#I think it's more something like dragon blood makes wars more devastating on a certain scale than if someone only had a spoon

[randomnameless]

Something that doesn’t make sense to me is Brave Tiki acting like giving blood to humans somehow made wars worse in the multiverse in one of her quotes, when that’s never been a thing.

FEH's been eggtivated!

More seriously, without calling it a giant conspiration, it might be only her lamenting that dragon blood gives more power to people, and while some people use said power to do "good" things that "powerless" people cannot do, some persons use that same power to do "worse" than their powerless peers could ever dream of.

It's like the story behind the invention of dynamite!

It was never meant to be used as a weapon, but it happened.

That's why I love the Jugdral series btw, yes, Loptyr is a lizard and Forseti also has scales, but the continent wide war, abduction of children and slaughtering of villages are done by regular people with their regular weapons - so while giving a shiny sword to someone hellbent on killing people would result in more victims than if he had a spoon, the morale of the story isn't - in Jugdral at least - that the weapon/power is bad, it's all about how the carrier/wielder decides to use it.

[conarcoin]

SMPEarth Fanfics

There really isn’t that much fic for SMPEarth so I decided to make a post with a bunch. Some of these are my own, but most aren’t. Long post, so under the cut. I haven’t read all of these myself yet.

MY FICS:

playing imitation games - JoshA20 character study, largely based on the ARGs of SMPEarth. (Oneshot)

and if they laugh at me, i’ll make your heart my home - In an AU where Deo is exiled from Business Bay and joins AE, he finds comfort in Wisp among his new cold & hostile home. (Oneshot)

i’m so sorry (returns) - Slightly canon divergent (just timeline changes, shifting events around). Wisp apologizes for abandoning Business Bay. Deo is upset. (Oneshot)

OTHERS’ FICS:

The Stars Still Love You (They Always Will) - c!Tommy gets sent back in time to SMPEarth. (40/?)

off with their head (wait, are you serious?) - Caught in the middle of the war between Business Bay and the Empire, Charlie has to face his friend, Wilbur, on the battlefield. (Oneshot)

To cure it of sorrow would destroy it - An immortal god, Deo, grows attached to a mortal named Tommy, and is devastated by his death at the hands of a traitor. (Oneshot)

we are the crossroads - Technoblade overworks himself on a particularly scary night at the Antarctic Empire. Phil helps. (Oneshot)

the criminal from korea - Charlie got banished from New Zealand, and lives alone in his country, Kpop. Jack, a leader of the island nation, pays him an unexpected visit to apologize, much to the dismay of the other two New Zealand Soots. (Oneshot)

step one, light me on fire - On Day 19 of Charlie's SMPEarth history, he was named the first and only criminal of New Zealand. (Oneshot)

Letters From Another Millennia - Tommy and his family move into a new house in a small village, it is said to have sheltered magical creatures hunderds— maybe even thousands of years ago. What happens when he finds old letters hidden underneath the floorboards and decides to write responses to them for fun, but ends up getting in touch with a certain someone from the past? (2/15)

Before We Get Older (Let’s Do Everything) - The happiest Deo has ever seen Tommy, he thinks, is right now, as he looks over at Tommy from where he’s lounging in the co-pilot’s seat. (Oneshot)

Misunderstood Emperor - The Antarctic Empire is a grand but isolated country. It plays by its own rules in the grand scheme of things, but one thing is for certain. They are powerful extremely powerful. Ruled by their Emperor Technoblade, who is a mystery to everyone. There are several legends that have told people stories about the great Emperor but none ever tell as much as people would have liked. As one of the immortals, he is a legend in that part. But it's something more for his people and the world. He is a god, The Blood God. He not human as he is above them. This is great and all but what happens when Antarctica is forced out of isolation and people really start to meet the ruler himself. Is he anything they thought him to be? And is being called a god as good as people imagine? We shall see... (2/?)

it’s just a waltz (i’d give you anything you wanted) - After a successful battle campaign across the globe, co-emperors Technoblade and Philza take a reprieve in their mountain palace they call home. A reprieve means a break. Avoiding work. Techno struggles with this, so Phil takes matters into his own hands, and orchestrates a simple, fun plan to help Techno loosen up. (Oneshot)

Moonglass - The Antarctic Empire has long since peacefully disbanded- really, there never was an Empire in the first place. A means to an end and nothing more, their work was done and they retreated back to where their simple work waited in the southern snow. That is, until one day, when Commander Philza Minecraft is nominated to be part of the first group of players to land on the moon. Just a simple trip to survey the land, to evaluate what could be built there one day.... The reports never mentioned the dragon. (7/7)

Snow Angel - The Angel Of Death, now more than ever, is faced with the prospect of eternity. He selfishly hopes he will not fly it alone. (21/21)

Earth and Its Connotations - If things were different, if time had been a little more fluid when her hands had set events into motion, then we might have watched a completely new story unfold from the start. Dream has a question to ask of one of his friends, and that friend has an answer. The butterfly beats its wings and a hurricane brews in the far reaches of the arctic north. (Oneshot)

The Cold Brings People Together - No one would question the bond between the leaders of the Antarctic Empire. Some would call them thick as thieves, birds of a feather, peas in a pod, bolder ones would even call them like a father and son, others would run in fear at the titles 'Blood god' and 'Angel of Death'. Everyone knew that to get to Techno you would have to go through Phil and to get to Phil you would have to go through Techno. The question on the more curious, more daring peoples' minds was, how did the two get so close? (Oneshot)

for dust thou art - The Antarctic Empire's civilization fell long ago, it's cities in ashes and it's kingdom fallen to dust. The ruins are precarious and no one dares trod to the arctic to pick them over. No one, that is, except for you. The ruins of an empire beckon at your mind like the claws of a beast. (Oneshot)

hell hath frozen over. - in a world where not one angel showed him warmth, techno finds life in the arctic thrall of Death. (Oneshot)

Why Did You Return. -  And even as Deo brought the feared Midas sword to hiss neck, he couldn't find himself to feel any fear. The only emotion he could feel was raw regret, and acceptance. He knew he would relinquish his life to a God-slayer, a renowned fearless being, who would stop at nothing to protect those who he considered family. He would lose his life to TimeDeo, once a brother, now an enemy, and Wisp could not bring himself to feel any fear, only the relief that it was someone he still deeply cared for taking the anger out on him in a way he deemed justified, and there was no fear. Only the cold accepting that this was the end. (Oneshot)

I Wear The Chain I Forged In Life - “Oh,” Doomsday says. “We’ve run out of time.” “Doomsday, please, just tell me how to stop this,” Tommy begs. Doomsday does not meet his eyes. “I wear the chain I forged in life, TommyInnit. I made it link by link, yard by yard. Let us hope you’ve done the same.” (Oneshot)

old friends, old scars (new starts) - After betraying him during SMPEarth, Wisp joins the Dream SMP to offer his alliance to Tommy once more. (Oneshot)

After What I Did, How Could You Not? - Nobody had heard from this world-conquering Empire in quite some time. It had been months since Phil or Techno had spoken out for their kingdom and even Newfoundland had been wondering where they’ve gone. Tommy seemed to know, but he didn’t seem keen on sharing. (Oneshot)

[duncanwrites]

All the books I read in 2020, reviewed in two sentences or less

My 2020 in reading was, naturally, a little strange. I had lots of long pauses, did a bad job of keeping track of everything I read, used an e-reader for the first time, and read more for work than I usually do.

So these may not be in strict chronological order as they usually are, and there may be a few missing, but here’s the list, as per tradition:

Rising Tide - John M. Barry: This history of the Mississippi floods of 1927 and the resulting changes in how the US deals with natural disasters is one of those stories about how politics and personality can become a part of the concrete world, and essential for understanding the racial dynamics of disaster response. Well-told, and worth reading. 

The Consultant's Calling - Geoffrey M. Bellman: A very useful recommendation from a trusted friend that now has a long-term spot in my office shelf. This book isn't only about consulting, it also offers great thoughts about finding your place and impact in organizations in general.

Range - John Epstein: I think Range is the nonfiction book that had the second- greatest impact on my thinking about myself this year (stay tuned for number 1!): I've always approached my professional and political work as a generalist, and for a long time I felt like that approach was leading me to a dead end. Reading this convinced me that I could be effective and even more useful with my fingers in a lot of different pies, and nudged me to keep searching for my most effective place in the movement.

The Accusation - Bandi: A harrowing work of realist fiction from North Korea that shows the toll authoritarian hero-worship takes on the soul.

The Underground Railroad - Colson Whitehead: I found that the quality of The Underground Railroad did not quite match its notoriety. It felt like two books awkwardly joined, where the more grounded approach to the emotional and interpersonal stakes of slavery and freedom was attached to a poorly-explored fantasy device.

Maus - Art Spiegelman: So much more than a book about the Holocaust, Maus is about parents and how pain is handed down between generations.

I Love Dick - Chris Kraus: After a long enough time, it becomes hard to evaluate books that are meant as a provocation as well as storytelling, but even 20 years on, it's not hard to see why I Love Dick brought us so much of the style and voice of feminist writing on the internet. A unique, itchy, sticky piece of work.

Bloodchild - Octavia Butler: Whenever I see an Octavia Butler book in a used book store, I buy it. This collection of short stories is a fantastic example for what transgressive, visionary speculative fiction should aspire to.

King Leopold's Ghost - Adam Hochschild: What I love about this book and the other I've read by Hochschild (Bury the Chains_ is that he very carefully merges deep explorations of systems of violence with the way that they can be undone by the people who participate in them. King Leopold's Ghost is as much about Belgium's murderous plunder of the Congo as it is about the successful global movement against it.

Priory of the Orange Tree - Samantha Shannon: Priory of the Orange Tree is built on a strong foundation, melding Eastern and Western dragon stories into one universe, but couldn't seem to tie all of its threads together in a compelling way by the end.

Desiring the Kingdom - James K. A. Smith: Smith's point about meaning and desire being embedded in every day practices is a valuable one, but I think I may be just too far outside of his target audience of religious teachers and thinkers to get the most out of his explorations here.

City of Brass, Kingdom of Copper, Empire of Gold (The Daevabad Trilogy) - S. A. Chakraborty: This series is exceptional, and some of my favorite books of any kind that I read this year; I certainly think I recommended them more often than anything else I read in 2020. A high fantasy built on Islamic and Arab cultural iconography, the characters are insightfully developed, the world building grows with precise pacing, and the themes of intergenerational trauma, and sectarianism are handled with expert delicacy.

Leadership and the New Science - Meg Wheatley: While I appreciate the effort to apply metaphors developed from scientific paradigm shifts to provoke paradigm shifts of thinking in other areas of work, I think this book strains its chosen metaphors a bit too far to be useful.

The American Civil War: A Military History - John Keegan: I appreciate that there's a value to these kinds of military analyses of conflicts, but I found this book's neutral tone - and sometimes admiring takes - towards the Confederacy off-putting. Two things I did take from it: the outcome of the war was not certain at the beginning, and speed is truly a critical part of winning conflicts.

To Purge This Land with Blood - Stephen Oates: This was the first substantial reading I had ever done about John Brown, and Oates' book made it very clear why he is still one of the American historical figures most worth talking about today. The contradictions, complexities, and unimpeachable truths caught up in his raids are almost too many to name, but I think he is one of the people most worth thinking about when considering what actually changes the world.

Normal People - Sally Rooney: Anyone who denies that this book is anything less than a truly great novel is not telling the truth, or does not actually care about the feelings people feel. It is a work of keen emotional observation, and perfect, tender language, as well as a pleasingly dirty book -- and there is nothing I would change about it.

Conversations With Friends - Sally Rooney: Still a banger, I think Conversations with Friends struggles somewhat to get to its point, and has less of the pleasing depth and ambiguity of Normal People. Still worth your time and attention, I think.

The Glass Hotel - Emily St. John Mandel: I loved Station Eleven, and I can't imagine having to follow it up, and I unfortunately think The Glass Hotel doesn't quite accomplish all it set out to do. It wandered, hung up on a few strong images, but never progressed towards a point that needed to be made, and I finished it feeling underwhelmed.

The Water Dancer - Ta-Nehisi Coates: Coates is an essential nonfiction writer who can turn a phrase to make devastating, memorable points - but I thought his novel failed to do very many of the things that make his nonfiction great.

A Visit From The Goon Squad - Jennifer Egan: Someone once recommended this book to me as a way to study voice in character development - it is certainly that, as well as a brutally efficient window into hope, fame, and aging.

Trick Mirror - Jia Tolentino: The best parts of Trick Mirror show why Jia Tolentino is one of the writers most worth reading today: she knows how to find the experiences and people that wormhole you into dimensions of American culture that you might not otherwise think carefully about. While I think some of the essays in the book are weaker than her usual work, overall it is still terrific, and her essay on Houston rap, evangelical culture, and drugs is one of the best anythings I read all year.

My Dark Vanessa - Kate Elizabeth Russell: I feel like I'm on very shaky ground making any definitive takes about a book like this that is so fundamentally about gendered violence and what it means to be a victim of that violence. But I will say that I think it's important to recognize how power and charisma can be used to make you want something that actually hollows out your soul.

Prozac Nation - Elizabeth Wurtzel: Without a doubt, this is the nonfiction book that had the greatest personal impact on my life in 2020, and I have much longer things I've written about it that I will probably never share. While I've not ever been to the extremes she describes here, Wurtzel describes so many things that I clearly remember feeling that the shock of recognition still hasn't worn off.

The New Jim Crow - Michelle Alexander: In truth, we should all be shaking with rage at the American justice system every single day. This is certainly not the only book to explain why, but it does a particularly good job of explaining both the deep roots, and rapid expansion of the system we need to dismantle.

The Martians - Kim Stanley Robinson: Getting another little taste of the world Robinson built in the Mars Trilogy only made me want to drop everything and read them again. Well-made, but not stand-alone short stories that are worth reading if you've finished the novels and aren't ready to leave the formally-Red yet.

The Wind’s Twelve Quarters - Ursula K. Le Guin: One of the things that makes Le Guin so special is the sparseness of her prose and world building, and her genius is very much evident in her short stories.

Matter - Iain M. Banks: This is the second Culture series book I've read by Banks, and once again I thought it was inventive, satisfyingly plotted, but not so heady to be imposing. A very solid read.

Ogilvy On Advertising - David Ogilvy and Ogilvy On Advertising in the Digital Age - Miles Young: The original Ogilvy on Advertising is  frustratingly smug but at least delivers plain and persuasive versions of advertising first principles. Ogilvy on Advertising in the Digital Age is also frustratingly smug, but is mainly useful as an example of the hubris and narcissism of contemporary advertising executives.

Goodbye to the Low Profile - Herb Schmertz: Schmertz was the longtime public affairs director for Mobil Oil, and in this book he talks about how they worked to manage public debate about the oil industry, without realizing that he's writing a confession. Reading this it is abundantly clear how the oil industry's commitment to making deception respectable led to the collapse of the American public sphere.

The Lean Startup - Eric Ries: I was surprised by how much I liked this book, and wish more people who wanted to start political projects would read it. The Lean method is a way of building organizations that are ruthlessly focused on serving their base of supporters, and evaluate their work against real results - and I think we all could use more of those.

Zero To One - Peter Thiel: Another book that reads like a confession when perhaps not intended to, Zero To One's main point is that the point of building businesses should be to build monopolies, and that competition is actually bad. A great starting point for understanding what's gone wrong in America's tech economy.

The Mother of All Questions - Rebecca Solnit: Of the many things to cherish about Solnit as a writer, the one I needed most when I re-read this book is her ability to gently but doggedly show other ways of imagining the world, and ourselves in it.

Native Speaker - Chang-Rae Lee: I think this is the third time I've read this novel, and the time I've enjoyed it the least: somehow on re-re-reading, the core metaphors became overbearing and over-used, and the plot and characters thinner.

Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller: There are several excellent entries in the sub-genre of classic tales re-told from the perspective of silent women characters, but this is the first I've read re-told from a man's perspective - in this case, the likely-lover of Achilles in the Iliad, Patroclus. While not necessarily a groundbreaking work of literature, it is a very well-executed one that tells a compelling story about how violence can destroy men who carry it out.

Uprooted - Naomi Novik: What makes Uprooted so engrossing is that its magical world feels grounded, and political: magic has consequences for the individuals who use it, and further consequences based on their place in the world. What makes it frustrating is the overwhelming number of things the author has happening in the story, and the difficulty they have bringing them to a conclusion.

[allisondraste]

Temperance (37/42)

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary: Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary:   Nathaniel arrives to Liss’ Joining just intime to catch her as she collapses.  He enjoys nothing the entire chapter lol. 

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

[AO3 LINK]

Vigil's Keep, 9:31 Dragon

Nathaniel stood, numb, ears ringing and heart throbbing in the silence that Liss left behind when she walked out the door.  He did not know what exactly he’d hoped to gain by spilling his soul to her as she prepared for a dangerous, potentially lethal ritual.  If he were honest, he had hoped for nothing other than to make amends, to be supportive. Perhaps it was selfish, but he also just wanted to see her, to comfort himself with her warmth.  He should have known better than to think it would be as simple as that, considering the threadbare composure split between them. Of course they’d both snapped, and the only hope of any sort of resolution and closure awaited on the other side of her Joining.  If there was an “other” side.

Every fiber of his being begged him to run away, to bury his feeling so deep inside himself that he would never bother her with them again.  It seemed so unfair, to ask her to have patience for someone as broken as he was, someone who had hurt her so much already. He could not expect her to give him more than she had already given, especially when it seemed that all he could offer in return were  apologies she didn’t want to hear.  

Nathaniel was pulled from his rumination by the sound of chanting, the Warden Oath, and his pulse jumped. Suddenly, he felt so absurd and ridiculous.  Liss stood alone in a room full of people she barely knew, facing potential death, and there he was in her bedroom with a half-eaten bag of cookies for company while he felt sorry for himself.   Was he truly considering abandoning her now, after swearing he’d be there for her? Was he really that cowardly and self-serving? Had he become so much like his father after all?

No.

He shook his head, and started toward the door.  He was no great man, no prince or knight in shining armor.  He was guilty of more mistakes than he could count, and Liss’ anger at him had been more than earned.  But he was a far better man than his father. He wouldn’t be running anywhere except down the hallway and a flight of stairs to stand by Liss’ side, to be an actual friend to her for the first time in almost a decade.  

