#IRS ONE MORE DANCE AND THEN FAREWELL

[literallygwenstacy]

I CANT GET THE SONGS FROM THE HEATHERS MUSICAL OUT OF MY HEAD PLEASE THEYVE ALL BEEN PLAYING ON REPEAT IN MY MIND FOR THE LAST 2 OR 3 WEEKS I CANT FOCUS ON ANYTHJNG HELP HELP HEPL IM GOINGN CRAZY

[whysosincere]

Chapter 3

Talk of temples, historic battles, and collected relics shortens the time spent with Mr. Tagawa significantly, as Y/N's hotel is within most unwelcome sight in, seemingly, the blink of an eye. The remainder of your walk had been incredibly pleasant, as the rain seemed to retreat apologetically following your near miss with the earlier bolt of lightning. While you had said as much in jest, there was something knowing in Mr. Tagawa's smile that couldn't begin to be guessed at.

"I'll see you tomorrow then? In front of the Kasuga Taisha Museum?" Y/N repeated, her excitement palpable. As Mr. Tagawa bowed a confirmation, Y/N did her best to maintain composure and return the subdued response in kind, until her newfound companion's eyes locked in that inexplicably intimidating manner which he wielded so skillfully. It was disarming, chilling, and set her off-balance in the best way.

Y/N had difficulty wrenching her eyes from his piercing stare and deadly smile, and she was becoming more and more certain that he enjoyed the way her cheeks flushed as she gulped reflexively. Eventually, with a final bow, she retreated behind the automatic doors of her hotel entryway, and breathed deep the relief of a successful contact made, familiarity established, and incredibly, a date settled upon. "Keep it together, ol' girl…" Y/N snorted, finally unable to suppress a hearty, disbelieving laugh as she made her way to the elevators walking on air.

Exterior, Mr. Tagawa had not moved from where he had bid Y/N farewell. Though his expression never revealed this, Shang Tsung was perfectly aware of his repeated victorious marks against the girl's heart, having sneered in victorious triumph the moment she was out of sight. With a flourish, he produced the facsimile of a digital communication device, only for show to any that might be observing him.

"Reptile," he muttered low enough to ensure confidentiality. An entity made its presence known nearby, it's cloaked nature only revealed by the gentle ripples that appeared around an additional pair of outlined footwear in the puddles next to the enigmatic "Mr. Tagawa."

"Observe her, she is not to leave this facility without my knowledge. I must play this limited role a little longer for our jealous onlooker. Do not fail me…" The sorcerer made motions befitting of his acting role as he spoke, allowing various electronic messages of import to come and go on the screen as his unseen slave slipped stealthily back into obscurity. As Shang Tsung stood in the dimming evening light, he felt the intense scrutiny of attention on him finally dissipate, and allowed himself the barest of chuckles.

Indeed their dance had just begun, and if Raiden's ire was this great concerning the affections of an amiable, anonymous, mortal suitor towards his precious little diversion, Shang Tsung could only imagine the destruction to be wrought as he consumed Y/N's soul before the thunder god's very eyes.

Shang Tsung's expression twisted with glee, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. The game was on, and he knew that Y/N would be his key to victory over Raiden, a victory he could almost taste, one of clove, lavender, and frankincense…

~

High in the heavens, Raiden's eyes burned with a fiery intensity with every renewed meeting between the object of his affection and this sudden interloper. He'd never experienced such vexations, and often found himself so thoroughly distracted that his own affairs, being responsible for the realm at large, would go without addressal for an unacceptable and shameful span of time. Once again he had let slip too long his concept of time to the affairs of mere mortals, and it was this realization that would always bring him back to frustrating preoccupation with the one who had appeared from nowhere to brazenly shower Y/N with affections.

Over the following weeks, watching the scenes unfold below, Raiden's heart clenched with a mix of frustration and anger as he witnessed Y/N smiling, laughing, and eventually allowing the supple skin of her wrist to be graced with the kiss of another.

Was this what mortals inflicted upon themselves in their courting rituals? Endless bouts of worry and jealousy? Surely this couldn't be considered customary! Though he had little reference with which to gauge…

For eons Raiden had admonished his brother Fujin for spending so much time with the short-lived creatures. "Nothing good can come of familiarity, brother," Raiden would assert with all the misplaced confidence of a drunken braggart. Now as he found himself obsessing over a mortal, even more embarrassing, experiencing what could only be described as jealousy, desire, and for all intents and purposes, LOVE for her, he felt the true shortcomings of his otherwise omnipotent abilities.

The thought of summoning Fujin for a pointed inquiry passed his mind more than once, until his own thoughts began to propose a truly daft hypothesis: How could it be that at his moment of blossoming desire and development of the most unlikely of emotions... How was it possible that this very same event would be conjoined with the appearance of a hitherto unseen, unknown, and unexpected suitor? And one who seemed perfectly tailored towards Y/N's own interests and desires at that?

Raiden had maintained a modicum of decor during his unseemly and unprofessional bouts of emotion; he had not pried headlong into the private thoughts of Y/N, nor those of the mortal that now courted her affections so effectively. But now, with a brash crack of electricity, the thunder god wielded his elevated senses and mastery over the mortal realm in shameful selfishness, only to reel at the discovery that befell him.

"By the Elder Gods…!"

It had indeed been too coincidental, lamented Raiden. For as he allowed himself to peer into the heart of Mr. Tagawa, the sneering, belittling, and demeaning face of his greatest irritation came into focus. The skies were set aflame with wreaths of white, arcing light. Great red and orange nets of heat lightning soon followed, and it was all Raiden could do to calm himself before he accidentally opened the skies with the full tempest of his rage.

"Curse you, Shang Tsung…!" Raiden hissed to himself in carefully measured temperance, for it was clear that the deceit the sorcerer had weaved had been completely effective in ensnaring Y/N's affections. This wouldn't stand, but how to navigate such unfamiliar territory… As Lord Raiden agonized over how to retaliate, the sorcerer prepared his own devastating volley.

Y/N answered her phone with thinly veiled joy as Mr. Tagawa's number flashed upon the screen. Her eyes widened slightly along with the slight parting of her lips. Brows raising in genuine surprise, she found herself curling in at every limb as her admirer seemed to propose something truly unexpected.

"Yes… of course, I'd… I'd be delighted. 1900 at Nigatsu-do? …"

She smiled. She blushed. She nodded in the charged silence of one-half of a conversation.

"…I'll see you tonight…"

Leverage - MK11 Self Insert Fiction

Lord Raiden, god of thunder and protector of Earthrealm, has betrayed a fatal weakness; one that the nefarious sorcerer Shang Tsung seeks to capitalize upon. A self-insert fic inspired by Mortal Kombat 11 featuring Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa as Shang Tsung, and Todd Dakins/Richard Epcar as Lord Raiden.

Characters: Lord Raiden (MK11), Shang Tsung (MK11), Female OC/Self-Insert

Chapter 1: Evening in Nara

It is late afternoon in the ancient Japanese capital of Nara when the clouds begin rolling in. There's a distant rumble of thunder, and in a secluded alley, far from the ancient temples of Todai-ji and Nigatsu-do, a lone tourist walks the stone pathways. It is Y/N, and she has just completed meditation among the blooming irises of one of Nara's oldest public gardens. As the first drops of rain begin to dampen her clothes, she quickens her pace, knowing her hotel is still a decent distance away.

Unbothered by the approaching rain, she smiles briefly at the rumbling storm clouds as one might an old friend. The supple curve of her neck and tilt of her jaw from this motion do not go unnoticed. Unbeknownst to Y/N, numerous eyes had been keeping her in their sights since her arrival. She continued on her way, heedless of the danger that had begun brewing in the shadows of the city, and ignorant of the observations of an old acquaintance.

It is said that the crack and roll of thunder is caused by the beating of numerous taiko drums in the heavens; an invocation and performance by the thunder god himself. He held many names: Indra, Zeus, and Taranis were just a few from across the globe. The Japanese had bestowed the titles of Kaminari, Raijin, and during this degenerate age, many had come to know him as Raiden. In truth, this storm was not his performance, but instead the subconscious apprehension of his heart, given form and sound in the roiling clouds that swept over the mountain peaks.

The thunder deity had been watching Y/N from afar, his eyes filled with an intensity that the approaching storm could not match. His eyes flash, and his grimace intensifies as he watches the woman weave around the primitive utility poles and take advantage of the rain-blocking eaves along her path. He knew her from his brief tenure with the American military during Outworld's previous invasion attempt. While he hadn't worked directly with her, her very presence had impressed him. The unmistakable aura of valor and courage that all of his Order of Light shared, had manifested in her. Though to him, this event seemed as recent as one might consider the life of a single stick of burning incense, Raiden knew for a mortal, it must've seemed ages past. This is why he had cautioned his brother so sincerely against involvement with mortal lives – The spark of interest she had kindled had left an indelible mark on his soul, but time had slipped effortlessly away without him realizing.

When it had come to blows, Fujin had rightfully pointed out his hypocrisy – Liu Kang and Kung Lao may as well have been his children the way that he lavished them with attention. That attention stretched time for him, slowing what should have been a moment, into years of training, camaraderie, and perhaps something akin to paternal love – at least that's what Fujin had alleged through a furious gale of blades. Raiden had called him a fool. In truth, he had been fighting with himself – his brother Fujin simply caught in the conflict. For especially now, such a title rightfully belonged to him.

The sight of her brought him back to that tumultuous argument. His heart ached at the memory, and his hands of flesh and bone tightened into fists. Originally created for the purpose of participating in Mortal Kombat, he had not intended this human body of his to remain for as long as it had. This body of his was simply a tool, he had lied. One that he would discard as soon as its usefulness had expired. That is what he had told himself lifetimes ago… Now this heart of his beat faster as he observed the scene below, his eyes never leaving Y/N's graceful form as she moved through the city.

One other gaze observed these motions with equal intensity, but unlike the distracted attentions of Lord Raiden, this stalking creature was fully aware that his quarry was under careful scrutiny. If he acted without proper caution, the game would be up before it had even begun.

The sorcerer Shang Tsung was never without his contingencies. Never found lacking in ways to slip the grasps of fate. And now as he enjoyed an extended reprieve from the beckoning of his master Shao Kahn, and the incessant meddling of Earthrealm's champion Liu Kang, he had detected an amusing inflection in the humors of the skies. One that, should he apply proper leverage to, might remove the most vexing of obstacles from his plans. Lord Raiden had fallen victim to his own hubris: He was in love.

[naferty]

