#I’m also wary those two have been or will be unceremoniously killed off

[void-tiger]

…should I watch the newest TDP season?

Because s2&3 (especially 3) just. Really ticked me off. Watched like a dumpster fire with all the Doyalist Issues utterly breaking containment, to put it mildly, and doubling down on brutalizing the female, queer, and poc characters (especially if they were at least 2/3. Like the Lesbian Queens and Sun Elf Queen.) An utter implosion of the world’s internal logic.

Did…did they fix it? (Is Callum less of a mansplainer I wanna dropkick off the side of a mountain without a deus ex machina saving his Self-Insert Ass this time?)

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 25: A Royal Visit

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Rowan shifted uncomfortably, rolling his weight from left to right. Aelin glanced up at him, her brow furrowed. Apparently, the small motion hadn’t escaped her notice. It didn’t help that Rowan usually kept his body exceptionally still.

But this evening hardly counted as ‘the usual.’

They were standing at the entrance to the fortress, in the small interior courtyard that rested just behind the battlement wall. Rowan hadn’t changed for the evening, only bothering to don his cleanest overcoat and leave the more cumbersome of his weapons behind in his rooms.

Aelin, however, had bathed, dressed in a pleasant yellow tunic and loose pants, and carefully braided her hair across her brow and rolled it beneath her right ear. It was almost like a crown – a golden circlet.

She was practically radiant.

In fact, the only thing marring her appearance was the scowl currently darkening her features. Not that there was anything Rowan could do about that. Well, except for freeing her of any obligation to help him through this evening.

Not that that was much of an option. The closer the royals drew, the more convinced Rowan was that the only thing that would keep him from completely losing a handle on his temper was Aelin’s presence.

Remelle’s icy laugh wafted through the mist and towards the fortress gates, accompanied by the sound of bells and merry voices. They were close. Rowan barely manage to suppress a groan. As it was, a huff of breath escaped through his nostrils.

Aelin slid him a sideways glance. “Really? You need my help with these prancing idiots?”

Rowan clenched his jaw, and sent her his most vicious glare. She didn’t react. “Keep your voice down,” he muttered, and gave a pointed glance to her ears.

She rolled her eyes, but her lips closed into a disdainful frown and stayed that way. Rowan’s gaze lingered perhaps a little bit too long on her mouth.

He jerked his head away just as the company came into view, passing over the drawbridge and entering the small inner courtyard where he and Aelin stood in wait.

There was a total of five Fae in the party, two bored-looking guards having accompanied the three royals. Remelle was in the lead, her pale blond hair twisted carefully into place, her snow-white face touched with rose petals, her posture perfectly poised to show off her figure. She was stunning. No matter how much Rowan disliked the female, he had to reluctantly concede that fact.

Remelle’s piercing blue eyes flared bright as they fixed on him, and her expression shifted, becoming snakelike. A serpent with it eyes on the mouse. Rowan’s jaw tightened, anger curdling in his gut.

The female was beautiful, but she had nothing, nothing, on the soft perfection of the princess standing beside him. Her beauty was cold, her manner conniving and insincere. She thought nothing of others, had nothing driving her beyond blind ambition.

How Rowan had spent a whole season in her company was beyond him. He guessed there was something to be said for limited choices. And for giving in under pressure – she had been ferocious in her pursuit of him.

Rowan carefully let his gaze casually slide away from Remelle’s, fixing his expression into bland disinterest, and onto the next in line: Benson.

Rowan had last seen the male at a ball he’d been dragged into attending by Fenrys, half a dozen years earlier. Benson had gotten thoroughly drunk, cheated Fenrys at cards, ruined several other guests’ attires, and ended the evening flat on his ass in the middle of the dance floor, passed out drunk.

Rowan could also recall a few memorably rude comments escaping his lips at dinner, most of them directed a demi-Fae server. They now ran through his head, making his nostrils flare, and his lips curl in disgust.

In short, Rowan had little love for the male. But he didn’t outright despise Benson – Fenrys had taken his revenge for the card-cheating (with minor thievery and a dunk in the river), and the male had learned his lesson. Or at least, he appeared to have.

The last in line was Essar. She was also looking at Rowan, but her eyes were warm, and the hint of a smile lightened her expression. Her form was relaxed, comfortable and uncalculating. The opposite to Remelle.

And, she was the only one of the three royals who seemed to notice Aelin standing at his side. Her eyes tightened slightly in confusion, and she tilted her head, asking a silent question. Rowan ignored her, his gaze shifting over to the remaining members of the small party.

The two guards had straightened, their slumped shoulders now set back and their sloppy postures rigid, almost severe. They both looked intently at Rowan, in wariness or interest, he did not know.

Illar and Yestrya. Rowan had trained them both, a few decades’ past (or was it more than that now? He couldn’t remember) in preparation for war with the Parthynians. But they did not know each other well, and Rowan found himself wondering if the soldiers were acting thus to impress him, or if they were actually preparing themselves to fight in order to protect the royals under their guard.

Remelle slid gracefully off of her white mare, and advanced towards Rowan, her gaze intent. “Rowan!” she exclaimed, and held out her hands towards him.

“Lady Remelle,” he said coolly, and took her proffered fingers in his. She looked as if she expected a kiss in greeting, and Rowan barely managed to keep from shoving the lady out of his space as he dropped her hands unceremoniously and turned towards the others, now also dismounting.

“Lord Benson,” Rowan said evenly, and the male dipped his head in greeting. “Lady Essar.”

The female smiled warmly at him, her eyes glowing with a genuine kindness as she reached out her arms to greet him. Rowan took her fingers in hand much more willingly than he had Remelle’s, and he could almost feel the waves of ice emanating from Remelle in response to his obvious preference.

But irritatingly, Remelle recovered quickly, and by the time Rowan had dropped Essar’s fingers she was already smiling prettily and saying, “It’s been an age, hasn’t it? You never come to our parties, and Maeve keeps you all to herself.”

Remelle placed a proprietary hand on his shoulder, her long, thin fingers like spiders’ legs through the cloth of his overcoat.

Rowan felt his whole body go still. But Remelle either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, as she continued, “There was a time when I got to keep you to myself. Sometimes I miss those days.” Her face twisted into an exaggerated pout.

Rowan breathed deep, locking his muscles in place. Remelle’s hand felt like a thorn in his shoulder – aching to be ripped out. But instead of pushing her away, Rowan just turned to the guards and said, “Stables are to the left.”

They both nodded gratefully, evidently appreciative of the opportunity for a break from their companions, and the promise of a decent meal and a bed for the night. They left the courtyard quickly.

Aelin had been quiet through the introduction, a silent presence hidden in his shadow, lying in wait. He could sense her clever eyes taking in the royals, and marking them as only she could. The princess who was an assassin.

Rowan extended an arm in her direction, silently asking her to come forwards. For a moment, she hesitated, and while he didn’t exactly blame her, her reluctance still stung somehow.

But then she strode forwards, walking closer and closer, until she was standing right beside him, and he could have tucked her into his side. He had to stop himself from doing exactly that.

All of a sudden, Rowan’s breaths came easier, and his muscles began to unclench. “This is – Elentiya.” He had to stop himself from slipping and using her real name. “I’m training her at the queen’s request. Elentiya, this is Lady Remelle, Lord Benson, and Lady Essar.”

Aelin’s expression was blank and cold as she dipped her head at the royals. Remelle and Benson pursed their lips in annoyance, but Essar gave Aelin a warm hello, and she shot up somewhat in Rowan’s estimation.

“So you are a half-breed, then,” Benson said baldly, his dark eyes raking over her golden form greedily. Rowan bristled, his muscles trembling with the growl he forced down his throat.

Aelin’s smile was tight. “My great-grandmother was Fae. So if that makes me demi-Fae, l don’t know.”

Remelle shot Rowan an exasperated look. Really? You brought a half-breed to meet us? How common of you.

Rowan forced his expression to remain blank, straining his limbs into stillness. He was honestly impressed by Aelin’s self-control. Her embers were smoldering dully, but her face was calm and her scent was clean and light on his tongue. And instead of striding forwards and knocking the royals into the dirt, as he knew she must long to, she just stepped even closer to Rowan, until their arms brushed lightly against each other.

Now Rowan was forced to exercise control of a wholly other kind.

Meanwhile, Essar’s eyes were flicking between the pair of them, seeing and understanding far more than her two companions.

Though he and Remelle had been lovers, it was Essar who Rowan considered himself closest to. For a while, she and Lorcan had been involved, and he had seen her rather frequently. So she knew Rowan, knew his history and understood how he operated.

Perhaps enough to see more than Rowan was comfortable with.

But before he could either step away from Aelin or say something to justify her presence, Essar’s gaze relaxed and she said, “WeIl, I look forward to hearing about your adventures, Rowan – and how you came to be here, Elentiya. But first, l think I should very much like a bath and something to nibble on.” She slid an apologetic look in Aelin’s direction. “I’d kill for anything chocolate right now.”

The hint of a smile graced Aelin’s face, and Rowan could almost feel the corners of his mouth lift too. But then he looked away from Aelin to see Remelle staring daggers at him, through her pleasant, smiling mask – and fury once again pooled in his stomach.

···

“So, you and Remelle,” Aelin’s voice teased from behind him, where she was lounging casually on the bed.

Rowan snarled, ripping the whetstone past his hunting knife with perhaps a bit too much force. He could smell the amusement in Aelin’s scent from all the way across the room.

They had just returned from dumping the royals at the baths, after showing them where their rooms for the night would be. Luckily for Rowan, there had been three demi-Fae more than happy to vacate their acceptably-large bedrooms if it meant getting out of the way of the royal visitors.

But there was still an hour before dinner, and Rowan didn’t think he would be able to take the anticipation for much longer. He didn’t know if he’d ever wanted something to be over and done with more than this evening.

Except perhaps his task training the princess. How that had changed.

But, as it seemed distinctly unlikely that his relationship with Remelle was about to pull even a splinter of the one-eighty his relationship with Aelin had, Rowan resolved to remain sullen, and pissed off.

Aelin, however, was not. He could feel her smiling behind his back, undoubtedly using his silence to supply her seemingly bottomless arsenal of mockery.

The words unwillingly fell from his lips. “Remelle was…a very, very big mistake.”

“Seems like she doesn’t think so.”

Rowan turned his head over his shoulder to glare at her. He had been right of course, Aelin was near-jubilant. “It was a hundred years ago.”

She didn’t blink. “She acts like you cast her aside this winter.”

“Remelle just wants whatever she can’t have. A condition many immortals suffer from to stave off boredom.”

“She was practically clawing at you.” Oh, Aelin was enjoying herself. It might have even been fun to watch if he hadn’t been so pissed off.

“She can claw all she wants, but I’m not making that mistake again.”

“Sounds like you made that mistake a few times.”

Rowan leveled a vicious gaze at her. “It was over the course of a season, and then I came to my senses.”

“Mmmm.” Aelin’s brows were touching the heavens, her lips tightly pressed together. A weak guard against the laughter threatening to explode from her chest.

Rowan stabbed the knife into the table and stalked over to her, a glower fixed to his face. “One laugh,” he warned. “Just one laugh, and I’m going to dump you in the nearest pond.”

Aelin was shaking now, the mattress trembling with the force of her barely-restrained delight.

Rowan leaned over her small frame, close enough that he could see every golden glint in her turquoise eyes. Close enough that her joyful embers caught in his throat – a pleasant spice, a delicious heat.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” he growled, and though he was furious, seeing her so happy was calling the hint of a grin to his own face. “If you – ”

The bedroom door clicked open, and Rowan was snarling before he even fully registered the sound. But then a familiar scent washed over him, rose and ice and swan feathers, and Remelle came into view.

She blinked in shock. “Oh!”

It took no time at all for Rowan to see the scene from Remelle’s perspective. Aelin, sprawled across the bed, comfortable and relaxed and familiar. Rowan, braced over her, far too close to be just casual. The smell of joy and teasing and playfulness that permeated the space. The way their scents mixed together, close and intimate…

Rowan straightened quickly, concealing his reluctance at having to leave behind Aelin’s warmth. “What do you want?”

Remelle’s eyes were grazing over the space, taking in all the details that marked Aelin’s presence – her hairbrush on the dresser, the undergarments she’d left tossed over the back of a chair, the ribbons she used to tie back her hair, the small boots in the corner beside his larger ones. All things that filled Rowan’s chest with a strange twisting whenever he saw them, but now sent worry shooting through his stomach.