By the time Nathaniel  reached the main hall, two recruits already lay on the floor, dead.  He wondered if they had families and loved ones, if they’d be missed.  They had to be important to someone, and yet, he could hardly focus on their sacrifice as Liss took the chalice in her hands, eyes wide and watering.  She’d just watched two men die doing just as she prepared to do and she was pale, trembling, glancing around the room frantically searching for something, someone among the faces in the small crowd.  Her eyes locked with his, causing several other of those gathered to snap their heads toward him as well. Despite the sinking pit of dread that churned in his stomach and gnawed at his chest, he smiled at her.  It was slight, and all he could manage, but she smiled, too, closed her eyes, and drank.

For a brief, yet excruciating moment, nothing happened and the entire hall fell silent, watching and waiting.  Then, Liss tossed her head back and opened her eyes. She was quiet, but stumbling back and forth and clutching at her throat and chest as if she were fighting against an invisible animal that grappled at her neck.  As he watched, hot tears burned behind his eyes, and he could restrain himself no longer.

“Liss,” he shouted in complete disregard for Joining protocol as he rushed forward, sprinting across the room in just enough time to catch her.  He hooked his arms under her and lowered her to the ground gently, a stark and steady contrast to the violent quaking inside his chest as he cradled her head and upper body.  She was limp and lifeless, skin frighteningly cool to the touch.

“No,” Nathaniel rasped, raw with every emotion he’d ever felt for her.  The eyes of those who remained in the hall burned into his back, their still, solemn silence more unnerving than comforting.  They should be celebrating. Liss was supposed to survive, damn it. She was supposed to wake up no worse for wear and tease him for being so ridiculously worried, to prove him wrong like she always had.  This wasn’t right.

“No, no. Liss, wake up,” he muttered again, shaking her gently and panicking when she did not stir.  He gathered her up into his arms, as if he could hold her together, and pressed his face against her neck.  His hands twisted in her hair and clutched at the fabric of her shirt, fighting desperately with the sobs that threatened to overtake him. “Liss.  Stay with me, please.”

Everyone in the hall remained respectfully, and eerily, silent, as Nathaniel held Liss, rocking back and forth and humming, more to comfort himself than anything.  He cared little what the others thought of him, and cared little that he was entirely vulnerable and exposed. He could hardly bring himself to care for anything other than the woman in his arms, the one he loved.  A gentle pressure fell on his shoulder and he looked up to see Lucia, tears welling in her eyes as she shifted her gaze from Liss to him.

“I’m sorry, Nathaniel,” she said, words shaking as they fell from her mouth.  “I—“

She paused, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to examine Liss more closely.  Just as she did so, Liss’s fingers twitched, and she coughed abruptly and forcefully, grimacing and blinking several times before her eyes slowly fluttered open.  She smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing he could possibly imagine. She was alive, thank the Maker. She was alive.  

“Nate,” she said hoarsely, bringing a hand up to his cheek, thumb wiping away one of the many tears he’d shed. Her smile widened briefly and then she lost consciousness again.

Nathaniel’s heart sank into his abdomen and he frantically pressed two fingers to her neck, sighing when he felt a pulse.  It was weak, but there. He snapped his head back to Lucia, and nodded.

“Anders,” Lucia shouted, and the mage flinched. He rushed over and knelt on the ground beside Nathaniel to examine Liss.  

Closing his eyes, he extended a hand, palm down, and held it over Liss for a moment, typically mischievous eyes filled with nothing but compassion as he looked first at Nathaniel, then Lucia.  “She did not take well to the taint.”

“Does anyone,” Lucia asked dryly.

“No, but this is the worst reaction I’ve seen anyone survive.”  His eyes were trained on Liss as he spoke. “She is lucky to be alive.”

“Is she going to be all right?”  Under different circumstances, Nathaniel would be ashamed by his lack of composure.

“She’ll be fine.  She just needs to rest,” Anders explained, and then laughed, “I’m more worried about you.”

Nathaniel didn’t acknowledge his remark, too preoccupied with Liss to care.  He brushed a strand of hair from her face, relieved that she was warm and breathing again. He was shaky, out of breath, and his head pounded.  It would take more than a matter of minutes to recover from the devastation that reaked havoc on his body.

“We should, uh, probably get her to a bed,” Alistair suggested, walking up to stand beside Lucia, “Don’t you think?”

“Right.” Nathaniel frowned, but nodded in agreement, moving to stand, picking Liss up as he did so. He turned to look at Anders, then Velanna.  “I may need some help.”

Anders nodded and Velanna stepped forward from where she’d been standing near Sigrun.  For the first time, Nathaniel noticed that all of his friends had remained, even Oghren who pretended not to be watching intently, even though he was.  Looking down at Liss once more, to make certain she was still all right, he took a breath and made his way to the back of the hall, and the stairway that led up to the living quarters.  Velanna and Anders followed behind him.

When they reached Liss’ room, Nathaniel eased her down onto the bed, not taking time to bother with the blankets, as she had broken out into a sweat that he made every effort not to worry too much about.  He then turned to look at the others helplessly. “What does she need?”

Stepping forward, Anders placed the back of his hand against her forehead.  “She has a fever, but that normal.”

“You said she was not reacting well to the taint.  Why? What does that mean?”

“I am a healer, Nate, not an expert on Blight magic.”  Anders’ words were sarcastic, but not unkind.  

Velanna approached the bed to examine Liss, pressing a hand to her forehead, then cheek.  “Sometimes when my clan would wander too near blighted lands, the halla would become sick.  Feverish, lethargic. It was in response to exposure to Darkspawn blood.”

“But that’s Blight sickness,” Anders protested, “Grey Wardens are supposed to be immune.”

“Grey Wardens are more resistant,” she explained, “It will not kill her, but she can still suffer the symptoms.”

Nathaniel directed his attention to Velanna, and asked, “Will it go away on its own?”

“I am unsure about how the disease works in a Grey Warden.  The halla never recovered on their own.”

“But they survived?” Anders frowned.

“There is a flower,” she said with a sigh, “Your people call it Andraste’s Grace.  When ground and mixed with elfroot, it cured our animals.”

“But the Blight sickness is incurable,” Anders remarked.

“In people. The flower was never able to help our hunters who fell ill.” She paused for a beat and brought her eyes to meet Nathaniel’s, “But it might work for her, considering her newly acquired Blight resistance.”

“Do you have what you need,” Nathaniel asked.

“Yes, I believe so.” She nodded decisively.  “I will go prepare a potion.”

“Thank you, Velanna,” he stated, hoping she could hear the gratitude in his voice.  She smiled, giving him a gentle squeeze on the arm as she walked past him and exited the room.   He sat down on the foot of the bed near Liss, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, head dropping into his hands.

“So, how long have you been in love with her,” Anders asked as casually as if he were speaking about the weather.

“Anders,”  Nathaniel stated tersely, hoping the mage would sense his tone and desist.

“I know, I know.  You don’t want to talk about it.”  Anders waved his hands emphatically.  “Fine. At least go outside and get some air. “

“Are you sure?”

“Nate, she’s going to be fine,” Anders stated more sternly than Nathaniel was accustomed to hearing him speak, “I’ll stay here with her, and if you don’t trust me, then Velanna will be back any minute.”

“Why wouldn’t I trust you?”

“Why would you?  Nobody else does.”  Anders’ words had sharp edges that were not quite dulled by his shrugging and laughing afterward.

“I have no doubt that you will take better care of her than I could.”   Nathaniel smiled and stood up. “ And I do need to clear my head.”

“You’re not worried I’ll summon a demon to feast on her, or work some evil blood magic?”  He laughed again, but seemed relieved.

“No, Anders.  I’m not.” Nathaniel said, directly, clapping him on the shoulder before heading toward the door, “I trust you.”

Nathaniel left the room, hoping— no, praying— that Velanna’s potion worked, and that Liss would be awake and well when he returned.  Then again, the thought of facing her after their argument, after she nearly died. What would he say? Would she even want to see him?  The thought that their friendship might be ruined for good, was only slightly less horrifying than her death.  

He made his way downstairs, through the main hall that was now completely empty, and out to the courtyard.  It was early evening, the rays of light just starting to dim, blocked out by heavy clouds that still hung in the sky.  He had intended to make his way to the archery range. Shooting had always given him a sense of calm and clarity, and he hoped that it would help him to wrap his mind around the events of the past several hours.  However, it was already too dark, and with the foreboding of a storm, it was not even worth the effort to light the torches.

Instead, he sat down gracelessly on the steps, and stared out over the exterior of the keep.  In so many ways he felt as if he were fifteen again, back at his family home, sitting outside in less than ideal weather to escape the suffocating presence of everything inside, emotions in turmoil over Liss. The only major difference, aside from his father no longer causing him misery, was that he faced nothing alone.  There were people who cared about him, and he took more than a little solace in that.

There was a gravelly chuckle behind him and he flinched, turning around just in time to see Oghren close the door and approach him.  “The stairs aren’t for sitting, Howe.”

“I beg to differ,” Nathaniel answered with a laugh.  

Oghren moved to sit beside him, as if he had not just lectured him on the purpose of stairs.  “I figured you might be out at the range.”

“It’s too dark,” Nathaniel explained, and then narrowed his eyes at the dwarf, “Were you looking for me?”

“Suppose I was,” Oghren sighed, “Thought I would see how you’re holding up.  I didn’t think that Cousland girl was going to make it.”

“And you were worried about me? I am flattered, Ser Dwarf.”

“Yeah well…”  Oghren trailed off and looked away, as if he were embarrassed.  He fell silent for a moment and then continued. “You know, usually I’d make a joke about how she’s too pretty for ya.  How Ol’ Oghren could treat her much better.”

“And this is supposed to be comforting,” Nathaniel asked dryly, one eyebrow quirking up.  

“It is if you let me finish, boy.”

“I’m all ears.”  

“Truth is,” Oghren began solemnly, eyes focused out in the distance, “You’re one of the finest people I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, and she’d be lucky to have you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Nathaniel replied, “But it’s complicated.”

“Complicated? You don’t even know the meaning of that word,” Oghren snapped, turning his head toward Nathaniel, “The first woman I ever loved ran off to the Deep Roads without me, and all I did was make a drunk of myself.  Now, I keep running away from anything that’s even close to being that vulnerable again.”

“Felsi and the baby,” Nathaniel stated timidly, feeling rather chastised.

“Right..” Oghren deflated and shook his head.  “I joined the Wardens because I thought Felsi’d leave me, stop letting me ruin her life.  Turns out love doesn’t work like that.”

Nathaniel searched for an appropriate response, but could find nothing, and chose to sit in the silence instead.  It did not last long, as Oghren inhaled and continued. “Listen. All I’m saying is that you can keep hating yourself for the past, run away from it, drown it in ale, bury it deep down, but it’s never going to go away.”

“Then what would you suggest, Oghren?” Nathaniel’s words were sharper than he intended.

“I don’t know,” Oghren answered, throwing up his hands, “ Maybe look at what you’ve got right now, right in front of you, and thank the shit out of whatever you worship that you have it”

“I have messed this up so many times, I’m not even certain it is an option to forget the past and move forward.”

“By the Stone, Howe!  Even I’m not that thick.”  He laughed, but was obviously frustrated.  “It’s clear you two are meant to be together.  Life’s too short to love someone like that and not do everything you can to make it work.”

“I…” Nathaniel frowned, unsure how exactly to take the dwarf’s tough love approach, “Thank you.”

“Here.” Reaching into his coat, Oghren pulled out a small silver flask and held it up.  Without even taking a swig, he slapped it against Nathaniel’s chest with enough force that Nathaniel flinched and caught it before it fell to his lap. “Now drink… and do whatever you’ve got to so you’re there for that girl when she wakes up.”

Before Nathaniel could even thank him again, Oghren stood up, grunting with the effort, and stomped back inside, leaving Nathaniel alone once again.  He stared down at the flask, which was adorned with dwarven letters and full to the brim. It was so unlike Oghren to share his spirits with anyone, let alone give someone an entire flask.  Had he stopped drinking? Or was he actually that sentimental? Perhaps it was both.  

In any case, it was thoughtful, just as his words had been.  Oghren was not the most articulate of people, but his words were more powerful than he likely realized.  Nathaniel had been so fixated on making up for his past mistakes, that he’d completely overlooked what he had in front of him.  Liss was angry, she’d refused to entertain his confession, but she’d never once given him any indication that she wished him gone.  When he truly thought about the events of the past few days, there was so much evidence to the contrary. She had been fighting for him the entire time, and he’d let his concern for her and the Joining cloud it all.  

He was such a bloody fool.

The clouds finally burst open and rain poured down torrentially, as if some dam had ruptured in the sky.  Fitting, Nathaniel thought. Twisting the cap off of Oghren’s flask, he took a long swig, eyes watering as the liquid burned it’s way down his throat.  Fergus had introduced him to dwarven ale many years ago, claiming that it would put hair on his chest. It left his mouth numb for hours, and he’d not touched it since, preferring drinks that didn’t taste like dirt and piss. He coughed, sniffed the ale, winced, and took another drink anyway.  It didn’t taste any better the second time.

He sat for a few moments longer, blinking away the rain that splashed against his face.  He shook his head and screwed the cap back on to the flask, placing it in his coat pocket before rising to his feet.  It was still too cold to mope about in the rain, and he’d chosen to heed Oghren’s advice anyway. Liss would no doubt wake up soon, and he was going to make sure he was there.

[ocoree]

Something I realized that I feel needs to be said.

Hey guys.

I know I've been kinda silent on this front, with the craziness of work, heatwave-sickness, coordinating with local artists to hopefully start up a co-op to finally have some personal studio space to get my butt out of the apartment (yay?) and get some serious headway on projects, and small project concepts being mulled over. But..

There's something on my mind that has been rocketing around my skull and rib cage since I had a random spike of self-reflection during a low-morale swing, and I feel the message it has in itself is really important to share with people, especially folks with young kids. And that message starts with a phrase I uttered at the tender age of four almost three decades ago  in the climax of extreme despair and devastation -

"I wish I was never born."

I'm going to need to preface why this statement should be a warning flag, because what happened to me back then has led to probably one of the loneliest and confusing lifespans I've had to contend with in the battle to retain the sense of self from that singular point.

Sure, I started out as your typical toddler; always getting into things, throwing tantrums, discovering how you can interact with the world... not putting your chin on a piping hot pizza cooling rack in your excitement for dinner to be ready... you know... kid things.

That only lasted until I started realizing that I was doing more things wrong in my parent’s eyes, than good. The longer that kept happening, the lower and lousier I was feeling with each failure and resulting discipline/punishment to the point I became extremely anxious on the point of severe panic when I began going to elementary school.

I don't remember what had happened when I said that phrase for the first time, but I remember the most poignant one that started the snowball rolling. My parents were in the garage with some neighbor friends socializing, and I couldn't take the strain of being a failure and disappointment in my parents eyes any further, and said them to my mother.

She laughed.

Reflecting on that moment made me realize that was the point I lost trust in the being that was supposed to be the foundation that supported my becoming my own person, lost the trust in any adult really. If adults laughed at me for crying out to them in desperation when I had no other words to express what I was feeling, ignored me when I curled under a chair hoping that if I held my breath long enough I would simply disappear from existence, who could I trust?

Certainly not my peers. I moved too much to learn how to socialize properly (and long before someone gave me the label of high functioning aspergers because of it) with other people, and had to learn to engage myself in my own head quietly tucked away in my room where I wouldn't disappoint anyone. Moving as part of a military family meant I was nervous, wary, and often resulted in incidents where the principal calling my parents was almost daily. No one saw the warning signs that something was psychologically wrong with me then. Other kids often found a reason to pin the blame on me, so I had to learn to lash out verbally in primal gutteral growls and glaring to keep what was left of 'self' safe.

You know the saying, "It's when kids are silent that you should be worried."?

That wasn't the case for me. Being silent meant I wouldn't be in trouble, would be ignored, under the radar and left to my own imagination that would later fuel my artistic processes.

Coming to Maine in the summer and winter was probably the only time I could escape that reality, and remember what it's like to be a kid again, even if my body was a few years older than I was mentally able to handle at the time. I always looked forward to coming here where I could blast down to the shore to swim from the house when I wanted, go kayaking, and toddle down to the local thrift shop on my own when in the 'city', where my stepmom had her photography studio at the time, and buy a couple bucks of pipecleaners on my own to occupy my time making dragons and other creatures.

That changed when I decided to move up there. My suicidal depression became a tool against me. I was still making mistakes, and not understanding how to fix them, or myself, due to how wildly different and extreme each social situation within the family environment was. I was a workhorse primarily - doing chores and grounds keeping through the day, expected to be up by a certain hour; later becoming the exclusive food supplier/cooker and the convenient in-house mediator to the bipolar rages of one of the parents while being expected to hold a job after I got booted out of my mother’s home again when she was fed up with my damaged psyche. I had to learn many skills a young teen/adult should not have needed to learn just to survive living in that house.

They're useful today, but I feel alienated because of how I had to learn them, and thinking, "These are skills no one else my age has because they likely didn't have to learn to watch faces and body language, anticipate what people are going to do/need, and constantly watch all sides of the immediate area for 'threats' with experience in being socially/psychologically neutral-calm when dealing with antagonizing situations, thus treating everyone around them like a cornered wild animal."

When I was with that family, my suicidal flareups went from, "Oh you're just being dramatic." to "You're just thinking that so you can try to create the most damage possible to me because you’re always out to hurt everyone, but it isn't going to work on me!" Often accompanied with triumphant patronizing glares, when on the flip side I hear from the same mouth about how the sibling took his life because he couldn't take the pain from what his family did to him any longer.

So non-blood relatives can be sympathised for their need to end their lives, but I get ridiculed for it. How many times have I looked at a kitchen knife morbidly wondering how it'd  feel? What it'd be like to just flee from the house down the road to that dock I once swam off of and just not come back up? I still flinch away from the knife if someone else holds it and swings it in my direction, and I still pull myself out of it by reminding myself of all the projects I want to do, and my animals that were the only things that were a solid emotional anchor even when they too were threatened to be ripped away from me a few times.

Heck... I almost committed to it one night after a particularly bad row when I was at the end of my wits in what to do, as nothing I did was good enough, nothing I said was the right thing, but I still stopped myself at the edge of the house deck in the torrential downpour shivering in the pitch black while a war raged in my head until my dad came out to stand beside and begged me to come back inside the house.