For @summerpipedream 

Hope you like! <3 

~~~

Steve groaned as he smacked his very blank, very sorry-looking sketchbook against his forehead. Two hours. He’d sat on this bench, in the middle of Avengers Park, with the most outstanding view of the fountain decorated with the leaves of Autumn. Bright orange and red with the rays of the sun making it all shine. A scene straight out of a book, having taken pages to tell. For two hours.

Steve had tried over and over again to sketch the beautiful sight, hoping it might be his comeback against this drawer’s block he’d suffered for the past two weeks, but no. It was not his comeback and the sight had long since disappeared after an hour. 

Now, he stood here stubbornly out of principle. He was not going to move until something appeared on the blank pages. Whether from him or from some miracle created by magic, time or some reality bender. 

Considering nothing still hadn’t appeared, he wouldn’t be surprised if he stayed long after curfew. Still, nothing short of Nick Fury scolding him to go to bed was going to make him move from this bench. He was going to fight this block and he was going to best it. 

After ten more minutes, he threw his sketchbook out of frustration in his backpack and grabbed his water to drink. He needed a break. He needed a walk. With a scowl, he grabbed his pack and made to walk around in a circle. A quick trip to Club A was very tempting, but he knew himself. The moment he spotted a friend there, they’d invite him over for a game or a dance and he wouldn’t be able to resist. Once he started he was not going to stop and all his plans were going to go out the window. 

Though, as he passed the fountain to head further into the park where the trees were the thickest, his ire grew a notch more and the thought of giving up sounded more and more desirable. 

He pushed on. Captain America was no quitter and neither was Steve Rogers. He had made a name for himself with his stubborn attitude and small stature (for an alpha) long before Project Rebirth. All the serum had done was give him strength and cured his ailments and refused to touch his small stature. Steve’s persistence (or as Bucky usually called it “pigheadedness”) was all him. 

Eventually, his attitude will prove worth it. He just needed to keep going. He’ll find his muse again. He’ll conquer this block. He will - he’ll - oh… 

That - that was a pretty sight, he thought. 

There, under the rustling trees, was Tony. Sitting on a large stone, crossed-leg and working on his gauntlet with a screwdriver. He was focused on his work, pink tongue sticking out in concentration. Around him, the red and orange leaves loosened from their home and glided down. The sun’s rays broke through the branches, bright over the omega and only the omega. 

Tony glowed under the attention and Steve was captivated. 

Sure the omega was cute, in his own Tony-isk kind way, and while Steve found him charming in the best of days, Tony still managed to find ways to get under his skin. One needed a lot of energy to deal with the Stark heir. Steve needed double that as Tony enjoyed teasing him the most. 

This, however, was something else. Yes, Tony was pretty, but Steve hadn’t grasped just how pretty the omega could be. 

Unconsciously, he reached over for his sketchbook, grabbed his trusty pencil, took a seat on the ground and got to work. By the time he even realized what he was doing, he had mostly sketched Tony down to the details of his jacket, the shading of the stone, the blur of the leaves and the blending of the sun’s rays. 

He stared at it in amazement. Not fifteen minutes ago he was struggling to even draw a line. Now, he had a near-complete illustration of his newfound inspiration. It was no simple sketch. No simple outline he had planned to fulfil in order to start combating his mind block. 

He preened at the sight. He had drawn this in a matter of minutes. As if he had never suffered his block in the first place. All thanks to the omega who was currently walking towards him. 

In a panic, he jumped up and shut his sketchbook. Cheeks going a little red when Tony tilted his head questionably at the action. When the omega reached him, Steve’s face was in full color as he hid his book away in his backpack. Safe from prying eyes. 

“Hey, Cap. What’chu drew there?” Tony smiled. Looking down at him with curiosity in his eyes. 

“Just the scenery.” He gestured to the still rustling trees, making sure not to include Tony in it. “The falling leaves and the sun created a pretty view. I took the chance while I could.” 

“Just the leaves and the sun, huh? You didn’t include me in there?” With a grin, Tony wiggled his eyebrows. Implying more in his words. Steve was about to quickly deny it, feeling his hands get sweaty, but Tony continued with a laugh. “Just kidding, Cap. You should’ve seen the look on your face.” 

Steve’s heart jumped. Wow, Tony looked even prettier smiling. 

“Hey, you hungry? Wanna grab something to eat?” Tony said while not even looking at Steve.

The question mostly came out of habit with alternatives to getting a drink or coffee or doughnuts. Tony had asked Steve countless times in the past and Steve always rejected him with excuses of being too busy or having promised someone else already. It was just expected for it to come out during their interactions. A pattern between them with no hard feelings.

Normally, Steve would say no, bid farewell and leave, but this time - this time he took a chance. 

“Sure, I’m in the mood for burgers. How about you?” 

Tony looked surprised. “Oh, really? I mean - yeah, burgers sound fine.” 

“Let’s go then.” He was eager to see where this led.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

tapestry 👑 III

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: King Steven had a wandering eye but you never thought it would fall upon you.

This Chapter: The reader speaks up.

Note: Here’s part 3. I’m still going while I can. Fair warning that I work every day given the holiday season and so I’ll do my best to keep up but so far I’m having fun and you all are too. I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply! Love ya!

It was a week before your father returned. A gruelling week.

You weren’t surprised to hear of his arrival from another. Nor disappointed that he didn’t call for you immediately. That was your father’s way. He doted on Alice and shunned you. She brought him esteem with her marriage to a duke and you brought him disgrace with your failure to garner even a betrothal. The convent lurked on your horizon.

When he did send for you, the dread sank deep in your chest. The thought of your inevitable meeting hung over you all day and to face him was an obstacle in itself. Even as a small girl, you’d managed to stoke his ire. You were too quiet, and when you were not quiet enough, you were flowery and irritating. Not like Alice; refined and endearing.

Your father’s servant led you to his chambers. As a lower lord, he had no receiving chamber, merely a screen between his bed and his desk. You entered with your head dipped. A quill scratched noisily on parchment as the servant informed your father of your presence and retired to his vigil beside the door.

Your father didn’t look up. A candle sat on his desk as he wrote and the lanterns did little to add to the hazy glow of the amber fire. His grey hair was combed back as it always was; thick despite his age. His lips moved along with the words he spilled from his nib.

“Father,” You greeted. He didn’t even nod. You waited, hands clasped before you. “Is Alice well?”

He lifted his quill and dabbed dry its end. He sat back and looked at you with a tilt of his head. He placed the pen on his desk and sighed. “Daughter.” His eyes were dull, unimpressed. Disinterested even though it was he who prompted the visit. “Yes, she is well. As is the child. A grandson.”

“And mother? She has remained with Alice?” You asked. You were hopeful she would’ve returned to court and offered you an ounce of companionship. 

“For the time being. Until they are ready to return to court. Though the duke should return within the month.” 

Your father spoke grimly. His tone rarely wavered; rarely rose above a monotone. Only with the king or some higher lord did he show a trace of humanness.

“So all is in order.”

“Is it?” Your father wondered as he leaned on the arm of his chair. 

You blanched. You hoped it was. The king had not bothered you since that night after the banquet, the queen remained ever gracious, though Rose was as thorny as the flower. But all seemed to be as it was and just in time for your father’s return. You’d thought your prayers answered; the rumours swept away before he could hear of them.

“Of course, father.” You assured him. You felt so small before him. 

“Mmm,” He considered you. His lips curled in a sinister smirk. “You danced with the king?”

“At his request,” You replied. “But you know I haven’t a quick step, father.”

“You needn’t remind me of your shortcomings, daughter,” He quipped. “But it surely must have been adequate for as I hear it, he called for you the next night.”

“An invitation which I refused.” You said plainly. “As a proper lady would.”

“A foolish lady.” He gripped the arm of the chair as his lips turned downward. “So it is true?”

“Would you rather I accept and tarnish my reputation? Our family’s name?” 

“I’d rather you seek the rare favour you can find in this world.” He spat. “You are as daft a woman as you were a child.”

“Forgive me, father, but I only did as I thought you’d wish me to.” You pleaded. “You wouldn’t want me to resign myself to a life as the wife of a second son.”

“As it is, I’d prefer you the wife of any.” He huffed. “And if you cannot achieve that, a king’s mistress is a fine consolation.”

You frowned. How could he not be proud of your resolve? Of your restraint? He always lectured you on propriety and now he sneered at it.

“I would rather the convent.” You hissed.

“You must realize, girl, that this is not about your whims, but the king’s. Should he will you on your back, you will lay before him as he pleases.” He snarled. “So if he should come to you again, you will not deny him.”

“He has not in the week since.” You assured him.

“And I doubt he will now.” Your father grumbled. “As always, you’ve ruined it all.”

“I’ve only done as you taught me to.”

“Enough of your insolence.” 

“My insolence? I will not be used by the king--”

“This is not about the king. It is about me, your father, and your family.” He stood and planted his hands on his desk. “You could do more as the king’s whore than the wife of some lowly baron of the marshes. If you were not so heedless, you might even raise our name. The Marquess of Lofton was but an earl before the king thought to take his daughter to bed.”

“I will not trade my virtue for your advancement.” You gritted.

“For what other purpose is a daughter good for?” He hurled viciously. “You shall lift your skirts for my fortune one way or the other. Better it be a king, than a pauper.”

“I will not.” 

“You will,” He pushed himself straight and stormed around the desk. He rushed towards you and glared down as he slid to a stop. “If the king has not already found another fancy, you will do as he wishes. Should he return to you, you will welcome him fondly.”

“No.” You growled as you set your shoulders. “I will not.”

“You will,” He struck you so hard you stumbled back. You touched your cheek softly as it burned. “Because you are my daughter. My property.”

You held your tongue. You gulped as you dropped your hand and stood straight. You blinked.

“Father.” You said evenly.

“Understood?” He sneered.

“I understand you.” You twined your fingers together tightly. You might understand his wishes but you would not obey him. Let him rage and send you off to the nunnery when he realized. 

“Good. Now be off. I’ve more important business than my impetuous daughter.” He turned back and rounded his desk. “I swear, you’ve always been intent on ruining me.”

You muttered a farewell as he sat. As you turned, the servant avoided your gaze and you swept past him through the door. In the hall, the air was cool against your hot cheek. You took a deep breath to steady yourself. You hoped it was already too late and your spurning of your father’s ambitions was already complete. 

👑

When you returned to your chamber, the other ladies were on their beds. They read or sewed, and were oddly quiet. You didn’t realize at first why. You were drained from your meeting with your father and just wanted to forget about it. Foremost, you wanted to forget about court and its spectacles. 

Then you saw it. The small box on your pillow. It sat on a folded note and you held your breath. In dread, anxiety, and fear. You looked around the shared room. You caught Sybil watching you as Joan and Marion tried to hide their eyes behind their books. You lowered your chin and sighed quietly.

You neared the top of the bed and reached for the box. You unfolded the note with nervous fingers and the scrawl within seemed to move around. You could barely focus as you thought of your father and his anger. At last, the letters stood still and you read with bated breath.

My lady,

I have counted the ways I might apologize. For my assumptions, my insinuations, and gross misstep. My intent was never to demean, never to offend, and so I cower in my remorse. In my regret for how crudely I treated you.

I am of loose impulse. I act often without truly thinking. I let myself be led by my emotions and my thought is left to wither. As I did with you. I was selfish. I did not foresee the implication of my invitation. I did not think of you or your status. For that I apologize, deeply.

But I cannot apologize for how I feel. For the sudden and fervent desire that has arose in me. The want to know you, to know more of you, to know everything of you. I will not apologize for that would stain you; your beauty, your wit, your very person. 

I should like to atone for my indiscretion. To bring you pleasure rather than displeasure. So I include, with this most heartfelt and since apology, a gift and I beg your forgiveness. I beg of you mercy. I beg of you only...you.

Your king.

You slowly lowered the parchment and looked to the box. You bit your lip and glanced around at the girls. They weren’t being so subtle anymore. You folded the paper up and set it with the box as you went to your chest. You pulled out your own square of paper and went to the desk you shared with the others.

You sharpened a nib and took a pen. You dipped it in the ink and a shadow passed over you as Sybil neared.

“What are you doing? Aren’t you going to open the gift?” She asked.

“No, I mean to return it.” You began to write your message. Concise enough you hopped your point was taken.

Your Highness,

While I appreciate your apology, it is entirely unnecessary. I’ve already accepted your amends and as I stated, bear to you no animosity. While a gift is most flattering, it is improper and undue. I am thence, with the utmost respect, required to return to you your kindness though your forethought is recognized.

Your loyal subject.

You folded up the small slip and stood. Sybil was aghast and Joan watched with a smug smirk. 

“As you should return it,” Joan sang, “We all know it is an empty gesture. A scheme to irk Rose. The king is loathe of her triteness though he loves her wholly. You...well, he only wants a puppet.”

“Oh, Joan, what do you know?” Marion chirped. “You’re only jealous that you’re neither of them and you’ll be left to marry that chubby Earl from Priskam.”

“I have seen the letters the king writes to Rose, I have seen the love in his eyes,” Joan insisted. “And I have seen this little mouse in her hole and she is pathetic.”

“Then you should know what lies within this letter,” You said as you went to your bed to fetch the box and the king’s letter. “And know that they are the same words he has written to a dozen women before myself. Before Rose.”

“Rose was right. You are despicable.”

“I am honest. And I see this place for what it is.” You pressed your letter to the box as you turned to the door. “I know that words are never meant as they are said. There is an edge to each syllable.” You opened the door and looked back. “Sybil, may I request a favour? Or Marion?”

“You may,” Marion spoke first.

“I should not go unaccompanied to return this. I don’t think it would be decent. Will you walk with me?” You asked.

“I will,” Marion rose and closed her book. “I should like to stretch my legs before we retire for the night.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all,” She nodded to the door. “Let us to our task before curfew should deem us unseemly.”

You gave a small smile and led her into the corridor. She pulled shut the door and turned to walk beside you. She was quiet at first; you were nervous as you fidgeted with the small box.

“Are you not at all curious?” She asked at last.

“Naturally,” You confirmed. “But I don’t dare to look lest I be tempted to keep it.”

“Ah,” She raised her pale brows. “You shouldn’t mind Joan, she’s jealous. And she’s far too enamoured with Rose.”