“I wanted to catch up,” Remelle said, looking everywhere but at Aelin, “but it seems you are…occupied.”

“We’ll talk at dinner,” Rowan said simply, a clear dismissal.

But then Aelin popped up from the bed, her face lit up with a wicked grin. “I have to go help Emrys with the meal, actually.” She stood, and moved quickly towards the door. “Why don’t you stay, Remelle?”

Rowan sent her a glare that would have rendered even the hardiest soldier to a blubbering mess at his feet, but Aelin’s eyes just twinkled at him, and she sauntered off out the door and down the hall, whistling to herself. Leaving him alone with Remelle.

Rowan was going to kill her. As soon as they resumed training, he was going to murder her. And then murder her again.

Remelle was frowning in the direction Aelin had gone, her eyes unreadable. But when she turned back to face him, that serpentine smile was once again dancing on her lips. “Is this part of her training, too?”

He had no patience for this. “Get out.”

Remelle clicked her tongue. “Is that how you speak to me these days?”

"I don’t know why you bothered to stop here, or what you expect of me—”

“I heard you were here, and thought I’d say hello and spare you the tedious company of half-breeds. I didn’t realize you’d taken to them so much.”

Rowan pursed his lips. He had no desire to argue with the conniving female, and if he just outright denied her claim, all it would bring was a headache. But letting Remelle assume he was bedding Aelin was equally unacceptable.

It would, without a doubt, get back to Maeve. And the more she knew, the worse their footing would be when they inevitably returned to Doranelle. But – hmm. There was a chance –

“And who was it that told you I was here?”

“Maeve, of course. I complained to her that I missed you.”

Rowan nodded to himself. The question was whether or not Remelle was a willing or unknowing spy. Not that it changed much in all practicality. He still had to find a way to convince her that what she saw, wasn’t what she thought she did…

“As your friend, Rowan, l have to say…the girl’s rather beneath you.”

He held in a laugh. So Maeve hadn’t informed her of his purpose at Mistward. The thought was somewhat comforting. Maeve hadn’t pulled her very far into her confidences, spy or no.

“One,” he said, “you’re not my friend. Two, it’s none of your business.”

Remelle’s eyes narrowed, a promise of violence. Rowan could almost see her mentally zeroing in on Aelin, resolving to make every minute until she left a living hell for the princess, having no idea the manner of predator she was provoking.

So rather than see Remelle’s blood splattered across the fortress walls before dawn, he said, “There is a shortage of bedrooms here, and we’ve had to share quarters as a result.” Not quite a lie, but not the entire truth.

Remelle only switched tactics. “Well, I suppose that’s good news for Benson.”

“What.”

“He has needs that must be attended to, and finds her attractive enough. Maeve said it was more than fine if she – "

“If Benson lays one finger on her, he’s going to find himself without his insides.” The words escaped through is lips as fury rose up within Rowan like a tidal wave – breaching over dams of reason and restriction as if they were only pebbles, or woodchips. Maeve had suggested that the princess was available for – what? Prostitution? Sex on demand?

Rowan almost wanted to see him try it, wanted to watch the male burn to ash in an inferno of Aelin’s making just for even suggesting, for assuming that Aelin was his to do with what he wished –

Remelle’s surprised voice broke through his mental tornado. “Honestly, Rowan, what do you think most of the half-breeds wind up doing in Doranelle?”

Rowan was struck dumb. That, along with the rage still pulsing through his veins, rendered him momentarily speechless. Remelle just shrugged, indifferent. “Benson will be gentle with – ”

“Benson looks twice at her, and he dies. He looks twice at any of the females in this fortress and he dies.” The words were laced with a growl so fierce that they were barely understandable.

But Remelle understood. Perhaps too well.

Rowan didn’t know how much she had inferred from his reaction, and he didn’t care. His thoughts were tumbling through thornbushes. Did Lorcan know? Was he aware what went on in their city? It was disgusting – worse than disgusting. The Fae were better than that. But Maeve –

“I’ll make sure the warning is conveyed,” Remelle purred, and she left without another word, her rose-ice-and-feather flavored scent streaking behind her, a rippling cape.

A moment passed, Rowan collapsed on the bed, suddenly exhausted. For the first time that day, Rowan was no longer sure he actually wanted them all to make it through the evening unscathed.

He couldn’t help but think that they deserved it, that they all deserved it, many times over. Deep down, Rowan thought he’d known about the purpose of the demi-Fae in Doranelle. He must have.

He’d seen their empty, expressionless faces. Hopeless. Abandoned.

The weight of the world’s hatred settled in on him, bags on sand on his chest. The demi-Fae deserved better. They all deserved better: better than a system that crushed people underfoot, better than the seemingly endless wars, better than Maeve.

The thought curdled in his chest, the blood-oath twinging and pulling. Although deep down he’d always believed it, had always known it, he had never said such thing so blatantly, so openly, before.

The Fae deserved better than Maeve.

Guilt, and a deep, all-consuming shame twisted in his gut. He was hardly any better than she. Yes, he’d had no choices, but still, he had supported Maeve for most of his too-long life. Had helped her subjugate foreign peoples, had fought and killed and tortured on her orders.

But he had always known, deep down, that what he was doing was wrong. He’d just been too far gone to let himself care. Perhaps that was why Remelle’s and Benson’s attitudes grated on him so sharply.

They had no qualms. No doubts. And they supported her freely, without force or threat of punishment and death.

Yes, they deserved whatever they got. And in the grand scheme of things, what was one brawl, really?

···

From the moment they entered the dining hall, Rowan knew that the evening was completely hopeless. A lost cause. Each of them was a lit match, a shortening fuse, just waiting to set the whole room alight.

All Rowan wanted to do was sit back and watch the flames spew – but reason won out. Against his better judgement.

Rowan, as the highest-ranking member of the party, was forced to sit at the head of the table. The plan had been for Aelin to sit on his left side, with Essar beside her, leaving Remelle to his right side, and Benson next to her.

But Remelle, quicker than either he or Aelin had anticipated, had steered Benson into the seat intended for Aelin and taken the seat on Rowan’s other side for herself, trapping Rowan between the two of them and leaving Aelin with the option of sitting beside the icy female, or the leering male.

She chose Benson, to his obvious delight. The male’s dark eyes wrapped around Aelin’s figure greedily, taking in every curve and dip in her soft form, his oaky scent filling with lecherous intent.

Rowan’s gaze fixed on Benson, his expression turning lethal as the killing calm washed over him. If the male so much as twitched, if he made any move towards the princess whatsoever, Rowan would be ready.

Aelin studiously ignored the male, taking a too-casual sip from her wineglass.

For a minute or so, there was quiet as they waited for the first course to be brought out – a roast chicken soup that left Remelle and Benson frowning.

It tasted divine, but Rowan barely managed a spoonful before Remelle finally broke the silence. “So you’re from Adarlan’s empire.” The question was innocuous enough, but Remelle eyed Aelin the way one does a small animal right before you poke it with a stick.

Aelin took a slow spoonful of soup, her face carefully blank. “I am.”

Remelle didn’t pause for a second. “I thought l detected the accent – Adarlan and…Terrasen, am I right? They do mangle their words over there so brutally. I doubt even years here will cure you of the boorish accent.”

Rowan felt his muscles stiffening slowly, as if he were undergoing some alchemical process that was turning his limbs to stone. The fury was like magma, a force greater than any above the ground, yet it was unseen, hidden within the rock of his body. Even so, the threads of his self-control were beginning to fray…

Aelin, however, seemed to be keeping a better hold on her temper. She took another slow spoonful of soup.

Essar dipped into the silence next, saying, “I find the accent quite charming, actually,” her pleasantry only somewhat forced. Benson grunted in agreement, giving Aelin another too-long look. Rowan’s fingers twitched.

“Well, you had such a provincial upbringing, Essar.” Remelle said brightly. “I’m not surprised that you like it.”

Essar’s face tightened, and her eyes flashed. There was a quick spark of invisible power, and when Remelle went to take a delicate sip of her soup, she let out a hiss and nearly dropped her spoon.

Essar had heated her stew. Rowan’s lips twitched. Essar gave the female an innocent, questioning look, but Remelle only said, “The beastly cook boiled this soup.”

Either the lady was denser than Rowan remembered, or she was purposefully misdirecting her anger in order to piss him and Aelin off. Either way, it was working. Aelin’s jaw was now clenched tight, and Rowan was ready to explode.

But before he could unleash any of his fury, Aelin breathed deep, checking her own anger, and turned to Essar. “You grew up in the countryside?”

Remelle rolled her eyes, but Essar smiled, giving Rowan time to breathe and regain some equilibrium. “My father owns a vineyard in the southeast of our territory. I spent my youth roaming the olive orchards and the cypress groves. But I moved to Doranelle when it was deemed time for me to enter society.”

“Alas, Essar has been rather unlucky when it comes to fulfilling her parents’ wishes to find a proper husband,” Remelle said, her voice dripping with condescension.

But Aelin’s reaction was surprising. “Husband,” she asked, confusedly. “Not – mate?”

Rowan was unsettled to discover that the word barely touched him. In his current state, it should have toppled him over the edge, should have sent him reeling with pain and sorrow. Should have rent him through with the sound of Lyria’s screams.

But it didn’t. Which was almost more disturbing than the pain.

As if they were in another room, Rowan could hear Remelle click her tongue and provide an explanation, but the words did not touch him. He was far away, lost in the realization that he couldn’t remember the last time he had thought of Lyria, couldn’t remember the last time he had dreamed of her. And it terrified him.

But before he could completely lose himself to the swirling whirlpool of his thoughts, Remelle’s voice cut through the fog. “But as a half-breed, you won’t have to worry about such things. Finding a mate is even rarer for those with diluted blood – and none of us would marry you, anyway.”

This time, Rowan couldn’t hold in the hushed snarl that sent faint reverberations through the surface of the table.

They stared at each other, Aelin’s features frozen in place, Remelle just smiling sweetly back at her. But Essar’s brow was furrowed, and she was looking between Rowan and the princess as if she was putting the pieces together.

Her voice was soft, cautionary. “Remelle.”

But the lady ignored Essar’s warning, and instead turned to Rowan and began speaking in the language of the Fae, still smiling viciously. “You wouldn’t marry her, would you Prince Rowan? Maeve might tolerate a small dalliance, but marriage? Certainly not.”

When Rowan didn’t reply, Remelle turned to Benson. “Though she is rather pretty, is she not, Benson? A worthy addition to the notches on your bedpost?”

A flicker of a grin passed the male’s lips. “Certainly.”  

Remelle opened her mouth to say something else, but then Rowan finally found his voice. “Speak the common tongue, Remelle.”

Remelle put a hand on her chest in a mockery of an apology. “Sometimes I forget – It’s not every day I’m in the company of half-breeds.”

Rowan’s muscles jerked involuntarily, tiny cracks beginning to appear in his stone form as the lava beneath began to bubble and spit.

He forced himself to remember why he had to avoid a brawl in the first place, why he had to keep control on himself, why Maeve couldn’t find out that he’d brawled with her spies –

Luca and Emrys appeared, bearing platters containing the next course – roast meats and vegetables – and they cleared the soup away, giving him a quick moment to recollect himself. Emrys loitered in the doorway for a moment, waiting to hear their reaction to his food.

Aelin took a bite of some rabbit, and nodded her enthusiasm to the old male. He grinned, his face flushing.

But then Remelle interrupted. “Rowan, it must be a trial for you to have to eat this day in and day out.” She pushed her meat around on her plate, setting her fork down with a damning clink.

Emrys slunk from the room noiselessly. Yet to Rowan, his departure echoed through the hallway, each soft step reverberating on his nerves like a gong.

His voice was lethal. “I eat better here than I do in Doranelle.”

“There’s no need to be nice on account of the help,” Remelle said. “if they don’t learn what we like, whatever will they do in the capital?”

Something in Aelin’s voice had curdled. “The next time you insult my friend, I’m going to shove your face into whatever plate is in front of you.”

Remelle blinked. “Well, I never – ”

“Remelle,” Essar whispered, insistent.

But Remelle just put a hand on Rowan’s forearm, her long, cold fingers like talons. “You mean to let her insult me like that? To make threats against a member of the royal household?”

Rowan went utterly still. “Get your hand off me.”

Remelle ignored him, instead turning to snap at Aelin. “You are dismissed from this table. Get out.”

Rowan felt the cold pleasure of the fury beginning to leak from his tense muscles as he loosened the grip of his iron resolve.

