faye, she was met with a kick to the calf so hard that it felt like it would snap her leg clean in two. Then, when she was already down in the dirt, Faye made sure to follow that up with a solid ground punch to the face for good measure.

Samara supposed she should consider herself lucky she wasn’t using her biotics to fuel her punches like she would in a real altercation. If Faye wasn’t holding back, Samara would have been squashed like a bug.

By the tenth time that happened, Samara’s eye was swollen shut, and her mouth was stained blue with blood. Even in her concussed state, she noticed when she glanced up that the rest of the Justicars had moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Faye. And, on that day, a second word was spoken to her.

“Quit,” Justicar Faye said.

Samara, the blood still dripping from her cheek, rose to her feet, calmly shook her head, and groggily wiped her lip as she drew back into a fighting stance. She threw a wild punch. And missed.

A knee connected with her stomach as Zoya tossed her over her shoulder and into the earth hard enough to kick up a cloud of dust.

The Justicars proceeded to beat the everloving shit out of her until she lost consciousness. She awoke in the infirmary with a fractured orbital bone, a dislocated shoulder and two cracked ribs. But she still did not quit.

It was by that point, as she recovered from her injuries on temple-cleaning duties, that Samara began to understand why the Justicars’ training regimen was as notoriously unforgiving as it was. One by one, all of her fellow prospects were dropping out due to fear, getting injured to the point where it forced them to leave, or killed. Except for her. And that was the reason; everything she had endured until now, was merely a barrier to entry to weed out the weak from the strong - to eliminate those who had zero chance of passing the training as early as possible.

The Justicars needed to be tough. Not because they took any pleasure in hurting their students. But because, if they didn’t, then they would be sending out rookies unprepared for the dangers of this lifestyle, and setting them up to fail.

They needed to send home every single starry-eyed idealist who was here for the wrong reasons. Every fangirl who had read too many novels where Justicars were romanticised. People who had come here looking for glory, love, adventure or as a means of stroking their own egos. There was no place for ego here.

If anything, they were doing their acolytes a kindness by smacking the shit out of them now and giving them the opportunity to quit. Samara had always heard the old stories that said for every Justicar who made the Order, two died in training. The number varied depending on the teller of the tale. If this was only the beginning, things were likely to get worse from there. At least if they left early, they left alive. That was evidently a mercy, rather than letting them go further, where they potentially might be killed if their hearts were not fully committed to the cause.

As it turned out, that was precisely the case.

By the end of her third year, Samara was the only acolyte left from her class of twenty recruits. Fifteen had gone home, whether due to choice or compelled to leave by critical injury. Four had died.

In her fourth year, Justicar Zoya woke Samara in the middle of the night, tied her hands, blindfolded her and threw her into the back of a shuttle, abandoning her in a remote part of the jungle and leaving her there to find her way back to their secluded temple alone with no food, water or directions.

Samara got very, very lost, before eventually hunkering down, making a shelter and deciding to wait until something resembling a plan for how to navigate her way back to the temple came to her.

Justicar Zoya returned to her after three days, most likely just to make sure Samara hadn’t died. And, on that day, a third word was spoken to her.

“Quit,” Justicar Zoya said.

Samara, sitting miserably in her makeshift shelter, rose to her feet, calmly shook her head, and went to tidy up her camp.

They didn’t understand yet that Samara couldn’t quit. Because ever since she met Justicar Kira in the Temple of Athame, a clarity had come to Samara that she had not had since Lyla died. A drive. A purpose. And it was this:

Every day that Samara was here, no matter what she was doing, whether she was eating, or sleeping, or praying, or whatever else, Mirala was out there, killing. Because of what she was. Because of her disease.

She already knew Mirala had taken more lives before she escaped Thessia. To think that she was out there even now, perhaps still using her uncanny likeness to her mother and ability to impersonate her voice to facilitate her desire to kill…

Every day those photos flashed in her mind. The pictures of that innocent girl. Mirala’s first victim. Each time with a new face. A new race. Who would it be today? Another asari? A turian? How young would they be? Would their mother even understand why their child had died? Would they know what an Ardat-Yakshi was? How many more parents needed to lose their children because of Samara’s mistakes? Because of the disease that she had passed to her daughter?