Why could other people do it and be sympathized, but I be villanized? Dismissed?

It's not something I bring up a lot, even when I vent to my friends about general frustrations and low-morale depressed thoughts to try to tough it out, because I learned that my needs and stresses come last to everyone else. Everyone else comes first, and take priority to every shred of emotion out of me until I have little left for myself to the point sometimes I just sit at the desk in blank torpor unable to bring myself to draw in my favorite means of meditation and self-charging for the next day of demands.

These days, all I feel like I want to do is just sleep.. sleep and maybe.. not wake up at all.. I still feel the inner 'self' yelling at me that there's still things to do, but that voice is not as loud as it used to be, and I'm having to hide away from the world more and more to re-connect with that inner fire to keep it alive.

So.. thank you to all who took the time to read that, and I wish to say it again to parents with children, or anyone who is relation to a child that hears these words -

"I wish I was never born."

- Please... PLEASE... Stop and pay attention. REALLY listen to the delivery.

What transpired to cause those words to be said may be minor in older eyes, but something had to have snapped to cause a CHILD to say words that they should never have reason to say.

I've learned things that have helped me in life since those days, but the price I had to pay for it is not a cost that should be met.

[mathiaskillmaster]

Rebirth of the Dragon (After GOT / Daenerys Targaryen) Part 6

Westeros, Winterfell Although summer had fallen, temperatures in the independent kingdom of north had remained rather low, although the snow had disappeared to give way to the green heaths and coniferous forests rocked by the wind. In Winterfell, capital of the northern kingdom, life had resumed and gradually recovered from the terrible battle that had taken place against the Night King and his army of the dead, now a threat from the past. In the courtyard of the castle, servants and other occupants were engaged in their daily tasks, while patrol guards proceeded to their usual rounds. Standing in front of the big fireplace in her personal office, the young queen in the north, Sansa Stark, dressed in her big black dress and her warmly fur-covered shoulders, was pacing, circling, her hands behind her back, and seemed to be waiting, looking moribund. On her desk, among the many documents, was a letter whose seal, that of the hand of the king, had been broken. Sansa had read the letter sent recently by Tyrion Lannister, and what she had read there had more than disconcerted her. Daenerys Targaryen is .... alive? Just thinking about it made her shudder again. Just the idea that she can return to Winterfell on the back of her dragon to seek revenge. Despite having archers, Sansa did not know if all of Winterfell's garrison, no matter how large, would be sufficient in the face of the devastating anger of an adult dragon who had proven himself capable of destroying an entire fleet of war ships and ravaged half of King's Landing. Sansa did not know what her brother Bran was going to do about it, but knowing that her kingdom no longer depended on the king's orders, she decided to do something for her. She would not take the risk of seeing Winterfell and the north be burned to the ground if she could stop it before it happen. Returning to her desk, Sansa took her pen, dipped it in ink and began writing a missive. She had heard from her sister Arya about the existence of this sect of dreadful assassins at Braavos. ********* Essos, approaching Asshai The end of the journey was approaching for the ironborn ship which had been flying on the sea for almost a month now from Volantis. Already, the first signs of Asshai's approach were noticeable. The waters, usually of a natural blue, had gradually faded to become dark, gray and opaque. Glancing over the rail, Yara shivered. She, who had participated in many expeditions at sea, showed for the first time a little doubtful. Sometimes she could see weird fishes, phosphorescent, appearing and disappearing like ghosts under the surface. She dared not imagine what kinds of creatures could haunt these waters. A thicker mist had risen, snaking over the surface of the water like snakes of smoke. In order to avoid any risk, Yara had reduced the wing, the ship now slipping more slowly in these sinister waters of the end of the world. On the deck, the ironborn sailors had lost their proud and harsh airs, and could not prevent the doubt from expressing themselves on their faces, although the unsullied and the soldiers of the Fiery hand remain strangely calm despite the macabre atmosphere. Among the most superstitious sailors, some came to dread that the ship would reach the end of the world and fall into the great void. Others were convinced that these black, silent waters would eventually lead them into the other world. An ironborn, scared to death, swore on his head that he had heard a disembodied woman's voice whispering his name from the depths of the mist, and even felt an icy breath on his neck. The poor fellow, yet a strong fellow, was found hidden in the bottom of the hold, curled up and shaking like a scared little girl. Daenerys had been forced to stay in her cabin for a good part of the day. For several days now, she had felt more and more tired, despite the nights of rest she was able to take, and also felt, more and more regularly, some sharp pains in her stomach. She could hardly eat, but had to force herself anyway not to lose her strength. Navigating in these haunted waters did not help her much, she too, sometimes having the impression of hearing whispers calling her and hearing something like nails scratching behind the window of her cabin, whose window was now completely fogged. Two nights before, Daenerys had woken up in the middle of the night, screaming in terror so loudly that she had woken up the entire crew, and had been found by Yara and Grey Worm, trembling, tears in her eyes and sweat in her bed. Daenerys had explained to them that she had been awakened by a strange noise in her cabin, and as she opened her eyes, she had seen Jon Snow, standing at the foot of the bed, staring at her with a furious gaze. He had jumped on her, taking a dagger at his belt, blocking her on the bed by grabbing her to the throat and trying to stab her in the stomach, vociferating with a degenerate voice. _ "You should be dead! DEAD, YOU HEAR ME?!" _ "NOOOO JON, STOP! LEAVE ME!!" His voice was his own, but monstrous, and blood began to flow from his eyes, as Dany described, still in shock. She had screamed, struggled with all her strength, but after opening her eyes, Jon had disappeared without leaving any traces. Kinvara explained to Daenerys that the waters surrounding Asshai were filled with the most ancient and obscure magic, and that these forces haunting it take pleasure in tormenting sailors and adventurers daring to venture there, guessing and giving life to their the deepest fear into more than realistic illusions. As a result, Daenerys slept only during the day, and at night remained awake and in the company of a soldier from the Fiery Hand appointed by the priestess to watch over her. Although they are not talkative, she felt reassured to not be alone in her cabin. Face digged by fatigue, Daenerys was lying in bed in her white silk night dress. Kinvara was with her, the priestess sitting beside her on the bed, and examining her to make sure everything was all right. For Kinvara, there was no sign of illness or poisoning of any kind by food or water. Kinvara thought for a moment, turning her attention to Daenerys' aching belly. And if .... a hypothesis crossed her mind and she wanted to check. Delicately placing the palm of her hand on Daenerys's belly, Kinvara seemed to be examining more. Daenerys watched her, quite concerned. After long minutes, Kinvara changed her attitude, her shining irises showing a truth that had just appeared to her, and which seemed to satisfy her. _"Lady Kinvara, what's going on?" Daenerys asked her emphatically. _ "Daenerys stomrborn ...... you are pregnant." the priestess of R'hllor then revealed to her in all honesty. This news fell on the young woman like a flash, making her heart leap in her chest. _ "What ... how .... you .... are you sure and certain?" Daenerys really insisted on this, looking at her belly in turn and feeling it delicately. The priestess was formal and nodded. The young Targaryen was pregnant. Daenerys was more than confused. _ "But ... it's impossible ..." she said with conviction "... I could no longer have children, at least not be able to give birth, because of this witch ..... "and suddenly she froze, remembering to have shared her bed with a particular man, the one who before her, was brought back from the dead by the magic of R'hllor: Jon Snow, the man who had killed her. "... Jon ..." she sighed painfully, a tear pouring down one of her cheeks. "... But .... he killed me .... how can I still be pregnant?" The young fallen queen could not understand anything, but Kinvara made it her duty to explain her, taking her hands in hers. _ "This is the great power that our master has ..." explains the priestess "... his purifying fire not only brought you back, Daenerys stormborn, but also saved the life of this young soul who grows up inside your belly, for such is his will. Rejoice, your grace, that the Lord of light has given you such a miracle. A child born from the union of ice and fire." Ice and fire ..... Did she mention Jon and Daenerys through this symbolic definition? Was it true? After all, Jon had been brought back by the red god too. Jon, through this resurrection, had he been granted by the god the power to free Daenerys from her curse by unite to her? But in that case, why did Jon killed her? Was it also the plan of the red god? Once again, everything was very confusing. She wanted to rejoice, of course, she who for years had thought herself condemned to remain last and see her dynasty disappear with her. But on the other hand, the idea of ​​carrying this child, Jon's, plunged her into a terrible melancholy, and made her relive for a few moments that awful illusion of Jon leaning over her and trying to kill her. How could she look this child in the eyes without thinking of Jon and what he had done to her? No, she dismissed this idea from her mind. It was out of the question for her to judge her future child for the crime committed by his father towards her. She would no longer act like that, she had sworn. ******** Elsewhere on the ship, Shen-zoan had isolated himself in the small corner of the hold that had chosen him to settle during the journey. Although he was offered a more comfortable place to sleep, a simple hanging hammock suited him perfectly. As he had said, after sleeping at the bottom of a well and in a wet cave in the middle of winter, this hammock was for him like the room of a palace. The Yi Ti traveler did not sleep, however. Sitting on the floor of the ship, he was leaning over a wooden box that served as a temporary table, on which he had placed a large sheet of parchment and lit with only a single candle placed beside him. Yara, after reassuring her sailors, had come down to the hold to check that everything was going well and made her way to Shen. Looking over his shoulder without saying a word, she could see the strange letters he had been writing in black ink for a while, like symbols she had never seen before. Shen looked over his shoulder and smiled at him. _"What is it?" she asked, rather intrigued. _ "Oh, that .... it's a poem from my country, in my native language .... I like to write .... it helps me to never forget where I come from." was his answer, shrouded in a touch of nostalgia in his voice. Yara sat next to him, reading the symbols one by one even though she did not understand any of them. The fine line of the pen and the perfectly asymmetrical forms of the letters were almost like art. How was he managed to write with this precision despite the slight pitching of the ship? Shen did not stop surprising. Just yesterday, during the meal, Yara and the others could see him eating with small wooden sticks, which caused the hilarity of some sailors a little morons. Despite such mockery, however, Shen remained very calm, not offended, and simply continued his meal. Daenerys did not really appreciated the mockery about the newcomer and asked Yara to seriously reprimand the men, which she did. In this new free world that would become Essos by her will, Daenerys would also advocate freedom and tolerance of cultures. As he continued to write with that delicacy and astounding precision, Yara stared at Shen's fighting stick for a moment. _ "Your way of fighting ..... how do you do it? Who taught you?" she asked. She then perceived, in Shen's expression, that she had touched a new chord of his past, but yet made him smile. Placing his pen, he decided to tell Yara some of his past. _"All my knowledge, I owe it to my master, Dzian-owan. When he was a child, Master Dzian was puny, shy, constantly persecuted by other children. He was the son of a former soldier, a very hard man, who kept on telling him that the weak had no place in this world. But Dzian refused to brandish a weapon, the idea was repugnant to him, so he decided to create his own way of fighting. At the age of 15, following the death of his father and now alone, Dzian exiled himself to the lands of the north, beyond the plains of Jogos Nhai, where he lived as an hermit. During all these years, Master Dzian developed his new art of combat, the art of fighting without giving death, spending days and nights, training in all weathers. In the wind, the rain, the snow of winter and the overwhelming heat of summer...He added to his art of combat the meditation, and he managed to do so, after spending ten days and ten nights meditating under an old willow, to the perfect union of the mastery of his art, unifying combat and concentration in one and same body, one and same soul. Then one day, while he was looking for wild grasses, he found me in a wicker basket on the edge of a river. I was still a baby, abandoned by my parents and delivered to the wilderness. Having pity, he gathered me and raised me as his own son. When I was old enough to understand, he taught me his art, imposing on me the same conditions, the same trials and the same suffering that he himself had to endure in order to form himself to face this world. He always told me: The characteristic of the warrior is humility. He must think as much about others as about himself. There are strong and weak people in this world, Shen, and it is the duty of the weakest to become stronger, to prove to them this: if you can, they can too. I swore to my master to perpetrate his art wherever I go, and to become an example to the poor. Shortly after, my venerable master died without suffering, in his sleep, carried away by his old age. After having buried him with dignity at the foot of the ancient willow, where he had spent most of his life, I began my journey around the world ..... " Yara had remained silent, having listened to everything in this story. She noticed Shen's wet eye as he recounted, reliving through his words what were the best memories of his life. Abandoned from birth, raised by a stranger who trained him to become a good person. Yara was rather touched by this story and patted the man's shoulder. _"Your master seemed to be a very good man, Shen-zoan, and a great warrior too. I would have love to know him." Yara said frankly. _ "He would appreciate you, I think." Shen replied, "he has always admired women with a strong character, just like you." Yara felt rather flattered by the compliment and both together shared a small laugh. However, Yara's face darkened, looking pensive, and Shen noticed it. _ "Something is disturbing you." _ "It's about Queen Daenerys ..." Yara said without keeping a secret for her new friend "... according to Lady Kinvara, she would be pregnant." _"Well, I do not see how that would be bad news." Shen answered without really knowing why she was showing that worried look. _ "I know ..." she said "... that's not the problem. I'm just worried about her and the baby. When those who killed her will learn that she's alive, I don't think that the life of a mere baby to be born will stop them in their attempt to eliminate her again.They will not take the risk of seeing her return to Westeros with her dragon and a new army to get revenge." Shen-zoan fully understood what Yara meant and reassured her by patting her on the back of her hand. _"We will do what it takes to protect her, because that is the oath we have spoken." _ "PORT OF ASSHAI RIGHT BEFORE!!" suddenly shouted the voice of a ironborn sailor from the deck of the ship. Alerted, Yara, followed by Shen, went back up. Daenerys, also warned by voice, came out of her cabin with Lady Kinvara, covering her shoulders with a purple silk shawl. Grey Worm has advanced to the bow to see the facts. In the misty sky, Drogon's roaring figure appeared, sliding between the clouds like a giant ghost. In front of the ship reducing her sail a little more, the opaque mists of a dark gray dissipated more and more, revealing to the eyes of all in the permanent twilight of these accursed waters and in the light of the full moon, the forms recognizable of fuzzy towers and other strange buildings, all built of black stone. Daenerys swallowed, but remained upright, her head high, while in front of her, came from the fog the legendary and mysterious city from the deep of the world, Asshai, emerging little by little from the mist like the monster coming from a horror tale. Faced with this vision seeming straight out of a nightmare, the sailors remained speechless, eyes round, and some even began to pray the drowned god to protect them. _ "Welcome to Asshai, Daenerys stormborn." proclaimed Lady Kinvara to the young dragon queen. Finally. She was there, supported by her allies and her son, ready to face the new trials of the red god.

[elizabethgoldlokidottir]