Aelin appeared to be at her limit as well. “Take your hand off him.”

“I can do as I please, and if you have any sense, you’ll vacate this hall before I have you whipped – ”

Before he could move, before he could even breathe, fire was erupting before his eyes, and Remelle’s panicked scream was echoing off the stones.

Rowan saw orange as a living flame wrapped itself carefully around Remelle, not burning, not singeing, just – encasing. Even the hand that was touching Rowan’s arm was ablaze with flickers of gold and red.

There was no heat to the flames, no threat – only light, and the bright, furious scent of Aelin’s power.

Rowan was stunned stupid.

Aelin had never even come close to displaying this degree of control, had never practiced anything even beginning to resemble such a feat. And yet, she had done it. Had wrapped the lady in her power as easily as one might clothe her in linen.

Remelle’s eyes were wide through the haze of flame, fear billowing from her in waves. Rowan felt his lips stretch into a grin.

She turned to Essar and said, shakily, “Release me.”

Essar only looked at Aelin, her face blank with shock and awe. “It’s not my magic.”

Aelin’s eyes tightened in pleasure, her red lips curving into a delicate smile as her flames flared with heat. Not enough to burn – only enough to make the lady sweat. To make her understand the precariousness of her position.

Then, Aelin said, her voice a loving caress, “If you ever raise a whip to anyone, I will find you, and I will make sure that these flames burn.”

Remelle seethed. “How dare you threaten a lady of Doranelle.”

Aelin laughed, wild and reckless and utterly free. “The next time you touch Rowan without his permission, I will burn you into ashes.” Then she turned to Benson. “And if you look at me or any female like that again, I will melt your bones before you have a chance to scream.”

Showing more wisdom than he thought the male capable of, Benson nodded quickly and averted his gaze.

Essar’s face paled as Aelin turned to her, pulling her teeth back into a snarl and saying, “You keep everything you learned here to yourself.”

Essar only nodded.

Aelin at last faced Rowan, the gold in her eyes molten with power and fury and delight. A mirror to his own amusement. “I defer judgement to you, Prince.”

Rowan turned to study Remelle, who was hardly breathing. Some deep, dark part of himself wanted to see her burn, wanted her to scream, to suffer for what she’d said. But the reasonable part of himself won out.

He jerked his chin. “Release her and let’s eat.”

The flames winked out so fast it was if they’d never existed.

In the silence that fell, Remelle leaned over the arm of her chair and vomited on the floor.

···

Dinner concluded in silence, and they returned to their rooms with barely a word of goodnight to the Fae royals. Benson still couldn’t look Aelin in the eye, and Remelle was just quietly seething. Essar, however, was contemplative, her thoughts lost to him.

It had him worried.

But as he and Aelin undressed and got ready for bed, Rowan couldn’t stop thinking about how Aelin had jumped to his rescue, had lost control of her anger not when the lady had insulted her or Emrys, but when Remelle had tried to place a claim on Rowan.

Remelle had posed a threat to those Aelin saw as hers. And she had reacted in kind – swiftly and brutally.

Aelin had placed a claim on him.

Had declared one, openly and for all to see. He was hers – was her friend. And she would protect him with her words and her power, regardless of the social or political cost. In Doranelle, that meant something. Whenever a Fae invoked the Old Ways, it speared a bond into the ground, solidifying it.

They led down to sleep in silence, Rowan still lost in thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so comfortable in another’s presence. Not even with Gavriel did he feel so at peace. The jasmine and lemon verbena of Aelin’s scent washed over him, tying him in knots.

The heat of her body warmed the blankets pleasantly, and Rowan found himself longing to reach out and touch her. To stroke his hand across her face. To tangle his fingers in her hair.

She had stood up for him, had claimed him. And he wanted her.

The blood oath pulsed uncomfortably in his chest, an unwelcome reminder.

“If I never see them again, it’ll be too soon,” Aelin’s voice pierced the darkness of their room.

Rowan let out a low laugh. “I though you liked Essar.”

“I do, but…you should have heard her trying to get me to talk in the kitchen.”

“About what?”

Aelin was still facing away from him, looking out the moonlit window. “About you. About our – relationship. I think you’ll go home to a host of unpleasant rumors.”

Rowan grimaced. “I think the status of our relationship will be the least of the rumors after tonight.”

There was a pause, and then: “Essar said that you and Lorcan once decimated a city together.”

Rowan hissed in surprise and remembered pain. “Ah. Sollemere.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s because it doesn’t exist anymore.” His voice was wry.

She turned over, staring at him in the moonlight that slipped in through the curtains. Her face was pulled into a worried frown. “You wiped it off the map – literally?”

Rowan hesitated for a moment, considering. “Sollemere was a place so wicked, full of monstrous people who did such unspeakable things, that…even Maeve was disgusted by them. She gave them a warning to stop their ways, and said if they…”

He clenched his jaw at the memories that flooded his mind. Images of children, of babies, sacrificed at the altar, raped and beaten and mutilated. All in the name of some half-remembered god.

Sollemere’s priests were beyond anything he had seen, lost to the esoteric workings of their own brutal machinations, adrift in a world where it was not only acceptable, but revered, to bathe in the blood of thousands and consume the flesh of their enemies.

Rowan huffed a breath, his throat tight. “There are some acts that are unforgivable – and I won’t stain this room by mentioning them. But she swore to them that if they continued to do it, she would obliterate them.”

“Let me guess; they didn’t listen.”

“No. We got out as many children as we could with our legion. And when they were safely away, Lorcan and I leveled it to dust.”

“You’re that powerful.”

Rowan stared at her. “You don’t seem shocked by it.”

Aelin’s voice was pragmatic. “You’ve told me plenty of harrowing stories. If what these people did was so awful that you won’t repeat it, then I’ll say they had it coming.”

“So bloodthirsty.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“I find it endearing.”

Aelin gave him a playful shove, but he caught her hand and gripped it in his own, feeling the rough calluses that marked her scarred skin. “You could do that, you know,” Rowan said softly. “Make an entire city burn.”

Her voice was just as soft. “I hope I never have to.”

“So do I.” He threaded his fingers through hers and held them up to examine the scars along the back of her hand, her fingers. Scars that marked her for who she was, just as his tattoo marked him.

His lips twitched. “But I’ll never forget the look on Remelle’s face when you shot fire out of your mouth and eyes.”

“I did not.” She was almost indignant, and Rowan laughed softly in response.

“Part woman, part dragon.”

“I didn’t spew flames.”

“Your eyes were living gold.”

Aelin just narrowed those same eyes at him, a question. “Are you going to reprimand me?”

Rowan lowered their joined hands to the bed, but didn’t let go. “Why should I? She was given fair warning, she ignored it, and you followed through. It follows the Old Ways, and you had every right to show her how serious you were.”

There was a moment of silence where Aelin seemed to be considering that, her face angled down towards their entwined fingers. Then she said, her voice tentative, “It scared me – how in control I was. How much I meant it. It scared me that I wasn’t scared. It scared me that…”

She trailed off, and her gaze flicked up to meet his. Her eyes were filled with a deep emotion that he could not name, but felt reflected in his very bones. “It scared me that …”

Rowan read the silent sentences right off of her worried face.

It scared me that I’ve come to care so much about you that I’d draw that sort of line in the sand. It scared me that I would burn and maim and kill for you, and yet and yet at the end of the day, you still belong to Maeve, and there is nothing I can do, no amount of burning and maiming and killing, to keep you with me.

Rowan felt his heart beating in his toes. He released Aelin’s hand, only to raise his pale fingers to her soft cheek, as he had been longing to do all evening. Had been longing to do for days.

Aelin closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, as if she understood what he was trying to say, as if she knew the words that were written on his face without even having to look.

I know.

···

The next morning, the royal party readied themselves to depart, the first light of dawn still shining through the mists. Rowan didn’t bother to bring the princess down to see them off. Assuming, correctly, that her presence wouldn’t exactly be welcome so soon after the events of the previous night. Or perhaps, ever again.

Remelle was still seething – yet jumpy, as if she expected the princess to appear behind corners, flames at the ready. Benson was refusing to look anyone in the eye (a definite improvement), but Essar was still lost in thought, her gaze tearing up the cobblestones beneath their feet.

Rowan waited until they were all mounted before he approached, not caring to provide a formal farewell. Rowan ignored Remelle’s icy glares, and grabbed hold of Essar’s horse’s bridle to stop her.

His words were laden. “Let’s hope last night was the most eventful of your journey.”

Essar just looked up at the fortress, as if she could see through moss and stone to the princess sleeping within. Her golden-brown skin was radiant in the early morning light, her hazel eyes glinting.

Essar was a beautiful female—soft and inviting and clever—and he’d never understood why Lorcan hadn’t tried harder to keep her. She had been good for him. But Lorcan’s ruthlessness and cold ambition were his best tools and worst enemies. He had only seen the female for what she offered inside his bedroom.

Essar’s voice was quiet. “I do not think any of us will forget last night anytime soon.”

Rowan pursed his lips. She knew. Essar had figured out what kind of magic smoldered in Aelin’s veins, and she knew that last night, the Princess of Terrasen had made a claim on him. If Essar told Maeve about it …

The others in the party moved out, Remelle stiff-backed, but Rowan remained with Essar.

“Name the price for your silence,” Rowan said.

Essar’s dark brows rose. “You think I would run to the nearest gossip and tell them Aelin Galathynius is training here?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Essar’s dark eyes narrowed. “I would not run to Maeve, either. Remelle will tell her that the girl threw a tantrum and attacked her without provocation – she’d never admit to any of the truth behind it. Or figure out who she really is. And Benson…leave him to me.”

“And your price?”

She shook her head. “There is no price, Prince.”

He gripped the bridle harder. “Why?”

Essar studied the disappearing party, then the fortress. “We have known each other for a long while now. Through all the centuries, I have never seen you present another female as your equal – as your friend. And I do not think you did it because of who she is.”

Rowan opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she said, “I would not take that gift away from you, Rowan. Because it is a gift. She is a gift – to the world, and to you.”

Before he realized what he was doing, his fingers were slackening on the reins, and Essar motioned her mount into a walk.

“She is going to fight for you, Rowan,” Essar said, looking over a shoulder. “And you deserve it, after all this time. You deserve to have someone who will burn the earth to ash for you.”

His heart was pounding wildly, but he kept his face blank, his will ice and steel.

“If you see him,” Essar added with a sad smile, “tell Lorcan I send my regards.”

And then she was gone.

···

Things fell back into their usual rhythm in the two days that followed, though Rowan couldn’t stop thinking about what Essar had said. Because he knew it was true, because…because he wanted it to be true.

Aelin said nothing about it, though he’d sometimes catch her frowning at him, as if trying to decipher some puzzle.

He was pouring over a report Lorcan had sent him, which detailed the conclusion of the conflict between the Erriagti people, and his plans to return to Doranelle within the next few weeks, when Aelin walked into their rooms that night. The smell of chocolate and nuts hit him, and when he twisted in his seat, he discovered her carrying a small, misshapen cake, a sheepish smile on her face.

“It took me hours to make this damn thing, so you’d better say it’s good.”

She set it in front of him, along with a plate, fork, and knife. The blade she used to slice into the chocolate-frosted lump, cutting a large piece. It was layered with a lighter frosting – some sort of creamy-looking filling between the dark cake.

“Chocolate hazelnut cake?”

She plopped the piece on the plate for him and took his hand to press the fork into it. “You have no idea how hard it was to get the ingredients. Or to find some sort of recipe. I haven’t even tasted it yet. Emrys looked like he was going to faint with horror.” When Rowan just stared at the cake, she clicked her tongue. “This is the favor you owe me. Just try it.”

He gave her a long stare that usually sent men running, but she only bit her lip and glanced down at the cake, tentative. It was enough that he frowned, adjusted his grip on the fork, picked up a piece, and brought it to his mouth.

While he chewed and swallowed, she was practically hopping from foot to foot and wringing her hands. So he let out a grunt of pleasure, took another bite, and then another, until the entire piece was cleaned off his plate.

Then he took another piece. And another. Until his stomach was protesting and all but a sliver was left on the platter.

“I told you it was delicious,” she preened, giving him a triumphant smile as he set down his fork. She moved to ruffle his hair, but he caught her wrist, squeezing gently while he rose from his seat and brought his face dangerously close to hers.