“I don’t mind her.” You said. 

“Do you think the king will be upset?”

“Perhaps, but he has no reason to be. I suppose, however, that a man of his stature finds much to be displeased with and none to tell him he shouldn’t be.” You reflected. “I have made an enemy of Rose already, I do not need the queen a foe as well.”

“The queen knows the king strays.” Marion said.

“Her knowledge does not make it right. Her acceptance is not of her own will. What can she do?” You stopped as you reached the corridor along which the king resided. “As women, we are all given to circumstance we do not desire.”

Marion considered you. Her warm eyes bore into hers and she nodded. “There is much more going on in your head than I supposed.” She remarked. “Thoughts I’d never think to have myself.”

You looked at the box. Your father’s voice echoed in your head. If he was here, he’d slap you again. You raised your head and set your shoulders.

“Let this be the end of it.” You declared as you marched forward.

You’d never been down this way. Never thought you would. How did one knock on a king’s door. Well, was it necessary with the guards without? The men in mail watched your approach as Marion trailed behind. There helmets bobbed as they observed you with amused grins. How many women had they greeted in the evening hours?

“Sirs,” You nodded at one guard and then the other. “I would request the king, only if he should be available, of course.”

“The king?” The guard on the left looked over your shoulder at Marion. “You, her, or the both of you?”

“I come here on my own charge but she accompanies for decorum,” You explained. “If the king is engaged, I shall leave a letter for you to pass to him.”

“The king is alone. He may receive you,” The right guard assured you. “He’s not one to turn away a lady.”

“I would prefer he emerge,” You asserted. “It would be untoward to enter his chamber.”

“A receiving chamber is meant for that purpose, lady,” The guard returned.

“Even so, if he cannot be drawn from his privacy, I shall leave this with you.” You held up the box and letter folded atop its lid.

“Ah, don’t need to be so impatient.” The guard knocked on the door with his elbow. The sound barrelled down the hallway.

The door opened and the king’s footman, Hugh, scowled at the guard. His eyes blinked at the mailed men then turned on you. His forehead wrinkled in recognition and he spoke at last. “What is the bother?”

“This lady is here to see the king.”

“Very well, then send her in,” Hugh said sharply.

“She will not enter.” The left guard intoned.

“Says it’s indecent.” The other added. 

Hugh sighed and looked to you again. He squinted and shook his head before disappearing within. You could hear his voice and then the king’s. Both were slightly muffled and followed by a stir. You waited and glanced over your shoulder at Marion. She looked as anxious as you felt.

Footsteps and then another shadow in the door. This one broader, taller. You bowed as the king appeared. His lips parted as he saw you and he let out a deep breath.

“My lady?” He greeted. 

“Your highness,” You returned. Did your voice tremble? You could not tell. “My apologies for the disturbance but it was pertinent that I seek an audience.”

He nodded and stared at the box in your hands. “Did you like my gift?” He asked.

You swallowed. “I did not open the gift, though I did read your letter,” You felt it hard to breath. His eyes never left you. It was as if you were alone, as if there were no guards, as if Marion didn’t linger behind you. “I appreciate the gesture but I am unable to accept it.”

“My lady, do you reject my apology?”

“I...It is in my letter, your highness, but there is no apology required.” You held out the box and stepped tremulously toward him. “You must take it back.”

“I will not.” He insisted. “It is for you.”

“There is no reason for it and I cannot accept a present from a married man.” The box shook and you stilled your hands. “You may refuse to rescind it but I will not take it. I shall leave it upon the floor if I must.”

His blue eyes focused on you. They were stern but not angry. In them, a glimmer of confusion, a spark of provocation. He pressed his lips together before he spoke. “You refuse upon the grounds of my marriage?”

“I refuse on the grounds that it is improper.” You said. “On the grounds that I’ve accepted your apologies once and shall not do so again. On the grounds that I am a lady with a reputation to uphold should I have any hope of a betrothal.” Your voice had risen and you were embarrassed at the realization. “I wish that you take it back.”

“If you wish, I should happily appease you,” He stepped forward and reached out to take the box. His fingers grazed yours and his lips twitched. “For whatever you wish, I would give you, my lady. Whatever you will, you shall have. By my hand, by my order.”

His tone made you shiver. You rescinded your arm and clapped one hand over the other to uphold your composure. “Thank you, your highness.” You said. “It is late and I must return to my chamber.”

“So it is,” He accepted as he cradled the box in his hands. “And so you must.” He bowed his head and you curtsied to him. “Good night, my lady.”

“Good night, your highness.” You said as you began to back away. 

The king watched, his gaze unwavering as you retreated. There was a promise in his eye, a nonchalance in the way he held the box, how he only looked away to open it and peek inside. He turned as he snapped it shut and his guards stared ahead stiffly. His broad back disappeared behind his door and Marion gasped as she finally let out her breath.

“My lord,” Marion swore. “I thought I would pass out.”

“Me, too.” You said as you grabbed your skirts. You spun around and didn’t dare look back. “Let us be away. Quickly.”

[nao-hane]

Their first meeting

WARNINGS: none

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

In the silence that filled the city, a pair of  heels clattered against the asphalt, defying the tranquility that existed in the Venetian streets and canals that night.

Just one night.

Just one opportunity a year to put on a mask.

Ironically, ir was not to hide feelings, but to be able to show oneself as true as possible.

That was what the Venice Carnival symbolized for Leia. 

Every year she went to the Italian city to enjoy that beautiful old party, but the night of the masquerade was by far her favorite moment. Everyone dressed up and covered their faces and during one night the problems of the present were left behind and that room seemed to be trapped in time. 

They danced, dined, talked and enjoyed those moments, without even considering the true identity of their night companions.

But that year she was late.

There was hardly anyone left on the streets, everyone was enjoying that day at their private parties and yet, she had not managed to be punctual. She ran as fast as her heavy gown left her and prayed to be let in once she arrived. Leia turned the corner of th last aley and the  hotel where the party was held at was only a few meters away in a straight line.

It was then when an intense light blinded her for a few moments.

Once her vision was recovered, she crossed the hotel doors and went up to the living room. As every year, her eyes shone with emotion behind the mask once she was inside the room. It was already full of elegant people. The dresses, the suits, every detail improved as time went on. The room was decorated in a distinctly Baroque style, and the authenticity of the attendees' clothes almost made her feel bad at hers.

She entered slowly as she fixed her dress-which had been somewhat wrinkled after the race-. Leia made her way to the center of the room, eager for the next song to play to be some classic dance she knew of, so she could dance and start to enjoy the most magic night of her year.

As the music kept pace, her eyes focused on one figure that stood out above the others. He danced with sublime elegance, moving as if he was a light wind. Hidden behind a red and black mask and an elegant black suit, that boy looked like a star in a dark room. Everyone was looking at him, it was inevitable.

For a few seconds, Leia could see the hazel color of his narrow eyes.

For a few seconds they both looked at each other intensely for the first time.

It was then when the song changed, and Leia excitedly gave a little jump when she recognized the melody.

- "Would you give me the pleasure to accompany me during this dance?" - She heard behind her in a perfect Italian.

When Leia turned around she saw that dazzling hansome man who held out his hand to invite her to dance. She was glad that she had learned that language years ago just to be able to understand him at that precise moment when that mysterious man invited her to dance.

The rest of the room anxiously awaited her response.

- "It will be a pleasure" - Leia answered, taking his hand.

The stranger held his left hand in the air and with the other he gently grasped the young woman's waist. His gaze was intense and penetrating, but at the same time reassuring. They danced song after song, practically not crossing a word, they spoke to each other through their eyes. They were intertwined like two souls destined to be together under the astonished gaze of all those who were lucky to be present. Sadly, nothing lasts forever, and the party ended. They had been dancing together for hours and there was hardly anyone left in the room. What had seemed like seconds for Leia had been really a  long time; hours to be more exact,beautiful minutes which would now remain only in the memory of both. They slowly separated without breaking eye contact.

He bowed to her, removed part of his mask and kissed her hand in farewell as they headed for the exit of that old but fancy hotel.

- "I will never forget tonight" - he whispered, separating his gaze from her. 

Just after that, he ran out of one of the streets that surrounded the place.

Leia followed as fast as she could, but he seemed to know those alleys like the back of his hand, and she was soon exhausted.

- "At least tell me your name! I'm Leia!" - she screeched in a last attempt to avoid his departure.

The stranger stopped dead and moved the bottom of his mask, letting his mouth shine again. He smiled and screeched as he ran.

- "Remember me as Samo!"

- "Samo? What kind of name is that?" - and in the same moment in which the last word left his lips, "Samo" disappeared around the corner as the dawn lights reflected in the water of the channels.

[chaoskirin]

Bestiary Short Story

Title: Tersehtt Word Count: 2003 Rating: A syrupy-sweet G Content Warnings: Maybe spiders? But just Luka. Summary: Luka wants to participate in the holiday Tersehtt, which is much like Halloween.

"Meadow, I need you to help me with something," Luka said.

No one ever asked Meadow to help with things, unless it involved destruction. "Meadow, I need you to help me destroy something"? Now that was a more sensible question, and something he was more apt to engage. He really enjoyed destruction.

"No guarantees!" he warbled, looking over the back of the couch at Luka.

She sighed, threw up her hands, and stalked away.

"Wait! Wait!" Meadow said, flipping over the sofa and chasing her down the hall. "Now I'm curious! You can't just imply something's happening and then not tell me what it is! Unless it's math. Is it math?"

"No," Luka said, turning around. She wrung her hands, which either meant she was nervous or about to punch something. "No, it's Tersehtt."

"Yep! And I'm gonna visit every house in Faun-ir and stuff like ten pillowcases full of candy."

Luka narrowed her eyes at him, an action that usually came right before she called him an idiot. It was okay, though. Meadow was well aware he was an idiot, but he really loved candy. And who was going to deny candy to the faun who grew most of the houses on the street? From seeds!

"Candy," Luka repeated.

"Yah."

"Okay, well, you can help me with my thing while you do that."

Ah! The intrigue! The mystery! She held up an opaque purple bag, which explained exactly nothing. "You know," she said. "Tersehtt was named after the first theric. And I thought it might be nice to--"

"You're not gonna give me a history lesson, are you?" Meadow asked. "Is there candy in the bag? Can I have it?"

Surprisingly patient for once, Luka reached in the bag and withdrew a single, tiny caramel, which she underhanded to Meadow. "I'll give you more if you listen to me. How much have you had already?"

"I ate all the candy I was supposed to give out."

"I'm not surprised."

"Good, you're learning."

"Here's the thing. After... You know. After everything... Well, I guess the point is..." She fumbled over her words, continuing to interlace her fingers in varying patterns. "I'm a theric."

"Mm-hm," Meadow replied. Perhaps it was the sugar high he was on, but it took several more seconds for it to click. "Oh! Oh, you want to change? Go out? Give candy to the kids?"

She nodded.

It was an uncharacteristic move for Luka, who disliked crowds and people and children and social gatherings and leaving the house in general. Meadow felt tempted to ask who she was and what she did with Actual Luka, but she was still fidgeting with her hands, and quite nervous about the whole thing. According to various sources (mostly Benji) he was supposed to be sympathetic when someone was nervous.

"You want me to... Go with you?"

"I don't want to do it alone," she said. "Just, you know, it'd be nice. Maybe people won't be so afraid of me then. I dunno."

"I get it!" Meadow said. "Yeah, I'd love to."

---

So many therics shifted on Tersehtt, but Luka never thought she'd be one of them. Still, it was the one day a year no one feared therics, which meant she had one chance to make a good impression. Not that she'd ever made a bad impression, but something at the back of her mind gnawed at her, and she needed something to tell her everything was okay. That she wasn't a monster, or unloved, or an unforgivable societal pariah.

Tonight seemed like a good time to test the waters.

After shifting, she stood in Meadow's living room with little foam cubes stuck to her fangs. "Little kids wave their tails around," Meadow explained. "Don't want any accidents!"

She wanted to tell him that she could easily just tuck her fangs in. And besides, even if there were any accidents, they'd be minor, as she could control the expression of her venom like any other spider. Still, she humored him, and now sported ridiculously green adornments on her face. She supposed it made her all the more festive.

Meadow dashed through the house wearing his green unicorn costume, his hooves thumping against the wooden floor. When she was able to catch him, Luka signed I think I'm ready.

"Not yet," Meadow replied. "Look what I found!"

He held up the most gaudy lime green and orange sweater she'd ever seen. Most suspiciously, it had extra armholes cut out of it and hastily hemmed.

Wait.

She threw a piece of candy at him, which bounced off his fake cardboard horn. Is this what you've been doing? she asked. What do you intend to do with that?!

"You gotta wear it!" he turned it around to reveal a purple cat-shaped spirit effigy dancing on the back. It was the loudest shirt Luka had ever seen.

No, she signed.

"Aw, c'mon," Meadow replied. "If you're gonna do this, you gotta go all out!"

She supposed that made sense. And it wasn't as if he was asking her to wear it for the rest of time. Can I burn it when we're done? She asked.

Meadow narrowed his eyes at the arm holes, screwing up his nose. "Well, it's not like I'm going to wear it ever again. I've only got the two arms. So... Yeah! We'll have a bonfire in the middle of the very wooden forest when you're done and you can burn it!"

She sighed. Given her atrophied lungs and the lack of air in them, it came out as a squeal. "Good!" Meadow said. "Do that when we get out there. The kid's'll be so scared!" He held the sweater open.

After bidding a fond farewell to her dignity, Luka allowed him to help her get the crime against fashion around her shoulders and over the wiry hair on her back. I don't want to scare them, she said.

"No, that's just the thing. They'll love it!" He stepped back to look at his handiwork, and mimed wiping away a tear.

Maybe it would make her less scary. It certainly made her look utterly stupid.

Meadow glanced at the window and asked, "you sure you want to do this? Not too late to back out."

Luka nodded. The shadows outside suggested the sun had dipped below the canopy; rays of bright light shot across the forest, highlighting the festivities outside. Even after dark, though, she'd have no problem seeing with her various specialized eyes. Two saw in the dark, two saw motion, and two could see in heat and infrared. The last two that saw normally in the light seemed boring by comparison.

I have to wear the sweater? she asked.

"Yup. Got your candy?"

She held up the bag.

"Good. Oh, this is gonna be so great! C'mon!" Meadow took one of her four hands. He didn't need to; Luka could walk herself outside. But he was so excited about the whole thing that she let him.