Mirala wasn’t even Mirala anymore. Not really. Just a shadow of her former self. Just a vessel for the affliction she was born with. Something far beyond her control. The real Mirala had died the moment she melded with that girl. She would not want to go on killing, if her syndrome did not compel her to. Her addiction to the ecstasy of death. Her body deserved to be put to rest.

If Samara was not dedicating herself to this, to setting right what wrongs she still could, and taking responsibility for actions, then she would have no reason to live.

If Samara ever walked away from this, she knew that would be the day she killed herself. Because she still lived with the voice that had haunted her every day since she burst through that bathroom door, telling her to do just that.

It took Samara two months, but she finally found her way back to the temple. Justicar Zoya made sure to give her a good, hard beating for taking so long, just to drive home the message that she needed to master those skills.

By her fifth year, they stopped asking Samara to quit.

Once it was established that they weren't going to get rid of her, Justicar Kira took Samara on as something of a personal charge. In the outside world, perhaps it would have been somewhat funny to think of her as a mentor, given that they were almost exactly the same age. But, unlike the rest of asari society, age meant nothing to the Justicars. Only experience.

Kira still had her own Justicar duties to fulfil outside of teaching, of course. And, in such instances, Zoya and Faye tended to fill in for her and take over Samara's instruction and guidance when she wasn't around. But, for several years, whenever Kira was at the temple, Samara spent almost every waking moment by her side, training with her, observing her in action, studying The Code with her -- everything.

Samara was still sworn to silence, and not allowed to speak. But, on a few occasions, whether spoken deliberately or slipping out accidentally through something resembling a growing sense of investment in her student, Kira had uttered a handful of words to her over the years.

The first had been a hasty, “Be careful!” as Kira stuck out her arm, catching Samara to stop her from falling off a ledge during a free-climbing exercise.

The second had been an almost exasperated, “Sit still,” as Kira had examined her to check whether her ankle was broken during training.

The third had been when Kira casually tossed Samara some sheets of paper and a pen while she was studying The Code. “Don't just read them; write them out! Memorise them,” she instructed, before walking away.

But perhaps the most meaningful interaction Samara ever had with Kira was one that was defined not by words, but by silence. It came precisely ten years to the day after Lyla's death.

Samara did not know why anniversaries were worse than any other day. Lyla was no more dead on these days than any other. But they were. She could always feel the day coming in the year. Even when it was at its furthest away.

It didn't start to feel really heavy until it was a month away. When that time came, the gravity of the date always grew exponentially more immense.

What was otherwise a constant shroud of mourning that turned every sky grey and muted every sound on the wind instead became an inescapable well of the bleakest, blackest melancholy. Every year, Samara lived through it all over again, as if she'd lost Lyla only yesterday. And that day was today.

And nobody knew.

To everyone else, it was a day like any other.

As per usual, Kira preferred using the wilderness to train, so she had taken Samara off temple grounds to go spar after a challenging morning run.

But Samara just...couldn't.

Everything she tried to do that day, she just...couldn't.

She couldn't run with the ease she normally did, because her feet felt heavy, and every step she took felt like five. She couldn't fire off a single biotic attack, because there wasn't enough energy in her body to leave her fingertips. Samara saw the fire of confusion and fury in Kira's eyes as she stepped forward and shot off her own offence, not sure what game she was playing. It was perhaps only sheer self-preservation that enabled Samara to stumble backwards and muster just enough strength to deflect those bolts of biotic force as she fell to the forest floor.

Kira looked absolutely livid. As if incensed that all the time, effort and energy she had put into training Samara had been wasted. “What are you doing?” Kira all but hissed at her as she marched forward and grabbed her violently by the shirt, shaking some sense into her. “What is wrong with you today?!”

“...I am sorry...” Samara sputtered, flinching at the prospect of being struck (or worse) just for talking. Judging by the expression on Kira's face, that fear was warranted. “I cannot...”

Before she could say another word, her voice caught in her throat. Tears welled in her eyes. Her hand flew to her mouth as she broke down, unable to fight back sobs. She wept uncontrollably. Not the first time she had done so since she came to this temple. Just the first time she hadn't either forced herself to cry silently in her bed at night, or retreated somewhere nobody could see her to hide her grief.