Something Precious Act I Ch.2-The Seer

ACT I, CHAPTER 2 THE SEER "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering."-Yoda, Star Wars: The Phantom Menace It was autumn in the enchanted forest and near the province of Dunbroch. Of all the lands in Vanaheim, the Enchanted Forest(or Misthaven depending on which class of person you came across) tended to have the most beautiful and cold fall weather. In this land, the very air itself was filled with magic. It existed within proximity of every being in this land, whether or not magic was within them or whether it surrounded them. Like a spirit, it lived within every plant and animal, for it permeated all things. This constant flow of magical energy created the beauty of the forest. It gave the falling leaves on the trees their beautiful hues, bright and neon shades of red, yellow and orange, glowing within the wintering trees like fire. There were certain plants that were magical within themselves whose leaves gave a faint glow like the morning sun as they became ready to fall upon the ground. The birds became ready to migrate to warmer parts of the land, warmer kingdoms. The sound of wildlife verberated through the forest just like the magic within it. The usual quarry, the deer, rabbits, wolves and all the small creatures who lived within the forest were looking for places to hibernate or moving towards more bountiful hunting grounds. The magical creatures were no different. Dragons had already found the caverns where they would bed down for the winter. Herds of unicorns followed their migration paths in order to avoid their wild equine cousins in the cinmarron. Winter was coming. As a hush flowed over the forest and mist began to cover the trees, a quiet padding of high heeled boots fell upon the forest floor. Out into the woods, a figure stepped. Of all of the strange creatures roaming these wilds, he was perhaps the strangest of all. He took the shape of a man, but his appearance was not of a normal man. His most outstanding feature was his skin. Where the pale skin of the Scotsman should have been, there was instead glittering golden scales that sparkled in the light. The small glittering scales covered his body just as they covered the body of a reptile. He had unusual amber eyes that glowed within his eyes like smoking embers, grey and yellow all at once. In the place of fingernails, this man had claws. The talons extended half an inch above his fingertip and were a sort of greenish brown, like the woods that surrounded him. Whenever he would come across an obstacle, he would sneer, showing that his canines were just a hint sharper than the average human being. He kept his red cloak wrapped tightly around him as if to ward off the imaginary cold that had not yet settled in. A mop of brown hair existed upon his head that extended nearly to his shoulder. For all of this inhuman appearance, there was some humanity within him, for it could be seen in the raw rubbing underneath his eyes and the few despairing sighs that he let loose now and then. This so called beast, so feared by all of the land, was grieving. He moved out into a clearing. It had been a campsite. He walked over to the fire that had once been set up. Moving closer to inspect it, he had found that it was still smoldering. A litter of dirty blankets and pillows had been stacked near a pathetic looking patchwork tent. He smirked to himself. She was around here somewhere. “Show yourself, dearie.” He spoke in a high pitch voice laced with a Scottish accent. Out of the woods came another figure, another strange creature. This one looked to be a human young woman, with shocking red hair. Yet when one searched out her eyes, only stitches remained. They were stitched closed, almost as if her eyes had been taken out. Instead, she held up her hands and out from each of them a glowing blue eye looked out. This strange creature was cloaked in peasant clothing. She spoke in an almost echoing voice, her voice reverberating through the air like waves through the mist. “Rumplestiltskin. I’ve been expecting you. As you see all that I have told you has come to pass.” The imp smirked as he circled around the seer like a lion stalking around his prey. “Ah...yes...it all came to pass…” His voice grew with intensity as he circled her, his amber eyes settled upon her. Whenever he spoke, he used his hands in animated gestures. The madness within his grieving and jumbled mind had led to certain unstable behavior, or was it just that he no longer cared about his appearance? “You spoke that my actions on the battlefield would leave my son fatherless. And like an imbecile I chose to follow you. So...in fear that I might die, I hobbled myself…” he gestured to the leg on which he used to limp before his powers had come to him. “I returned home to a wife who couldn’t stand the sight of me because of cowardice. She ran off with the damn pirate. Oh...and then to save my son from the wars I became the dark one. Because of them I let my son go to the land without magic and being the coward I am...I didn’t follow. So yes...because of my actions on the battlefield my child did become fatherless. But….” he came closer to her and snarled, his voice holding the edge of sarcasm. “It would have been nice to know all the pesky details!” He tried to tell himself not to be harsh with the woman, for if Baelfire was here with him that wouldn’t be what he wanted. After he swallowed his anger deep down, producing an unpleasant taste akin to bile in his throat, he gave her an intense stare. “I want you to tell me one last thing. I have one last question for you. And seeing as you ruined my life I should think you owe me at least this one.” He stood there, his small figure compared to ordinary men still carrying the power of the darkness coursing through his veins. “Will I find my son?” and for a moment, there was the desperation of a father in his voice, for it shook and trembled as the true grief and devastation threatened to show. The seer held up her hands, not to see into the future but to stop his speech. “Wait. There is one price you must pay.” She held out her hands. “Take this burden from me.” He stood there, comprehending it for a moment. After all, if she wanted this gift taken from her, surely it must have been painful. Yet he knew he had no choice. To get his son back he would do whatever it took. Seeing into the future just might point him to where he needed to be to find him. He could finally see what fate awaited him. Future was the specter that all men feared, and he would be able to tear off his black robe and look into the phantom’s eyes. “Erm...alright.” he said in his high pitched, almost playful voice as he grabbed her hands. Out of the fog and the mist, a bright light burst forth from the two figures, as power flowed from one to the other. The female screamed in pain as the magical energy flowed from her to the imp who had taken a hold of her hands. The surrounding animals ran away in fright, both the predatory creatures and their prey. Rumplestiltskin stared into the air in front of him, his eyes giving him the appearance of being in a trance. He looked around frantically as if he was trying to find a figure in front of him, as if he had suddenly become blind. “It’s all a jumble!” he said in alarm. “I can’t make it out!” “Focus…” the seer hissed, her voice becoming weaker and weaker as the imp in front of her began to rapidly breathe, the panic ensuing within him. “Over time, and practice, the pieces will fall into place.” all the sudden the all powerful dark one felt weak...vulnerable...like a beginner just learning how to work his magic. That was not desirable for him. For even though he still had much to learn about the dark arts he would never admit it. Yet he listened...in desperation to find his son, he swallowed his pride and accepted the seer’s teachings. He focused himself like one would focus their vision. There was only one vague vision that presented itself. He was in the same wood that he was now, but it was eerie and dark. He could smell blood. A paddock remained nearby as well as a series of shacks. In the middle of the clearing, a work horse was tied up, latched to a post. The creature was mangy, the equine covered in old wounds that had tattered it’s fur. The poor horse’s eyes were wide in panic, and he could see tears within them. There was a bloody bandage around it’s right hind leg, extending down to the fetlock from the cannon bone. The pack animal shook from fear and crossed it’s legs now and then as it struggled to gain it’s footing, having little to no coordination. Rumplestiltskin, having always had a sympathy towards animals(far more than he did for people), felt his heart breaking towards the creature. He knew what it was like to be lame, to be friendless. Out of the smokehouse came the drunk owner, filthy, dressed in peasant clothes and obese, he came staggering out towards the mare that was tied up. There was a whip in his hand, and the mare was trying to release herself from the post. The equine neighed in fear and tried to strike out with her hooves, but she could not rear up on her hind legs. She backed away, limping harshly as she did so. As the brute came closer and closer with the whip, Rumplestiltskin held out his hands to try to choke him with his dark magic, but it wasn’t working. As the abuser approached, the horse looked right at the imp, her eyes wide in panic. And then...she spoke within his mind. “FATHER! HELP ME!!” As he woke up from the vision in a sheer panic, he quickly let go of the seer’s hands, staggering backwards. “A dirty trick!!” he snarled. “You only wanted to release yourself from this torment! And that vision! It is wrong! First of all, how the hell would I give birth to a horse! Second of all, I only have one child and he is a male! Do you actually think that any woman would lay with me long enough to produce another?! Me?! The monster?!” Well! Explain yourself!” he tried to look to the seer’s stitched face, but instead she now lay as a lump on the ground. The transfer had taken too much out of her. Her breathing was shallow and harsh. The young woman was dying. He had to get his bargain before she passed away. He leaned over her. “Now I have taken this burden from you. If you cannot explain what I saw...fine. I will find out for myself. But I wish to know one thing, and I pray you do not make me wait. I cannot spend years trying to focus my vision when there could be a way to find him once more. Now tell me…” his voice was dangerously low, a hint of an animalistic growl within it. “Do I find my son..” The seer, speaking in a weak and gasping voice answered him. “Yes…” At that simple answer, a wave of relief broke over him as well as excitement. His boy...he knew that he was somewhere out there. His features for once grew soft, as he thought of the day that he was born..and that he would once more hold his darling son within his arms. “How.” he stated with some impatience...and excitement..as he looked to her. “You will form a curse that will lead you to him...but you will not cast the curse…” a ragged breath came from her as her hands shook. “Someone else will. And you will not break the curse...someone else will…” at this point, she struggled to breathe. “Yes, yes!” his voice grew impatient. “Go on!” “A young boy will lead you to him. But be warned...the boy will be your undoing. And yet there will be another who can save you from this fate. There will be the young boy, but there will also be a young girl. The girl will be your salvation…” She could not hold her breath anymore. She gave a sharp exhale and then fell back upon the ground, her body growing limp. As she passed away, the dark one leaned in to inspect her. He placed his finger to her throat. No pulse. He sighed to himself, running his clawed fingers through his brunette hair. “Rubbish..” the imp growled under his throat. “Absolute rubbish.” But there was a part of him that knew she was right deep down. But about that child...now that had to be ridiculous. No one could ever love him. Or could they?

[carnistcervine]

Twin Avatars AU

Randomish AU idea I’ve been thinking about for a while. Then this morning I just figured, fuck it, wynaut? ;D

~x~

*Instead of one Avatar, there's two. And the Avatar Spirit is a set of twin spirits.

*A light spirit named Chiaro, and a dark spirit named Scuro. The Light Avatar has Chiaro and the Dark Avatar has Scuro.

*Yes, their names are based on Chiaroscuro. It refers to the contrast of light and dark values, so I thought it would be fitting. c: Plus it's like my favorite painting style/technique!

*No, Chiaro and Scuro are not like Raava and Vaatu where one is good and one is evil. The dark and light spirit's dynamic is more like this: Chiaro is extremely stubborn, but level headed and clear minded, and Scuro is mad, but open-minded and a creative thinker. The best comparison I can think of off the top of my head is Chiaro is more like Pakku, and Scuro is more like Bumi.

*The cycle of the Light Avatar is the traditional water, earth, fire, air. The cycle for the Dark Avatar runs in reverse, air, fire, earth, water.

*The two avatars can always recognize the current or previous incarnations of the other.

*Also, seeing as Chiaro and Scuro are twins, the Light and Dark Avatars are basically platonic soul-mates. Their friendship has transcended thousands of lifetimes. It goes back all the way to the first two Avatars, Wan and Chiro. (I consider LoK and ATLA to be different canons, but Wan is cute so he can stay.)

*Aang is the Light Avatar, and Yume(OC doughnut steel) is the Dark Avatar.

*Aang is a twelve year old airbender and Yume is a sixteen year old firebender.

*While Aang was born to pure-blooded airbenders, Yume is a half-breed who was born in the Northern Water Tribe.

*In fact, she was recognized as the Dark Avatar when she wandered up to Light Avatar Roku as a two year old. She had gotten separated from her Mom, and recognized him. He recognized her as the re-incarnation of Mina(the previous airbending Dark Avatar) immediately. Side note: Now I wanna draw Roku playing with tiny Yume. So cute! <3

*Funny thing about the twin spirits, Chiaro re-incarnates as pure-blooded benders, and usually into families of note. While Scuro tends to re-incarnate into unexpected places and into half-breed bodies. It's completely like Scuro to re-incarnate as a swampbender, or a half-breed, or even pureblooded bender born into a non-native nation.

*Scuro is just tricky like that.

*Naturally, after Roku passes, Yume and Aang eventually meet and become fast friends. Neither realize that the other is an avatar at the time, but feel a strange connection.

*Much how like Aang has Appa, and Roku had Fang, Yume has a dragon named Draco. Yume met Draco when he was still an egg, and he and Aang are two of the only friends that Yume had.

*When Yume turns five, she starts to show serious firebending talent and is sent to the Fire Nation to master firebending. She ends up living with the Fire Sages(who take her in as they sense doom looming in the horizon and wish to protect the young avatar.) The Fire Sages do not tell her she is the Avatar until her sixteenth birthday.

*The sages fears are realized when Yume is spirited away soon after turning sixteen.

*When Aang froze himself, the spirits dragged Yume into the void between the spirit and mortal realm. Mercifully, they drag Draco into the void too.

*In the void, the previous Dark Avatars taught Yume the other elements and helped her become a fully realized Dark Avatar.

Side note- I actually can’t decide between Yume being a fully realized avatar, and being an ava-noob like Aang. Because I could have her with Aang bumbling around, learning how to properly utilize an ancient, powerful spirit and being adorable as two besties learn the elements together. Or I can have her contrast with Aang who is untrained but more emotionally stable. And also, she would absolutely feel completely responsible for him and feel like a complete failure when a certain terrible thing happens.

*In the void, time does not exist, so Yume doesn't age. Physically or mentally. No, she just becomes lonelier and more eccentric.

*When Aang breaks out of the iceberg, Yume is released from the void. Resulting in Yume and Draco crashing right into a sleeping Appa.

*Appa's a little salty about having his nap disturbed but is happy to see Draco.

*Yume is extatic to see Aang, and Aang is also quite excited to see Yume.

*It's only in that moment that Aang and Yume realize that the other is an avatar.

*Even though Yume knows that Aang is the Light Avatar, she doesn't reveal his secret. She opts to let him come clean on his own terms.

*At first Katara and Sokka(mostly Sokka) are suspicious of Yume. Seeing as she's wearing Fire Nation clothes(and is technically half-Fire). However they don't know that she's a half-breed and assume she's just Fire Nation.

*Yume is surprised by the amount of hostility she gets over being Fire Nation.

*"Look, I know there's something off about Sozin, but we're not all like that." "...What do you mean he died decades ago??"

*Both Aang and Yume have a hard time wrapping their heads around the fact that a century had passed.

*Katara is quicker to warm up to Yume, because she doesn't act like the fire-bugs that raided her village. Yume's actually quite nice, if a little strange. Also, she's the Dark Avatar, a force a balance and bringer of hope to the world.

*Despite Yume's strangeness, Sokka can't help but warm up to her as well.

*Both Aang and Yume convince Katara to go into the abandoned Fire Nation ship, and trigger boobie traps. Yume takes full responsibility(even though it was Aang's idea), and is kicked out. Aang decides to go with her, because he feels bad about getting her kicked out.

*While away, Aang and Yume have a heart to heart about why Aang lied about being the Avatar.

*When Zuko comes, both Aang and Yume come to the villages rescue. When they ask why she came back, Yume just says that it's her duty to protect the innocent.

*Because Yume is technically 116, she uses outdated Fire Nation slang. It pisses Zuko off to no end, and she enjoys every second of it. In fact, when she first sees him, she greets him with "Flameo, hotman!" and he gets really fuckin mad. :'D

*Zuko is about to take on a fully realized Avatar, and Yume thinks that so adorable. The difference in power between the two is so great, that Yume can hardly take him seriously.

*Even though Yume knows she can take this pissy Prince and his little squad, she doesn't argue when Aang opts to surrender.

*Of course she and Aang escape easily.

*The first time Yume sees Aang go into the avatar state, she freezes up. Something in her twists painfully at the sight of him in such distress.

*Even though Yume is a fully realized Avatar, she cannot defeat the Fire Lord alone. She needs Aang. And Aang is still untrained.

*Yume is horrified and disgusted by what the Fire Nation has become. And despite being the Dark Avatar, is often given the side-eye by the very people she and the rest of the Gaang try to help.

*Yume helps supplement Aang's training, but even she realizes that he needs to learn from real masters.

*When shit goes down at Wan Shi Tong's library, both Appa and Draco are stolen. Yume is completely devastated, but pretends like it isn't affecting her.

*She drinks cactus juice along with Sokka! :'D Although, she actually knew what it would do to her.

*Even though Yume puts on a brave front, Katara can sense just how much loosing Draco is hurting her. But unlike Aang, Yume refuses to open up and show her true feelings.

*At least until Draco comes back and she sobs into his fluffy dragon mane.

*When Aang gets shot down in Ba Sing Se, it wasn't just Yume watching her childhood friend die. It was thousands of lifetimes watching their platonic soul-mate die right in front of them, it was Scuro watching their twin perish right before their eyes.

*Yume was consumed by a blinding, inescapable rage. For the first time, a fully realized Avatar completely lost control. Yume completely leveled Ba Sing Se before Draco was able to calm her down. She only barely escaped.

*In that night, the world lost both it's Avatars once again.

*Aang felt like he failed the world, and Yume was too afraid of loosing control again.

*When the time came to face Ozai on the day of the comet, Aang went to the lion-turtle alone. Yume doesn't know where he went and is afraid that she'll have to face Ozai alone. That she'll lose control again.

*She goes with Sokka, Suki, and Toph to stop the warships and face Ozai.

*When she and Aang face off against the Fire Lord, she holds back and is shot down. When she comes too, she sees what she thinks is Ozai finishing off Aang(when his fire breaks through Aang's protective earth sphere and he slams against that rock). And immediately goes full on avatar state, but Aang is fine, and now also in the avatar state.

*The two of them completely curbstomp Ozai.

*Yume is about to deliver the final blow, when Aang comes out of the avatar state and stops her. She yields, and restrains Ozai instead. Aang then does his thing and takes Ozai's bending away.

*When the war is over, and it's time to have meetings to make peace, Yume is a terrible diplomat.

*She keeps putting her feet up on the table, pretending to fall asleep during meetings(while making an obnoxious snoring sound), and is actively hostile towards most of the old, stubborn generals and government officials that refuse to make the diplomacy process easy.

*There is even one incident where one Earth Kingdom general is giving Fire Lord Zuko shit about not just letting him kick people out of the Fire Nation colonies. Zuko argues that it's not fair to just kick people out of the only home they've known and make them homeless. The general isn't empathetic. Yume is visibly annoyed, and openly glaring at the man.

*"Is there something you have to say to me, Avatar?"

*"Yeah. You're a bitch."

*Zuko is horrified, Toph is laughing. Aang is struggling to remain composed.

*"Excuse me??"

*"Oh, I'm sorry. Let me rephrase that. You're a cunt."

*"I don't have to take this. If you do not expel your people from my land, there will be consequences."

*"Are you trying to start another war?"

*"I'll do what I have to."

*"You better not, I know where you live."

*The room goes silent.

*"Are you threatening me?"

*"It's not a threat, it's a promise~" ;)

[inawickedlittletown]

Walking The Wire (124/155)

Summary: Tony Stark always knew about Peter Parker. He didn’t know that Peter was going to get superpowers and become Spider-Man, but he always knew about Peter because Peter was his son.

This will span from pre-Iron Man up through the rest of the MCU (eventually including Infinity War) and will be for the most part canon compliant except where I’ve taken some liberties and interpreted canon a certain way.

Pairings: Pepper/Tony, Tony/Steve (endgame), Tony/Mary (past)

A/N: If you want me to tag you when I post new chapters let me know. This fic is also on AO3

I used Collider’s MCU timeline to stay canon and the title of this fic is an Imagine Dragons song that is just so fitting for Peter and Tony

@findmeinthestarss

Masterpost

Chapter One Hundred Twenty Three

“We’re in the endgame now,” Doctor Strange said as Peter rushed to his dad’s side, dropping next to him and looking him over from his pallid face and the blood stains on his lips and then down to the wound.

Tony did something to the wound, using nanotech that sealed it up. Peter helped him stand and his dad didn’t seem all that weak or injured anymore. The shock of being stabbed seemed to have worn off some and they both turned to Dr. Strange. Peter had to wonder if he had done it because he wanted to save Tony or if it was because this was what needed to happen? Had they done everything in vain?

“What’s going to happen next?” Peter asked.

Dr. Strange stared at him and then he looked away without answering.

Tony grabbed his hand and Peter closed his eyes tightly. He was glad that his dad was alright and yet it felt like they had lost. The stone had been taken and Thanos had just left probably in search of the last stone -- the one in Vision’s forehead.

“Are you -- are you going to be okay?” Peter asked.

His dad nodded. “I will be.”

Peter couldn’t tell if he was actually telling the truth, but he could see the color returning to his dad’s face and it seemed like enough to Peter. Still, he stayed close to him. He didn’t want to think about Thanos possibly on Earth going after Vision and the stone. Peter had never spent much time with the android mostly because Vision was always coming and going and spending all of his time with Wanda, but Peter did like him. He hoped he’d make it out of this. Peter knew that the rest of the team was on Earth and that it was likely they were doing their best to keep Thanos or his alien buddies from getting it but Peter just didn’t know if it’d be enough seeing as Thanos now had all the stones save one and he was more powerful than ever.

When he looked at Strange, Peter had to wonder about what he had seen and what he knew about what would happen next.

Tony wrapped an arm around his shoulders and Peter leaned into his side, trying to not put too much of his weight on Tony. He felt his dad press a kiss to his head and Peter was so so glad that Tony was okay.

Steve felt it in the air even before he heard Vision say it. It was just -- the wind seemed to be shifting somehow.

“He’s here,” Vision said.

Thanos.

“Everyone, on my position,” Steve said. “We have incoming.”

Wanda was with Vision and Steve had needed to give them some time because he knew what she needed to do now and he couldn’t be the one to force her or force Vision into that sacrifice. They just hadn’t been able to do take the stone out in time and Steve didn’t know if they would be able to hold off Thanos. Sam and Natasha stood by, waiting with him, and Steve could tell that they also knew that there was a choice to be made.

“Cap. That’s him,” Bruce said.

Steve turned and there he was and he was huge and purple and everything that an alien threat needed to look like and Steve had never before faced anything like this. Bruce stepped forward first and he was still not The Hulk. Seeing the red and gold made him ache a little to think that someone else could have been there at his side. So, he and the rest, they needed to be sure to eradicate this threat and stop Thanos.