Not many therics lived in Faun-ir, so the holiday was adapted to the circumstances. Instead of gathering candy from therics themselves, the residents would hang faelights outside their doors, dress up in animal costumes, and distribute candy to the neighborhood kids. The trees were decorated with bright green and orange masks, too, which apparently represented the many faces of shapeshifters across the planet.

Almost every apartment had a carved wooden effigy outside, too. Each one varied in form, from dogs, to hawks, to fish and every imaginable animal in between. Since Meadow had great skill in art, his carving was amazing, and so delicately detailed that Luka had to stare at it for a tick. You carved a spider, she signed.

"Of course!" Meadow replied, leading her past the garden. His own tree was decorated so thoroughly that it was almost impossible to see the trunk, and he'd turned the leaves orange, as well.

Kids squealed in joy, running from house to house in their costumes. Most of them were fauns, but there were quite a few humans, as well, and even a few harpies and banshees. Luka didn't see any other therics, though. Her heart started beating fast enough that she could feel it, which was always a bit strange for her, since her heart was in her abdomen.

"You okay?" Meadow asked.

She nodded.

"Don't think they've seen you yet. C'mon!"

Had he not had her hand, she might have balked and skittered right back into his house, but he wasn't letting go, so she had no choice but to follow.

It always amazed her how much children could accept as normal. Even with a giant spider in their midst, they didn't appear to notice. Luka wondered if they thought it was just an elaborate costume. As several kids dashed past her, she held up a hand to stop them, but Meadow said "just wait."

Fine, she said.

One small kid trailing behind his friends was studying every decoration. Every light. Every effigy. He seemed more interested in the atmosphere than gathering candy. Even as other children ran past him with their bags full, this one was content to take his time.

His eyes met Luka's. She signed nice gnoll costume.

"She says she likes your costume," Meadow translated.

The kid tilted his head, studying her. Reaching forward, he looked for a seam between her arm and her shoulder which might indicate she was wearing a costume. He brushed his hand over the bristly hairs near her feet. Pulling at her leg, he lifted it, and poked at the iridescent pads under her toes.

Luka couldn't help a laugh, which manifested as an eerie squeal.

The kid's eyes widened. He dropped her leg and screamed with glee, running away to his friends.

"Hey! HEY! Guys! It's a real theric!" He pointed.

His friends expressed their disbelief, but looked up anyway, staring. Luka stared back. In the deep shadows, her eyes would glow just a bit in the dark.

Then they all screamed and ran away.

Oh, she signed. Maybe this wasn't a good--

Meadow took her hands. "Wait."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Trust me."

Almost a full minute later, she saw the infrared signatures of the kids approaching the trees, and detected the motion of their tiny little hands gripping the trunks as they peered around them.

"They want to be scared," Meadow whispered.

Well, she could certainly do that.

Raising two of her hands, she hissed at them, charging forward. The kids screamed again, running away in a peal of delighted laughter.

Ah-ha!

Emboldened now, she tucked the candy under one arm, and chased them into the trees. So as not to truly scare them, she stayed on the ground where they could see her, moving deliberately and slowly. When she spotted a kid, they'd run away into the shadows in and endless game of hide and seek.

Until she felt the arms a kid wrap around one of her legs. "I got her!" he called. Luka looked back to find the gnoll-costumed faunlet, his tail lashing in victory, holding onto her bristles. He had Meadow's spider effigy raised in his hand. "Guys, I got her! She can't chase us anymore!" As the other kids stepped out of the shadows, he added, "now you gotta give us candy. It's the rules."

And so she opened her bag and distributed their prizes.

Then, just like that, the children were off to the next cluster of houses.

Meadow found her a couple minutes later and asked, "Are you smiling?"

How can you tell? she asked. Her face wasn't flexible in her shifted form.

"All of you," Meadow replied, reaching for her hand again. "Let's find summore kids for you to terrorize. Then we can get home and burn that horrible sweater."

By the time they reached Meadow's treehouse again--six hours later--Luka was far too tired to shift to human.

They burned the sweater in the morning.

[shivaom99]

Siddhartha Gautama, Dearest Buddha

Gautama, was born around 567 B.C.E., in a small kingdom just below the Himalayan foothills. His father was a chief of the Shakya clan. It is said that twelve years before his birth the brahmins prophesied that he would become either a universal monarch or a great sage. To prevent him from becoming an ascetic, his father kept him within the confines of the palace. Gautama grew up in princely luxury, shielded from the outside world, entertained by dancing girls, instructed by brahmins, and trained in archery, swordsmanship, wrestling, swimming, and running. When he came of age he married Gopa, who gave birth to a son. He had, as we might say today, everything. And yet, it was not enough. Something—something as persistent as his own shadow—drew him into the world beyond the castle walls. There, in the streets of Kapilavastu, he encountered three simple things: a sick man, an old man, and a corpse being carried to the burning grounds. Nothing in his life of ease had prepared him for this experience. When his charioteer told him that all beings are subject to sickness, old age, and death, he could not rest. As he returned to the palace, he passed a wandering ascetic walking peacefully along the road, wearing the robe and carrying the single bowl of a sadhu. He then resolved to leave the palace in search of the answer to the problem of suffering. After bidding his wife and child a silent farewell without waking them, he rode to the edge of the forest. There, he cut his long hair with his sword and exchanged his fine clothes for the simple robes of an ascetic. FINDING LIBERATION

With these actions Siddhartha Gautama joined a whole class of men who had dropped out of Indian society to find liberation. There were a variety of methods and teachers, and Gautama investigated many—atheists, materialists, idealists, and dialecticians. The deep forest and the teeming marketplace were alive with the sounds of thousands of arguments and opinions, unlike in our time.

Gautama finally settled down to work with two teachers. From Arada Kalama, who had three hundred disciples, he learned how to discipline his mind to enter the sphere of nothingness. But even though Arada Kalama asked him to remain and teach as an equal, he recognized that this was not liberation, and left. Next Siddhartha learned how to enter the concentration of mind which is neither consciousness nor unconsciousness from Udraka Ramaputra. But neither was this liberation and Siddhartha left his second teacher. For six years Siddhartha along with five companions practiced austerities and concentration. He drove himself mercilessly, eating only a single grain of rice a day, pitting mind against body. His ribs stuck through his wasted flesh and he seemed more dead than alive.

THE MIDDLE PATH

His five companions left him after he made the decision to take more substantial food and to abandon asceticism. Then, Siddhartha entered a village in search of food. There, a woman named Sujata offered him a dish of milk and a separate vessel of honey. His strength returned, Siddhartha washed himself in the Nairanjana River, and then set off to the Bodhi tree. He spread a mat of kusha grass underneath, crossed his legs and sat. He sat, having listened to all the teachers, studied all the sacred texts and tried all the methods. Now there was nothing to rely on, no one to turn to, nowhere to go. He sat solid and unmoving and determined as a mountain, until finally, after six days, his eye opened on the rising morning star, so it is said, and he realized that what he had been looking for had never been lost, neither to him nor to anyone else. Therefore there was nothing to attain, and no longer any struggle to attain it. “Wonder of wonders,” he is reported to have said, “this very enlightenment is the nature of all beings, and yet they are unhappy for lack of it.” So it was that Siddhartha Gautama woke up at the age of thirty-five, and became the Buddha, the Awakened One, known as Shakyamuni, the sage of the Shakyas. For seven weeks he enjoyed the freedom and tranquillity of liberation. At first he had no inclination to speak about his realization. He felt would be too difficult for most people to understand. But when, according to legend, Brahma, chief of the three thousand worlds, requested that the Awakened One teach, since there were those “whose eyes were only a little clouded over,” the Buddha agreed. THE FIRST NOBLE TRUTH

Shakyamuni’s two former teachers, Udraka and Arada Kalama, had both died only a few days earlier, and so he sought the five ascetics who had left him. When they saw him approaching the Deer Park in Benares they decided to ignore him, since he had broken his vows. Yet they found something so radiant about his presence that they rose, prepared a seat, bathed his feet and listened as the Buddha turned the wheel of the dharma, the teachings, for the first time. The First Noble Truth of the Buddha stated that all life, all existence, is characterized by duhkha. The Sanskrit word meaning suffering, pain, unsatisfactoriness. Even moments of happiness have a way of turning into pain when we hold onto them, or, once they have passed into memory, they twist the present as the mind makes an inevitable, hopeless attempt to recreate the past. The teaching of the Buddha is based on direct insight into the nature of existence. Ir is a radical critique of wishful thinking and the myriad tactics of escapism—whether through political utopianism, psychological therapeutics, simple hedonism, or (and it is this which primarily distinguishes Buddhism from most of the world’s religions) the theistic salvation of mysticism. SUFFERING IS TRUE

Duhkha is Noble, and it is true. It is a foundation, a stepping stone, to be comprehended fully, not to be escaped from or explained. The experience of duhkha, of the working of one’s mind, leads to the Second Noble Truth, the origin of suffering, traditionally described as craving, thirsting for pleasure, but also and more fundamentally a thirst for continued existence, as well as nonexistence. Examination of the nature of this thirst leads to the heart of the Second Noble Truth, the idea of the “self,” or “I,” with all its desires, hopes, and fears, and it is only when this self is comprehended and seen to be insubstantial that the Third Noble Truth, the cessation of suffering, is realized. THE FIRST SANGHA

The five ascetics who listened to the Buddha ‘s first discourse in the Deer Park became the nucleus of a community, a sangha, of men (women were to enter later) who followed the way the Buddha had described in his Fourth Noble Truth, the Noble Eightfold Path. These bhikshus, or monks, lived simply, owning a bowl, a robe, a needle, a water strainer, and a razor, since they shaved their heads as a sign of having left home. They traveled around northeastern India, practicing meditation alone or in small groups, begging for their meals.

The Buddha’s teaching, however, was not only for the monastic community. Shakyamuni had instructed them to bring it to all: “Go ye, O bhikshus, for the gain of the many, the welfare of the many, in compassion for the world, for the good, for the gain, for the welfare of gods and men.” For the next forty-nine years Shakyamuni walked through the villages and towns of India, speaking in the vernacular, using common figures of speech that everyone could understand. He taught a villager to practice mindfulness while drawing water from a well, and when a distraught mother asked him to heal the dead child she carried in her arms, he did not perform a miracle, but instead instructed her to bring him a mustard seed from a house where no one had ever died. She returned from her search without the seed, but with the knowledge that death is universal. DEATH AND IMPERMANENCE

As the Buddha’s fame spread, kings and other wealthy patrons donated parks and gardens for retreats. The Buddha accepted these, but he continued to live as he had ever since his twenty-ninth year: as a wandering sadhu, begging his own meal, spending his days in meditation. Only now there was one difference. Almost every day, after his noon meal, the Buddha taught. None of these discourses, or the questions and answers that followed, were recorded during the Buddha’s lifetime. The Buddha died in the town of Kushinagara, at the age of eighty, having eaten a meal of pork or mushrooms. Some of the assembled monks were despondent, but the Buddha, lying on his side, with his head resting on his right hand, reminded them that everything is impermanent, and advised them to take refuge in themselves and the dharma—the teaching. He asked for questions a last time. There were none. Then he spoke his final words: “Now then, bhikshus, I address you: all compound things are subject to decay; strive diligently.” The first rainy season after the Buddha’s parinirvana, it is said that five hundred elders gathered at a mountain cave near Rajagriha, where they held the First Council. Ananda, who had been the Buddha’s attendant, repeated all the discourses, or sutras, he had heard, and Upali recited the two hundred fifty monastic rules, the Vinaya, while Mahakashyapa recited the Abhidharma, the compendium of Buddhist psychology and metaphysics. These three collections, which were written on palm leaves a few centuries later and known as the Tripitaka (literally “three baskets”), became the basis for all subsequent versions of the Buddhist canon. Adapted from How the Swans Came to the Lake (Shambhala Publications). Rick Fields (1942–1999) was a contributing editor to Tricycle and the author of Chop Wood, Carry Water; The Code of the Warrior; (with Bernie Glassman) Instructions to the Cook; and the well-known history of American Buddhism, How the Swans Came to the Lake.

[kondo-hijikata]

“I sleep better if you’re around.” Please for Toshisami.

Pairings: Established Kondo/HijikataRating: TSummary: Sometimes, he says the right things. Sometimes, he says the wrong things. Sometimes, he can’t say what’s really in his heart. Luckily, Kondo understands Hijikata all the time. Aka they kinda fight and then make up. [AO3]

.*Inarticulate*.

In seiza at the center of the room, Kondo made quick work of rifling fingers through a small packed bag while remaining keenly aware of the disapproving eyes burning into him from behind. After inventory was taken, his lashes fell in kind with the slump of his shoulders and he exhaled, a breathy prelude to trying his hand at last minute diplomacy. “…I know.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Those words may have been neutral on their own, but the tone with which they were delivered was most certainly not.

It was silly to presume the strained atmosphere looming from last night might dissolve without reason, though Kondo would sometimes allow himself an optimistic daydream or two. Alas, reality was reality; they’d shared the futons without sharing much of anything else, the Vice Commander bundled in his own covers and facing away with a reserved indignation that was anything but silent. In fact, Kondo doubted Hijikata even realized how loud his displeasure could resonate in the absence of spoken language, and if it wasn’t the source of snap-impending tension at present, it might’ve been impressive.

The much ado about nothing, the aloofness through being clearly affected, the appearance of calm on the outside at odds with the in: all of these components harmonized into a classic Toshi-is-upset tune that Kondo would need to gracefully dance his way about. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on the viewpoint), it wasn’t the first he’d heard this song over the years, and by now he liked to think he more-or-less knew the steps.

An old adage touted that one should never go to sleep upset, otherwise dawn would crack a crimson morning. And since Hijikata had put himself to bed while Kondo discussed trip plans with Sannan, a legitimate attempt to soothe his persistent ire needed to happen prior to the fast-approaching farewell. Battlefield red painted a proverbial sky; if irascibility could stew this much in just a few hours, the consequence of it continuing to do so for days was an unthinkable situation.