Not expecting that, Kira dropped her.

She stared in bewilderment as Samara came undone in front of her, exposing a raw, unfeigned pain that had healed not so much as a stitch in ten years.

Kira swallowed, and glanced aside. The first time she saw Samara cry, she had slapped her for it. If most other Justicars saw an acolyte burst into tears like this, they would beat the weakness out of them.

But seeing this?

Hearing that in her voice?

Whatever this was...punishing it just didn't seem right.

So Kira didn't strike her. Not this time. Instead, she just sat down beside her, and let Samara be one with her despair. She didn't comfort her, or ask her about it. Because Justicars didn't do those things. But she waited with her, until those old wounds stopped bleeding, and the sounds of her grief stopped tearing themselves from her chest.

Once Samara's breath stopped hitching, and it felt like the clutches of death itself were no longer scratching at her throat, she dug her fingernails out of the dirt and managed to wipe some of the tears from her eyes.

Justicar Kira looked at her, patiently. “Can you stand?”

Samara managed to nod.

Accepting that answer, Justicar Kira got to her feet and signalled for Samara to follow her. They would not spar today. Just run.

Somehow, Samara knew Kira never told the other Justicars what happened in the jungle that day. Because they wouldn't have shown any sympathy for her breaking her silence. She just went on and acted like it had never happened. Which, in the circumstances, was the nicest thing she could have done for her.

In her ninth year, Justicar Kira left the temple, as she often did. A few months later, another Justicar passed Samara while she was practicing her biotics, carrying the empty armour of a fallen sister. A cold chill ran down Samara's spine when she overheard confirmation that it was Kira's. She had been murdered - assassinated by an agent of one of the nefarious gangs she was hunting.

The Justicars were few in number, and their numbers were not growing.

In her tenth year, after a month of fasting, Justicar Faye invited Samara to sit and eat with her. Samara’s nerves were so fraught after training as hard as she had without food that her fingers shook as she fed herself for the first time in weeks.

“Why do you want to be a Justicar?” Faye asked her abruptly.

Samara froze, too stunned by those words to respond. That was the first real question she had been asked by another person in ten years.

“You may speak,” Faye gave her permission, assuring her this wasn’t a trick.

Samara bowed her head respectfully, her purpose written plainly in her expression. It was all she ever thought about.

“There is a criminal out there. A murderer. I am the cause of her actions. I am bound by the Goddess to stop her,” Samara stated plainly.

“What will you do if you succeed?” Faye asked. There were easier ways to kill someone. Becoming a Justicar was a long way to go for one person.

Samara’s expression didn’t change. “I believe I will die,” she answered.

Faye nodded, accepting that.

From that point on, Samara was permitted to speak, and the Justicars would speak to her, although they remained stern, hard women of relatively few words. That suited Samara perfectly well, as she was much the same, focused only on the task ahead of her. They did not speak of the people they were before they became Justicars, and they did not ask personal questions. Samara was grateful for that. She did not want them to know about her past. If they did, she was not certain she would still be welcome there, or treated with the same respect.

It was an important step once they could talk to her. When they deemed her worthy of speech, it meant she was worthy of formal instruction in The Code, beyond merely reading it privately as she had done for the past decade.

Faye and Zoya took her as their charge for such instruction, whenever one or both of them were at the temple. Faye was older, wiser and the more gifted biotic of the two. Although she could be as harsh and austere as all Justicars, she always exuded an aura of calm and levelheadedness. By contrast, Zoya was much younger than Samara (as many Justicars were), and was shorter, stockier but physically stronger than Faye. She often had a tendency to be, perhaps, overzealous in her approach when Faye wasn’t there to temper her instincts.

Although, that being said, Zoya’s heavy-handed tactics were not a teaching method without merit, either. For instance, Samara once had the gall to ask her the question ‘why’ during one of her lessons about The Code.

Zoya proceeded to thoroughly stomp Samara into the ground, berating her for her hubris as she did so. Zoya made it extremely clear that if Samara ever dared question why The Code was The Code again, she would be summarily thrown out, her past accomplishments in training under Kira be damned.