Bruce phased right through Thanos and then into a rock and it was all courtesy of one of the stones. Steve ran forward but a force hit him and threw him aside mid-run. He dropped like a rag doll and his head spun as the others tried to go at Thanos but found the same fate.

Steve was back on his feet as quickly as he could and when he glanced back he realized that Wanda had actually made a decision. She was destroying the stone. They just needed to hold Thanos back long enough for her to do it. Steve rushed back at Thanos and this time he wasn’t just brushed aside like an errant fly. He managed to get a few blows in with the shield not that he felt like they did anything and then the gauntlet was in front of him and he dropped the shield to grab it. It was futile of course, but it had been the obvious thing to do to even try and yet it was at the same time absolutely devastating. There was only one stone left for Thanos to collect. The other five had already made a home on the gauntlet which had to mean--

No -- no, he couldn’t think that way -- he had to -- something hard collided with his face and he saw stars. The world spun and he was falling. Dust hit his face and he heard leaves crunch and for a moment he lost himself to darkness. He could see Tony like a memory. Oh god, Tony--

Thanos lifted his hand and his fingers moved against each other and--

Snap.

“No!” Thor screamed.

Time seemed to slow down and then things started to feel weird. Different. Thanos had all the stones. He’d--

“What did you do!” Thor yelled. His axe was still firmly in Thanos’ chest but it didn’t even seem to bother him as much as it had moments before.

All the anger, all the pain...everything that he’d been feeling since Loki and -- well, everyone -- it was right there at the forefront and Thanos was to blame. He was--

“What did you do!” Thor screamed at him again and Thanos just stared at him before he fell back into a dark purple cloud. The axe fell out of him to the ground and...and it was over. It was over.

Thor was -- he felt like the entire world had finally and truly fallen apart. Ragnarok had felt like the end of everything except that the important things and people had been salvaged only to be destroyed not much later and now there was this and Thor couldn’t have imagined this. The wind brushed his face and there were leaves falling but the fighting had all but stopped. Somewhere behind him was Vision’s corpse and Thanos had won. He snapped his fingers. What did he do?

Thor was waiting for something to happen -- for the worst to happen as if he hadn’t already had everything taken from him. His home. The last of his family. Everything.

“Where did he go?” Steve asked.

It had been good to be back on Earth despite the circumstances, to see his friends again and to know that in truth he wasn’t actually completely alone but he hadn’t expected that they would lose this battle --

“Thor, where’d he go?”

Thor couldn’t answer. He didn’t know how to say it or explain it.

“Steve…” Someone -- Steve’s friend said. He was walking towards them.

Then, Thor remembered. Gamora back on the ship -- the daughter of Thanos who’s distress had been equal to his own and who had explained what Thanos was all about. A snap of his fingers she’d said to cut by half the population of the universe. It was exactly what Thanos had done.

Steve’s friend dropped to the ground as particles of dust. Others would be doing the same. He won. Thanos won.

“Something’s happening,” Mantis said. She looked scared and she looked around but there was nothing to see. Thanos had left and there was no new threat. It was over--

She turned to dust, disintegrated and disappeared.  

Peter hadn’t expected it, none of them had. They’d been moving, walking towards where Strange was to regroup and decide what came next. Peter was trying to determine if his dad was actually alright and from the way he moved Peter knew that while he was still feeling the effects of being stabbed it wasn’t going to keep him down. All of them were sort of bruised and battered anyway.

“Dad,” Peter whispered.

There was a change in the air...and seeing Mantis turn to dust--

Next went Drax, disappearing where he stood. Peter didn’t know what to do...his dad looked like he couldn’t believe what was happening either. Star Lord looked--

“Steady, Quill,” Tony said.

Quill looked at them and Peter moved a few inches closer to his dad.

“Oh, Man,” Star Lord said and then he was gone too.

Peter felt something. It was like premature pain, a weird feeling in his gut not unlike his spidey sense. There was danger coming it was -- he didn’t feel good. He felt like his insides were churning as if he had eaten something that didn’t settle well with him. His head was spinning. Someone was talking but it wasn’t registering for Peter and then it just got worse and Peter knew. He knew--

“Dad! Dad! Dad, I don’t -- I don’t feel so good,” Peter said.

His dad’s face swam in his vision -- blurry multiples -- had Doctor Strange duplicated his dad…

“Dad,” Peter said and it came out like a sob. His skin felt stretched out and tingly and nothing was okay.

“Pete. It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” He reached for him and Tony was there as Peter stumbled forward. He caught him -- and Peter needed that, he needed to be held. The panic and pain didn’t go away.

He was afraid and he’d seen -- Peter knew -- “I don’t -- I don’t know what’s happening. Dad -- I--”

His dad clutched at him, held him tight as close as he could and Peter couldn’t really feel any of it. Not even when Tony’s hand was in his hair and a thumb was under his eye wiping away a tear. It just -- it was all faint and far away and it hurt, sort of, a weirdly dulled pain.

“Pete,” his dad whispered, anguished.

“Dad, please…I don’t -- I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.” He had to say it, to let his dad know because he was going to...

“You’re alright. You’re -- I love you, Peter. I love you.” His dad was sobbing and Peter’s heart broke apart literally or figuratively, Peter didn’t even know…

His dad’s fingers were in his hair and Peter was pressed tight into his chest. His dad was crying, trying not to let Peter know but he was shaking.

Finality. It was -- “I’m sorry,” Peter said and it was hard to get the words out...he felt like he was choking.

“You’re okay…you’re -- I got got you, Pete. I love you. I love you.”

It was already starting. It was scary and horrible and--

“I don’t want to go. Dad, I--”

“There was no other way.”

“There was no other way.”

“There was no other way.”

Strange fell into dust. Peter fell apart in his arms...crying and upset and Tony fell to the ground. His knees hit the ground hard. Peter’s ashes were around him. On him. In his hands. He sobbed into them--

His son was gone. He was gone. He was gone and--

“There was no other way.”

Tony screamed. Guttural, loud and harsh and pointless but necessary all the same and his knuckles split on the hard ground as his fists fell. He couldn’t see anymore -- everything a blur of tears. How could this be the only way? How could letting Thanos take the stone be the only way? Strange should have let him die. He should have protected the stone and let Tony die. Kept Peter alive instead.

“Peter,” Tony whispered and his chest ached -- felt so tight that Tony didn’t know if it was the injury or his heart. All he knew was pain.

The others had gone too. One by one. Everyone but him…

Was this his fate? To always end up alone?

Someone tapped his shoulder. Tony turned quickly, ready to fight but it was the blue android woman.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But this planet won’t be safe for much longer. We need to go…”

Tony wanted to scream again. Go! There was nowhere to go. Nowhere they needed to be. It was over -- it was all over and--

“You’re injured,” the android said. Tony didn’t even know her name. “We can’t stay here.”

Tony didn’t understand why she couldn’t just leave him. She could leave -- they were nothing to each other and yet she seemed to be waiting on him. He glanced at her and there was pain in her eyes. She knew loss.

“We need to--”

“I know,” Tony said. His fingers gathered the dust and most of it slipped through his fingers. It was hard to stop his tears. Tony had never been much of a cryer but this was Peter just slipping through his fingers. His son. His Peter.

He had a bit of the nanotech create a small cup and he gathered some of it. His hands shook and so the dust just fell right out. The android crouched in front of him and reached out with one blue hand and one that looked like a prosthetic. She gathered dust into the cup and their eyes met.

“I’m sorry,” she said and there was genuine sympathy there. “We have to go.”

“Okay,” Tony said. He wiped his tears. “I’m Tony by the way.”

“Nebula.”

Chapter One Hundred Twenty Five

[thewolfisawake]

Since I decided to start playing this hell of a game that would not just run out of points to let me leave, I’ve sadly thought of what classes my muses would be if they were servants for the Holy Grail War. So here goes. Fate-ish stuff. I really am so wary of that word because of the little I get other than strengths and weaknesses and that these are historical/fantastic beings with their own legends and all that.

Kesil: Assassin, unsurprisingly. Hard to actually get summoned due to y’know the lockdown a certain group has over the class. He doesn’t actually care for the class despite being the main one he fits into because he’d love to actually take on some of the Servants that ended up appearing. He does have a chance to be in archer class so thus he isn’t wrong to hope.

Artemis: Archer. He’s oddly compatible with his Master despite his class. Probably because he has no real will to be in the fight but will do the utmost to get as far as he could since he’s not into going out badly. He normally does sniping, which can be surprising to older Servants that are not as familiar with a firearms user.

Samir: Caster and despite being a ‘weaker’ class, he’s pretty good at surviving. This is mainly because he is really good at illusions, particularly tricking people and even Servants into what they want to see. Which can leave them vulnerable to attack from either himself or his Master.

Danika: Rider, actually. She is difficult to identify heroic spirit due to not always being able to tell that she’s riding anything. That is because she ‘rides’ the shadows. In the night, she nigh impossible to catch as she uses the dark to overwhelm other Servants. 

Bijou: Lancer. While she was known more for her thievery, her agility, versatility, and her guerrilla tactics was undeniable. She sees the Grail as the ultimate score for her but still maintains her phantom thief mannerisms on the battlefield, which may also contribute to how she was in one of the The Knight Classes.

Jax: Caster just from the shear amount of magic he knows. While Servants don’t always know others, he would know Bijou due to having served under her directly and being very familiar with her Noble Phantasm. This works vice versa. While he normally doesn’t mind his Master, Jax will become difficult if Bijou is a Servant and unwilling to work against her and will turn against them if his Master is responsible for Bijou’s defeat.

Ignacio: Assassin as well. He doesn’t mind his class as it allows him to work loosely with his Master and finds an assassin’s method of doing things to be the most efficient. However despite his class, he is a rather friendly type. He’s willing to get close to Servants as usually, he never deals with them directly. You know until they kill him because they’re trying to win but even then Ignacio doesn’t seem to mind. 

Asier: Saber. Duh. I’d feel like it’d be highly wrong of me to not put the sword in the sword category. He is pretty lax seeming for being one of the most powerful (supposedly) classes. He doesn’t mind befriending other Servants, nor their Masters for that matter. The only place he is strict is that Asier will never target another class’ Master. This may be because of a fondness of a previous Master he only have glimpses of.

Vesna: Berserker, sorry, only place she fit amongst them. She is an oddity amongst Berserkers. Primarily because she doesn’t look like what one expects of the class. Her madness mainly presents itself in the danger of her Master as she feels a protectiveness as Berserkers are the most demanding physically to a Master. 

Aspis: Lancer on some occasions but he also is a viable Berserker. His times as Lancer are probably his most enjoyed since he is a capable user. However it is not his strongest and he is aware of this. As Berserker, he has driven even those in the Knight Classes to desperation. However, it is likely due to his power that drains his Master before being able to succeed in the war. 

Crowe: Archer. He’s very difficult to work with because he tends to work on his own. Yet he usually tells his Master to ‘not worry’ since he’s not likely to start anything reckless. He is also an Archer that uses firearms.

Tsura: I tried to avoid the game’s classes but it really is where she would fit. She’d be a Ruler. She holds a sight over any war she’s been brought to. Like any other Ruler, she has no interest in the Holy Grail although she seems like an unusual Ruler due to her temperament.

Dominicus: Rider. Mainly because it’s like the one class for people that fit no where else. Don’t boo me, I’m right. He doesn’t reveal anything about himself to Servants until last minute. Like they’re about to run him through sort of last minute. He withholds his true name from his Master for his own reasons. 

Kirika: Caster or Rider. She is a Servant that could be either. She boasts magical ability that could make her a threat to in a fight she is called into. She also can work as a Rider due to her legends’ history of taming many creatures with her power. 

Tannim: Saber. Swordman, y’all. He upholds all the knightly conventions and all that. He’s easier to work with, at least to some Masters, because he’s ‘not that bright.’ Honestly Tannim knows more than he lets on and has actually managed to get defeated in order to prevent a Master he didn’t agree with from getting the Grail. Don’t underestimate his will. 

Rune: Archer or Caster. Archer is the more common class due to more fame associated with their archery. However, they were a fairly good magic user in their life. No matter the class, Rune is a difficult Servant and will attempt to have their Master expend all their Command Spells.

Kylar: Saber. He is one that is especially adept against Servants with draconic ties. His most famed as a dragon-slayer. As such, he has more ability against say a Rider that rides a dragon. Or a Servant with dragon blood.

Marika: Rider. Daughter of one of the gorgons, Stheno, that are known for being a Rider type. She is works best with a place embroiled in chaos so, if summoned, that’s probably what she’s aiming to do before really taking on any other Servants.

Velvet: Saber. By virtue that Sabers are supposedly the strongest class there is and she is ‘something else’ by this world’s standards. However she is a weaker Saber compared to others and she doesn’t know why. 

Elysia: Caster. Her magic is astral related and her planes can be devastating when she starts on them. However, she is quite pleasant for a Caster as, she found, there seems to be a misconception that Casters are creeps. 

Sullivan: Berserker due to his therian nature. While Sullivan appears to maintain a lot of his sanity, it seems to only be because he has immense self-control. He usually complains that it just builds up and is unleashed in his battles. Which can be devastating to a Servant that encounters him after he’s built up his rage.

Sorin: Assassin. He’s quite fine with being an Assassin. He accepts he’s not likely to win and is rather amicable with other Servants. This is to the point he gives hints to Servants either about other Servants or what Noble Phantasms are like. A lot of times it’s like “He was telling the truth.” “You find I do that lot.”

Altair: Lancer. I just think it fits. However he, oddly, does have some ability of Mad Enchantment that is associated with Berserker class. It is temporary unlike a Berserker and it is actually draining on him than his Master. 

[animesshadow]

A Fairy Tail story - Fire Dragon and the Queen of Dragons

What is this? All she could recall right now is darkness. Darkness? That's right. Her memories are a bit blury at this point. What happened? Was she dead?

No, that can't be. Slowly regaining strength and getting back to her senses. 'Am I moving?' she thought still too weak to even open her eyes. Regaining a small bit of her senses she could feel her body, or what was left of it, move up and down a bit in a rhythmical way. She was sure of it now. She was moved! Finally being able to focus her strength enough to open her eyes she blinked rapidly as the strong light started to blend her unadjusted eyes.

After adjusting her vision she could cleary perceive her surroundings. A deep blue sky with few to no clouds in sight, lots of trees passing by as she moved passed them.. No, she was moved past them. The sun still fully visible in the sky. By its position she concluded that there was not much time left to sunset.

She just now got to realize the position she was in. Her legs were angled in a way similar to a sitting position while here legs where hanging down and swinging to the rhythm. She was held up by something while her arms were wrapped around something that looked like a neck. Every time after a little pause in between something that felt like steps she felt a wave of stinging pain in her sides. Fresh blood streamed down there not too long ago. Much to her discomfort spikey salmon hair were itching the side of her face. She was being carried on the muscular back of some pink-haired boy.

“What are you doing?“ she asked failing to sound intimidating.

“So you're awake..“ the boy simply answered. “That's good“

“I demand an answ-“

“You should save your strength. You are in bad shape.“ She was boldly cut off.

“And who are you to command me like that?“ she asked clearly irritated.

“I am the reason you are still alive“ he just stated calmly. Although his voice was rather calm her superhuman senses could still notice that he was trying hide his anger.

“...“ lacking any strength right now she remained silent

After a while they arrived at a house deep in the woods. As much she wanted to resist getting piggyback carried by that brat she just had no strength to resist.

He let her down on a bed. The room was messy. So many random things were just laying on the floor or on a desk. Even the small bookshelf right in front of the wall in front of her was a chaotic mess. The few books looked like they were just thrown in there and never touched again.

“How do you feel? Since you are dragon I thought that maybe my magic could help a bit. I may not know anything about healing but I guess since we are both dragon slayers I might be able to help“ the 'brat' was explained her. There was definetely surpressed hostility in his voice. Also, his body was tense. He looked like he was ready for a fight at any time. Only now she saw the symbol on his right shoulder. Of course she recognized it immediately. All of her recent enemies had that symbol on one part of their bodies. It was a red Fairy Tail symbol. Now getting a full view on the boy she recognized him. 'That's this Natsu boy Lord Zeref was so obsessed about' She realized trying to hide the shock on her face. But why?

“So you know about me and still dared to take me back to your home? How foolish.“ Irene immediatly realized it was his home. The whole place smelled just like as him.

The atmosphere got so thick you could cut it with a blade just now.

“Irene Belserion. The so called 'Queen of Dragons'. One of the strongest members of the Spriggan 12“ Natsu simply listed showing off his knowledge about the person he just brought back home.

That's right it was none other than Irene sitting in front of him. One of Zeref's strongest warriors in Fairy Tail's war against the forces of Alvarez. Even in so badly wounded her aura was intimidating to say the least. Even a blind person could feel that she was absurdly strong.

“Don't get me wrong. I only helped for one reason.“ The fire dragon slayer stated

Irene just glared at him awaiting his explanation. Even though this brat was one of the scums she went to war against, she couldn't help but feel curious why Lord Zeref's best creation was helping him.

“Erza Scarlet. Does that name ring a bell?“ Natsu asked demanding a straight answer.

Irene's eyebrows twitched after the mentioning of her daughter's name. She remained silent and awaited what he had to say.

“Erza told me a few things after the war was over. After we won the war.“ Irene was definetely shocked to hear the result of the war. Of course, she didn't experience the end of it after stabbing herself and begin finished by Acnologia himself but to believe that Fairy Tail actually won was simply out of the question. The Spriggan 12 defeated? Lord Zeref defeated? By those insects? Never! But Natsu was standing right in front of him. If everything went according to Zeref's plan he shouldn't be here now, would he?

“How you were a powerful dragon slayer but turned into a dragon after your magic went out of control.“

Irene gave him a furious glare at how he just casually recalled her past like it wasn't worth anything.

“You must be truly insane“ Irene declared with a twisted smirk “You know who I am but still go as far as help me. You must have some kind of death wish.“. Following those words her megical aura got stronger and stronger. Enough to make any ordinary person tremble in fear.

“SHUT IT!“ Natsu shouted. He was clearly furious to say the least. He was barely holding back. A person who hurt his friends was sitting right in front of him. Someone who hurt Erza so bad. Of course he was furious!