Thus, fingertips braced against the tatami and Kondo rose with a pivot to face his plaintiff directly. The display awaiting him matched his expectations sans failure—Hijikata standing stiff with crossed arms, his mouth not exactly pulled into a frown but the corners indeed drooping. He stood dark and brooding before the gentle glow of morning sunlit shoji, so out of place surrounded by this aura and yet so himself that Kondo could barely prevent a fond twitching of his own lips at the sight.

Apologetic glances rife with sincerity conjured an effective antidote against quarrelsome intentions, and that remedy was one Hijikata knew damn well he possessed a weakness to. It was evident especially now, with the averting of his eyes as Kondo approached. He was a stubborn one, this man, but perseverance was a trait they both possessed, for better or worse.

“Toshi…” The name fell in a pleading half-whisper, warm hands cupping lean biceps and thumbs rubbing little circles into purple fabric. “Come on, I don’t want to leave with you angry at me.”

Finely manicured brows raised with the sarcasm in the room. “Then don’t.”

“Hey.” Lifting his hand to the side of Hijikata’s jaw, Kondo attempted—and failed—to coax him into turning his face. He exhaled and relented, trading the silver-tongue for candor. “Please, let me try doing things my way for once, okay?”

At that, their gazes finally met. “I don’t know what you want my approval so badly for. You’re not interested in what I think anyway.” Oh, the petulance.

“You know that’s not true,” Kondo insisted.

“No? I already told you I don’t agree with your plan, so you tell me.”

“Is that…my plan, or do you mean his?”

“Tch. This conversation’s over.” Hijikata made an abrupt turn for the door, but a hand latched carefully to his elbow to keep him in place. He peered at it and then cast a glare over his shoulder.

“Toshi, the ice is already so thin. We both know that.” Kondo offered a forlorn shrug and small shake of the head. “With Aizu, with…Serizawa-san and his followers, and—”

“Obviously!” Hijikata snapped and jolted himself free, whirling to meet him at full attention. “That’s why going on some misguided Ronin-hunting trip is completely asinine! The Mimawarigumi’s already pissed that we even breathe in our own territory and now we’re gonna just barge our asses into Osaka without leads? If we had something to go on, then fine but we don’t. It doesn’t make any damn sense.”

Kondo understood, really understood, the logic of Hijikata’s argument because it was comprised of viewpoints he shared in full himself. There was rationality to his own thinking as well, however. “You’re completely right in that regard.”

“So right that the second Serizawa tosses the plan out, you’re on board, huh…”

“Toshi, we need to unite this group before it completely rips apart at the seams. That’s all I’m trying to do here.” Stepping back to give space, Kondo refused to take the argumentative bait and instead folded his arms with a pensive glance to the floor. “Look, every time he proposes something to us, we challenge him.”

Hijikata laughed beneath his breath. “I wonder why.”

“Of course. Again, you’re right. And in the end, it doesn’t make a difference what we say to him because he just goes and does whatever he wants.” With a quick lick of the lips, Kondo’s arms slipped away from each other and he once more sought the eyes still pinned to him. “Don’t misunderstand me. I agreed to his idea for this trip because I want to attempt building some semblance of rapport, not because I think our patrols here are useless.”

“He really did say that,” came the interjection, but it went ignored in favor of staying on topic.

“Bridging the huge gaps between us is the only clear path forward that I can see for our livelihood in the long run. Otherwise…” There won’t be a group at all, Kondo chose not to add but he knew the message was understood. With another shake of the head, he pressed on. “Anyway, you’re always telling me that I’m the leader and how I need to put Serizawa-san in his place. Any time I start taking the reins though, it’s never the right step forward. So, I don’t know, Toshi, maybe the real question here is if I’m actually the right one for this job or not.”

There was a clear shift in Hijikata’s expression then, the harshness in his demeanor morphing into surprise and then finally beginning to soften at the edges. “Kat-chan, that’s not fair.”

“It’s not?” Kondo’s palms opened at his sides and raised a touch. “Am I missing something, then?”

A strained noise came deep from the back of Hijikata’s throat and he glanced off to the left before sighing. “I just don’t like the idea of you going off with him for some shot-in-the-dark reason. He’s got an instinctive talent for getting us into the shittiest situations and it’s never his name that takes the damage.”

“I know. That’s why I’m taking so many of the guys with me. I can count on all of them, Souji especially.” Kondo’s chin fell in a nod. “Between all of us, I’m confident we can keep him in check.”

“All right.” A contemplative beat. “Let’s be clear about something, though. Serizawa’s the one I don’t trust, not you.”

“Toshi, I know. I don’t trust him either. And clearly, he’s of the same opinion when it comes to us. We need to start somewhere to fix this mess, though, so…” Rubbing the side of his neck, Kondo pursed his lips. “I’m sorry you think I’m ignoring your judgement or that I don’t want your input. I do. I’m just…trying my best to do what I feel is right. But if you really think we shouldn’t go, then—”

“It’s not—” Another inarticulate sound followed and Hijikata’s head cocked while his lashes fell for a beat. “Kat-chan, it’s not that.”

And that was all he needed to say.

Kondo closed the space which separated them and pulled Hijikata into readily accepted arms. They remained like that for several moments, entwined in another thoughtful quietude before Kondo nuzzled and mumbled into dark hair, “I’m not comfortable with this either. I want you with me.” He drew back only far enough to allow their eyes to meet. “I need to take Sannan-kun for the sake of Niimi-san’s support, though.”

“Aa, you don’t have to tell me.”

“I know, but I wanted to. Actually, I wanted to say all of this last night, but when I came back to find you already in bed, well…” Hijikata’s mouth parted at that, but Kondo just smiled and brushed long bangs behind an ear. “It’s all right. It’s in the past now.”

Their lips met in a kiss all too sweet and much too short. Upon its breaking, Kondo unfastened the clasp at the front of his haori and let it slip from his frame. “It’s been a…really, really long time since we’ve been apart.”

“Yeah…” Hijikata agreed while the garment swooshed about him and settled on his shoulders. “You’re not wearing—?”

“I’ll put on another. This one stays with you.” Kondo turned to retrieve the piece in question while he continued, “Hang it up or fold it, if you want. It’s just…personally, I know that I sleep better if you’re around, so…”

It was endearing that they’d been together for so many years by this point and Hijikata still had the urge to avert his eyes at overt displays of affection. “…Right. Yeah, uh.” He slid the haori off. “Let’s hang it, then.”

Kondo grinned warmly. “Sure.”

And hung it was.

~

Between the Yagi and Maekawa residences, the troop formed and departed. Saito and Nagakura took point with Okita and Inoue in the flanks and Shimada and Yamazaki at the rear; protected by their blades were swordsmen who needed no escort—Kondo and Sannan, Serizawa and Hirama—and yet Hijikata breathed easier at the presence of such a large accompanying guard.

He watched until the group reached the corner, his eyes catching golden ones wandering back to his. Kondo nodded once, his lips twitching, and then they all were gone.

After a quick dispatch of orders to Toudo, that had inexplicably turned into a heart-to-heart confidence boost for the younger man, Hijikata drifted his way back inside with intent to finish drafting the monthly report. It was a lie he almost believed. His hand pushed the shoji along the track and he paused in the entrance.

Late spring brought mornings of sunshine and warmth that crept slowly upward until afternoon, yet…the door closed again when Hijikata stepped inside. He walked with purpose to the haori hanging neatly, took the garment in his hands, and brought it to his face with a deep inhale.

Poetry could flow with ease from his brush to writing paper, but when it came to actually speaking what was buried deep within his heart…that was an entirely different thing.

Nosing the fabric, Hijikata mentally filed through all the things he’d wanted to say, all the things Kondo had probably needed to hear.

I believe in you. I don’t want you to go. I’m going to fucking kill him if something happens to you. I know you’re the right one to lead us, because you were born for it. The next three days are gonna suck and I don’t know if I can sleep well without you either. I hope this plan works out and the next, because each is one step closer to you becoming a daimyo.

…I wish I could tell you how much I want to make up for last night, for everything I was unable to articulate.

But most importantly of all…

“Come back safely, Kat-chan,” Hijikata whispered and breathed in the scent he loved most once more.

…And in the middle of a dirt road less traveled, Kondo suddenly felt the urge to smile.

Okita peered over at him with amusement. “Kondo-san?”

“Just a passing thought, Souji,” he replied and cast his gaze toward a cloudless blue sky.

[birbleafs]

[fic] augury of sins

Series: Tales of Zestiria Rating: T Genre: Character study, Game-canon ending/post-epilogues Characters: Symonne, Sorey, Rose, Mikleo, Alisha Diphda, Lunarre, Phoenix Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Minor character death... pretentious prose?? IDK Summary: Truth be told, she never was all that fond of morality plays. Or, five times Symonne struggled with meaning and one time she found contentment in simply being.

Fic can also be read on AO3

i. “Why do you still keep smiling, even when I tear open your wounds?” she hissed, vehemence laced in every word.

(Many moons later, she would find herself asking the same question, to yet another who smiled just as he did even through the anguish and pain.

How could they… How dare they? It didn’t make any sense, it couldn’t—)

Her brows creased in anger, Symonne forced herself back up to her feet even as her limbs ached and trembled from the growing exhaustion of battle. Being delicate in stature had its drawbacks; she would tire easily from direct combat. As such, she had perfected the use of her seraphic artes, weaving illusions and doppelgangers born from human hearts, an augury of one’s deepest fears and desires. She had not asked for this accursed blessing, had never wished for any of it.

But it was all she’d ever known, all she’d carried with her through centuries of misery and growing apathy.

It was (she was) enough for this, for her Lord—she reminded herself again as she struggled to stand upright, pointing her baton at the two humans before her. It was enough that she could serve her Master. She won’t stop here… no, she couldn’t stop, she must not fail—

“That’s enough, Symonne.”

The Shepherd’s voice was gentle and kind, and Symonne felt frustration flaring from deep within. She lifted her head, staring up at his disgusting concern, at the pity in those evergreen eyes.

“Why do you keep fighting back? How can you smile like it doesn’t hurt?!” she cried, hurling all of her anger and confusion outward, streaks of magic dancing in violent crackles around them. She wanted to smite them down; wanted to rip that infuriatingly radiant smile off his face, to gouge the kindness out of those eyes with sharp nails—

“When all that awaits us in the end is inevitable doom, a hollow death? Is it not natural to welcome that?!” Symonne snarled. She raised her baton once more, threading wisps of magic through the thick violet miasma around them, even though she was already worn from their earlier battle and from the crushing weight of Heldalf’s domain bearing down upon her.

The illusions danced briefly around them—shadows of the bandit children laughing alongside the Cardinal, crimson blossoming against the pristine-white of her robes; of the old Explorer, his hefty leather book strapped to his back; of the blind wind seraph who gnashed his teeth, lips curled in derision at the Shepherd and his Squire.

Both humans faltered at the sight, sword and daggers wavering in their hold, their expressions clouded with grief. This would throw them off, surely, and turn them to despair, it must—

But the Shepherd only closed his eyes, steeling himself, before he slashed forward with his burning blade. The shadows screamed and flickered weakly, fading along with the remainder of her strength and Symonne was left curled against the cold, hard ground.

“Don’t you wish they could have at least survived? I can make it a reality, so why do you keep fighting back, why?!” she spat, feeling a last spike of defiance as she struggled to her hands and knees.

“If Forton, Mayvin, Dezel, and even those children were brave enough to have endured the pain that comes with reality…” Sorey began, his sword still bright with the silver flame. “Then we as the Shepherd and Squire—we surely have to do just as much, maybe even more so.”

“And that’s why we’ll keep pushing onward,” Mikleo said. “We could never cast away the memory of these people by accepting your illusions, no matter how perfect they are.”

Rose nodded, a rueful look in her eyes. “Doing so would be a disservice to all the pain and hardships they’ve had to suffer.”

Symonne set her jaw, fingers clenched so tightly around her baton that her knuckles turned bone-white.

How could they not see, not understand the futility of it all? If she could not do this one thing for her Lord, if she failed him—no, she cannot allow it—then there would be no reason… She would have no meaning…

“The more you fight, the more you suffer… What use is there to struggle?! So why must you resist Lord Heldalf vision’s? He will rid the world of perpetual agony and restraint!”

There was the sound of approaching steps then. She froze, shoulders taut, agitation a churning knot deep in her belly.

Sorey knelt before her, smiling gently—that abhorrent smile, bright and untouched like the sun, she hated it so—and reached out for her, only to pause and thought better of it, pulling his arm back to rest at his side instead.

“It may be true—the more we struggle, the more we’ll suffer. But it doesn’t always have to be like this. It’s what I’ve come to realise and learn from my friends. From those I’ve brushed paths with throughout this journey.”

His countenance grew softer, his voice low, almost as if the words spoken were for himself as much as it was for her. “We’re more than the suffering and burdens we bear, Symonne. You are so much more than the pain you carry with you—and you don’t have to keep thinking of yourself as evil, of deserving of all resentment.”

“W-What?” she echoed, feeling her throat constrict and her eyes growing moist.

“Ah…” Sorey faltered then, struggling to articulate the words right. He offered her an apologetic smile, seemingly self-conscious at how he abruptly had her full attention now as she waited for his answer.

“W-Well, what I mean is… It’s all right if you are as you are. You exist just like the rest of us, in the here and now—that’s what really matters. Everything will work out somehow because I’ll keep searching for a way, for all of us.”

Symonne lowered her head, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

As the party left, making their way through the labyrinth and into Artorius’ Throne, Symonne felt his words lingering, striking a chord deep within.

She wailed then, and despite her angry, bitter tears, felt a euphoric sense of relief, of affirmation taking root within her chest.

How truly selfish of you, Shepherd. 

ii.

Many moons later, she found herself—yet again—asking the same question, to another who smiled just like he did even through the anguish and pain.

(How could they… how dare they? She had pondered over it then, seething, infuriated at the young man whose heart would not be corrupted. Who had refused to fall, even when his family’s blood had stained his hands crimson.

This time though, the ire driving her question had dimmed into waning embers; all she was left with was genuine bewilderment.)

“Thank you,” Alisha said, bowing graciously. Symonne did not miss the grief and sorrow lining the corners of her eyes, but what puzzled her most was the Princess’ smile. It was a tiny smile, tugging at the corners of her lips, but one filled with immense gratitude nonetheless. “Because of you, I was finally able to see Lady Maltran off with a proper farewell.”

There it was again, the look upon Alisha’s face. The same look of pity and understanding that Symonne had so much contempt for. She had scorned the Princess’ gaze then, turning instead to face the Squire—Ah, no, not a Squire anymore; our darling comedian has taken up the Shepherd’s mantle now, hasn’t she? —only to find she detested Rose’s cheeky grin and unflinching sureness nearly as much. Symonne hated how the woman’s blue eyes were still as sharp as the blades she twirled languidly in her palms.