If a Justicar questioned why The Code was The Code, then that was the life of an innocent person that would perish. That was a killer who would go free. That was an injustice that would be allowed to prevail. That was a split-second hesitation that would privilege their own life above saving others. That was the difference between doing the right thing without delay, and doing the wrong thing.

Samara summarily eliminated the word why from her vocabulary while she remained at the temple.

But the way of the Justicars was not all about violence and the infliction of suffering. It was through them that Samara first found something resembling tranquility since losing her family. Not peace, per se. But the closest she could ever come to serenity, in light of her sins. Unsurprisingly, that influence came from Faye.

"You pray a lot," Faye observed one day, noticing Samara kneeling in the sacred hall in a rare moment of free time. Her statement was not a judgement, but a curiosity. She and Samara both shared the same faith as followers of Athame, and their common spirituality was one of the reasons she had taken her under her wing, after Kira's death. "Have you tried meditating in place of prayer?"

Samara glanced at her. "Is that not more of a siari tradition?"

Faye looked vaguely amused. "Meditating is meditating. Why would it matter what religion one is?" she asked. Samara supposed she had a point. It was just not something she was especially familiar with.

But Faye was a devout believer in the benefits of meditation, and a master of mind over body. She taught Samara all the techniques she knew. How to breathe. How to control her core. How to let her natural biotic energies flow through her. How to clear her mind of conscious thoughts.

At first, it was confronting. Samara saw things she did not wish to see. The very memories she had been running from. Why she was there.

In her earliest attempt at meditation, Samara's psyche was so fractured and her wounds still so raw after years spent ignoring them that, as soon as she began to spiral down that dark cycle of suppressed memories and self-hating thoughts, her biotics veered totally out of control. And they exploded. The detonation that went off when Samara relived Lyla's death in as vivid detail as the day it had happened was so violent that it sent her flying back ten metres into a wall.

She nearly died.

Faye never asked her what she saw, nor why she reacted so strongly. After Samara recovered from her injuries, Faye simply continued to meditate with her, whenever she was there at the temple, unquestioning. And, day after day, month after month, year after year, Samara still saw those flashes in her mind. The photos scattered on the floor of the interrogation room. Rila and Falere disappearing into shadow in the doctor's office. The bathroom door swinging open.

Every single time, those memories cut like knives. But, eventually, after nearly a decade of meditations, she got to the point where she could accept the pain, and bear those stabs of intrusion into her mind with placid-faced stillness and outward tranquility, instead of being brought to ruin by every reminder of her past.

Samara had no sense of it, but Faye watched, and appreciated what it meant, recognising that inner frailty and fragility she had come to them with receding. Until, at long last, at the end of her nineteenth year, beneath her perpetual sorrow, she sensed in Samara a core of quiet confidence.

She had changed.

She may not have known it yet, but she was no longer the same vacant, broken shell of a woman who had come to them years ago.

Which meant she might just be ready to stand on her own.

In her twentieth year, Justicar Faye summoned her again. When Samara entered the sacred hall, she was struck to see no fewer than thirty Justicars lining the walls, with one row on either side. Faye stood on a raised platform at the far end. Samara had never seen so many Justicars at the temple at once. Samara approached and knelt humbly on the steps before her teacher.

Faye sighed. “When your group of acolytes arrived twenty years ago, I turned to Kira and I asked her, ‘Do you think any of them will make it?’ And she looked over that ragtag bunch of Thessians and pointed at you and said, ‘The sad one. I met her in the Temple of Athame. I have a feeling about her.’” A faint smile crossed Faye’s lips as she thought of her fallen friend. “She was not mistaken.”

With that, Faye reached for a thin chest beside her, and held it out between herself and Samara. She removed the lid, revealing a set of striking red Justicar armour. Samara's eyes sparked with recognition. She knew that armour. It had been adjusted slightly, but...that was Kira's armour.

Samara’s shock was palpable.

“Kira would have wanted you to have this. You were the only student she ever took under her wing. She picked a good one.” Faye handed the box to Samara as she spoke. “I say this only because I am certain you think too little of yourself to let this praise go to your head, but I can tell you with no falsity that you have earned your armour faster than any Justicar I have ever met,” Faye told her plainly.