Taken aback by his sudden outburst Irene twitched a little, lowering her magical pressure a little. “Then get to the point. Why would you save me from certain death?“

Irene demanded an answer. She was getting more impatient by any second that passed by. It just didn't make any sense. Why would he go through all the trouble to share his last bit of magic with her when he was already in a bad shape himself. He too looks like he went through one hell of a battle.

“You know how much Erza went thought until now? All the pain she had to endure? How many tears she had to shed up until now? She went through more hardships in her life no ordinary parson will go though in an entire lifetime.“  Natsu shouted angrily.

“...“ Irene just remained silent while she continued to glare at the dragon slayer

“The last thing she needs now is even more sadness. I will not let her lose her mother. Even if it is someone like you.“

The queen of dragon was getting irritated at how Natsu was looking down at her like she was just a trashy criminal.

“And what does that has to do with you brat?“

Both of them were so tense. Their rage was slowly reaching their limit. Even a small spark now would be enough to trigger a devastating explosion.

“Erza means too much to me to endure her being surrounded by darkness. I heard you stabbed yourself because you didn't want to hurt her anymore. That means there is still hope...“ Natsu made a hopeful smile. “Hope that you can actually be a loving and supporting mother Erza always deserved.“ 

It was the first time she saw him smile. All this time he was serious and angry but just a thought of Erza being happy made all those negative emotions go away. This went far beyond a simple guildmate-relationship. Even though Irene immediatly understood how he felt. The merciless queen of dragons remembered a certain feeling. A feeling she thought she had long forgotten. A feeling she would completely deny if anyone dared to ask.

Irene snapped out of her thought-train and went on with her cold attitude

„And what if I don't want to? What if I decide to squash all you little fairies?“

She asked so coldly that it made Natsu back off a step. Irene facial expression turned cold. Her eyes void of anything that resembled mercy or empathy. Just a small but twisted smirk on her face that confirmed that she could indeed mercilessly slaughter anyone he hold dear like an insect crushed under her boots.

Natsu shook his head to get rid of the fear that was undeniably built up in the past few seconds.

“I was the one who saved your life. If you even think about hurting Erza or any of my friends...“

Natsu looked Irene right in the eyes

“It will be my responsibility to send you send you to hell“

“...“

Did her daughter mean so much to him that he would risk having The Queen of Dragons – Irene of the Spriggan 12 as his enemy if she chose not to comply to his request?

That determination. The strength in his words. Yes indeed. It reminded her of the one thing that gave her her last name. Belserion. A dragon.

“Send me to hell, huh?“ Irene's twisted smile got so much wider. 'This just got interesting'

TO BE CONTINUED!

I hope you liked it. I would really appreciate any kind of feedback. Enjoy :)

[aion-rsa]

Age of Samurai: Battle for Japan Is a Netflix Docu-Drama Written in Blood and Ink

https://ift.tt/3qRbgjj

Age of Samurai: Battle for Japan, a new historical documentary series on Netflix, is being billed as a “real-life Game of Thrones” but it’s much more than that. This is actual history, which is far more compelling than fantasy because it really transpired. “It is like something out of a movie,” says showrunner Matt Booi. “If you wrote this down, no one would believe it. And if you saw it, I think you’d say, ‘Nah.’ But it happened.” 

According to Booi, the show covers one of the most violent periods in Japanese history. The six-part series begins in 1551 with the death of feudal lord Oda Nobuhide and follows the rise of three of Japan’s most influential warriors: Nobuhide’s son, Oda Nobunaga (Masayoshi Haneda), Tokugawa Ieyasu (Hayate Masao), and Toyotomi Hideyoshi (Masami Kosaka). Japanese historians, as well as dedicated fans of Samurai movies, will be all too familiar with these three Samurai because their impact on Japan, and their consequential representation in Japanese media, is enormous. 

“It’s something that a lot of people outside Japan don’t know a lot about,” Booi says. “They know the iconic sort of figure of the Samurais, but a lot of the minutiae was missing. Netflix understood, and so did we, that this was a great story that is going to resonate with a lot of people.”

Nobunaga, Ieyasu, and Hideyoshi lived during Japan’s sanguineous Sengoku period (1467-1615). Sengoku means “warring states.” It was a time when the country was ravaged by civil war, political intrigue, and upheaval. This period is the setting of almost every Samurai story. It was when these noble and brutal swordsmen were beginning to become eclipsed by firearms. “That’s what makes this era so poignant,” Booi explains, “We’re seeing the end of an era. It’s like the same way that guns ended the mounted knight in Europe.”

Booi understands why Age of Samurai: Battle for Japan is being compared to one of the biggest TV series of the last decade, too. “The Game of Thrones reference is a nod to the political maneuvering that is happening on the political landscape at this time. It’s a chessboard that these certain players are moving key pieces to try and control it all. It really is about an attempt by a handful of people to gain control over a fractured nation.” Like Game of Thrones, the Sengoku period is an epic saga, full of tales of honor, ruthlessness, and betrayal. It is one of the most colorful eras of Japanese history. 

And that color is red – blood red.

Lessons from Akira Kurosawa and Manga

When it comes to Samurai films, the undisputed master was Japanese auteur Akira Kurosawa. One of the world’s most celebrated directors, Kurosawa made classic films like Hidden Fortress (the inspiration for Star Wars), Seven Samurai (the inspiration for The Magnificent Seven, Battle Beyond the Stars, and many more) and the psychologically relevant Rashomon. The Samurai genre owes a tremendous debt to his work. 

“I’m such a Kurosawa fan,” Booi says. “In terms of cinema, he rules over everyone almost in my mind. His ability to tell a story visually, I don’t think you can touch it. He’s just so astonishing. He’s the greatest. He’s the master. In terms of movement and shots, of how nature was, it was always something that we were aspiring to try and walk a little bit in his shadow.”

Additionally, Age of Samurai: Battle for Japan stole some pages from another leading Japanese media. According to Booi, graphic novels were a major source of inspiration. “If you look at the composition of shots, look at the color, at the color correct, it’s very dark. It’s a very gritty world punctuated by blasts of color, the reds of the blood, the red of the armor sometimes. So we thought a lot about graphic novels because, obviously, that’s such a big part of the world of contemporary Samurai lovers. We wanted that to inform it.” 

Furthermore, many of the re-enactment scenes are framed through doorways and such to resemble a graphic novel panel. This was a very conscious effort from the filmmakers. “There are two motifs that are heavily used, and one is blood and one is ink,” Booi explains. “The history of Japan in this period really seemed like it was written in blood and ink. Graphically, we were trying to make a world that nodded its head towards graphic novels and comics in general.”

Several battle scenes are shot in shadowy darker tones, contrasted by brilliant splashes of digital blood. “We might’ve got a little carried away with that,” Booi confesses, “but it’s hard not to when you’re in that world…It’s pretty shocking though when you get into some of the accounts of Nobunaga literally putting swords through just unfathomable amounts of people who stood in his way.”

Getting the Battles Right

Age of Samurai: Battle for Japan balances these ferocious battle reenactments with explanations from some of the world’s leading scholars and authors. They put the violence into historical perspective. 

“We leaned on what we thought were some of the best storytellers, not just best academics,” Booi says, “people who can not only download the information but do it in a way that was comprehensible but also entertaining, because for so many of our viewers, a lot of these ideas and these concepts and even names are going to be very foreign. To have people like we had to unpack this for us was really incredible.”

Read more

Movies

More Than Miyagi Director On Honoring Pat Morita

By Gene Ching

Movies

Batman: Soul of the Dragon – Bringing a Little Bruce Lee to Bruce Wayne’s World

By Gene Ching

For any period project, historical accuracy is key. Authenticity was paramount for the production. Booi’s team sourced armor and weaponry from some leading companies that make them for other Japanese historical activities. “Some we had to make,” Booi admits. “Obviously, authenticity is really difficult when you’re dealing with such intricate designs and such incredible craftsmanship.” The filmmakers made sure objects like the family crests were accurate and were careful not to have them pop up in the wrong places. “It was incredibly challenging to try and portray any of it accurately.”

Another critical detail was to shoot all the reenactments in Japanese. Age of Samurai: Battle for Japan is produced by the Toronto-based production company Cream so Japanese dialogue presented a unique challenge, both during production and for editing. “It was an essential obstacle. We all felt that trying to tell this story, if we did not have Japanese-speaking actors representing these people, there would be no credibility. There would be no authenticity.” The Cream team felt that the whole thing would fall apart the minute one of the Samurai spoke in English. Japanese dialogue is translated with subtitles, including for the featured Japanese-speaking experts. However, the subtitling never gets obtrusive because the bulk of the story is in English. “We just felt that was non-negotiable, that it had to be there. And it was something that Netflix really backed us on too.” 

A Blood-soaked History Lesson

Booi has made other military history documentaries. Among them are award-winning and Emmy-nominated productions such as Breathing Fire: The Secret Weapon of the Somme (Channel 4), The Weapon Hunter (Smithsonian Channel), and Blood and Fury: America’s Civil War (AHC). War stories are his specialty. 

“There’s so many things that draw me to the genre. There’s the sweeping sort of historical stuff, but also as somebody who is really interested in stories, I think you can get some of the most gripping and entertaining stuff when people are forced with sort of life-and-death decisions like that.” Booi feels that telling the big picture stuff through personal stories is particularly compelling, which is why he focused his lens upon Nobunaga, Ieyasu, and Hideyoshi. As Booi says, “Looking at what happens with those three guys, you get an incredible window into how the period ends ultimately and how the next period begins.” 

Nobunaga alone is a fascinating figure. He has been portrayed repeatedly in movies, books, manga, anime, and even video games, usually as the villain, but not always. Kurosawa’s award-winning film Kagamusha depicted Nobunaga as a strong and respectful leader. Booi can’t categorize him as a villain or a hero. “It’s hard not to stand back and be sort of knocked out by his ambition, his genius. But on the other hand, it’s tough not to be revolted by his violence and cruelty. He would do anything for power.”

“It’s not by accident that one of our contributors constantly refers to him as sort of an Alexander the Great of Japan in that he was just so innovative. He was raised with so much tradition, but he wasn’t bound by it. That’s what’s so fascinating about him. He’s constantly doing the unexpected.”

In many ways, Age of Samurai: Battle for Japan is an exploration of how power corrupts. “It’s really interesting to watch what happened to Nobunaga and how the decisions that he makes later on in the show come back to haunt him.” 

Without dropping any spoilers (although anyone can just look up the Sengoku period online to find out what happens), Age of Samurai: Battle for Japan examines the consequences of what power does to a person and how it can cause devastating blind spots. It’s a time-honored tale, still so relevant for our time. 

“There’s always an appetite for some stories about the Samurai,” Booi says. “It was such a lovely period because it’s such a violent world, but it’s also a world that is so bound by honor and duty.” Booi enjoyed exploring both sides of the same coin. “It’s just such a remarkable world.” 

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

For Booi, the Game of Thrones reference is an easy comparison to make. “But I think that’s where it ends. There’s lots more than the fantasy element of that.” Being reality based, Age of Samurai: Battle for Japan doesn’t include sorcery or White Walkers. “We have a one-eyed dragon,” Booi teases with a grin. But to learn who that was, you’ll just have to watch it.

Age of Samurai: Battle for Japan is a six-part series that premieres on Netflix on February 24, 2021.

The post Age of Samurai: Battle for Japan Is a Netflix Docu-Drama Written in Blood and Ink appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/37KtVpz

[graceverse]

The Saddest Ending

(also known as MY FRIDAY THE 13th FIC featuring what I would consider as the most HORRIBLE ending I could ever think of)

Warning: Character Death 

Summary:  She never visited. Not once. Not even when he pretended to sleep. She was still angry at him and Jon actually chuckled at that. Of course she is. He had given away her freedom and then had lain injured and useless as Daenerys no doubt claimed the Iron Throne.

Jon had stopped feeling. Stopped understanding anything. It was just darkness and the softly murmured words, softer footfalls as they tried to save him. He kept his eyes closed and let his body do whatever it wanted. He no longer had the energy to fight off the cold, to bear the heat, to keep his heart beating. Whatever it is that will come to pass, will pass.

The last thing he remember seeing was pure white shards of ice flying towards him as the Night King shattered against Longclaw. Death and steel and then darkness.

Jon did not know how long he had lain, hovering between two worlds, fire and ice, death and life. However long it was, just like everything else, it had to end.

It ended when he finally felt warm fingers touching his face. He smiled. Or at least he tried to. He didn’t know how well that went, but he knew that touch, he would know it in death or in life.

Thin, bony fingers. The tips none too warm. He knew her from her scent: freshly washed tunic, faint-barely-there scent of wet fur, morning sun.

“Arya.” He took her hand in his, felt callouses on her fingers. Left handed Arya. Her sword hand. Needle.

“How are you feeling?” Her voice was the same. How could that be possible? It was as though Jon had been thrown back in time and he very nearly asked if this was the Winterfell before they left, if this was the Winterfell that still knew Ned and his lady wife, the Stark children with their direwolves.

But no, the Arya of that Winterfell would have softer hands. The hands of a proper Lady and not the warrior that she had apparently become, hands that had known pain and dirt and blood.

They had all known about those. Robb. Sansa. Arya. Bran. Rickon.

Jon tried to open his eyes even though he already knew that it was futile. It was a cruel joke. That he is alive, that he is finally with his beloved sister but he is unable to see her, unable to see the world he had helped saved.

He didn’t have too many words to describe how he really is, so he answered as simply as he could. “Tired. Sleepy. But alive, it seems.”

“You’re lucky.”

Yes. No. Did it matter?

“Aye.” And because it will always be darkness that he will see from now on, Jon went back to sleeping.

Now Jon was aware of days and nights of comings and goings of visitors, of Maesters, of Lords and old friends. He knew their voices. Knew their hands. But he no longer knew their faces.

Sam had to tell him one day, even though he had already figured it out long before.

Blind.

Never able to see the winter snow, spring flowers, summer skies, autumn leaves – the color of her hair.

She never visited. Not once. Not even when he pretended to sleep. She was still angry at him and Jon actually chuckled at that. Of course she is. He had given away her freedom and then had lain injured and useless as Danaerys no doubt claimed the Iron Throne.

Had the Dragon Queen ordered her to Lannisport, to fulfill her wedded duty to Tyrion? Was she pregnant now with a Lannister babe?

No. She would not be any of those. Sansa would’ve fought hard to stay in Winterfell. She would have talked Tyrion into petitioning their divorce.

Also, Tyrion had visited thrice and never mentioned anything about going to Lannisport or taking care of newly birthed Lannister heirs. Tyrion made some fancy speech about heroes and sacrifices and rebuilding the kingdom, together, one united front. Jon didn’t say anything. He didn’t want anything to do with uniting a kingdom ruled by frivolous lords whose loyalty could easily be switched, bargained, forgotten. No, Jon wanted no part in that.

Daenerys visited more than anyone. More than Arya, to Jon’s dismay. More than Bran, who only came twice. Once, to remind him that he was still a Stark, despite being the son of Rhaegar. His mother was still Lyanna Stark and he was still of the North. The second to urge him to choose: Stark or Targaryen. His choice still mattered, it seemed. He had to shake his head and groan. There is no choice. He is a Stark. He will always be a Stark. He will never stop being a Stark.

You are to me.

She had insisted it once, in an impassioned speech, her blue eyes fierce and bright and so very open, Jon could feel the truth of her statement deep within his bones, up to very bottom of his soul.  

That was all that mattered to him.  

This would explain Dany’s daily visits but not Sansa’s absence.

Dany commented on his color, not as pale as yesterday, my love. She was a bright warm voice urging him to ride south and live with her in King’s Landing. Or perhaps Dragonstone, the sun and the sea will help him regain his strength.

But his strength lay in wet snow, the cold biting wind, the Godswood, the howling of the wolves that had made Winterfell their home. He didn’t have the energy to explain this to her. He didn’t want to share with her these things that had kept him alive.

Jon tried his best to be patient. A blind man after all has too many things to occupy him. Relearning sounds, scents, textures. Relearning his own room, his own body even. He was whole, scarred beyond healing, but everything seemed to be where they should be. It was only his eyesight that he had lost and all things considered, it was not as devastating as being dead.

He will probably never hold a sword, never fight another battle in his life and this was something he was actually thankful for. He had no more wish to fight. There was nothing left to fight for. Only to live for.

But she still refused to see him.

And so, when Jon had been sure that everyone of importance in the North, in the Vale, in the miserable South, even the Free Folks has visited him – the King, the bastard, the Warden of the North, the Lord of Winterfell, just Jon – he finally asked Arya.

“Where is Sansa?”

There is a strange silence. But Jon didn’t think, didn’t feel it was the mourning kind. He would know if she was gone, wouldn’t he?

“She never visited me.”

“You’re asleep sometimes. How would you know?” Arya asked, the lilt in her voice the same as always. No change in tone, no hint of sorrow or anything.

“I’d know. She smells like lemons and fresh snow and winter roses.” He’d know because when they had lived in Winterfell, together, her scent remained even when she had left the room. It lingered all around him, it seeped into his fur coat and into his skin. If she had visited him, his room would smell of her.

“I’ll take you to her.”

“Aye. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow then.” Arya promised him and as usual, leaned forward to press a gentle kiss unto his forehead before leaving the room.

But Jon felt something inside him twisting and shivering. Does she still hate me? He wanted to ask, needing to know before he had to be in her presence but he couldn’t make himself know the answer. He decided that yes, Sansa still hated him. And if it was the case, then he would be ready and accepting but he will have to start wooing her. Something he had thought about long and hard, all those many nights he had lain awake thinking only of her. He will tell her how he truly feels, she needs to know first. And then, he will be able answer Dany why he would never join her in King’s Landing.

It would be a lot of work to win Sansa back, but that was something to live for.

And if she had forgiven him, then it would be something he could cherish. Maybe he could finally be glad that he had survived the war.

The following day, as promised, Jon walked with Arya out of his room and into the hallway. There was a hush around them and Jon was certain it was because the people inside Winterfell had never seen Jon Snow and Arya Stark walking its hallways. At least no one alive would have seen them together, dark eyed, dark haired Stark ghosts silently roaming their home.

Her strides were short but confident, as though she already knew that even without his sight, he would know exactly where to go, where the corners would be, were the stairs would start and end, where the windows would allow light and sun and warmth.

And he did. Jon knew Winterfell better than he knew himself. This was the Winterfell he had grown up with, the Winterfell whose nooks and crannies he had explored and mapped and he could see it all clearly in his mind. Knew exactly where the Stark banner would be hanging – he reached out his hands and felt the heavy fabric bearing the grey winter wolf.