“Selfish and as pitiful as ever, I see,” she muttered, almost thoughtfully, before the air around her rippled and she disappeared into velvet shadows once more.

iii. Humans were obnoxiously stubborn beings. Even when they had shed all trivialities, mortal customs, and ingrained social graces; when they allowed the darkness in their hearts to fester, allowed the ferocity of their desires to run amok and then consume them, transforming them into hellions.

Symonne twisted her lips ever-so-slightly at the thought. Even from her vantage point high up the Shrine walls, she could see the battle below was drawing to a close, the two opponents seemingly at a stalemate. It was clear as day who the true victor was though and she wasn’t the least bit surprised.   With a hum, she calculated the distance to the square below and took a graceful leap off the ledge.

The sphere of illusions disintegrated just as her feet touched the cobble-stoned streets: the ghostly silhouettes of a tawny-haired boy and red-haired girl shattered into fractals, the children’s laughter dissipating into a sheet of crystalline dust that settled over the two opponents—the fox hellion and the darling comedian Shepherd.

“Traitorous wench!” Lunarre spat viciously at her approach, fangs bared. “This was all your doing? I should’ve known.”

“Traitorous? Always the dullard spouting inane commentary, aren’t you?” Symonne countered sweetly. “My master is long dead ; there is none left to betray. And I serve no one now, least of all the likes of you.” She tilted her head, turning a coy smile towards the Shepherd Rose. “In your bid to carve each other up, you’ve all unknowingly waltzed into my domain—surely it isn’t necessary for me to remind you how my blessing works?”

“I won’t play your games, wench,” Lunarre growled, amber eyes feral and burning with blood lust. “If you get in my way, I’ll kill you too, after I gorge on little Lambkin Rose and her friends.” He threw back his head in a fit of maniacal laughter, tongue lolling over cruel and yellowed fangs.

Symonne only scowled at the sudden surge of malevolence, at the growing pressure settling against her shoulders as she continued to hold her ground, unyielding.

“And after that, maybe I’ll even sniff out everyone’s precious sleeping Shepherd.” Lunarre hissed, voice dripping venom. “Wrench his limbs apart and split him open, flesh and bone, just so I can rip into that delicious still-beating heart, drain his blood dry and—A-AARGGH!!”

There was a flash of movement, a whirlwind of red, green and white.

Lunarre tried to scream but could only choke on blood, crimson stains blooming from his chest where Rose’s daggers had found their mark.

“May these weary bones find peaceful rest,” Rose murmured through clenched teeth, driving the blades deeper as she listened to his dying gasps. “Good-bye, Lunarre. I’ll always remember our better days together.”

The fox hellion shuddered, his form dissipating into a miasma of black and violet tendrils.

The emblem over her glove was still ablaze with silver flames as Rose purified the last of the malevolence. With the malevolence cleared and the illusions wavering there was no reason to linger around—Symonne could hear the approaching steps of Rose’s seraphim as they broke through the dying hellion’s crumbling domain to reach her side.

“What display of audaciousness. Seems like you’ve come a long way and we’ve just only reached the interlude of this brand-new play. But alas, the curtain must be drawn for now.” Symonne paused, sparing a glance at Rose—she was still crouched low to the ground, staring silently at the bloodstained path. “Oh, has our darling comedian Shepherd finally broken? Did the fox really get to you that much?”

Rose let out a tired laugh before she straightened up. She wiped the grime from her face, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“He’s kind of right though, you know. I’d be a really cheap imitation of Sorey. Not that I want to be known as a maniac who goes nuts over mouldy architecture and dead people’s possessions, mind you—we still have Mikleo for that. But sometimes…” Rose’s voice grew soft as she touched the blue scarf around her neck. “This whole Shepherd business is just…”

Symonne hummed, almost amused now. “No need to flatter yourself, dear girl. You humans are the same wherever you go, whatever you do. Stubborn, supercilious, and always with the self-serving monologues.”

“Aren’t we all?” Rose gave Symonne a crooked smile, before turning to nod at Mikleo. “Like you’re pretty stubborn yourself too, so not all that different from the rest of us. And Shepherd or not, I’m always gonna be getting stuff done the Rose way. Gotta live up to that true name I was bestowed so graciously with, after all.”

Mikleo quirked an incredulous eyebrow at that, even though he couldn’t quite hide the amusement creeping over his features. “Huh. I thought someone once lamented how Wilkis Wilk was a lazy sort of name.”

“It is still a lazy sort of name. But guess I just grew into it!” Rose cracked another easy grin, hands upon her hips.

“Presuppositions again. Such is your lot.” Symonne sighed. Dawn was fast approaching, the first slivers of sunlight visible over the edge of the cityscape—and her cue to take her leave.

“Hey, wait!” Rose called after her retreating form. “Why... why did you help us, Symonne?”

“That wasn’t assistance,” Symonne murmured quietly, her form elusive as she faded away with the mist.

It wasn’t assistance, but…

Was it mercy, hope?

Salvation?

She had grown weary of pondering this act.

(Truth be told, she never was all that fond of morality plays.)

iv. If she was honest with herself, she could not say she remembered in detail the events of that particular day, decades ago. Human lives burn so brightly throughout the march of time, and yet the fire of their souls was merely flickering candlelight, winking out, one by one, in endless cycles.

Even so, she remembered those smiles, the sound of their laughter.

She remembered the littlest things, the crinkle in the sides of their listless eyes, their face contorted in fear and pain. Their voices pleading for release from the bitter harshness of reality— —the world is too cruel, please just let us dream, let us sleep forever— —no! this wasn’t what I… forgive me...! — —you brought this upon us, your gift, youyouyOUYOU...! — The ringing silence that came thereafter.

She had expected the malevolence here to have festered long enough to overwhelm her, perhaps even driven her to draconian madness. But as she picked her way carefully through the debris and remnants of the small village—of a place she had almost called home once, a lifetime ago—all she sensed now was tranquillity, a calm relief.

There, before her and basking in a patch of sun, was a small plant. A fir wood sapling, its bright green vines curled around a stick, tiny leaves already sprouting from the ends.

Symonne knelt beside the sapling, brushing a finger gingerly over the leaves, running her hand through the loose soil. There was no longer any trace of malevolence, not in the air or beneath the earth. Only the buzzing of insects, of life once again slowly taking root.

There were no echoes of the past (no desolate screams of the dying villagers) whispering from haunted shadows into her ears.

“Our darling comedian Shepherd, so hard at work these days.”

Symonne sat beside the sapling a little longer, exhaling slowly as she savoured the warmth of the sun upon her back.

v. 

The water seraph was a frequent visitor of the cliff edge grave.

Others came by as well, to present flowers and offerings of traditional curry buns, to pay their respects—the humans, during the Vernal Equinox every late autumn; the seraphim at every turn of a decade, sometimes a century. But it was the silhouette of a smallish creature perched over Mikleo’s shoulder that, for one reason or another, she remembered most.

Symonne did not care for normin in general. They were a contemptible lot, simpletons easily beguiled by fleeting contentment. And she especially did not care for a pompous one with too zealous an attitude, and who seemed overly keen with pointless nattering. “I see you’ve made the annual pilgrimage as well, little one.” Phoenix nodded in approval, chest puffed out importantly. “And I see you still possess the proclivity for presumptions.” She scoffed in return by way of greeting.

With narrowed eyes, she studied the way Mikleo’s hair now skimmed over his shoulders in loose, silver-white strands. A single lock braided with a bright yellow-orange feather was tucked neatly over his left ear. Then, with almost a resigned reluctance, she moved forward to sit as close to the cliff’s edge as she could manage, peering down at the ruinous landscape below. After a moment, she asked, her voice barely a whisper over the rising gust: “How are you not a dragon, loving and being around humans as much as you always have? Yearning so much for his return and yet… never truly certain if he…”

She fell silent, unable to finish the question. Mikleo did not reply, did not look her way. He seemed to have curled in around himself, arms wrapped his torso as he sat beside the grave—whether he was trying to keep the questions out or perhaps just protecting his most treasured memories, Symonne could not say.

“I can’t say for sure, honestly. But I guess I’ve learned not to dwell too long in the past,” Mikleo began, a pensive look in his violet eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing them, my human friends. And yet at the same time, I don’t think I can ever not see what’s before and around me still.” He paused, raising his hand to the weathered headstone, tracing a finger over the engraved name Numin. “Maybe… maybe this is what it really means to be a seraph?” “So that is your answer then?” Symonne asked, unconvinced. “Finally casting aside your shackles?” “Shackles?” Mikleo shook his head. “The time I shared with Sorey, with Rose and Alisha—and all the humans I’ve ever met? They’re the foundation to who I am now, who I’ll continue to grow to be. And my answer is simple: I believe in Sorey, in our dream. I can’t reach that dream if I’m always going to keep looking back over my shoulder in despair, can I?”

Symonne only sighed, dangling her legs over the cliff side. Still such a simple fool then, she thought.

“And what about you? You’re no dragon either even after serving a Lord of Calamity for as long as you did, and then lurking among humans nearly as often as I have.”

His question caught her unawares. She tilted her head towards him, brows furrowed, pondering for a moment.

“Spite, I suppose. And sheer obstinacy.”

The brief silence that followed was awkward, but easily broken by Mikleo’s soft laugh.

“So, not that different from humans and the rest of us then,” he said, violet eyes bright with mirth as he looked ahead to the pillar of light glimmering from the ruins below.

“No,” Symonne said, smiling wryly. “I suppose not.”

vi. “You really saved my skin back there! Thanks!”

The young seraph wasn’t anyone she’d ever chanced upon over the years, Symonne was certain of this. His messy oak-brown hair was pulled back into a short pony-tail, the tips of each strand now a bright, radiant gold; his travel cloak casual and unadorned.

But it was in the curve of his smile, the tentative sincerity of his expressions and little mannerisms.

And those evergreen eyes—she had recognised that childlike wonderment, that boundless zest within them all too well.

“I’m Sorey, a wandering seraph,” he introduced himself readily, once the dust had settled around them.

Symonne studied the broken stone monument in the tall grass before them, listening intently for any tell-tale creaks or shifts in the stonework to suggest yet another collapse in the structure.

“Symonne,” she replied simply, once she had ascertained there was no imminent danger. “I was merely passing through. You… don’t remember anything, do you?”

“Well, I did kind of bumped my head a little,” Sorey said, brushing at his nape sheepishly. “So yeah, I’m a bit fuzzy about the details. The last thing I remember is the prickleboar rushing at us, and then... uh, falling off from that stone wedge there in the structure, all while trying to dodge it...”

The familiar angle of his head-tilt only lifted the corners of her lips into a knowing smile.

(He was not yet aware of it himself during his fall from the crumbling structure, but Symonne hadn’t missed the brief glimpse into his thoughts, his memories: the way her illusions had reacted—fractured pieces of emotion weaving through the wind—to the indiscernible fears he had kept folded behind that bright smile, buried deep within the eaves of his heart.) “I managed to scare it off with the illusions, so it’s highly unlikely to return,” she said instead, already moving ahead. “You’ll still need to tread with more caution through these woods. Prickleboars aren’t the only creatures that are territorial.”

“Right,” Sorey nodded, reaching down to collect the book he’d dropped earlier. He dusted the covers before slipping it back into the small leather pack he wore at his hip. “And thank you again, Symonne. I really owe you one. I’m going to look for Phoenix—ah, he’s a friend… a normin I sort of picked up?—we got separated just before I found this monument and the prickleboar attacked. Maybe you’d like to go with me, if we’re heading the same way?”

Symonne had almost, almost considered taking up his suggestion, if only for curiosity’s sake. “My path leads elsewhere for now,” she said, declining the offer with a slight shake of her head. “We may however chance upon each other again another day. And while I’m not fond of platitudes, but... Some advice for what you seek, your heart’s desire.”

She held his curious gaze, unwavering, her thoughts drifting to the words that had stayed with her, that she’d held on to at every turn of the century.

It’s all right if you are as you are. You exist just like the rest of us, in the here and now—that’s what really matters.

“You’re more than your lost memories, more than the burden of a selfish Shepherd’s legacy.”

There it was again, the tiniest hint of emotion, flickering over his features. Sorey blinked—and it was gone again—head angled in confusion. “I don’t think I quite understand…”

Symonne only smiled, retreating once more to the comfort of shadows before he could question further.

“Good journeying, seraph Sorey,” she said, her voice the soft rustling of leaves in the canopy above. “May you find luck dancing, wherever your heart leads you.”

Sorey was still deep in pensive thought when Phoenix finally found him, watching the way the leaves bobbed over the spot where Symonne had last stood.  

—End—

Notes: - I wanted to re-write some of the scenes with Symonne during the battle before the game ending. Somehow it turned out longer and ended up being a character study of sorts. Not sure how I feel about this but l o l  [/I-tried.jpeg].

- The fourth scene is inspired by Symonne’s character notes found in the Zestiria World Guidance Book translations. Before working under Heldalf, she was a seraph who actually loved humans and had tried to live among them, only for her blessing to bring disastrous results to a village.

- The last scene where she meets seraph Sorey takes place a little after Chapter 1 and before Chapter 2 of my post-epilogue fic, Chasing Dreams.

Thank you for reading! Comments and critique are welcomed for my fics—I'd like to hear what you think, if you've enjoyed this so far.

[captainderyn]

Oh, Grey Warden

Title: Oh, Grey Warden

Word Count: ~1500

Summary: There was only one way the Blight was going to end. One life couldn't be worth all those in Thedas, and what’s the forfeit of a life already tainted?

Warnings: Spoilers for the end of Dragon Age: Origins, character death.

Notes: Laurel belongs to @delavairesslegacy . This idea is a (mostly) au ending . More on Ru’s break point is here.

For fourteen years the only path Ruinel had seen was the one the Circle put in front of her. Learn, hone her magic so she wasn’t a threat, pass her Harrowing and take her places among the mages in the Circle. There hadn’t been anything beyond that or anything before.

Being conscripted into the Grey Wardens had sent her world crumbling down around her, the suffocating fear of the unknown almost mirroring the blind terror she had felt when she had been torn from her family, her Dalish clan at the first sign of her magic.

Finding Laurel had been a bright spot, the one thing that kept her fear of the Blight from drowning her. Then meeting Leliana, finding love with the red-haired human had given her another reason to believe that maybe, just maybe there was something on the other side of the darkspawn hoards. For some time it was enough, having her sister at her side after so many years, having found someone to love and weather the darkness with.

Then the full force of the Blight hit her, the horrors of a world marred by violence and terror. Fourteen years in the Circle Tower above Lake Calenhad had left her unaccustomed to the world around her and it swept over her like a tidal wave, pulling her into its swirling depths until she couldn’t breathe.