“Forgive me, but...are you certain?” Samara asked, wondering if there had been some sort of mistake. Her abilities fell so far short of the likes of Faye, or Zoya, or any of the others who stood around her. Most Justicars, it seemed, were capable of feats that made even asari commando units look like snivelling children. In a real fight, Samara would be destroyed by any of the women surrounding her in seconds. She still had so much left to learn. She was still such a...such a…

A monster.

“Do you doubt us?” asked Zoya.

Samara hesitated, but shook her head. It was not them she doubted, but herself.

“Have faith, Samara. You are more capable than you give yourself credit for,” Faye assured her. “I have meditated on this, and prayed on it. And I would not be bestowing this upon you if I did not feel the hand of the Goddess guiding me to do this. And, if you question my judgement, I have sought the consent of all those you see before you in inducting you.”

Reluctant though she was, Samara bowed her head, acquiescing to Faye’s leadership. Taking that submission as consent, Faye reached into the chest, retrieved Kira's headpiece, and affixed the same to Samara’s crown.

“Arise, Justicar Samara,” said Faye, allowing herself a glimmer of pride.

* * *

Samara would revisit their secluded temple on occasion, as all Justicars did, much as they often visited the Hall of the Justicars on Thessia, and for similar reasons. They often used it as a safe harbour to return to in time of need. It served as an armoury to re-equip. An infirmary to heal and recuperate when injured. A war room to strategise with comrades and plan their next move. An information hub to meet up with one another and share knowledge when all other leads had dried up.

But Samara’s focus was singular. Far more than most. As such, she had less cause to return than any of the others.

Often, when she did return, there was bad news. Their kind did not have the luxury of longevity.

Zoya died only about a century after Samara became a Justicar. When war broke out between quarians and their geth machines on Rannoch, and it became evident that the quarians were on the verge of total extermination, Zoya felt compelled by her Oaths to intervene and spare the lives of the innocent. Zoya laid down her life biding time while survivors evacuated onto their starships.

By contrast, Faye was afforded a luxury few Justicars would ever have. She died a natural death when Samara was in her ninth century, after devoting the remainder of her life to teaching and training new Justicars, recognising that the Order’s numbers were dwindling. They were dying in the field or renouncing their Oaths and stepping down from the Order (which Justicars were at liberty to do at any time, and which did happen, with every loss being a significant blow to the already diminished Order) faster than their ranks were being replenished.

To an extent, Faye’s mission succeeded. Although there was no such thing as a grandmaster of the Justicar Order, Faye was as close to a leader as The Justicars ever had in Samara’s time. And her wisdom and guidance transformed the Order.

Under her stewardship, the Justicars went from numbering, at their lowest, maybe a few dozen, to growing to a few hundred members for the first time in centuries. In effect, she had saved the Justicars from dying out.

Samara did not personally know precisely what changes Faye implemented, as keeping her distance meant she tended to stay out of the inner workings of the Order. The impression she had gotten was that Faye had made an active effort to reach out and recruit new members, especially those with prior military, mercenary and police experience, and had revitalised some of their training methods.

While the way of the Justicar was not any less arduous under Faye, she did appear to have removed some of the needlessly unsafe and pointlessly brutal aspects of their regimen both so as to increase the odds of candidates succeeding in passing the early drills with the requisite skills, as well as reducing the number of promising Justicars getting unintentionally injured or killed in easily avoidable ways - things which had no basis in The Code as means of instruction.

To Samara, these were all just rumours and hearsay as she had not witnessed these supposed changes firsthand. But she would not have been surprised if they were true. For as tough as she was, Faye had always been a good mentor to her. And, in her own way, the closest thing to an actual kind Justicar.

Faye was given the rare privilege of being buried at the temple. Rare because so few Justicars died there. Rarer still because even fewer Justicars made such exceptional contributions to the Order over the course of their lives.

Samara paid her respects to Faye at a statue of her meditating every time she visited the temple, built over where she was interred. But, after Faye died, her connections with the other Justicars and the rest of the Order were tenuous at best. Samara was always on the trail of Mirala. Or Morinth, as she called herself now. To other Justicars, Samara became like a phantom. A name often uttered, but a face seldom seen. A shadow of a whisper of a rumour. A myth to those who had not yet met her. A fading memory to those who had.