He knew every fleck of gold in those remarkable eyes – knew how her very blood tasted. And this near to her, their breath mingling…

“Now we’re even,” he said, and stalked out of the room.

He was about three steps down the hall when Aelin’s fork scraped against the platter, no doubt scooping the sliver of cake he’d left. A moment after that her curse barked off the stones of the fortress, followed by spitting and coughing.

Despite himself, Rowan was smiling when he shouldered open the bathing room door – and quickly cast up the contents of his stomach.

···

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

[walker-journal]

Seeking Sanctuary (Bex + Adam)

Participants: Bexley Ochsenstein (Spellcaster by Envy), Adam Walker (Hunter by Tapir)

Context: Two very unlike people encounter each other at the temple, and voice mutual doubts in a discussion about the nature of faith and identity. 

Content Warnings: Religious Idealization, Discussions of Sexism and Transphobia (civil discussion), Mentions of post-traumatic stress and military conflict

Faith for Adam was a complicated subject. You’d think that knowing for certain that demons, life after death, magic, and souls existing would make faith easy. Adam technically knew the answers to alot of questions your average believer struggled with. There was no dread mystique to supernatural evil when your parents had taught you which tentaclely organs the laser beams came from. But that was exactly the problem.

Adam had grown up with Hell and all your worst nightmares simply being objective fact, an everyday reality that needed to be fought with tactics, technology, and sacrifice.

But although Adam was well acquainted with the forces of darkness, the supposed other side of the equation was very noticeably absent. Where was the Light in all of this? 

Being a practical dude, Adam would’ve normally just dismissed tangential stuff that didn’t help you in the trenches, as Dad had...except...Adam had also warded off plenty of spooks with sacred symbols and watched with his own eyes as holy water burned undead killing machines to sterile dust.

What was the creator smoking? Fuck if Adam knew.

Adam turned his gaze from absently contemplating The Ark whose displayed scriptural scrolls dominated the front of the synagogue. There weren’t alot of people here today, but Adam found a familiar face in the pews nonetheless.

“How goes it Odelia?”

Prayer was something Bexley had never really gotten the hang of. She knew all the prayers to recite during Yom Kippur and Passover. She had memorized the passages for her bat mitzvah, and she had memorized enough to get through Temple. But when it came to personal prayer, when it came to sitting in Temple alone and staring up at the alter and around the pews, Bexley had no idea what to do. She hadn’t figured it out in her twenty years of life, the disconnect from her faith a struggle. It was something her parents had noticed, but never pointed out, because Bexley tried-- oh did she try-- to connect with the world the way she knew they wanted her to. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want to or couldn’t, but, rather, that she felt so outside of it.

She was not born in the right body. Though the Torah made no mentions of people like her, the bittersweetness of it still tunneled her vision of it. How was she supposed to connect with something that wanted to pretend she didn’t exist?

But she wasn’t here today about that part of her. She was here today about the part of her that kept exploding things. Breaking them. Nell’s pot still sat heavy on her mind. It was a ridiculous thing to be kneeling in a pew about, but here she was. She wanted whatever it was to stop. She wanted to have some sort of control over it. She was practically begging for the help when a voice cut through her mind.

“Adam?” She turned to look over at him, startled slightly. “I-- sorry. What’re you doing here? N-not that you can’t be here! I just...you don’t really seem the type to just...come to temple... “

Adam was generally inclined to agree with that assessment. Between dating a woman who had a Beanie Baby collection of demons and committing more degrees of murder than existed in any legal code, the Hunter was pretty sure Bex was being overgenerous with his being allowed in here.

“Last night’s DIE party was the kind you need to get sanctified after,” Adam asserted as he plopped down unceremoniously in the pew in front of Bex. “You should come sometime.” he wheedled playfully. “Make sure you have plenty to repent for on Saturday.”

But after a moment Adam paused, the mischief of flirting with a lawyer-dude’s girlfriend fading. Dark brown eyes looked over Bex again, this time without lewdness or jest.

“How’re you holding up Bex,” Adam asked quietly with more intentionality than the previous address.

As Bex looked at Adam, she tried to pinpoint exactly what it was that Nell saw in him. Maybe it was something she couldn’t see, because all she saw was a rather lewd frat boy, who sometimes had that far away sad look in his eyes. Maybe that was really just the persona he wanted others to see-- Bex could relate to that. The happy, chipper girl she pretended to be in public for her parents wasn’t who she was at all, and her being here right now sort of proved that. She had to look away from him, furrowing her brow and smoothing her palms down the front of her dress. She always tried to look nice when coming to Temple.

“I don’t think those kinds of parties are really my style,” she answered quietly. Took a moment to look around to make sure there wasn’t anyone too familiar in here with them. But it was relatively empty today, with only a few people milling about and the Rabbi making rounds before disappearing back into his office. Her eyes settled back on Adam and he had that sad look again. He even used her right name.

“I’m fine,” she said curtly, “just...getting used to being back in White Crest. Kind of a whole different world out there than it is here, you know?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s the real reason you’re here, Adam? Repentance also doesn’t seem up your alley.”

While Adam had been trained to deceive and achieve invisibility by fulfilling others assumptions, he wasn’t so far gone that Bex’s directness couldn’t still get a rise from him. Adam blinked and his face became briefly uncertain, as if the Hunter had flubbed a line in a script and broken character in front of an audience of one. “I’ve gotten in over my head,” the murderer admitted after a time.

“I’ve been trying to just tough it out,” the Hunter continued, referring to the abuse and torments of a demonic cult in the tone someone else might’ve used for minor health difficulties. “But I’ve running on fumes for so long now that like...eventually you’ve got nothing left. No more second winds, no just pushing on through,” the athlete explained.

“I’ve never like been close to really hitting that wall one other time before,” admitted Adam in memory of when his power and faith had shattered on Lyssa’s peak. “I’m uh, not liking my chances here.”

Adam encompassed the synagogue’s interior with a vague sweeping gesture that implied that perhaps the soldier wasn’t so much seeking redemption as reaching anything to keep from plummeting off a cliff.

“Do you prefer the world out there Bex?”

Bex looked at Adam and listened to his words. Whatever he was going through, it seemed rough on him, like it was wearing him down. Sands blasting down his walls and carving them away, smoothing them away. Eventually, they would become nothing. Just like hers. She felt a pull at her heart and she had to look away to not totally give up her shiny exterior. Cleared her throat and rubbed her eyes.

“Don’t you have like, people to help you?” she asked. “You know you don’t have to go it alone. That’s sorta the point of community.” She gestured to the area around them. There were so many other people he could’ve gone to bother, why did he have to choose her? Still, a sense of curiosity pulled at her. And empathy. She knew what it felt like to be at the end of your rope. Her hands wrung together.

“What, um-- what happened? If you don’t mind me asking. Are you okay?” Was he dying? Did Nell know? She paused at his question. “I...prefer the world that I know I can interact with. It’s easy to...pretend to be something there.”

“There is someone helping me”, Adam admitted, “and I’m thankful I’ve got her help on this, but uh... “ The Hunter ran a hand across the back of his neck. “That’s kinna the problem y’know? Worried I’m just going to drag her down with me.”

Bex seemed to genuinely inquire about his welfare, which was kinna touching. As always, Adam had to weigh the difference between the necessary lies and giving the other people enough of the truth as he could. “There is a group in town that I think are into some really dangerous stuff,” was definitely a criminal level of understatement. “But I need evidence and to catch them in the act to make a citizen’s arrest,” Adam concluded. It was technically a lie, but as closest to the spirit of the truth as he could manage without going straight into Twilight Zone territory.

It was dangerous to say out loud. But as much as Adam hated to admit it, against an adversary like Ma’al these hallowed walls were probably studier than any military bunker.

“Why do you wanna pretend Bex? What makes this place hard to interact with,” Adam asked slowly, kinna intuiting what she might mean in his gut, but not wanting to jump to conclusions here.

“Is it Nell?” Bex asked, blurting the words before she could stop them. She paused, recoiled and bit the inside of her cheek. “Sorry. Not to sound weird, but I met Nell on campus and then we got talking and she sort of told me about you guys.” She burned to ask Adam if he knew that his girlfriend claimed to be a witch, and wondered what his faith-- their faith-- would have to say about that. She wondered a lot of things about Adam, actually, and Nell was one of those things.

“I think...if she didn’t want to be helping, she would say so. I think worrying about that is pointless.” Not that Bex knew Nell super well, but from what she’d seen of her, Nell didn’t seem the sort to do something out of obligation. She shifted, and leaned back.

“Whatever you’re up to, it sounds illegal and dangerous, and I’m studying law, so maybe don’t tell me what you’re doing,” she pointed out quietly, giving another wary glance around. She scratched her knees awkwardly.

“That’s...complicated, I guess,” she mumbled, furrowing her brows. “I want to pretend because...maybe one day I can’t stop pretending and it’ll be real. I know this might seem strange, Adam, but the world isn’t kind to people like me. Out there, in here--” she gestured around them, “it’s all kind of the same.”

“Oh,” Adam mouthed, feeling like a dumbass. Adam was typically immune to embarrassment or society anxiety, one of those side benefits of being conditioned to ignore fear and pain that might trouble therapists. Normally Adam would only grin and make lewd implications at the prospect of women talking in private about him. It’d never bothered him before, but for some reason the thought of Nell specifically doing so brought on a precarious uncertainty. “Yeah you’re right, I know you're right,” Adam repeated, “but still…” Knowing something doesn’t mean it can’t fuck you head anyway.

“Don’t you think we need to do illegal and dangerous stuff sometimes?” pointed out the vigilante.

Adam watched Bex’s face as she explained, his expression softened by a touch of awkward compassion but not comprehension. “Look I uh...can’t pretend to know what it's like,” he admitted. “This world is pretty dickish to women and I’m definitely not innocent of that, but there’s gotta be somewhere, or somebody, that can feel like a safe place y’know?”

“But still...what?” Bex prodded. She didn’t mean to pry, but she was curious by nature. And she began to develop a sort of friendship with Nell, so concern wrought itself through her face as she watched Adam. He always seemed so typical, but for some reason, up close like this with him, he seemed somewhat...different. There was something mysterious about him, about the way he talked. The things he hinted at. The casualness of his attitude, and the ruffling of his brow at the mention of Nell. Bex looked back down.

“No, I don’t,” Bex said, repeating the mantra in her head that her parents always told her. Be good, be polite, be strong. She tried her best to follow those, but she didn’t get them all the time. “My family is pretty strict about that stuff.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle hollowly. “I was kinda hoping that’s what I’d find here,” she admitted quietly, “but no one ever answers me.”

Adam let out a long exhale between his lips as he tried to scrape together some words to describe a gut feeling. Visceral stuff didn’t tend to lend itself to explanation very well, but here goes: “I’ve mostly ever done casual relationships,” Adam began. “I can’t do halfway stuff like...I’m not wired that way,” admitted the young fanatic. “Either it’s just a fuck.” Adam put a hand on one side of the pew’s back. “Or you care enough about them to give up everything,” Adam’s hand shifted to the other side of pew, perhaps indicating that the Hunter’s conception of intimacy was either a roll in the sheets or devotion to the point of self-sacrifice.

“Nell and I are trying something new for both of us,” Adam posited,”I care about her, but also don’t want to go so all in we can’t find a way out,” the Hunter said, perhaps talking about two things at once. “But as I said, not so great at halfway.”

Bex’s desolate mirth at divine silence gave Adam pause. His dark brown eyes flicked up to the synagogue's arched ceiling, as if checking to see if any angels happened to be fluttering about the eves.

“When I was on tour in Saudi Arabia,” the young soldier began after a while, eyes still contemplating the interlacing triangle mosaics. “One of my squaddies was this dude named Hasan. I was a dumass...ok dumbasser.. teenager and didn’t know shit about Islam and my Arabic was terrible,” Adam continued. “But like, we were on patrol together alot so we talked about stuff. One day we were looking at this camp full of bodies all ripped apart and shit,” the Hunter continued with conversational casualness, neglecting to mention that he and Hasan were not patrolling the wastelands against their fellow men.

“Hasan prayed over them before we bared what was left and I asked him later how he could possibly feel close to God out here, with all the blood and fucking torn up meat all over the sand. I was kinna messed up and lost my cool,” the Hunter confessed numbly, as if assuming that Bex would rightly judge him for this unacceptable lapse of composure on the battlefield. “Hasan just said that even here, even in this, Allah is not absent, We are no farther from his presence, evil is just distracting us from it.”