Then she had found herself talking to Morrigan, finding her drawn to the darker arts and their whispers of protection. For herself, for her family, for everyone around her. Sinking into a lyrium fueled dreamscape to save a little boy, surrounded by the ever-shifting Fade and the whispers of a demon had been enough to break her.

For a while, she had been able to hide the cracks until even those became too much to keep together, shattered in shadows dancing and killing the night and the flash of a knife in her hand.

Now all that stood between her and the end of the darkness was an archdemon. It snaked in front of them, darkness crackling around it and ashes sweeping around with each massive breath, each roar as its eyes fixed on the two wardens and their companions. Its claws tore at the stone beneath its feet and the cast of the fires burning below robing it in the shadows that had haunted the wardens’ every step.

Ruinel let the hand not clenched white-knuckle around her staff curling into Orion’s ruff. The mabari pressed his flank against her leg, growl rumbling through his entire body. All the darkspawn they had fought through…all leading to this. This massive creature, covered in thick scales and spines. Untouchable.

Brows knitting, Ruinel saw the Warden Riordan’s crumpled form, his words echoing in her ears. Only a Grey Warden can kill the archdemon.

If Riordan had failed…

Ruinel took a deep breath, loosening her grip on her staff.

“If it comes down to it, let me be the one to deliver the final blow.” Ruinel glanced quickly over at Laurel before dropping her eyes again to the old, dusty book she was running her fingers over.

Laurel opened her mouth, then closed it before she spoke. “Absolutely not.”

“Laurel, it has to be a warden, you heard Riordan. If he fails…” She huffed out a breath. “Well, it makes the most sense.” She turned to face her sister, giving a small shrug. “I don’t have a place here. I’m an elf, but not Dalish. Not anymore. And I’m a mage, and a…a blood mage at that, I’ll never be trusted and I can’t go back to the Circle, not after everything.”  She left the words crying that she hated what she had let the Blight do to her, hated that she had become everything she hadn’t wanted to be as a mage, hated herself for it, unsaid and burning in her throat.

“Your place can be with the wardens, with me, with Leliana.” Laurel took a step forward, eyes wide and voice pleading. “Please, Ru, I don’t want to lose my sister to that..thing. I don’t want to lose you again.”

Her shoulder brushed against Laurel’s, the older elf tearing her eyes from the writhing dragon to meet Ruinel’s determined look. Her other hand dropped from her mabari’s ruff to move in a motion the hound had learned as stay.

She had brought it up once more as it continued to chew away at her mind. It was met by the same resolute refusal.

“Ru, stop, I’m not letting that happen. Morrigan’s offer–”

“We already know Alistair refused, that’s out of the question.” Ruinel crossed her arms, a little bit of irritation seeping into her voice. Neither of them had been able to speak to Alistair any more on the topic of Morrigan’s offer after his refusal and while Ruinel could understand his reluctance she couldn’t understand putting aside what could be a failsafe for their final fight for selfish reasons. “But…” With a sigh she relented. “I won’t do it. Okay?”

“Thank you.” Laurel’s sigh as one of relief, the shake in her voice undeniable. “If the archdemon…” She let the words hang and with a shake of her head covered the distance between them and hugged Ru tightly. “Please don’t let me lose you to this.”

Ruinel let her anxious thoughts slide from her mind like water between her fingers, closing her eyes against the fear she had seen in Laurel’s eyes. “I won’t.”

Now…

Now there was no choice. Every what if, every nightmare behind closed eyelids had come to pass, staring back at her from behind dark, soulless eyes.

How many lives would be lost if the Blight continued? What was one broken promise and a life tainted by the Blight itself and blood magic alike when compared to those thousands, tens of thousands?

A glint of metal caught her eye, a sword laying on the ground, just outside of the archdemons reach. The dragon itself was wounded, dark blood oozing between its scales. Her spells might not harm it but if she was quick…

Her staff clattered to the ground, thoughts slowing to a string of commands forcing her herself to move, to act.

With little more than a sharp breath, exhaled into what might have been I’m sorry, Ruinel forced her feet into motion, pushing past her sister and running across the stone.

The sword was heavy in her hands, the tip skittering across the floor as struggled to lift. The archdemon lifted its head, it’s deep roar shaking through her chest. It sent a tremor through her body as she drove the sword across the dragon’s underbelly. In the few precious seconds that it staggered, shrieking and casting about wildly with its tail, its claws, Ruinel pivoted and drove the sword through the dragon’s neck, putting all her strength behind the blow. The dragon’s wail reached a crescendo, mixing with Ruinel’s ragged scream as her vision went white.

It burned, it scorched and she wanted to let go, oh Creators she wanted to let go but her fingers wouldn’t loosen, her body wasn’t her own.

What

Had

She

Done?

“Ruinel!” Laurel made a desperate grab for Ruinel as she took off running, her fingertips just grazing her arm. “Ruinel, no!” She ran after her, cries from her companions falling on deaf ears.

A blinding flash of white light forced her to a half, her forearm rushing up to cover her eyes, stumbling back several steps. Over the rush of her heartbeat in her ears, the wail of the dragon twined with an agonized scream and Laurel cried out for Ru again, pushing her eyes open and legs forward against the blinding light.

Sudden silence wrapped around her like a blanket, the light dimming for only a second before exploding out. With it came a burst of energy that through her from her feet, her shoulder colliding with the ground.

Even behind her eyelids the silhouette of Ruinel trying to pull herself from the dragon burned.

Before her eyes had fully cleared or she was able to draw in at least half a breath again she was on her feet, shaky and unsteady. Her eyes drifted over the body of the archdemon, its massive form crumpled to the ground, unmoving. Her breath hitched, a small no falling in its absence, her legs already moving as her eyes fixed on a smaller form thrown away from the dragon.

Ruinel lay on her side, curled in on herself. A gentle hand, trembling, turned her onto her back, tentatively reaching out to feel for a pulse. 

“Ru, Ru you told me you’d be okay.” Her voice broke. “You told me you wouldn’t do it.”

There was nothing, nothing beneath her fingertips and nothing where there should have been breath.

A sob bubbling in her chest, Laurel gathered Ruinel into her arms, as if pulling her close away from the ground would fix everything. Her hands slipped on the dragons blood–or was it Ru’s?–slicking her tunic and the sob broke free from her, tears gathering in her eyes. “Please breathe, please.”

Her plea was met with empty air and she shattered.

Ruinel’s mabari was the first to reach her, snuffling first at Laurel’s tearstained cheek before reaching out to sniff Ru with a low whine. The humans always said that mabari were too smart for their own good, smart enough to talk but choose not to.

The mabari sank to the ground with a whimper.

“Dareth shiral asa’ma’lin.” The words felt like knives as she spoke them, hitting at the end in a protesting wail as someone, perhaps Wynne, tried to gently pull her back. She wrapped her arms tighter around Ruinel, “Ir abelas, ir abelas.” falling her lips rapidly, over and over to fill the silence.

A year. It took a year to find her sister, a year for the Blight to break her, use her, and a year to to lose her all over again.

“Ir abelas, asa’ma’lin.” And she let herself be pulled away.

*Dareth shiral asa’ma’lin= farewell sister, most often used as “safe journey”

**ir abelas= I’m sorry

[coolfuffles]

Warning: AGE GAP

Rating: T

Wordcount: 1339

Summary:  A visit from Hawkmoth at her home has Marinette in a snit, but she gives as good as she gets and Gabriel thinks he might need to reassert his affect on her.

Merde, she was a heady concoction! ... A low, familiar voice which provoked and pleased wormed its way into her ear from behind her and stopped her breath. [Mode: Panic, activated]

Last night when she'd come home and he'd been waiting, she'd been startled.. She'd tried to guess how he'd entered, why he might be there, how she might defend herself if he attacked. There had been some fear there, too. Good. He wasn't planning to assault her, but he needed her to be unsure of his intentions- at least initially. It might keep her from doing something very stupid.

He'd offered her an apprenticeship with him. He may have been waffling about a personal relationship, but he couldn't let those skills she'd demonstrated by entering his home go to waste, nor the leadership, creativity, and force of will that he'd observed in his recent visits to her workplace and over the course of their acquaintanceship. Watching the switch from nervous young woman with a strange man in her home to calculating wariness at his proposition, the gears whirring in her head, was fascinating. He thought she might want some days to consider it, to weigh the benefits, but she had rejected it in short order. She was perceptibly annoyed at the prospect of it. That was unexpected.

Was she worried about what her upstanding beau would think of her late night pilfering hobby if he found out? Her response had been... mixed. Oh, that had been interesting! Her words were limited on the matter, but her posture and face had communicated so much! Mild concern about... something, but she was not worried about his thinly veiled threat. Rather than put more space between them or maintain her distance, she approached him, slowly, stalking, never breaking eye contact, and entered his personal space. She was predatory. Daring him. The look on her face reminded him of the day he'd heard her threaten some unknown soul with death. And she was confident that she had some vital piece of information that he didn't have in this interchange. “Really?” She'd fairly sung it, slowly tilting her head to the side. Her tone was so sweet, like he could have been sucking on a chewy, sweet treat only to impale himself with the disguised, hard, candied sour stake within.

Merde, she was a heady concoction! He hadn't felt that way since Ladybug had grabbed him when he'd taunted her, and she hadn't even touched him! She was just in his space. She was only assaulting him with her nearness and beguiling, dulcet tones. He was going to need to get some of his power back.

>!< >!< >!< >!< >!< >!< >!<

She was going to kill him. She was going to invest in a giant pinboard and start a butterfly collection comprised of Hawkmoth and- that was it. Just him. She was sure she could find a giant pin to attach him and then hang him on her wall to ward off other Purple Butterfly Dickheads. She slammed a fist down on the stapler. The staple didn't clear the papers and instead mangled. He'd been in her apartment when she'd gotten home. He was just sitting there, comfortable as you please in her living room in her chair by the little lamp that she always left on. She hadn't even noticed he was there at first. Why should she? It was her home, not Ladybug's. No one from that life had ever set foot there. She didn't keep anything that could connect them in that apartment. But he had managed to get to the fifth floor unnoticed and hack her encoded and passcoded door lock. Of course he had. He was Hawkmoth. He didn't seem to realize who she was when he was there. That was one favor. He was apparently just there to terrorize poor Marinette, whom he had made listen to the very embarrassing message she'd left while he sat there, watching her, before he had sent her on her way while he- she didn't know what. She hadn't heard of anything missing from the Agreste estate.

Her entry to the Agreste mansion and her cool head had impressed him, apparently. He claimed to be there with an offer to further her training, to let her come in to Akuma as his protege. Her! His protege! Like Ladybug would ever... okay, maybe in the beginning of her career before she'd known what he was doing to people at the time... But he'd broken into her home! Brought that part of her life across her doorstep! And then he'd figuratively tweaked her nose about her crush on Gabriel Agreste! (She would have punched him in his newly healed nose if he'd actually tweaked her nose). At least the lights were low and her concealer game is strong, or he might have seen the bruises on her jaw that hadn't fully dissipated yet. It was like his presence made them ache more. Marinette glared daggers at the offending office tool and the disfigured staple as though her ire could conjure the man and make him the staple.

“Hello; petit chou?” A low, familiar voice which provoked and pleased wormed its way into her ear from behind her and stopped her breath. [Mode: Panic, activated] She screeched and flailed, nearly falling from her chair except that a masculine arm caught her mid-tilt and cradled her gently as its owner placed a container from a local patisserie on the desk with his other, un-Marinette-filled hand. She turned her head to face her attacker savior. Platinum blond hair slicked back in his signature coif, his face was close. So close. His sparkling pale blue eyes, crinkled at the corners in amusement met hers, wide and bright blue. His breath was warm against her cheek. She dared a glance at his lips. Her cheeks and tips of her ears bloomed pink as his lips parted lightly and the corners raised. “Petit chou?” His breath fairly danced on her lips as he spoke.

[Marinette.exe is not responding]

[C:\system\restore\Marinette.exe]

[Searching...]

[ERROR: cannot complete]

[Run C:\program\backup\responses\Fantasy232.exe]

[Searching...]

[Running Fantasy232.exe]

“Yes, mon mignon?” she sighed.

He chuckled and righted her in her seat now that she was more stable, stepping around her to her side and gesturing to the box on her desk with a wink “I was impressed with what you managed to accomplish for this coming issue's collaboration with Gabriel, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng. Do you care for cream puffs?”

She craned her neck to look up at him, then over at the filigreed box on her desk, on the stack of papers with the previously offending staple. “Cream puffs?”

He leaned back against the desk and reached over to open the container. “Cream puffs. I suppose I should have checked with the secretary about what you like. I can get you something else.” He flashed an apologetic smile. “Forgive me?”

“N-no. I like cream puffs. Th-thank you!” She managed to squeak and smile at him. “You really didn't have to.” She reached in the box and pulled out a pastry, biting into it to illustrate that she really did like them. There was no need to feign her enjoyment. She closed her eyes to savor it. It was delicious! It was similar to what her parents had made when they had had the patisserie in Paris before they'd moved to Italy to take care of family. “Mmmmm!”

“I rarely do things I don't wish to do. I believe we've been acquainted long enough that you know that by now, however I am pleased that you like my little present,” he smiled.

She blushed some more. “Yes, thank you, M'sieur. I hope it will be a success.”

He stood to take his leave. “With you, Miss Fortune, how could it be otherwise? But we will see soon enough. Good day.”

Her eyes followed him as he left, she managed to mumble a farewell. Smooth, Marinette. At least he was wearing dark slacks. She turned herself to the desk top again. The box was prettily painted with silvery lavender butterflies dancing around the edges.

Her fingers lightly pressed the still tender places along her jaw. Stupid butterflies.

[lessofthelego]

MURKY OF MIRKWOOD

[Part Three: The words of Gandalf and Legolas]

Much had happened in the days since Erebor: The funeral of Thorin had taken place on the day following the conflict; where there had been the great procession with the carrying away of the body from the battleground in the sight of all kindreds; and some even say that the potency of the dirges in that hour transfixed several orcs as they fled to the north-western mountains. The new king gave his first command that an inquiry take place to ascertain the meaning of recent events leading to this deadly engagement. Gandalf requested that Thranduil and Bard should represent their own peoples if all parties were to agree; Dain casually acquiesced to this since he did not expect it to happen, but they proved him wrong.