In truth, Samara had come to see so little of her sisters over the centuries that it did not even occur to her to suspect that, after Faye passed, Samara was one of the oldest living members of the Justicar Order.

Most Justicars did not live long enough to become matriarchs. And, after the passing of Faye, Samara was one of a scant few left in their ranks.

By 2185, Samara would be well and truly the oldest Justicar in the Order.

And Samara would neither know nor care.

* * *

To be a Justicar was to be sworn to three fundamental principles at all times: The First Oath of Subsumation, which pledged defence of the lives of the innocent; the Second Oath of Subsumation, which required a Justicar to swear to uphold and respect the laws and norms of the Asari Republics; and, of course, The Code.

The Three Oaths of Subsumation were the only oaths a Justicar swore, or could swear in the case of the third, which superseded The Code. Arguably, such was the entire purpose of the Oaths, for those rare cases where even the ordinarily 'black and white' Justicars recognised the existence of grey, and that their strict interpretation of their Code could lead to injustice, rather than prevent it.

One such grey area that was universally understood by all Justicars was the risk that was posed if they ever left asari space. In asari space, their authority was recognised and respected. And, similarly, irrespective of what The Code demanded, no Justicar had the power to overrule or supplant The Republics' existing legal structures or the rule of law.

It was a compromise The Order had been compelled to make long ago in order to be allowed to continue to exist, lest they run the risk of being perceived as, or becoming, a dangerous group of extremist militant zealots who could overthrow what they deemed 'unjust, corrupt governments' at any given time.

While The Second Oath sometimes tied their hands and hampered investigations on asari worlds, it more often than not afforded them the freedom to carry out their work without disruption. Plus, most asari held Justicars in such high reverence and esteem (and were so intimidated by them) that few had the nerve to do anything other than defer to them and their requests unquestioningly.

However, the Second Oath began and ended at the borders of asari space.

Once The Justicars were outside the Asari Republics, they were bound only by the old ways. By the First Oath, and The Code. And, to any non-asari, The Justicars had no legal or cultural status whatsoever.

That created a rare situation where, by pursuing a criminal outside asari space, a Justicar could be fully aware that she was potentially violating the First Oath, putting innocent lives at risk, and actively making the situation worse.

For example, if a Justicar following The Code killed a gang of slavers on The Citadel on sight as she was compelled to, as she had no legal authority to take that action there, circumstances could easily arise that she was simply perceived by a turian or salarian C-Sec officer as a murderer. And they might fire upon her, or try to arrest her. The C-Sec officer in that scenario would be an innocent, but the Justicar may be compelled to act in self-defence.

Similarly, as a Justicar was not sworn to uphold the laws of non-asari worlds, they were compelled to interfere in investigations in a way that could never happen in the Asari Republics. If an asari was sentenced to prison on Thessia, then despite what The Code said, a Justicar had to accept that she had been lawfully punished for her crime, and that justice had been served. If she was found innocent, then a Justicar had to accept that sentence as well. Even if she was, in fact, guilty.

That did not apply if a Justicar took up residence on The Citadel. If a Justicar set sights on a particular quarry and found that they had already been tried and judged by external authorities, if the punishment did not accord with The Code, they would potentially have to demand the authorities turn that criminal over to them.

Although most Justicars would have the sense to avoid such situations escalating and would let the punishment stand by reference to the First Oath, the fact would remain that Justicars and lawful authorities of external worlds did not respect each other's rule, and would be in essence in active competition. Justicars would not be seen as allies by non-asari law enforcement, but as active saboteurs seeking to disrupt their work and remove criminals from their jurisdiction.

Was it worth it to pursue those criminals and interfere in those matters outside asari space when the potential for violent conflict with innocents was so high? The widely accepted answer was no. For that reason, it was exceptionally rare for Justicars to leave asari space.

But then Samara did not consider herself to be an especially good Justicar.

And she was not hunting any ordinary criminal.

Samara was no fool. And neither was her daughter. If Mirala thought all she had to do was leave asari space to get away from her Justicar mother, then she would have done that in a heartbeat and never crossed the border again.