He started towards Sansa’s solar, sure that she would be there, but Arya’s footsteps stopped and Jon had to turn back towards her. It didn’t take long for Jon to realize that they were heading outside and he braced himself for the cold, but the air was crisp, not the biting freeze he had expected.

Arya seemed to have sensed his confusion, “Sam thinks that when you defeated the Night King, it shortened winter. He thinks that the Night King and winter were somehow feeding off each other.”

He sensed Arya’s shrug, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what Arya meant and he didn’t want to question Sam who had skillfully dragged him out of death’s grip.

“I think we just assumed it would be a long winter and it turned out that it wasn’t.” This sounded nothing like his impetuous sister. This sounded like someone who had grown resigned to the mistakes men were bound to make.

And that makes Arya so much wiser, calmer, and surer of herself, of her place in the world that Jon suddenly missed the little girl that had jumped into his arms, hugging him, making him promise that he will visit her in the South or maybe she will visit him at the Wall.

They had assumed a lot of things and ended up being so incredibly wrong and that, Jon could at least understand.  

The chill was familiar but not in a comforting way. He knew this cold, had spent too many times being enveloped by it.

The crypts beneath Winterfell.

He stopped walking so abruptly, he stepped on Arya’s heels.

And now, yes, the scent of tears. Of mourning that was never meant to be spoken of or shared. It rises from her and Jon feels suddenly weak and lightheaded. He fights against this feeling, fights it like he had fought so many months ago, with gritted teeth and clenched fists.

“Is she visiting father?” Jon asked, in the exact same way when he had tried to open his eyes knowing that he would never be able to see again, ever.

“Jon.” And now, yes, that sudden change in Arya’s voice. Like a raw, opened wound that was still profusely bleeding and that will remain open until all the blood runs out. It was exactly how sorrow worked.  

But Jon didn’t wait for another word or worst, a comforting touch. “Take me to her.” Was all that he said, suddenly reminded of Robert Baratheon, years and years and a whole lifetime ago, ordering their father to take him to the crypts.

Darkness never mattered now. He was still surefooted as he was inside the castle. How many days and nights had he spent coming inside these crypts to stare at Ned Stark’s face, asking him for forgiveness for bending the knee, for wanting something he was not supposed to have, for hoping, for demanding, for trying to bargain?

I will save The North, father. I will make myself worthy of her.

His senses were startling in its accuracy and as they walked closer to where he knew Ned Stark’s statue was, Jon was also certain that there was no one else inside the crypt. It was still just him and Arya.

Arya, who very gently takes his hand and stretches it over his head so that his fingers can meet stone, instead of flesh, coldness instead of warmth.

Sansa.

His breath leaves his lungs, noisy and painfully and Jon willed his heart to stop as his hand finds her jaw, cupping it tenderly before moving upward to feel her the smooth roundness of her cheers, turning softly downwards, to her neck and then her shoulder and suddenly, Jon could feel his knee giving way, the weight of this sorrow so sudden, so encompassing it had turned into everything.

This is whole world now: this loss.

It was all the he could know and feel and it consumed him, devoured him like snow storms could swallow up whole armies.

“How?” came out more as a howl and he asked this over and over before switching to “why” and then finally “who?” because his fight was not yet over, he would have to hold his sword once again and he will swing it, wait for the sound of steel slipping between flesh and bones, the heat of blood hissing as it melted the snow. This would not ease the pain, but it will allow him to live with himself.

He had so utterly failed her.

Arya didn’t move, didn’t try to comfort him. “You were still beyond the wall. She abandoned you, remember?”

Jon wordlessly nodded. Dany had apologized for it with tears and careful hands brushing away the anger in his frowns and grunts. She had to. Rhaegal had already died. Drogon barely survived. She only had one dragon left and there was no way she will be able to claim the Iron Throne with a dying dragon. She had to leave.

It didn’t matter. Jon was going to kill the Night King and he will put a stop to this endless nightmare and he didn’t care if he had dragons or Dothrakis or the Unsullied was behind him. The war was now just between him and the Night King.

“She headed North. I was still at Riverrun with Nymeria.”

“You took The Trident.” Jon remembered receiving a raven telling him of the Warrior of Winterfell, the youngest daughter of Eddard Stark, charging towards the Golden Company on the back of the biggest direwolf the kingdom had ever seen and behind her, more wolves, snarling and howling, the fur of their snouts matted and colored with all the shades of blood red.

An Army of Avenging Wolves. Winter finally arriving in the South, jaws furiously, righteously snapping up bones and flesh.  

“I was too late. The Dragon Queen arrived in Winterfell and she demanded the Northern Lords to bend the knee, to give her the army that she had lost fighting beyond the wall.”

And already Jon could see her, standing just outside Winterfell, her head held high, chin jutting out, red hair harsh against the pure white of winter snow. She would not show them that she was frightened; she will not let them see her trembling. She was of the North. The daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Stark. She was the Lady of Winterfell.

“Bran said Sansa had looked up and closed her eyes and it was so, so quiet that even though it was a whisper, even when it had been spoken so quietly, everyone heard it.”

Dracarys.

Jon found himself storming outside, the chilled air seeping through his skin, finding its ways inside his veins, into his blood, wrapping itself around his heart until he could feel frozen air inside his lungs.

Arya grabbed his shoulder, “You can’t.”

“I will.” He shrugged off her hold. “I only regret that I won’t be able to see her face.” The anger inside him – no, not anger, something far more fiercer than that. Fire and blood. A kind of madness.

But Arya planted herself firmly in front of him, “You can’t. She is the mother of your son.”

Jon staggered back. What?

What?!

“You slept with her. On your way here. She bore you a child. Why do you think she is still here, alive? Why do you think her head isn’t on a spike rotting on the table inside my chambers?”

No. No. No. No.

“You have a son. A Targaryen. The first real Targaryen in years. You think I would be able to kill a child that has you face? Your eyes? He is a Targaryen, but his face… it’s your face. It’s father’s face.”

And Jon felt like dying all over again. The Gods were so, so infinitely cruel.

--

Okay, fuck. Fuck. What the fuck did I write? 

It’s like everything I don’t ever want to happen (MagicalTargBaby!) in GoT. 

I just had to get that out of my system. So yeah. There’s the saddest ending I could ever think of. Imagine having to live with the woman who is the mother of your child and who also happen to murdered the woman you truly loved? 

I’m so sorry Jon. 

I will never write anything like this ever again. Like, ok that’s out of my head now. I can now stop thinking about that scenario – which has haunted me many sleepless nights. I know this has a lot of plot holes, so maybe we can consider this as a crack fic? Please don’t hate me.  

[renaroo]

Day 21 Lantern: A Piece of Home

Disclaimer: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and related properties are owned by IDW/Viacom/Mirage Studios. Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Chinese vampirism  Rating: T Pairings: VenusxVam Mi Synopsis: It is the eve of the Chinese New Year and Venus de Milo is longing for the home she had known for much of her life as Mei Pieh Chi. Of course, in her loneliness and solitude, she ends up encountering the most unlikely of companions that she long thought she and her new family had seen the last of forever. VenusxVam Mi. Sapphic September: Lantern

A/N: I don’t think... I’ve ever written the Next Mutation’s universe? Which is.... surprising for me. Because I think I’ve written almost every Ninja Turtle continuity at least once other than the Bay movies. But I mean. C’mon. Who can blame me there. Regardless, I wrote Next Mutation for Sapphic September bc well... Vam Mi was.... a fundamental experience for me let’s say. 

February in New York was much different than it was in China. Not because of the snow or bitter cold, not even because of the city’s skyscrapers and numerous nights dotting against the sky.

It was different because in New York, most of the city had already had its new year a month ago. But for her, and for only a small slice of the great city, the New Year had just begun.

And a new year, hopefully, brought with it new changes.

She held the scroll in her hand as she silently crossed the alleys and hid amongst the loud and rambunctious crowd around here. There were paper lanterns and large decorated dragons being lifted overhead as she tightened her overcoat and drew down her hat more. It was nerve wracking, hiding in plain sight, but as much as it was against the instincts her father had instilled in her, it was very much a trick of the ninja as Venus had learned it.

There were a few times where vendors’ items or the excited screams of children running around in traditional garb with sparklers caught her eye, but she kept herself going, kept herself moving more and more until she at last reached the destination on the scroll which had been left for her so near her new family’s home.

To be sure, she opened the scroll and looked at the scrawled on address, then to the number on the building she had reached. A small and dimly lit restaurant in the outskirts of Chinatown.

A certain trap for her.

One more time, Venus considered her actions, looking back to the crowds celebrating, toward the streets and alleys which had led her to her destination, toward the home her new family was no doubt happily resting in. But it was not enough to deter her.

There was more than the Chinese New Year that Venus missed about her home. She missed the love and sanctity she felt from her father and shinobi master. He left her his teachings, which she cherished, and he left her his responsibilities, which she accepted dutifully as any daughter would.

Looking ahead again, Venus grew a far more serious expression before letting herself into the seemingly closed restaurant.

Her heart was pounding within her terrapin chest, but she steadied her breathing and continued to walk into the establishment. When she reached a counter where an elderly woman in an apron sat, looking down at a crossword puzzle, Venus hesitated.

“Excuse me… Someone is expecting me,” Venus tried to express.

The woman did not look up or say anything, continuing to etch on the crossword pad with her red pen.

Venus wasn’t the most familiar with her new country, but she was willing to suppose that this was abnormal behavior. Even in New York. She began to reach for the elderly woman when she heard a clap from the back of the restaurant that stirred her from her thoughts and action.

In command of the clap, several low level lights of the establishment grew brighter, and in doing so revealed a face that Venus had honestly thought she would never see again.

“Vam Mi,” Venus said almost breathlessly. “I don’t know who of my master’s enemies I expected… but it was not you.”

“Your other enemies must not be much cause for concern then, for you to come alone and so ill prepared, little shinobi,” the vampire said, smiling more to show off her sharp teeth than to reveal any hint of kindness. “Please, come sit. It’s a new year. And I would like to discuss many things with you. Many… new possibilities.”

Though caught off guard, Venus was quick to focus her qi and send the energy flowing to her hands, forming a small but bright orb of concentrated energy right before her own chest. She was nervous and she was not taking any chances. Especially with someone who was as nearly devastating to her new family as Vam Mi had been.

“You qi is not impressive to me, little shinobi, or have you forgotten your own heritage’s lore?” Vam Mi taunted, leaning forward in her seat at the back of the restaurant. “Chinese vampires devour qi. Though if you are offering me a snack in celebration of the New Year, I won’t decline it.”

“I have not forgotten my heritage or its lore, Vam Mi,” Venus said defiantly before using one hand to balance the energy she had gathered and then the other to remove the scroll which Vam Mi herself had sent to her. Using her own qi, she then traced against its surface, enchanting the parchment and spelling out a vampiric charm onto it.

That, at least, got the ancient vampire’s attention. “Your skills have grown sharper since last we met.”

“Since last we met, my family and I stopped the Dragon Lord himself,” Venus informed her. “I’m older and wiser, Vam Mi. I did not come here alone because of over confidence. I came here because any old threat of mine is beneath my brothers.”

“Obviously, you mean to say it’s beneath you,” Vam Mi said. She then waved to the table before her, the simple gesture lighting the large number of candles before her and showing the large array of Chinese sweets and desserts that Venus had not seen the like of since leaving her native home. “I urge you, though. Put down your penchant for squabble and join me for a new year.” Her eyes glowed an electric red, dangerous and stunning. “I insist.”

Despite herself, Venus felt her qi diminish, the orb of energy dissipating. But she refused to lose grip on her new charm, even as her body grew rigid and still, her feet sliding across the restaurant’s floor toward Vam Mi and stopping just by the chair.

Shocked at the vampire’s abilities, Venus looked over Vam Mi.

“You are not the only one to have grown in our separation,” Vam Mi said dangerously before drinking from her glass of wine. “Please. Sit.”

Just to be sure that Vam Mi had not taken control of her body again, Venus defiantly stood just long enough to get her bearings together, then she quietly took her seat.

Van Mi smiled around her glass. “I was half expecting you to attempt to attach that note to my head or otherwise go for the attack. It would have been your master’s plot. You’re far more reasonable than he was.”

“Or less wise,” Venus said defensively.

“Well, there is always that option as well,” Vam Mi said nonchalantly, reaching over to a sweet cake as she put her wine aside. “I assure you, these are all real, all authentic. Come. Celebrate the New Year with me.”

Venus did not let her guard down, her hands clutching into fists as she rested them on her thighs. “What did you invite me here for, Vam Mi?”

The vampire looked at her as if she was utterly dull. “I already explained that.”

“I mean the real reason,” Venus said flatly.

Vam Mi hummed, lacing her fingers together and resting her chin on them. “Did you notice anything about the note I sent you?”

“It was hard not to notice something addressed to me in Chinese,” Venus answered.

“Addressed to you,” Vam Mi repeated.

“That is what I said,” Venus snapped haughtily.

“What you?” Van Mi pressed.

“What do you mean what me? It was addressed to me. You wanted me here,” Venus replied in frustration before pausing. She looked down to her clutched fist, slowly uncurling it and letting the note scroll out once more. Beneath the bright white qi letters the note still was there. And it was addressed to her. Specifically to her. “You used my name. My… You used Mei Pieh Chi. No one here uses it.”

“Even though it is your true name,” Vam Mi said, almost denoting sympathy.

“It is easier for the people here to use names Westernized,” Venus excused. “It is my attempt to help others.”

“It’s your attempt to forget your culture,” Vam Mi argued. “Or does your new family address you by your true name? It is not difficult to say. No more than Hamato Yoshi or Oroku Saki.”

Venus opened her mouth to argue, but she found that she couldn’t. instead, her mouth closed and she lowered her chin, glancing off from Vam Mi as she swallowed tightly. “I don’t understand what you want with me.”

“I want to end this war between myself and your dynasty of shinobi warriors,” Vam Mi said simply enough. “And I wished for someone similarly displaced in this foreign land to join me in the relative misery of a very un-Chinese Chinese New Year.”

“You simply don’t want me to hunt you?” Venus demanded. “Even though it is my master’s responsibility handed down to me by his death?”

“You make it sound like it’s difficult,” Vam Mi joked. “I find doing nothing to be the easiest request someone can give you.”

“You’re a vampire,” Venus uttered, her words fuzzy in her confusion.

“And you are a turtle,” Vam Mi replied. “I see nothing inherent in those natures to force us to continue a feud so intimately between us. Especially since, as I suspect by how you attempted to do away with me with your new family, you aren’t interested in the arcane practice of ripping the beating heart from my chest and burying my body away from it.” She smirked. “You don’t seem, to me, like the type, Mei Pieh Chi.”

“But you survive by devouring the life force of others,” Venus reminded her like Vam Mi didn’t already know. “By neglecting my duty what I do is take the blood of your next victim on my own hands.”

“Not necessarily, not if you hear my truce all the way through,” the vampire continued, getting up and nearing Venus.

The turtle’s heart began to beat faster, her hands clutched into fists once more. But again, she couldn’t make herself move, only watch as she was approached by Vam Mi.

“You, my shinobi, are full of qi, more than even your master before you. I can feel it growing even now,” Vam Mi explained, stopping behind Venus and delicately tracing her fingers over Venus’ shoulders. “You are such a unique creature, so plentiful in your life force…  And as a shinobi you are trained to grow and harness that energy with every day. If you were to come with me, if you were to join me, I could eat of your qi more than enough to survive, and your life would be no lesser for it.”

“And be bound to you?” Venus demanded. “That is no life.”

“It is when I give you what the others cannot offer,” she said, spinning Venus’ chair around to face her, she was leaning in, so close that Venus could feel her sweet breath across her beak. “I can give you the world you knew again. I can let you be Mei Pieh Chi again.”

For a moment, Venus’ heart beat faster, and by the way Vam Mi’s ruby red lips pressed together to form a dark smile, Venus knew the vampire could tell.

“The idea thrills you,” Vam Mi said softly. “And you feel you have nothing left here with your new family who cannot call you by your true name now that your master’s greatest foe is dealt with. You need purpose. I offer you that purpose.”

“You offer my soul’s enslavement,” Venus corrected her.

“Refusing me, you offer my heart’s imprisonment,” Vam Mi answered. “We are forced into this arbitration by forces we did not start ourselves, Mei Pieh. I am offering us a way to finish it in ways that had never been tried by those before us.”

It took almost all of her concentration and will, but Venus managed to look down. As she suspected, the qi she had used to charm the scroll had dulled and extinguished. Vam Mi approached her not only for this intimate speech but in order to continue draining her of her life-force.

“I’m more powerful than you,” Venus tried desperately.

“I know,” Vam Mi answered, eyes still shining. “That is why I want to keep you.” She leaned in closer. “And I believe you have allowed me to get this far because a part of you agrees with what I say. A part of you is interested in receiving my offer. And, maybe, you want to be kept, too.”

“And if my answer is no, Vam Mi?” Venus asked. “If it’s no but I also won’t take your heart either?”

Vam Mi looked off, nodding her head. “Oh, dear beautiful turtle of power, we are only here right now because my heart’s imprisonment I fear, but you capturing it? It has already happened.”

Venus’ eyes widened with surprise, her heart pounded.

Van Mi’s sharp teeth presented themselves again and she leaned in, grazing them across the skin of Venus’ neck before stopping at the curve of her chin, then coming up to look into Venus’ eyes as she gently kissed her lips. “Think of my offer, Mei Pieh Chi. As I have showed you tonight, I can feast from you without hurting  you. Without killing you. And I can offer you many, many things you want in return.”

She backed away and headed toward the back of the restaurant, strutting for Venus as she did so. “Meet me here again in a few nights if you want more desserts. Oh.” She stopped and looked over her shoulder, smiling darkly at Venus. “And Happy New Year.”

To Venus’ amazement, the vampire disappeared into a mist, and suddenly, Venus had full control of herself again. She breathed deeply, slamming her hands on the table just as the lights dimmed again and the candles went out.

The old woman etched on her crossword puzzle without a word of acknowledgement.

Venus wasted no time, she got to her feet, grabbed some desserts, then raced out of the establishment, her lips still stinging with the shock of the kiss even as she made a point of disappearing into Chinatown’s crowded streets, beneath the paper lanterns and loud, colorful decorations of the night.