Adam’s lips creased into a rueful smile, “we talked more after that, he told me about this sage Rabia who was like this zero-wave feminist who went into the desert to chill with God and do survivalism.” The Hunter’s tone indicated that he himself might have considered going full wilderness anarchist on multiple occasions. “She was super smart and kind to the people who went out there to learn from her, unless they were offering marriage in which case she told them to fuck off,”

Scholars might’ve contested this summary, but Adam had learned about Sufi mysticism from Hasan in between filling hordes of Alghouls full of silver buckshot, so perhaps parsimony was forgivable.  

“Anyway, Rabia’s whole deal I guess was that she found that like..mosques, patriarchy, the state and all that shit pulled her farther away from God,” Adam continued in the manner of someone who’d emotionally connected with what his brother in arms had described, even if neither of the young warriors really had a handle on the deeper theology. “Love was where she felt God. Love for herself, love even for the sand and all the scorpions, the joy of just being alive.”

Adam’s eyes finally left the ceiling and found Bex’s face. The young man scratched his temple in a sudden fit of bashfulness in the wake of reminiscence. “Ok uh, I dunno where I was going with that but...I’m shit at this...but I guess uh.. like ...maybe a temple is wherever you feel closer to God, even if that's a desert or even just a state of mind.”

“I’m still trying to find my temple,” the fallen Hunter admitted.

As Adam talked, Bex listened. Really listened. She’d had no idea he was a soldier, or that he’d been on tour. She’d gone to Jerusalem once with her parents, and her mother had looked down at her and told her to be on her best behavior, because she was already wrong for being in the temple of their God. She remembered the harsh look her father had given her as they’d entered and she was wearing a dress and her favorite shoes and he’d scoffed. Maybe that was where her disconnect had spawned from.

Adam’s story broke her heart a little.

Bex couldn’t even imagine the pain of seeing so much carnage. Her sheltered life had let her grow up in relative peace. Death was not a part of her life. Shame was, though. Shame and guilt. She could relate to him on those things, even if it pained her to admit that.

“I’m sorry, Adam,” she finally said quietly, “that you went through all that.” She’d judged him preemptively, but he was perhaps suffering more than most anyone else in this Temple. “You know, for a frat guy, you’re pretty wise,” seh tacked on quietly with a tease. Perhaps now she could see why Nell liked him so much.

“I don’t know Nell that well yet, but it sounds like you really care about her. I definitely can’t give relationship advice, I’ve never even been in a real one--” she gave pause, stuttering over her words. Frank, her current “boyfriend” was a cover, and she’d just given that up, “--until now! But...what I’m trying to say is, I think it’s okay to not know. I think figuring it out together is kinda like...the point, you know? Of being with someone like that. Of trying new things.” Things she only wished she could try, could have. He was looking at her with those bashful, knowing eyes and she had to look away.

“This place scares me,” she admitted quietly, “White Crest.” She rubbed her arm, pulling into herself. “My parents always kept me so locked away, even when I lived here. And now I’ve been back for almost two months and already I feel like this place is trying to change me, take me away from the person I’m supposed to be.” She looked up at the ceiling, mirroring his movements from moments ago. “I guess I just wanted answers.” The ceiling told her nothing, and she looked down to meet his eyes again.

“You and me both, then,” she answered his last statement, the same sort of broken admittance ringing in her voice, “Guess we’ll just have to keep searching, huh?” Because there had to be something better than this, for both of them.

Adam stared at Bex for a moment at her condolence, stunned, as if genuinely not understanding why a story of battlefield carnage had elicited that reaction.

“Well uh,” a red blush crept up Adam’s neck as if Bex’s compassion had unmanned him more then any debauchery or public streaking ever had. “It’s not ...I didn’t mean it like..” the Hunter insisted as if associating the long war with suffering was something unthinkable. Perhaps it was even literally unthinkable, an emotional descent Adam didn’t think he could survive.

“It’s an honor to serve,” Adam insisted quietly. Even disgraced, powerless, and at the edge breaking, the Hunter couldn’t abandon what was killing him.

“You’re pretty understanding for a church girl,” Adam answered back to the praise he didn’t deserve, the crease at the edge of his soft smile hinting at a deeper more serious compliment underneath the playful plaudit.

If Adam intuited something off about how abruptly and awkwardly Frank entered and left the conversation, he kept his peace.

There were things Adam wished he could tell Bex about White Crest, about why her fears were valid and his gut feeling that this city was in a liminal space between Earth and the fathomless unknown. But preserving supernatural secrecy was one of the sacred charges his ancestors had passed down, and Adam couldn’t bring himself to break it even when it seemed they’d abandoned him.

Besides, Bex seemed worried about White Crest killing her spiritually, while Adam had his hands full trying to prevent much more literal death in vamp infested graveyards.

“Yeah guess so…” Adam stood as if he were about to go, but paused, mulling over Bex’s words again. Locked up? Take her away from who she was meant to be? Aw shit. Uneasy vibes compelled Adam to speak even when his brain warned he should stay the hell outta this. “Hey Bex, like if its ever too much,” he began slowly, “I know people you stay with. On the other side of the country, or the Holy Land even.” Mom never turned away guests in need...well, human ones.

“Sorry if that’s pushy,” Adam ameliorated, “and you can tell me to fuck off. But like...offer open.”

His embarrassment was almost immediate and Bex couldn’t help but roll her eyes a little. He might’ve had a seeming heart of gold, but he still tried to apply certain standards of masculinity to himself. She supposed some things would never really change. Still, it didn’t discredit anything else he’d said, or that he’d done. “Well I did,” she answered, “mean it like that.”

At that, Bex snorted. “Church girl?” she chuckled, shaking her head. “Seriously? That’s what you think of me? Geez, I kinda hate that. Maybe I was right before, pretending I could solve my problems myself instead of coming here.” She was mostly teasing, but there was some truth to it. She hadn’t entirely found her purpose or sense of self within her faith yet, even as hard as she’d tried to. She had books about Jewish spiritualism-- Kabbalah as it were-- but after her parents had found the first one, their anger had made her never want to open one again, despite her curiosity for them. Despite what little she had read about it giving her a connection she’d never felt before.

His offer, however, was sudden and abrupt and not at all what she’d expected him to say. She blinked, confused, before softening her expression and shaking her head. “That’s real sweet of you to offer, Adam, but I could never take you up on that.” Her parents would never allow it. They’d brought her back here specifically to keep her close, and she had a feeling she wasn’t going to be let out of their grasp for a long time now.

Her expression fell again, as he stood and started to make his way out. “You know, Adam,” she said, a bit quieter now, “you’re a good guy. I can’t tell you what to do, but I think maybe letting people see this side of you more often might be nice.” She gave a gentle smile. “I’ll see you around. Tell Nell hi for me.”

[spaceskam]

the choice is mine

warning for mentions of outing, queer bashing, literally all canon bullshit that’s chaotic but happy ending i swear

ao3

“Can I vent to you? I-I need to talk or I might explode, and you’re the only one I trust not to use whatever I say against me. Also, you’re honest and maybe I’m overreacting. I know I have a tendency to be dramatic, so I need you to tell me if that’s what’s happening or if I’m actually justified in my anger.”

Alex stood there in confusion as the man he hadn’t seen or spoken to in a year barged into his cabin. Michael had vanished soon after Max had unceremoniously healed him, something Alex couldn’t fault him for. He still was pissed at Max for it, he assumed Michael was as well. That, on top of all the other bullshit, had prompted him to leave without saying goodbye and without keeping in contact.

Well, Alex occasionally got vague postcards that only read ‘I’m alive, love MG’ on them along with even more scarce phone calls from random numbers. Michael would simply say, ‘just sit with me for a while’ and Alex had complied effortlessly. He kept those things to himself.

Yet here Michael was, looking weirdly good. His clothes were nice and seemed to be ironed, not a hole in sight. He smelled like the expensive cologne the higher-ups wore to award ceremonies. Most notably, his hair was long with months of not having Isobel to trim it, but it was well kempt and oddly suited him.

“Uh, long time no see,” Alex said, watching the man pacing around the living room, “Are you gonna say hi or are you just gonna wait until after you vent?” 

Michael seemed to suddenly realize his shitty etiquette, his eyes going wide as he rushed back over to Alex. he gave him a short-lived hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“I missed you, Private,” he said, flashing a sweet smile before he got all serious again, “Can I vent? I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

Alex gestured to his designed pacing area. “By all means.”

Michael kindly waited until he sat down before jumping into what was bothering him.

“When I was a kid, no one wanted me, but they wanted Isobel and Max, so I was left to basically fend for myself. And I was only in that situation because some stupid government organization took my mother. Then they killed her. I’m allowed to be angry about that, right?” he asked. Alexx watched him with wary eyes, his heart aching at the part his family had played in that. However, Michael hadn’t given much excess emotion towards it, so Alex didn’t either.

“Of course you are,” Alex clarified. Michael nodded.

“And Iz and Max‒they happily let me play murderer for 10 years without a care and basically gave me no choice but to not go to college. They watched me ruin my life and-and they thought it was whatever because it’s just Michael. I was spiraling and they knew it and they let me. It’s also my fault, but… I help them when they fuck up. I’m allowed to be angry about that too, right?” he went on, turning sharply on his toes in a way that would’ve been comical if it weren’t for the subject matter.

“Yes, absolutely.”

“And, and I am bisexual!” Michael shouted, throwing his arms out as he faced Alex for a moment. Alex would’ve smiled, but it was clearly building towards a negative. “But I’ve never got to actually come out to anyone on my own terms except you. Max and Iz found out, god knows how. You basically out me to Maria and Kyle. Maria outed me to Liz. I never got to choose how I told the people that mattered.” Alex sunk into the couch. He felt sick. “I-I told myself that I didn’t care, that it wasn’t that big a deal. I mean, I’m not ashamed, I like that part of me, so I shouldn’t mind. But I do because it was mine to share and, and I… I’m allowed to be angry about that, right?”

Alex’s eyebrows were pulled together in concern. He hadn’t even thought about that. He should’ve thought about that.

“Yes, Michael, God, I’m so sor‒”

“And my hand!” Michael cut him off, thrusting his left hand forward. It was the first time Alex had actually seen it since it’d been healed. He chose to ignore the scattered, newer scars that replaced the old ones. That was a different conversation. “I had no say when it got fuck or when it got healed! That I know I can be angry about.”

“Absolutely.”

“Every goddamn thing that happened to me in my entire life, I never had a choice. I was forced one way or the other and I wasn’t allowed a say. Or, if I was, it didn’t really matter. And then the very, very few times it did matter, I fucked it up because I wasn’t allowed to make choices before and so I didn’t know how, but you,” Michael paused, stopping his pacing to look Alex in the eye. He was smiling so softly and his eyes were so bright and Alex felt like he had whiplash. “You are the one thing I chose for myself that was good.”

Alex’s swallowed and tried not to let him get his hopes out. Michael had been gone for months. Things were different now, he wasn’t going to just pop up and love him. Right?

Michael came near him anyway, kneeling on the floor in front of him. He had so much love on his face and in his aura and Alex was overwhelmed. But, for the first time in a long time, he felt overwhelmed in a good way. Whatever Michael was thinking, he wasn’t confused about it. He knew what he wanted and he was sure about it.

When had that ever happened before?

“The last few months I’ve been in Missouri. Well, technically, I went to a few different places before I went there, but that’s where I ended up. I was looking for work and I found this farm and, Alex, you’re gonna love it,” he said. Alex’s heart jumped into his throat. Not you would, but you’re gonna. “This couple owns it, they’re in their 50s, and it’s been in the family for years, but they needed some extra help now that their daughter is going to college and so they offered me a job and a place to live on the property. I eat dinner with them and I help their son with math homework and we talk about, like, life and, Alex, I have never felt so normal. They treat me like I’m one of their own.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Alex said.

“I’ve told them about you,” Michael admitted, “And us. They know I’m bi and they don’t mind. They said they were happy I felt comfortable enough to tell them about it. Hell, they were the ones who pushed me to come see you again.”

“That’s amazing.”

Michael reached for Alex’s hand and held it in his own, bringing it to his lips. Alex held his breath. This was just so much.

“Listen, Alex, I know it’s taken me a while‒too long, honestly‒but I think I finally know what it means to be a man. It means being honest and dedicated and loyal. It means making choices and sacrifices, even when they’re hard. It means communicating and loving with your whole being. And I want to prove it to you if you’ll let me.”