But Samara wouldn't make things that easy for her.

Wherever Mirala went, she followed. Her pursuit was relentless.

It didn't matter where she went. Turian worlds. Salarian worlds. Batarian worlds. Wherever she turned up, Samara made damn sure her daughter knew she couldn't escape her. That nowhere was off limits. And why would it be? The worst thing imaginable had already happened to Samara. She wasn't afraid of anything anymore. Not even killing innocents, if The Code demanded it.

The first time Mirala killed on Palaven, Samara tracked her there. Too late to catch her, but still. It was only a short time after she had become a Justicar. Her first time on a fully alien world since donning the armour.

"I know who killed this man," Samara told the authorities in straightforward terms, having already introduced herself as a Justicar, a title they neither recognised nor comprehended. "The murderer is an asari, and she is my quarry. She is wanted for dozens of murders in the Republics over the past fifty years, if not hundreds. I have hunted her for three decades. In my pursuit, I tracked her here."

The turian officer regarded her appearance somewhat oddly. "I see. Do you have any information you can share with us about your suspect?"

Samara remained standing before him, with her hands clasped behind her back. "She is my responsibility, not yours. And I know this killer intimately. As she is already long gone, you have nothing further to gain. You will convict no one. To stand in my way will only put future lives at risk. The only course of action that will facilitate justice is if I find evidence of her current whereabouts."

"I understand your point, and I'm sympathetic to the asari, if she has killed as many as you say," he said, endeavouring to take a reasoned approach. "However, this murder occurred on Palaven. It's under our jurisdiction, and it's not our policy to share details of ongoing investigations. If the Asari High Command wish to put in a formal request for details of the case--"

"You misunderstand," Samara calmly cut him off. "I am not asking permission. I am informing you; I will carry out my investigation. And I will deal with anyone who endeavours to stop me without mercy. I will not be this courteous again," she serenely warned him.

Samara's investigation on Palaven ended with five officers receiving non-lethal injuries when they stood between her and evidence, and shots being fired at her as she left. Given she already had what she needed, she did not return fire.

The reason Samara didn't kill any of the police officers ultimately wasn't because they were innocent. But because she was fortunate enough that she was able to pick up Mirala's trail without needing to take any additional lives in the process. Such was not always the case, especially when the target she hunted was no less incisive and cunning than herself.

Mirala was not content with passively fleeing from her mother. Far from it. She wanted her gone, but knew she could not beat her in a fight. She would try to outwit her, and turn Samara's Code against her. She would set traps for her, cry fake tears and play the wounded victim, and seek to send innocent, deceived victims to their deaths, to force Samara to kill in self-defence gullible people who believed they were doing the right thing by a harmless young girl.

And sometimes Samara did. After all, she was a Justicar. And Justicars were ruthless. They didn't hesitate. And they certainly did not stop to ask the motive of a person stupid enough to aim a gun in their face. Or, at least, not until that said stupid person was on the ground, disarmed and bleeding to death. Which was how Samara learned of Mirala's tricks.

And it hurt. Of course it hurt to know her hands had played a part in taking a life that could have been spared. Each innocent life she was forced to take, when The Code and Mirala gave no alternative, was regrettable.

But did she feel guilty? Not for a second.

If Mirala thought that pity for those sent to attack her would slow her, even for a moment, or that there was any shred of mercy left in her to turn her from this path, then Mirala didn't know Samara at all anymore.

That person had died a long time ago, and what remained was kept alive solely by her single-minded dedication to her duty to bury her daughter.

Samara was not her mother anymore. She was a Justicar. Justicars had no mercy. They were only vessels for The Code. If she killed in accordance with The Code, then her actions were just. There was no stain on her conscience.

Any blood Samara spilled due to Mirala's trickery and deception was Mirala's responsibility, and hers alone. More victims added to her count. And those stains on Samara's hands had already been there from the moment she gave Mirala that disease. So nothing was any different in that regard.

Even so, Samara quickly learned the best way to carry out her work on non-asari worlds was to get in and out as quickly as possible, to talk to nobody, to simply do what she intended to do without even bothering to let the authorities know she was there. The less time she spent outside asari space, the less likely she was to get caught up in an unrelated crime that breached The Code in which she was forced to intercede. Although, needless to say, it still happened a few times.