[daemonvols]

Chapter Six

Party Preparations

 Another five days passed without my noticing much of them. The news buddies returned to downtown shootings, tractor-trailer pile ups on 481 and more house fires. I burned every piece of meat I ate and contemplated going vegan.

One day, and I cannot even now remember which day it was, Charlie left a voice message. It wasn’t as irritating as Derek’s Post-it. However, if I were keeping such a score, Charlie lost romance points when he chose the middle of the night as well to avoid direct conversation. The message didn’t earn him any points to offset the loss, either:

“Yeah, well, I left the old stiff alone, but you probably know that. I have next Thursday night off, so I thought I’d come by again and see your ghosts and vampires and whatever else you got to show me. Nine-thirty’s good for me, so I’ll see you then.”

To be honest, I would have lost romance points, too. I had forgotten all about him since Helen and Nestor. I had forgotten a lot of things, now that I’d seen how fragile even the undead’s existence can be. I rose worked, ate and slept on automatic. It was the routine that saved me: office calls, bookkeeping, and not much more.

I still had regular visits from Missy and Mischa and the other ghosts who thought it now safe to come out and resume their haunting and whining. Missy started to say something about the ending of Helen and Nestor that I knew would be meant as comfort and therefore wholly inappropriate. I stopped her with a raised index finger and a sharp “Don’t!” I did not want them thinking about it anymore than I wanted to think about it.

Fortunately, their spectral minds were easy enough to re-direct. I had only to tell them that Charlie had called and that the party was on. I cannot recommend listening to a ghost squeal in delight, let alone two. It grays the hair. But it got them off the subject of the “ending.” Got me off the memory of it, too, for a while.  Though when the memory came roaring back to me just before I fell asleep I supposed that I could pack my belongings, empty my bank account and see what Canada had to offer a bookkeeper/cemetery caretaker.

Two nights, four novels and little sleep later, I drank the musty bitter cup of reality in the form of a cup of tea, the bag for which was months past its expiration, and set to planning.

Not that I hadn’t considered the matter at all since inviting Charlie that night in Section B.  In the blissful moments right before falling asleep that first-meeting night, I thought a lot about the little “party” being held on my porch. But I hadn’t thought, said or done anything more about it.

Well, all right, I had compiled a mental “guest list” from the residents. After Charlie RSVP’d to my invitation, I made decisions. The first was that I would not invite any more of the undead into my home. We would stay on the porch.

As for the specific invitees: Derek, no question and no choice. I’d let him pick one or two other vampires to bring along, provided they had all fed before they came into my yard. Missy and Mischa I could not keep out with a banishing spell (presuming I could learn and master one in that amount of time). That made four, six if you counted the living ones: Charlie and me. And I thought about a same-day invitation two younger ghosts, Lallie and Rin.

About two years ago, these two twenty somethings fell victim ago to a double dose of D and D. One dose was driving home at three a.m. from a late-night game of Dungeons and Dragons. The second dose was a drunk driver. The families made such a fuss as to how sweet a couple they had been in life that they insisted on burying them side by side, but with separate headstones for modesty’s sake. The plots they chose in Section H lay near trees (the last of Polehouse’s crab apple trees) and “running water” (the drainage ditch, which could be a third dose of D and D, if you think about it). I’ve often thought Rin would have moved on without a care, but Lallie in death as in life ruled the relationship and she wanted to stay a while longer.

As I said, it’s been about two years. She’s still sticking around and so is he. They would probably disturb Charlie less than an old horror like Benjamin Sharpe. And Rin and Lallie might balance Derek’s pomposity.

And you have another question: Yes, there are special considerations to this sort of affair. Ghosts have no real sense of days or time. They know daylight and nighttime, but couldn’t tell you what day of the week. Also, for them, every year is still the year in which their bodies died. Technological advances are tricks and deceptions. Mischa still thinks I have the poorest design in typewriters because I have to have a separate machine to print out my work. I would have to work out a signal for these four “guests.”

Vampires, on the other hand, are keenly aware of time. I suspect they secretly pride themselves on living so long off the blood of others. Kind of like career politicians in that respect.

And like all socials of a close knit family, there are those you invite and those you don’t invite because you invited the first ones and those two parties aren’t speaking. I asked Missy and Mischa to talk to the youngsters. They had other suggestions, but I had the answers ready.

“No, we can’t invite Emma Wascher or Susan Kegg because their headstones would loosen the dirt for the whole row and then we’d have to let Old Man Sharpe loose.”

“Don’t you remember, Missy that Fred Marsberg had a crush on Mischa and passed on to the Next Life because she wouldn’t look at him even after death?”

“It simply isn’t the caliber of event to expect a Plutarch to attend, even if he or she had the bad taste to linger here.”

“A small family gathering, then,” Missy sighed.

I looked at them and pictured the rest of my “family.” Then I reconsidered moving to Canada.

I had yet to see, let alone speak or invite Derek plus one.

However, my word had to be kept, if I was to get anywhere with Charlie. Which assumed I still wanted to get somewhere. I did. Let’s be honest: romance novels can only take you so far and pillows warm up only when you hold them for hours. They never “hold” back.

 I waited for Derek beside the south arch the night before the “party”. He’d gone casual into a leather jacket and jeans that didn’t quite fit him there as well as Charlie’s, and the death’s head on the front of the T-shirt had to have looked more appropriate on the biker Derek had taken it off of than it did on him. The whole ensemble brought to mind the picture of a mama’s boy trying to look tough, but I could not laugh at him.

“Going a nighttime stroll?” he sneered. “I thought your grandfather had beaten that out of you when you were five.”

“My grandfather never laid a hand on me, thank you,” I said. “And you’re going for a new look. It doesn’t suit you.”

A good way to get a vampire’s full attention: first, make (excuse the expression) dead certain he has no intentions of feeding on you or allowing anyone else to feed on you. Then insult him, especially about his clothes.

“What do you want, Jewess?” Now he was snarling and showing his long, spiky canine teeth.

“I want you to bring one of your crew after feeding to my porch two nights from now. That’s Thursday night. Before you ask,” I interrupted a guttural laugh that Derek saved for occasions like this or a victim’s plea for mercy, “I have a new gravedigger who does not believe that you, your kind or the ghosts exist.”

“Most of your kind do not believe that we exist, either,” he countered. “And by ‘your kind,’ I mean humans, although I am stretching the point in your case.” Derek considered himself quite the charmer, but on this night, he wasn’t even trying.

I ignored the comment. “Look, a digger who doesn’t believe at best disrespects the cemetery and the graves; at worst, he becomes a grave robber.”

“I would kill him, if he tried.”

“I know you would. Trouble is, he’s union, and if you killed him, the union would want answers. They’d likely go to the news media. That would raise the Board’s hackles and get me fired. And who knows they could just as easily fire me and hire a religious nut that’d spend his days staking the lot of you in the ground and burning out the mausoleums.” He snorted. “You heard Treasurer Meecham last winter when the city wouldn’t plow up to our entrances and we had to postpone the Jarvis funeral. He said he has that Bible-thumper Frankfort waiting in the proverbial wings. Besides, you owe me.”

“I what?” The Dangerous Voice. He once scared a young artist with that voice; scared the teenager so badly, the kid peed all over the graffiti he’d spray-painted on Derek’s headstone. For myself, I’d heard that voice enough to hear a sort of blood-sucking version of, “As if!” I shrugged.

I took in a deep breath before I played what Grandpa Dov would call my trump card: “Helen and Nestor.” He took my meaning: word could not spread to other “families” that a human had witnessed one vampire destroy another. That leads to territorial disputes and a possible bloodsucking war. And I’d seen Derek behead two of his own. He understood me, but argued on in true lawyer fashion.

“You were not invited.”

“And yet you dragged me to watch it anyway.”

“You have heard the term ‘extortion’?” He grabbed one rod of the iron and yanked a bend into it. I had won. I folded my arms and waited. “I will have to bring Ian. With Helen and Nestor gone, he’s my responsibility.”

I thought for a moment of how many parents I’d heard say as much with as much regret when they came to bury their children. It’s heartbreaking to them and more than likely devastating to their children’s spirits. The CPF has very few cheerful child ghosts. Most wail through the night for their loving parents.

Not that all parents love their children. That’s a simple fact, of which I’ve had some experience. My mother left us before I was two months old. I’ve neither seen nor heard from her since.

“He’ll be a little hard to explain,” I agreed. “But I think I may have an idea for him.”

Derek looked at me hard. I am no expert on vampire brains, but I suspected from his darting eyes that he was desperate to find a way out of it. He found none. “Then we shall attend your porch soiree.” He started to leave.

“After you feed,” I said.

I won’t repeat what he said to that.

 Two phone calls the next day to our garden center served two purposes: to replace the frosted rainbow gravel my Grandma Rose used in the flower beds and to signal the ghosts that it was Party Day.

Thursday morning, the red garden center truck dumped a mountain of colored stone on my front lawn. Missy and Mischa saw the signal. They roused the youngster ghosts in the early evening. Then the “ladies” floated through the house, making verbal lists of all the places I needed to clean. When they got to my bedroom, I cried foul.

“Do I go into your coffins and critique your housekeeping?” I said.

“We don’t hold parties in our coffins, dear,” Missy reminded me. She laid the shadow of her hand on my shoulder. I shivered from the cold.

“Nobody’s going into my bedroom tonight.”

Missy tutted. “That’s too bad, dear. You need somebody sometime, you know. Birds and the bees.”

“Well, if I do, there will not be dead things in my bedroom!”

They both sniffed and floated outside through the front windows with the Cat Move.

“Not much help are they?” Rin offered with an opaque shrug.

Rin must have been a sweet, if erratic young man when he was alive. It was a pity his family saw fit to send him through Eternity in a black suit, black shirt and tightly-tied black tie. His spirit looked about six foot-two inches and he wore his blonde, straight hair samurai-style: the front locks pulled back into a mini-ponytail that sat atop the shoulder-length hair on the sides and back. He had dark eyes, a sad smile, a soft voice, and a huge desire to help me.

He’d not been dead long enough to learn how to move physical objects with any accuracy, but still he tried. And failed. Six times he tried to move dishes to from the dining room sideboard to the kitchen. Six times, they rattled and refused to budge. In high frustration, he thrust energy at one of Grandma Rose’s china cups and sent it crashing to the floor.

I ceased cutting up celery and bell peppers when I heard it and came out of the kitchen to insist that he stop ‘helping’ and park his non-corporeal behind on one of the four three-legged stools I had around the kitchen island.

He obeyed, and sank down through the stool’s wooden seat up to his nose. I pretended not to notice and kept cutting celery ribs. It doesn’t do to mock a young ghost. It spoils any other interactions they might have with the living. And ghosts, for all their blissful ignorance of time, have a long memory. Rin withdrew from the stool, gauged it in distance and height, and in a moment was hovering in a seated position two inches above the seat.

This might have resulted in a reasonably tranquil scene. However, Lallie had discovered that she could pass through ceilings as well as walls. Even as a ghost, she was a sight: her family had dressed her in a red, drop-waist dress with a white silk rose the size of a soccer ball at her hip, and black-and-white striped stockings. She dangled from the rose down from the load-bearing beam in the kitchen ceiling and then used it as her own gymnastic bar to do forward and backward flips. She may have expected Rin to applaud her efforts, but her path swung her through his head over and over, despite his efforts to avoid her. Once she realized where they intersected, she started making kissy noises. Rin looked (excuse the expression) mortified. I cut more celery.

I probably cut too much celery. There would be two to feed that night, as long as Derek kept his word. He and Ian wouldn’t care for vegetables anyway. Still, I had the celery and peppers, some crackers and a dip my Grandma Rose swore would bring a husband into the house.

Well, what she had

said

was that it would bring marriage partner. She also told me she’d made it with crackers and celery the first time my father brought my mother to the house at the CPF. In hindsight, I may well have been (excuse the expression) dead wrong to make and serve it to Charlie Tischler.

[inawickedlittletown]

Walking The Wire (15/?)

Summary: Tony Stark always knew about Peter Parker. He didn’t know that Peter was going to get superpowers and become Spider-Man, but he always knew about Peter because Peter was his son.

This will span from pre-Iron Man up through the rest of the MCU (eventually including Infinity War) and will be for the most part canon compliant except where I’ve taken some liberties and interpreted canon a certain way.

Pairings: Pepper/Tony, Tony/Steve (endgame), Tony/Mary (past)

A/N: If you want me to tag you when I post new chapters let me know. This fic is also on AO3

I used Collider’s MCU timeline to stay canon and the title of this fic is an Imagine Dragons song that is just so fitting for Peter and Tony

Masterpost

Chapter Fourteen

They screwed up.

Ultron hadn’t been meant to become an evil artificially intelligent robot and yet that’s what happened. Tony didn’t know how it had gone wrong, or how it had ended up working at all, but he knew that he’d screwed up. He could also see that everyone blamed him. Even Bruce blamed him a little for pushing him to help him.

Then, Jarvis was dead.

His mask went up as he looked at what was left. Half formed pieces of code and no way to bring Jarvis back as he had been. Tony couldn’t even face to pull out another of his AI’s to get to work.

Pepper was gone and Jarvis was dead and most of the team couldn’t even look at him. The vision played in his mind in a taunting way too, reminding him of why Ultron had felt like the right thing to do.

By the time that they had gone after Klaue and Tony tried not to think about the last time he had seen that man, Tony had stopped trying to figure out exactly how things had gone wrong. He knew it was the scepter that had done it and corrupted his and Bruce’s work.  

“I really just don’t understand,” Ultron said as he fought Tony and threw him aside with a sweep of his hand, “humans are confusing. You create children and don’t let them evolve. Don’t even tell them you created them.”

Tony’s blood went cold. Ultron knew about Peter. He knew about Peter and he could just put the information out there into the world. He fought back as Ultron came at him again, but even his Iron Man suit didn’t seem to be enough because Ultron knew his every move and had studied his armor.

By the end of it, it had been for nothing because Ultron got away with the vibranium and aside from Clint, everyone was incapacitated. Hulk was on the loose and angry. Things were just getting worse and worse by the minute. Tony couldn’t let himself focus on the Peter of it all since there was no immediate fix for that. Instead he had a Hulk to catch.

Later, after they had gotten to the safehouse, or what had been code for Clint’s farm which had come with a wife and kids, Tony tried to keep busy and not think about it mostly because there wasn’t much that he could actually do aside from helping the others regroup and figure out what to do next.

He felt jarred, as if he had woken up after a long fever. It brought Steve back to his childhood and being a skinny kid that was one bad cold from just falling down dead. Somehow Clint had managed to get them back onto the quinjet even as thrown as they were. Natasha had been the quietest that Steve had ever seen her and he himself had only managed to get himself back together enough to help when Tony finally got the Hulk to change back but not without causing destruction in his wake.

Tony had gotten on his phone at once and Steve knew it was because he wanted people on the scene taking care of everything at once.

Logically, Steve knew that Wanda Maximoff was to blame with her magic or whatever the stone had given her, but it still did pain him to think about Peggy young again and waiting for him to have some sort of life that just wasn’t fighting.

They touched down somewhere unfamiliar and Steve watched Tony as the others got up and followed Clint. Something was bothering him and it was more than just Ultron. Still, Steve didn’t think that he could ask. He didn’t know that he could do it calmly without starting a fight.

It turned out that Clint’s “safehouse” was his own personal home and that he had a pregnant wife and two kids. It made Steve pause. Only Natasha seemed to be unsurprised. Tony just kept on quipping and Steve could tell that it was because he was trying to pretend that everything was fine. He almost reached out to him, but instead followed Thor outside and watched him leave without much explanation. He hoped that there would be a lead. Looking in at Clint’s home and family made Steve wistful. This was something that he could never have. The one and only person that had been an option for him had already lived out her life. She had kids and grandkids too. Hell, Natasha had been trying to set him up with her niece. Steve found that all kinds of weird once he’d found out that Sharon was actually related to Peggy.

Later, while he had been getting out his anger and angst out on some logs that needed chopping, Tony appeared and he was almost the last person that Steve wanted to see. He was still angry. It just -- Tony always just did things. He did things and didn’t think about them going wrong and he kept secrets and he had created a killer robot.

Tony started to chop some of the logs too, and Steve tried to keep the conversation light except that he couldn’t help but let his frustrations out. Tony seemed to think that he was fine and unaffected when that was the farthest thing from the truth. It was just that what he’d been shown felt so flimsy in comparison to the way Natasha had reacted or how it had set off the Hulk. Even Thor had been shaken as apparent by his need to run off. Steve just hoped that it would bring the answers he was seeking.

Tony’s justifications meant nothing to him, not when the result was Ultron and the whole team ending up off-kilter.

“He knows about Peter,” Tony said eventually after telling Steve his motivations were so everyone could go “home” as if he expected that they all wanted to settle down somewhere like Clint clearly had. Maybe Tony did with Pepper and Peter. Steve just knew that it would never be his life -- he would never be able to do it not with how much the world seemed to need them and because Steve didn’t know how he could.

“Ultron,” Tony said, “he knows that Peter is my son and it’s just a matter of time before he decides it’s time for the world to know. For Peter to know. I’m surprised that it isn’t out there already.”

Steve didn’t even get to respond before they were interrupted and Tony was pulled away to fix something. He was always fixing something, or trying to. He felt a little bit like a fraud as he cut the next log. Just like the others he kept his own secrets and told himself it was for the best. Maybe he needed to cut Tony some slack.

May followed the news closely when it came to The Avengers and in particular Tony Stark. So she was all over the videos and articles that came out of Johannesburg. The Hulk had gone wild for some reason and Iron Man had gone after him with too much destruction in their wake. She paid close attention over the next few days and was not entirely unsurprised when she heard that they had appeared in Sokovia, a small tiny country that until that moment May had not known existed.

She had watched the news while gripping her favorite mug as an entire country was taken into the sky.

By the time that it was all over and no one knew what kind of devastation had taken place, May had spilled most of the tea that had been meant to calm her onto the floor. It wasn’t until much later that all of The Avengers were accounted for that she could breathe easily.

Fearing for the life of Tony Stark more than once a year had never been May’s expectations of most of her adult life and yet that’s where she was. Ben thought she worried too much, but May knew that Peter would never forgive them if Tony died before he knew that man was his father. More and more she was tempted to tell him and let him and Tony meet and yet it was so hard to make that decision when Tony had been ignoring Peter for months and he was still in constant danger.

Chapter Sixteen