Alex exhaled sharply. “What?” Michael just smiled.

“I want to be with you for real this time. I’m willing and ready to put the work into it. Like I said, you were the only choice that I made that was good and I want to show you that. I put you through hell, we put each other through hell. Not anymore, okay? I’m gonna treat you like you deserve to be treated. If you want that too, obviously,” Michael said. 

“I want that,” Alex said without thought. Michael grinned wider and pressed a kiss into Alex’s palm. “But we… How? Are you staying here? Are-are you going back? Do we meet in the middle?”

“Well,” Michael sighed, “I agreed to work for them for a year at least. I have two and a half months of that left. I was hoping you could come up with me. Either stay the whole time or just to visit so we can work on this. If you like it, maybe we can get a place up there and I can keep working for them. Or maybe somewhere else. Anything that works for you works for me. I just want to be with you and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make it happen.”

Alex took in slow breaths, trying to steady his mind and stop feeling so fucking lightheaded. This was a lot. This was…

“You don’t have to make a decision right now. I’m here for two days and, honestly, if you still haven’t decided, that’s okay. I just want you to be happy,” Michael insisted. Alex looked at him incredulously.

“Who are you?” he asked, huffing a laugh. Suddenly, he looked a lot more like Michael as that cocky grin spread across his lips and he pushed himself closer into Alex’s space where he was more than welcome. Alex grabbed his face and closed the same between them.

Alex was used to having long spans of time between their kisses. Months, years, whatever, but this felt different. This felt like they actually had plans for something more. This didn’t feel like a hello and a goodbye wrapped in one. This didn’t feel like desperation.

This felt like their first kiss. They had all the time in the world.

“Hi,” Michael breathed in between the kiss. Alex smiled and brushed his nose against Michael’s.

“Hi.”

“I missed you so much.”

“I missed you more.”

The smile on Michael’s face was almost too much to bear. They could do this. They could be normal.

“Okay, hear me out,” Alex said, moving his hands to Michael’s hips to pull him onto the couch with him. He followed with ease. “I still have a job here so I can’t leave, but I’ll visit you up there. We’ll work on us and maybe I’ll move or maybe we’ll compromise or something, but,” He pressed the pad of his thumb onto Michael’s lip. “You have to talk to me every day. Texting, calling, E-mails, something. Daily communication. That’s my rule.”

Michael scoffed, eyes crossed to try to see Alex’s thumb. “The rule is more Alex? I feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

Alex smiled and pushed his hand into his hair, scooting closer. He got a good look at Michael’s face. He looked younger, happier. It was a beautiful thing to see.

“I want to get to know this man you seem to be now,” Alex said softly.

“I wanna show him to you.”

Alex took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Their foreheads met in the middle. That year that had passed seemed to mean nothing as they fit right back in with each other. Michael was home. How’d he spend so much time away from home?

“I love you too, so much. I’m sorry it took me so long,” Michael whispered right back, his forehead leaning to rest against Alex’s. They stared at each other for a moment. It felt casual, normal. 

“Also I’m sorry that everyone made choices for you and that I played a part in that. I didn’t mean to out you ever, that wasn’t my intention,” Alex gushed. Michael shook his head.

“It’s fine, I just needed to get that off my chest.”

“I get it.”

Alex fiddled with the fabric of his shirt, eager to feel his skin. Now that it was apparent they were going to do this for real, all he wanted to do was celebrate. He tilted his head to go in for a kiss and he got an enthusiastic one in return.

“Wait!” Alex said, pulling away as much as he didn’t want to, “Do Isobel and Max know you’re back? Have you spoken to them since you left?”

“No, I came straight for you,” Michael admitted. Alex bit his bottom lip. 

“You should tell them you’re here.”

Michael shook his head, pulling Alex into him completely. 

“I will tomorrow. I just want you tonight.”

Alex wasn’t going to argue that. Even if he did have a whole lifetime of this in his future.

[tisthenightofthewitch]

Ghost’s Tobias Forge talks about being sued by Nameless Ghouls, spurned by the Vatican and immortalized in plastic effigy

When it comes to Swedish bands, Americans tend to think of pop icons like ABBA, black metal acts like Bathory, or the odd alt-rock band like The Cardigans, after which we stop thinking about them at all.But that was before the band Ghost began its slow yet inevitable ascent. Hailing from Linköping, a city in Sweden known for its ornate cathedrals, the bandmembers concealed their secret identities beneath elaborate costumery, a time-tested tradition fostered by bands like Kiss and The Residents. 

Occupying centerstage was Papa Emeritus, a skull-faced character fond of ghoulish corpse paint, a high-pointed hat and ornate papal vestments decorated with upside-down crosses. Standing stock-still at the microphone, his face frozen in a miserable scowl, the singer appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be hovering at death’s door or just beyond it. His bandmates, unceremoniously referred to as “Nameless Ghouls,” wore hooded robes and black masks, a look that soon began showing up at European cosplay conventions.

While this combination of corpse-paint, national origin and grinding guitar riffs led some critics to liken their sound to Swedish death metal, the keyboard-heavy liturgical vibe of Ghost’s early music arguably owed more to classic Pink Floyd.

That’s especially true of “Secular Haze,” the breakthrough single from their 2013 sophomore album Infestissumam. Following its release, the band put out the Dave Grohl-produced If You Have Ghost, a five-song covers EP that includes the Roky Erickson song of the same name, as well as renditions of Depeche Mode’s “Waiting for the Night” and, appropriately enough, ABBA’s “Like a Marionette.”

But 2013 also had its share of disappointments, including the ascension of Pope Francis, who was elected on the fifth ballot, thwarting Papa’s hard-fought and highly publicized campaign for the position.

The rest is history, of a sort. Following a series of European dates with Metallica, Ghost are now embarking on an arena tour of their own that will include an Oct. 1 concert headlining the Broadmoor World Arena. Their single “Cirice” won the 2016 Grammy Award for Best Metal Performance, while their most recent album Prequelle and its single “Rats” were respectively nominated in this year’s Best Rock Album and Best Rock Song categories.

Along the way, the band has gone through a succession of Pope characters —  Papa Emeritus I, Papa Emeritus II, and Papa Emeritus III — who have since been replaced by the far more kinetic Cardinal Copia, who has more of a mafioso image and hyperactive stage presence. All four frontman roles have been played by Tobias Forge, whose identity was outed two years ago when four former Nameless Ghouls filed a since-dismissed lawsuit alleging unpaid wages.

Ghost have also undertaken a series of musical transitions that became especially obvious with last year’s Prequelle, a concept album that employs the 14th-century black plague as an allegory for our current troubles. While Forge hasn’t fully abandoned his band’s past sound, tracks like “Rats” veer toward the ’70s arena-rock sound of Def Leppard, Foreigner, and even Journey, with whom the band toured last year.

In the following interview, Forge holds forth on a wide array of subjects, including litigious ex-Ghouls, the Swedish anti-vaccine movement and his alter-ego’s forthcoming immortalization — alongside legendary artists like Prince and Jean-Michel Basquiat — as a Funko Pop! figurine.

Indy: Let’s begin by talking about the concept behind your most recent album. It opens with that really creepy version of “Ring Around the Rosie, ” which is always a good way to start an album about the bubonic plague. Was there any specific reason why you chose that theme at this particular point in history?

Tobias Forge: Well, I think there are important lessons to be learned from all chapters of history. The plague was an epidemic that wiped out half of Europe, and, we can assume, traumatized the Asian population as well. And back then, people in general were uneducated, they were superstitious, they were religious, they believed in hocus-pocus. So it must have literally felt like the end of the world was just going to happen tomorrow. And that is always an interesting concept. Because we know now that it was not the end of the world. You know, mankind persevered. So while I believe in environmental issues, and that there are a lot of things that can be done in order to make the world a better place, I also think there’s not as much doom and gloom as it may appear.

So what would you say are the lessons we can learn from that period?

I guess the most simple and most obvious one is that we can debate forever — all day and night — about what happens after we’re dead. But I can promise you that we do not know. We can hope for there to be an afterlife, or 72 virgins, or whatever else is on your wishlist. But there’s no way of knowing. And anyone who tells you that they know, they are lying because they want something from you, or they want you to believe in something. And so I think your time and your energy will be better spent trying to embrace life instead of being wary of death. Because life is fragile, and you don’t know if you’ll have another one.

And then there’s this myriad of human instincts that comes into play when apocalypse is near, and one of them is who’s to blame for this, that, and the other. Back in the plague days, as I said, there was this predominance of religious people who believed in hocus-pocus and were pretty uneducated and pretty fucking dumb. They believed that female sexuality was to blame for essentially God abandoning mankind. So while you had people dying off in droves, you also had these people killing women because they were good-looking or, in one way or another, enticed some sort of sexual arousal. And that was obviously the work of the devil, and while they were alive, they would interfere with the survival of mankind. But unfortunately, those kind of very uneducated and outright stupid people are still well-represented in the world, and it’s very important that we address that.

Since you’ve researched and written about all this, I’m curious what you think about your country’s decision, back in March, to ban mandatory vaccinations.

Oh, that’s a good question, but I don’t really have a good answer. But I do think that there is a dichotomy between what the population might need, and what a pharmaceutical company needs for its own benefit. I’m trying not to sound like a conspiracy theorist, but about 10 years ago, there was an outbreak of a flu, and companies would have entire offices vaccinated. And, on first glance, it’s like, “That’s great how society and all these bosses and corporations came together.” And I’m aware that the number of people that actually came down with it was not that many. So was that because of this shot, or was it because maybe the threat wasn’t as great as they were saying it was? Because, more often than not, there’s an economic incentive somewhere for someone. But not being a biologist nor a chemist, I don’t know anything about stuff like that. So, as I said, I don’t have a straight answer.

On a happier note, Funko’s Papa Emeritus II doll came out last month…

Yes, speaking of monetaries. [Laughs.]

That’s right. And I have to say, I’m really impressed by how realistic it is, especially in the way it just stands there and doesn’t do anything. How does it feel to be immortalized in that way?

I don’t really see it as that. I mean, when I sort of regard anything that we have done, even a photo, I don’t necessarily think of it as me being in that photo. I’m just sort of detached from the character on the visual side, which is to my benefit, actually. I’m way too vain, so I would have had a problem if it was my face that we were working with. So having the sort of official visuals of Ghost is actually quite liberating.

I understand that you started out playing in punk and death metal bands. Was Ghost the first time that you got to indulge your pre-The Wall Pink Floyd side?

No, I have played non-death metal in other bands before. But when Ghost started taking shape, I think I just found a way to write songs that sort of tick both boxes — one box being melodic pop-rock, or whatever it is, and the other being sort of metal. It felt playful, and it felt intuitive and progressive, for lack of a more fitting word. Whereas in the past, it’s like the metal bands were metal, and the rock bands were rock, and they didn’t combine the two. So I definitely found it more effective, and way more fun, to do something in between. Your stage presence is way more kinetic these days, although pretty much anything is more kinetic than standing in front of a microphone and scaring people. But you’re reaching the point now where the choreography in a video like “Rats” is borderline Michael Jackson. Is that the result of having more personal confidence these days?

Yeah, I would definitely say that. There are critics of the band who feel that the less animated version in the beginning was better and more ominous, and that we should still be embracing that. But a lot of the cryptic nature of Papa I was due to being constrained by the costume and the size of the stage.

And now we’re playing bigger places, where there’s way more ground to cover and there isn’t a single cord onstage that you can trip on, so of course you have to move around, right? I mean, if we were onstage now for two hours with that sort of unanimated version we were doing back in 2011, people would be demanding their money back. It’s just part of growing. You can see the same thing if you look at a clip of the Rolling Stones from 1964. Mick Jagger is Mick Jagger, but he’s definitely not the Mick Jagger that you see in 1969 or 1972. It takes time to build that confidence and find your own way of moving around.

I know you campaigned really hard for the pope’s job back in 2013. And I think a lot of your fans were really disappointed when the smoke came up the chimney and it turned out you didn’t get it. Do you think that your losing out to Pope Francis was the result of Vatican corruption?

Sure, most things going on there are because of corruption anyway. So I’m sure that was one of them. Or it might also have been my lack of faith — or my lack monetary means at the time — that prohibited my exaltation within the ranks of the Vatican.

And finally, I have a question about that lawsuit. Do you think that if you’d given names to your Nameless Ghouls, they would have been less vindictive?