To an extent, her relentlessness worked. It forced Mirala to lay low, to the degree that her addiction to murder allowed her to go without killing (or maybe she just got better at picking victims who would be easy to make disappear). It encouraged her to go back and hide in asari space, or on the fringes of it, where she blended in, and where she might not be the only active rogue Ardat-Yakshi at any given time. And, indeed, she was not. Although other Justicars tended to deal with them.

For four hundred years, Samara hunted Mirala. Sometimes, she got so hot on her trail she was within sight of her. Sometimes the trail went cold for decades, and she would never know exactly how many people Mirala killed in those years, nor everywhere she went. But Samara never stopped.

She came to know from afar an entirely different person. All her aliases. All her habits. Her likes. Her dislikes. Her dark desires. In some ways, she was so similar to the daughter she had always known, but in most ways she was utterly unrecognisable - a complete imposter wearing her skin.

Mirala, or Morinth as she called herself, truly had no conscience. No remorse. She was a rapist, and a murderer. A sexual predator. A serial killer. She cared nothing for anything but the pursuit of her own personal pleasure.

She would say anything to anyone to get what she wanted. Tell any lie, without guilt or shame. And she would speak her deceit with such bald-faced conviction that people would believe her. Not because Morinth believed her lies herself. She did not. But because she was, in the truest sense, a sociopath.

She did not care about hurting others, physically or emotionally. The death of others literally brought her sexual bliss when she melded with them. So no matter what she said, no matter how absurd or unbelievable the lie, no matter how cruel or manipulative it was, there would never be so much as the slightest twinge of a hint of a tell of a falsity in Morinth’s expression that gave away that she was misleading her prey. Because the person she was wrapping around her fingers, in the most profound sense possible, did not matter to her in the slightest.

People were objects for her amusement. Toys to be played with and discarded when they bored her. Or, at worst, prey to a predator. Nothing more.

Since records began, she may well have been history’s most prolific serial killer. Samara knew she had killed at least a thousand already, and that was a very conservative estimate, as that would put Morinth at only two to three kills per year. She knew her number must have been far higher than that, considering Morinth had once caused Samara to slaughter an entire village under her domination in a single day. In truth, the number could easily have been more than triple that.

Would it have been hard for Morinth to seduce, say, ten people a year? No. It would not. Samara was far from naive. There were times when she herself had...potentially melded with more partners than that even in a single night. Back when she and her mercenary crew had gone hard at their favourite clubs night after night, taken home different people each time (often a lot more than one person), shared their conquests all around the ship together, and themselves with each other. For many asari, that was what it was to be young and free.

If Morinth was as liberal with her partners as Samara herself had been in her wildest years, then the thought of how high her body count could be after four hundred years made Samara physically ill.

If Morinth truly did have a lower kill count than that, then perhaps the only reason why was because Samara had chased her so tirelessly. But that she had murdered as many as she had was proof she hadn't done enough.

It was all Samara could focus on. All she could think about. Putting an end to Morinth’s massacre while she still had time. Setting her daughter free from this curse. Letting her sleep. Letting her be with her fath--

Even all those centuries later, she physically winced in pain at the thought of Lyla. That shadow that still lingered, as if welded to her back. A dark shroud that followed her everywhere. A veil of mourning that would never lift. The guilt Samara carried as her penance for destroying her family.

But she shook her distraction off. She could not let the trail run cold again. She was getting older. Each time Morinth eluded her might well be the last chance she ever got - the last time Morinth ever slipped up.

On this occasion, Morinth had led her to Illium. Samara knew her presence there was likely to cause a stir. Although Illium was a majority asari world, it was outside the bounds of the Asari Republics.

Samara had been there before in her youth. Although Illium glittered on the surface, beneath its pretty visage, she knew it to be rotten husk seething with corruption and criminality from every vile orifice. And, as it was not a Republic, she would be bound to act according to The Code without constraint if she saw anything that breached it. Which, knowing Illium, was a near-certainty.

But, if she died in the pursuit of Morinth, then so be it.

She had nothing else to live for.

Only reasons to die.