You mean, if I’d given them names instead of making them completely anonymous? Probably, I guess. It’s hard to say. Because with most people that are drawn to the performance stage, you do so with a certain inclination to be seen and appreciated. So maybe if our positions were reversed, I would have felt the same way. Until seven or eight years ago, I really wanted to be famous, so my idea of being in a band was definitely different from what it turned out to be.

I’ve been in charge and working on this full-time, nonstop, for 10 years. Other people in Ghost would work a few hours every day, and then, during the four months between tours when I was making a record, they weren’t really doing anything that had to do with Ghost. And since I was representing the band at all of the meetings, I was getting pats on the back and feeling like what I was doing was good. Whereas, if you had nothing to do with the day-to-day stuff, you maybe didn’t get the pat on the back that you needed in order to feel fulfilled in life. So, you know, maybe if they had gotten their name on there, and could at least be recognized in the street, maybe that would have changed things. But on the other hand, I’ve played with others who didn’t give a shit about that happening.

COLORADO SPRINGS INDEPENDENT

[vino-and-doggos]

Time Enough at Last, chapter 2

Read full text on AO3 and FFN

Chapter Length: 2624 words (story length: 4631)

Rated: T

Status: Incomplete (2/3)

Summary: Submitted for your approval: one wants money, women, status, fame, and everything else in the world. The other just wants more time alive, to see his daughter grow, to love his wife for a little longer. Two seemingly different personalities must learn to coexist so that they both can have it all.

Beta-ed by @flourchildwrites, who deserves Starbucks, cookies, and a bunch of other goodies.

Only one more chapter after this!

Maes faded into consciousness again. It was difficult to tell exactly how much time had passed in the cold stone cell that he was locked up in, especially since consistent waking hours seemed to elude him. He could have been here a few days or a few weeks. Time was abstract, an important concept when one was floating in the ether between life and death. At least there was always fresh water waiting for him every time he woke up.

The wounds in his shoulder stopped bleeding freely three or four wake-ups ago. The bullet hole right below his collarbone still oozed gently, especially when Hughes prodded at it, attempting to ascertain the damage. The puncture wound closer to his shoulder didn’t have any discharge at all, now. Mostly, though, he hurt like a son of a bitch. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to exist; there was absolutely no way to sit, stand, or lay comfortably.

He wished with all of his being that the family photo that he carried in his inner breast pocket hadn’t been left behind in the phone booth. It would give him endless comfort seeing the face of his beautiful Gracia and his darling, smiling Elicia. He would give anything to hug them one more time, or even to see their faces in the grainy photograph he always carried.

The photo had to be left behind though. He could only hope that Roy was putting the pieces together; he hoped he left enough clues.

Without a body, there was no guarantee that the phone call Maes tried to place wouldn’t just be written off, blood be damned. A phone call that may or may not have been heard, and some blood could be nothing more than a simple prank. Someone who managed to get his personal code, pretending to be him. It could happen. But the photo was solid evidence.

His thoughts became stronger, the strongest they’d been since his capture. Hughes contemplated the obvious shape-shifter who wielded the gun. He would bet any money that they had an ouroboros tattoo somewhere on them. Especially since he met the shape-shifter almost immediately after the voluptuous woman with the sharp, extending fingernails. It seemed too convenient.

Above all else, it seemed quite obvious that this group, the ones with the ouroboros tattoos, also knew the damning history of Amestris. The way that the dots connect.

Maes was yanked from his thoughts when he heard footsteps echoing towards him. The shape-shifter of indeterminate gender materialized from the darkness in front of him. Their greenish-black hair swayed as the creature walked, reminding a slightly delirious Hughes of a palm tree swaying in the breeze. Their lean figure belied defined muscles at first glance, and the lieutenant colonel was mesmerized by the way this being looked like a person, but so obviously was not.

“Ready to come with me, Dad-of-the-Year?” they asked, a mocking tone evident in their voice.

Ever the one for flair, Hughes put aside his pain, smiled and said, “Absolutely, kiddo. Where are we going?” in his best excited dad voice. He hoped it would piss the trigger-happy asshole off, and he was somewhat rewarded as the smile dropped off their face.

“Very funny. Get up; Father is waiting,” the shape-shifter sneered.

“Oh, so I was right with the ‘kiddo’ thing, then?” Maes questioned as he struggled to stand, using the wall as leverage and worming his way up bit by bit.

The other scoffed and rolled their eyes as they unlocked the iron padlock on the cell. “Do I need to restrain you, or are you going to behave?”

“I really don’t think I’m in much shape to be going anywhere. In fact, I’m probably going to end up leaning on you quite a bit.” Hughes pushed himself off the wall and used the momentum to propel himself toward the opening in the bars. True to his word, Maes caught himself on the one sent to collect him, knees giving way and weight sagging.

Scoffing, the shape-shifter dragged Hughes down the corridor, as if impatient to get to destinations unknown. And, as Maes thought about it, the muscles that this creature had were nowhere near what he thought would be required to support most of his weight; thinking further back, this was the same individual that carried him from the phone booth to here.

Glancing above, he noticed large pipes that seemed to line the ceiling and spread in all directions. Just ahead at an intersection in the tunnels, the lieutenant colonel could see the pipes become more congested.

The unlikely pair continued gimping down the hall together, Maes leaning more and more on his companion as they went. The adrenaline had worn out almost immediately after getting up, but the lieutenant colonel pushed aside his exhaustion and pain in favor of investigating the cavernous room that came into sight as they rounded the corner. Here seemed to be the nucleus of the pipes.

Standing at the base of the conglomeration of pipes was a man. He was tall, with straight blond hair that fell mid-back and a beard to match. Donning a white robe with crisscrossed sashes adorning his torso, Maes couldn’t help but think that he looked like some sort of prophet.

But, as Hughes understood it, prophets were not ones to look down their nose at their followers. He dug for his limited religious knowledge, something that Maes tucked away in the dark crevasses of his unconscious. His brain was screaming at him to focus on escape, on gathering the strength to fight his way out if need be; Maes tried to quiet the riotous noise and focus on what he could remember, but then the figure spoke.

“Thank you Envy. Leave the human there,” the deep voice echoed.

The shape-shifter replied, “Yes, Father,” and dutifully withdrew its support. Maes’s body crumpled unceremoniously the cold ground. Hughes thought it was somewhat funny that it almost looked like he was kneeling in front of the prophet before him.

Maybe he needed to heed Roy’s advice and get his sense of humor checked.

“How do you know I won’t run away?” Maes asked.

The prophet, who also seemed to be the one that Envy called Father, made a noise in his throat and said, “I doubt you have the strength to make it to the door. But if you believe you do, go on,” he offered with a sweeping gesture towards a door that Maes had not noticed previously. Suspiciously, Hughes cast a wary glance in the door’s direction, but decided against any attempts. He had no clue why he was there, or what he was wanted for, but he wasn’t stupid enough to try anything.

“That’s what I thought,” the man in white said. “You humans are all the same. Weak. Pitiful.”

Maes grunted as a bolt of pain thundered within his body. Through gritted teeth, he forced out, “Quite an interesting statement there. You look human. One wouldn’t think that you speak about your own kind with such disdain.”

“I may appear mortal,” Father started, “but I am far superior to any human. If you saw a bug on the ground, do you concern yourself with its life? With what it thinks, what it feels? Humans are nothing but insects to me.

“However… insects still have their uses. Bees pollinate. Worms fertilize. And humans provide disguises with less suspicion, especially those that already have high-profile friendships.”

Maes swallowed. He didn’t like the sound of that.

“And now that I have both components, let’s attempt what has only ever been successfully completed one other time.”

Turning to the right, the blond cast his gaze upward; Maes followed the angle and, for the first time, noticed a man suspended in the air, swords sticking out of his body at various angles, red electricity occasionally sparking near the entrance wounds.

Hughes was familiar enough with alchemy to recognize the attempts at transmutation. But who was transmuting? And what? Shaking his head minutely to clear his thoughts, Maes wondered if he did die after all, and he was now in some strange sort of afterlife. Was he due to be tortured next?

“Greed. Awaken.” Father watched as the chained and stabbed one stirred.

His eyes were an unnatural shade of purple, and his pupils were shaped like those of a cat’s, Maes noticed. “Well, well… the gang’s almost all here,” the man said with a winning smile, revealing impossibly pointed teeth. “Where are my missing brothers, though? I would love to tell Wrath hello on… proper terms, this time.” His winning smile turned sharp.

“Wrath and Pride are above ground, doing as their told. I would have loved to say the same for you all these years. You have disappointed me for the last time, Greed.”

Hughes felt the ground shifting, concrete grinding against concrete, as a basin filled with a boiling substance rose directly beneath Greed. Dread and nausea filled Hughes’s very being. The feelings only intensified when the dangling man began laughing maniacally. Slowly, the homunculus began his descent into the vat.

“Like hell this is going to work, Dad! You might be able to kill me, but there is no way in hell that anyone has enough greed, enough avarice, to take me in!!”

The lieutenant colonel shook and tried to force the bile rising in his throat to stay down, where it belonged. He had seen a lot of things throughout his time in the military, but this felt inhumane. Before Greed’s head hit the boiling liquid, Father raised his hand.

“Return to me, Greed.”

A piercing scream reverberated throughout the chamber, and Maes finally lost his battle with sickness. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and lifted his head in time to see red liquid dispensed from a series of tubes into a wine glass.

Father lifted the glass, making eye contact with Hughes. “To new beginnings,” he stated as he tipped the goblet and drank deeply.

Maes was frozen in fear. What the hell did he have to do with any of this? At first, he thought it had to do with his knowledge of the country-wide transmutation circle, but now he wasn’t so sure. Even if the two were connected, in what way?

Slowly advancing towards the lieutenant colonel, Father smiled gently. “Do not be afraid, Maes Hughes. You would be a very valuable asset to me. However, I need to make you a little more…” he paused dramatically, looking at Maes’s wounds, “sturdy.”

Before Hughes could begin to process the words, a third eye opened on Father’s forehead. It seemed to cry tears of red liquid, not unlike the liquid that was just consumed by the man in white. The substance congealed as it cascaded into Father’s awaiting hand, not quite hardening into a solid, but not quite staying liquid either.

Lengths of cord shot out of nowhere and forced Hughes into a spread-eagle position on the ground. Father’s hand hovered over the open gunshot wound in his shoulder, and as Maes started to question whether the wound was put there to immobilize him or to give them an available opening into his circulatory system, white-hot pain seared through his body.

The color crimson consumed his vision, first flashing like lightning, then invading in a swirling current of red and black. Hughes’s body convulsed. His joints bent and bowed in grotesque ways; all the while, his tendons tore and healed in an endless cycle of destruction and resurrection. A raw scream ripped from Maes’s throat. Right before he was swallowed by the undertow of red, he could only see the glow of red eyes from the figure in white.

The inferno around him twisted and shaped itself into what looked like a face. A strangely familiar face, with impossibly pointed teeth and cat-shaped eyes, despite the lack of pupils.

“What the hell are you doing here?” the mouth said through unmoving lips. The words which sounded from the phantasm were striated sound as if spoken from a thousand voices at once. “There is no way that you are capable of withstanding the embodiment of Greed the Avaricious! However, if you just hand over your body, I will be sure to take good care of it.”

“If I refuse to hand over my body,” Maes said cautiously, but confidently, “what will happen to me?”

“Well, I’ll have to try to take it by force. And then, if you even survive, you’ll be swallowed into the thousands of souls the Philosopher’s Stone already sustains.”

“I won’t be conscious again if you have to take me by force?”

“No, but why would you want to be?” the face, who Hughes assumed was Greed himself, questioned. “The world is a mess; even you can’t deny that. What in this universe would make you want to see more of it?”

“My family!” Maes answered emphatically, nearly screaming with hysteria. “My wife, my daughter! My best friend…” He trailed off. Quietly, he pleaded, “I just wanted more time.” Thinking quickly, he steeled his nerves.

“Fine then!” he shouted. “Take me! Take my body! I freely give myself to you!”

“Huh?” Greed said. “You’re giving yourself to me?”

“Yes I am,” the lieutenant colonel smiled dangerously. “And, for letting you do so, I won’t lose my consciousness to the Stone. I’ll get to see my darling daughter again.”

“Families are nothing!” Greed countered. “Trust me; I had a wealth of siblings and a father all my own - they did nothing for me. They held me back! And found families are even worse; you trust them, and then they don’t even try to save you. That’s bound to happen to you, too, if you put all your stock in that garbage.”

Maes forcefully shook his head, “You’re wrong! Families are the only thing that makes another turn on this wretched globe worth living. Take me over. Use my body. And I’ll prove to you that you can have it all if you have family and friends willing to take on everything with you.”

An eerie quiet settled within the red and black void as Greed contemplated Maes’s offer. Then, he chuckled menacingly, and Hughes thought for sure he was done for. He began to say a silent goodbye to Gracia, to Elicia, to Roy, and to everyone else who touched his life...

He was interrupted.

“You’re decisive; I like that! And committed, too. If nothing else, I’m almost guaranteed to succeed if you’re outright accepting me! All right, it is done!” the many voices resounded.

A blinding white light opened up and began to swallow Maes; as more pain wracked his body, he heard Greed say, “Let’s see how ready you are to be avaricious!”

His eyes opened to see the last bolts of red, alchemic energy leaving the body. At first, he was staring at the ceiling, but when the cords holding the body down receded, Greed stood and faced Father.

Hughes suddenly realized he was watching the events around him, as though they were happening on a screen. He had no control over the actions of the body that was once his. He could only see what Greed chose to see. But he could hear what Greed heard, feel what Greed felt. And as he stood before Father as an obedient iteration of the one called Greed, Maes felt the bullet lodged in his shoulder eject and heard it land on the floor. In the next moment, a crackle of red energy realigned the bones and tissue that were damaged, effectively healing the body.

Maes could see Father’s red eyes, glowing in the darkness.

And then he heard, “Welcome back...my avarice.”

[ohmytheon]

Rebelcaptain - Jedi Knights AU (bonus points if at the end of ROTS and Order 66)

I rewatched the Order 66 scene so I could get a feel for this and wow okay my hormones are in a swing because somehow a three minute clip from ROTS that didn’t involve Obi-Wan made me cry. Yoda’s pain via the Force GOT ME. It reminded me of Leia’s in TFA. Also, this got way out of my hands, but the next ones will be drabble size again, I swear.

give me a pairing and an au and i’ll write a drabble

Out of the two of them, Cassian was the wary one, always looking for the first sign of trouble, but it was Jyn that felt it first. She was split up from him this time, something that she probably shouldn’t be prone to doing since she was still very new to being a Jedi Master, but she had wanted to do a perimeter check. Besides, it wasn’t like she was alone. She had two trusted Clone soldiers with her, Looper and Green, men she had worked alongside on multiple missions.

Her boots thumped with every step on the platform, but when she neared the edge, the only sound she could hear was the wind. Nothing. Still, an easy feeling in her gut kept stirring, even larger now that her suspicions had been unconfirmed, and she reached up to grasp the kyber crystal her mother had given her before Jyn had been taken to become a Padawan. The crystal could’ve been put to much better use, as she had one now in the lightsaber she carried, but it was an old relic of her past that she refused to give up despite the Council’s wishes.

It reminded her that even Jedi were fallible – that even those who were considered not Force sensitive enough, not strong enough, to be considered for Jedi training could overcome everything. She had hid the kyber necklace for so long until Cassian found it. He had not berated her for it at least. The memory of the soft look in his eyes when he had tucked it back under the neckline of her shirt had to kept just as much of a secret as the crystal itself.

Closing her eyes, Jyn took a deep breath and focused on both the Force and the crystal until she could sense everything around her. She could feel the Clones behind her waiting for the next order and then, probing further, Cassian back inside. She thought he was looking out the window, trying to see her through the snow, and then she tangled with him as well. He was trying to sense her too. It made her smile faintly. Always wary, that one. Was he ever not restless?

Something sharp in the Force hit her, not unlike a blaster, and Jyn’s eyes snapped open as she felt something ripped away from her. No, it had been a blaster, but she hadn’t been the one hit. Who? Cassian? She struggled to find him again, but everything was a mess now. The Force felt like it was…like it was being ripped apart thread-by-thread. She gasped.

If her eyes had still been closed, she wouldn’t have noticed the sudden change in stance of the clones behind her, but out of the corner of her eyes she saw Looper raise his blaster towards her and she reacted quickly. The lightsaber was ready and in her hands in a second and she slashed it forward, slicing the blaster in half and rendering it useless.

“What are you–?” But there was no time to demand answers, not when she had to deflect a blaster shot from Green. She didn’t want to hurt them, much less kill them – she had worked with them so many times, joked with them, laughed with them, ate with them – but they left her no choice as they ruthlessly tried to attack her.

Jyn cut them down with ease, but her heart ached. They had only been clones, yes, but they had been her friends. Why had they suddenly turned against her?

And then another thought: Cassian. If Looper and Green had tried to kill her, what about all the other clones back inside? This was supposed to be a comfortable safe house for diplomats, but she suddenly pictured a blood house instead and her fears betrayed her. She had been taught to dampen those fears and put them away – passion led to dark paths, they were told – but she could not burn them to ashes so easily, not anymore.

Jyn raced back inside and all but burst through the door. She knew exactly where Cassian was and the quickest way to reach him. It would be dangerous, filled with possibly turned clones, but she had always had a habit of coming in hot and doing things straight on. She had to reach him; she had to get to him before it was too late. Otherwise, what was the point? Where would be the hope that all of this would end?

After reaching the hall that would lead her to him, her heart leapt into her throat as she skidded to a halt. There were at least ten clones blasting at the door to the main quarters until a hole large enough for them to climb through was made. Inside was Cassian, doing his best to block each blaster shot while anyone else with him tried to stay out of sight. Any other person might’ve tried to find a different way. Not Jyn. She ran straight ahead, her lightsaber cutting through the clones before they even realized she’d come upon them.

Ten against one was still a battle and she couldn’t cover all angles, so when a blaster hit her in the back of the shoulder, she yelped as she was thrown into a wall. Before she could be taken out, however, the familiar glow of a lightsaber stabbed through the middle of the clone and he collapsed dead to the ground.

“Come!” Cassian shouted breathlessly, holding out a hand. Jyn took it without thinking and allowed him to pull her through the hallways. She had no idea where he was going, but she didn’t ask questions.

“The diplomats?” Jyn asked the moment they paused.

Cassian peered around the corner. The hangar door was right in front of them, guarded by turned clones. If they had any hope of fleeing, it was in there with their ship, which was the closest thing to home that Jyn could imagine. What if it had been sabotaged in case they made it this far? No, no, the clones had turned so suddenly. They couldn’t have planned that ahead. She and Cassian shouldn’t be alive right now.

Taking a breath, Cassian pulled back and leaned against the wall. He had let go of her hand, but she yearned for him to take it again. It was a terrible thing to want, but so very human. Jedi were not so far removed, were they? "Safe, as long as we keep our distance from them. The clones only seem focused on Jedi.“

"How is that possible?” Jyn hissed furiously. She thought of the times that she had gone to the shooting range to help Green out and now he was lying dead on the platform at her hands, his body slowly getting covered with snow.

“I do not know,” Cassian replied grimly, “but they are very determined.”

Jyn went silent. They needed to get on that ship. Who knew how many clones were in the hangar. The suddenly very real fear that she would die struck her. She was not afraid of death itself. As a Jedi, she would be come one with the Force; she would live on through it. But then she looked at Cassian – the tightly-coiled tension in his body, his fingers flexing on the handle of his lightsaber, the scruff on his jaw and cheeks that he’d forgotten to shave, the sharp look in his eyes that saw everything – and she was afraid of something.

Fear led to a dark path that she could not go down, but it also felt unwise to dismiss it outright. Then again, a few on the Jedi Council might argue that Jyn had a habit of doing a lot of unwise things. She wondered if any of them were still alive to tell her that.

There was no time to question it further. Cassian touched the inside of her wrist and then they were off, battling their way into the hanger and towards their ship. A spark of relief lit inside of her when she saw it, but then she was ducking and sliding and twisting around as she deflected blaster shot after shot. She and Cassian were able to work together, protecting the other’s back while guarding their own front.

It did not make them invincible. A blaster grazed her side, sucking the wind out of her, and one caught Cassian right above the knee, knocking him down. He was almost cut down, except Jyn threw out a hand at the last second blindly and shouted, “Cassian!” The clone was blown off his feet by the Force, crashing into three others, and gave them an opening. Jyn went to help him up, leaving him to cringe, but she cut him off before he could even protest, “I’m not leaving you.”

She half-carried, half-dragged him into the ship, unceremoniously dropping him so that she could deflect another blaster shot and hit the button to close the ship’s door. By the time she turned around, Cassian was already in the pilot’s chair, activating the ship. She listened to it come to life, humming under her feet, whirring around her, but her heart was beating almost just as loudly. Blaster shots kept hitting the ship until Cassian was able to return fire, nearly blowing up half the hanger with his superior firepower.

“I thought that was my move,” Jyn mumbled as she stood behind him to assess the damage. Most of the clones that had been left were now either unmoving or struggling to get up. Cassian’s knuckles were white and his face determined as he guided the ship up and then out of the hanger as quickly as possible. It would not be long before other ships were sent after them, so they needed to get out of here as fast as possible.

She had no idea where they would go (where in the galaxy would be safe for a Jedi that was now being hunted like a dog?), but she trusted Cassian. He was an excellent and natural pilot alongside being one of the most capable Jedi Knights. Instead, she closed her eyes, grasping the kyber crystal again and listening to him activate the hyperdrive, and willed everything into the Force. It would not betray her. Cassian would not betray her. As long as she had them, she would be fine, she told herself. The ship rocked as they made the jump, but she barely swayed on her feet despite holding onto nothing.

Only when she felt a hand wrapping over her own holding the crystal did Jyn open her eyes and she found Cassian staring down at her solemnly. It had been a very long time since she had felt alone, especially after crossing paths with him, but here on this ship, drifting somewhere in the blackness of space, she felt very much alone. The Force was silent, frayed, and distant. She could feel the emptiness that had once been occupied by so many others.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Cassian whispered, even though they were safe for now and completely alone.

Jyn felt adrift, like the ship, completely untethered. The emptiness was as vast as space. “They’re gone.” Her voice was hollow. She didn’t know what she was saying, except that she did. A few lights reminded, blips on the outskirt of her radar, but she could barely sense them. Some winked out so suddenly that her knees buckled. She would’ve collapsed had Cassian not caught her. She clung to him and he let her, maybe needing it as well. “Gone.”

Cassian slowly gathered her back to her feet, but he did not push away, not like he should have. Jedi were not to gain attachments, at least not close ones. Some had been wary of the two of them partnering, but most of the higher-ups on the Jedi Council had believed that Cassian’s unwavering belief in the Force and the way of the Jedi would eventually smooth out Jyn’s edges. They had not counted on the two of them fitting together.

He held her against him, one arm wrapped around her securely as he smoothed down her hair with his other hand. She breathed in his familiar scent as she tried to regain her balance, but there was so much gone, like the rug had been pulled out from underneath her feet. Her mother had not been Force sensitive enough to become a Jedi, but Jyn, her daughter, sometimes felt like she was too sensitive.

“Where will be go?” Jyn asked quietly.

“Somewhere we can hide,” Cassian told her. “We must gather information and regroup before we can do anything.”

Jyn scoffed lightly, but she didn’t pull away. “I hate hiding. It feels so… helpless." She bit her lip and moved her head to lift her gaze to him. He moved his hand from the back of her head to her shoulder. "We’re on the run. Did you ever think that would happen?”

His lips quirked into a faint but pained smile. “Not entirely like this.”

Not know what to do with his answer, Jyn looked away and out the front of the ship. Her eyes caught sight of the stars, all of them distant but so dark. She used to think that stars could never die, back when she was a child, before she had been taken away from her family. “How many do you think are left?”

“I don’t know.” Cassian sighed, the smile gone so quickly it was like it was never there. He released her from his grip, but he didn’t leave her. “Not many.” He glanced down at her the same time she looked back up at him. “But you’re here. When the clones turned, I didn’t know what to do. I shut the doors, trying to protect the diplomats, but then realized I’d locked you out there with them. I was…”

He was afraid. Cassian was not as quick to admit his emotions as readily as Jyn was. Before her, he had been an excellent Jedi, a proper example. Perhaps she had ruined him. He never seemed to regret joining her though. She could feel his confidence in her thrumming through him, strong as ever, and it comforted her. At least he was here. She looked back out at the stars. But for how long would they be able to run and hide before their stars were too snuffed out? The answers were just as distant. Her heart began to burn like a supernova. Whatever had happened, she would fight until her last breath.