Subsequently, during the testimony of Balin the matter came around to the finding of the High-elven swords: “The Prince of Mirkwood claimed it for his own,” said the elder dwarf, “Although it was given to Thorin by Gandalf!” and the wizard confirmed his part in that statement. There followed much debate as to how this same sword then ended up in Thorin’s hand ere he died, and in an instant of kingly wisdom Dain declared at length: “If the Elves claim it then give it to them, and let that be an end!”

However, the decisive moment came as Thranduil, the haughty and disdainful Woodland King, took the sword Orcrist and laid it upon the stony tomb of Thorin and did him homage. This one act paved the way for the signing of the accord; and indeed the witnessing of the same proved Legolas’ account before the Mete. Moreover, at the contrivance of Gandalf, there was plenty written within that document regarding the uninterrupted freedom of movement by any Free-body-at-large in Wilderland that caused the panel of eight to dismiss any charges against ‘Prince Murky!’ and he was promptly released.

In his own deliberations at the Iron Hills, Wãelyn took some time privily to speak with Bilbo about the events surrounding Thorin and his own fond memories of Bungo, the hobbit’s father: “I’ve still got a bottle or two of ‘Old Winyards’ from happier days if you’d care to toast him…” proposed the dwarf.

Bilbo thanked him graciously and said: “There’s not much of it left outside the Shire these days, therefore save it to toast the new king whenever you meet again; for myself I cannot tarry overlong here I must away with Gandalf, no doubt I will be expected to partake in some farewell toasts of my own ere I return to my homeland.”

“Then I shall toast the King, the Broker and his Son,” said Wãelyn: “Haha, Third time pays for all!” and they parted as friends.

Gandalf had formally thanked Wãelyn for promptly attending to the legalities of this episode, and privately for limiting the overspill of scorn at the outcome; the wizard guessed rightly that the ‘Branch of Juris’ took much pleasure in the latter aspect. Legolas remained understandably reticent throughout, although he did Gandalf the honour of waiting to leave with him so as to thank he and Bilbo for the service they had done him; which proved to be a boon for his mare had returned with them, having fled back to Erebor early that morning; she awaited him alongside Gandalf’s mount in a paddock nigh to the market end of the ‘Famous Goat and Pony Road’ which ultimately led them out into the chilly night air.

“Do not judge them too harshly, Mellon!” says Gandalf, having just fully heard the account from Legolas’ standpoint.

“A hot bath is not enough to soothe all hurts, Gandalf!”

“Oh, I could use a hot bath just about now!” adds Bilbo, sat in front of the wizard: “After all, did not the dwarves offer us accommodation for the night...”

“I thought you were already asleep!” complains Gandalf.

“On this thing, I should say not!”

“You rode hence today with me at pace: rest now! I shall see to it that you do not fall off.”

“I am unaccustomed to sleeping so high up as this...” replies Bilbo, “I’d rather walk!”

“That would be unsafe, wild dogs roam this region after dark” says Legolas.

“Perhaps then we should set up camp,” suggests Gandalf, “We are unlikely to progress far tonight, the hour is already late!”

They quickly unpack at a suitable location and get a fire going; after supper Legolas offers to keep watch and the hobbit, being full and tired, gladly accepts. Gandalf however, remains alert and sits up with the elf for a time: “He sleeps soundly; a remarkable fellow!”

“The resourceful Mr. Baggins!” says Legolas dryly, as had Wãelyn before him.

“You distrust him?”

“I do not know him enough to make that judgment, Mellon: I know the consequences of his deeds. He affirmed my misgiving with shamefaced blushes ere we rode out into the night!”

“The consequences of his deeds?” questions Gandalf, hushed but very perturbed: “You mean deeds that led to the slaying of the worm, or those that brought us to this accord? An accord I might add, Legolas Greenleaf, that led to your being released!”

“You are right, Gandalf, I regret my rash insagacity; I defer to your assessment in this!”

“And well you should!”

They sit in considered silence as the wizard permits the elf’s soft response to soothe his ire, at length he speaks again: “You too, are a remarkable fellow, Lord Prince; greatly skilled and purposeful! There are those that love you, Legolas, very much; your father being chief among them. Thranduil would not confer with me as to any guess of mine why we should find you in this place, rightly so; notwithstanding he is duly concerned over you!”

“I know it!”

“Will you not come back with us, at least to Erebor? Your father awaits a response…”

“I shall answer you at first light!” replies the elf at length.

“Very well...”

“Tell me, Gandalf: How did you know to come for me; How did you know where I was?”

“Your horse came back to us cut and dismayed, and this caused much alarm amid your father’s retinue...” says Gandalf.

“I can imagine…” picks up Legolas: “No doubt he wanted to march in full array to claim his own; and doubtless this attitude put the accord at risk before King Dain, that is of course until you interceded and volunteered your services as an independent emissary…”

“Something like that!” grins the wizard. “But to fully answer you, and as I indicated earlier to Wãelyn, ‘Some birds fly higher than ravens and see more clearly…’ meaning, that at Thranduil’s petition, I requested that the Great Eagle’s charges keep a watch over you!”

“In other words, you spied on me for my father!”

“In a manner of speaking, Yes!”

“Well, thank you again!” says the elf sincerely: “And perhaps you might be able to assist me further still!”

“Oh really: then do say on…”

“My father alluded to the Dúnedain ere we parted, he made particular mention of one Arathorn, their former chieftain: Is there aught you know about him?”

“Only that which I have seen and heard at Imladris: Lord Elrond would be far better qualified to answer you, but since he is not here I shall do my best!” says Gandalf: “For nearly a thousand years the heirlooms of Arnor have rested at Rivendell, and there during that time have the Chieftains of the Dúnedain been fostered as youths. Indeed, the son of Arathorn resides now thereat…”

“Is his name Strider?” interrupts the elf.

“It might be in time, for that is a widespread term used by the Bree-men for all rangers of the Dúnedain, given their height. I must say, Prince Legolas, this is curious assistance you seek…” ponders the wizard. “Are Thranduil and Elrond acquainted? I had no idea…”

“My father is very guarded, this much you know!” says Legolas: “There is much he has not told me since the death of my mother…” he pauses at the remembrance of her, “It is my understanding that my mother accompanied the Lady Celebrían on the fateful crossing of the Redhorn Pass. I was told the travelling party were taken north to Angmar but only Celebrían was left alive when her sons rescued her. I heard also that my mother was kin to Lord Celeborn but of this I am uncertain. One other claimed that I am part Noldo but my father exiled her as a meddlesome soothsayer and put a ban on all scrying.”

“I cannot gainsay his reasoning since I do not know enough about it; save that most parents are of a mind to over guard their children from hurt.”

“In this he does me no service!”

“I agree!” says Gandalf: “I am still somewhat puzzled as to why Thranduil should mention Arathorn and Strider; can you recall his exact words on this?”

“Go north, find the Dúnedain!” begins the prince, “My father said that there is a young ranger amongst them whom I should meet: he disclosed that his father, Arathorn, was a ‘Good Man’ and that his son might grow to be great. I asked his name but my father said: ‘He is known in the wild as Strider!” He told me that his true name I must discover for myself!”

“Curious… most curious!” says the wizard, “From that which you have told me I believe that your mother somehow links Lord Elrond to your father; and indeed, Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel. Prince Legolas, would you give me leave to enquire more from them perchance we two should meet again?”

“Since you ask and do not presume, then yes!”  

“At least the mystery of how I came to find you in the Iron Hills (of all places) is solved, yet it leaves us with another riddle: ‘Go north, find the Dúnedain!’  curious indeed!”

They sit quietly for a spell as reflections of the failing firelight dance across the wizard’s sharp eyes. At length the elf adds the remaining logs to the flames; there are no wild dogs to be heard baying that night whilst the Grey Pilgrim contemplates: Bilbo stirs but does not wake. The fire roars merrily ere Gandalf speaks again: “Your father prohibits scrying yet he himself has the gift of foresight!”

“He does sometimes know things ere they happen…” confirms Legolas, “and yet... he has been wrong from time to time.”

“Perhaps… but not this time!”

“Oh, how so?”

“Of exactitude in happenings I am unsure, but I perceive that your father speaks true. ‘Go north, find the Dúnedain!’ is a prophecy, although he should have said ‘Dúnedan’ in the singular form. You and he shall be journeying north when you meet!” predicts the wizard.

“You refer to the son of Arathorn: he is yet a youth…” says Legolas, “Do you then have any inkling as to when and where this going north shall be?”

Gandalf remains silent and seems to fall into a seated sleep, before long he speaks: “I see the southern eaves of Mirkwood at night, in the Brown Lands beyond Dol Guldur, nigh to the shallows of the Great River… Precious… Precious!” suddenly his eyes pop awake.

“What is it?”

“I am unsure but I perceive urgency in this meeting, like gathering storm clouds about to thunder with great fury: he will not be alone when you meet!”

“What is this Precious you refer to?”

“Something great, something lost!”

“My father said that the son of Arathorn might become great, and that I must learn his name: Is he this Precious, is that his name?”

“No, no that thing is great and terrible… and lost!” Another vision of Dol Guldur blights Gandalf’s thought momentarily, but he says naught of it: “Nay, the son of Arathorn carries greatness and hope upon him, but not beside him when you two shall meet!”

“What then of this other (or others) with him?” enquires the elf.

“One… one other, his form is hidden from me as though behind a shroud. A person or beast I cannot tell but he wriggles and squawks something fierce…”

“He..?”

“Yes, he!” confirms Gandalf. “There are many riddles to vex us all ere this day fully comes, and I perceive that many of them will go unsolved; but this day is not yet, for as you say Lord Prince, the son of Arathorn has not yet reached full stature as I see him here. There is yet time!”

“Time for what?”

“I must plant hope in peoples’ hearts lest their hearts fail them in the evil days to come.” says Gandalf, “We shall indeed encounter each other again in the years ahead, Mellon, so I thank you for giving me leave to search into your past that I might share with you what the Great Ones know. I perceive much greatness in you too, Legolas, which is birthed from a heart of willingness to do what is right!”

“In light of these events to come, Gandalf, please join me in setting aside formal stations: let us no longer simply address each other as Mellon, but as Friend!”  

They both stand to seal the friendship by taking each other by the left shoulder and bowing their heads. Looking down the wizard notices Bilbo starting to wake up: “Ah, he stirs!”

“Where am I, what time is it?” says the hobbit groggily.

Gandalf winks cheekily to Legolas: “You are under the protection of two skilled masters: one wields a mighty bow and the other a staff of power! The sun is about to rise, so rise up with it therefore, and prepare a breakfast ere the embers on this fire die once again!”

“Good Morning!” shrugs Bilbo: Legolas smiles and nods courteously.

“Come on, quick sticks: we are hungry! Don’t look so sheepish, Bilbo Baggins, I know you helped yourself to provisions from Dwalin’s kitchen; in payment no doubt for the scouring of your larder at Bag-end!” says the wizard.

“And a beautiful crisp morning it is too,” says Bilbo, “Right, breakfast!” With that he rushes around merrily seeking out kindling and firewood: “Don’t mind me!”

“Oh, you would know if we did” quips Gandalf with a titter: “So then, My Friend, it is first light; do you have an answer, will you return with us?”

“My heart forbids it!”

“Is that what I should tell your father?”  

“No, tell him what we have discussed; for indeed, from what you told me I shall return home in the time ahead either way!”

“The time ahead, is that all you will commit to?” asks Gandalf.

“It is, for now!”

Bilbo returns and adroitly slaps up a hearty breakfast, not quite to elvish tastes but Legolas partakes politely; thereafter as everything is cleared away the new friends make ready to begin that morning’s ride. The hobbit perceives something is amiss and utters under his breath, “Is he not returning with us Gandalf?”

“Do not whisper in the presence of elves, Bilbo; it will avail you nothing,” says Gandalf: “No, Prince Legolas shall be continuing on his way… although I am unsure as to which way that should be!”

“Well, thanks to the dealings of my friends and family, these lands are made free to travellers once more,” says the elf: “Therefore I shall journey east for a time...”

“Only these lands are called free, My Friend! Beyond the horizon, particularly in the east, you will find dangers far worse than you have encountered recently!” warns Gandalf.

“Perhaps, but since a fated day awaits me I shall take my chances.”

“Do not tempt fate, Legolas!”

“Fear not, I shall walk circumspectly at need but I shall not do so in dread” says the elf.

The wizard coming close puts a hand on Legolas’ chest: “Receive courage and wisdom such as I have to spare! By your leave Lord Prince, I shall request that the eagles maintain their watch over you, but not as a means to report to your father.”

“I gladly receive your impartation and overseeing; and I freely give you my leave to say aught to my father that you deem fit, My Friend!” says Legolas with a courtly bow.

“Until our next meeting!” says Gandalf in satisfied agreement.

“Tell me Gandalf,” says Legolas, “Do you expect to speak with King Dain ere you depart?”

“If I can, I will arrange it: What would you have me do?”

“He has two workers that would benefit from a wizard’s intervention.”

“I thought you cared not for the subjects of Dain,” teases Gandalf.

“Will you speak to him or not?” retorts the elf.

“Yes, of course,” laughs the wizard, “What are their names?”

[leycaria-blog]

Lloyd of the Dance

IT’S CHRIIIIIIIIIIIISTMAAAS! Like hell it is. Personally, I think there should a blanket ban on all Christmas products and advertising until the first of December. Anyone caught violating it would be suspended upside down in a chimney until Christmas Day as penance. Of course I’m excluding advent calendars, but I think of them as advent products rather than Christmas products, and banning them until December makes them very difficult to use properly. Regardless, I think I’ve made the point that I maintain a steadfast attitude of Bah Humbug until the twenty-fifth is actually in sight, so you can imagine my outrage as the Christmas adverts started coming out of the woodwork.

I’ll start with a bizarre and disgusting advert that, to be honest, has nothing to do with Christmas. Yesterday I had the misfortune of watching Oasis’ new advert for a product they aren’t selling. They’re following on from that bizarre and disgusting thing a couple of years ago where an advert had two pretend strangers kiss for the first time in front of a video camera. I can’t even remember what it was advertising, but the clinical aura and the sense of unease it imbued in the viewer was difficult to forget, and in a bid not to be forgotten Oasis has gone for the same thing. Two strangers are asked to drink from a single Oasis bottle with a cap at both ends, one which isn’t even a real product. Surprisingly enough, this results in hesitant scenes, mostly culminating in both gagging and spraying a mixture of saliva and Oasis juice drink all over the room and each other. Unpleasant doesn’t quite cover it. I don’t even know what it was trying to say, that Oasis is so good you’ll be willing to ingest someone else’s putrid, curry flavoured mouth gunk just for a sip? I’ve no idea who though this advert might have been a good idea, because it really isn’t. I’ve never really tried Oasis, and I’m certainly not going to now that I’ve permanently associated it with the image of two people spitting on each other.

Of course, the Oasis advert is just trying to tie in to the current fashion in advertising, that of seeming friendly and promoting social unity or whatever. In theory, I don’t have a problem with people trying to bring a little more love and understanding into the world, but when the message is being put across by a multinational cooperation I start to lose my faith in whether it’s actually genuine. While the advert remains disgusting, I get the principle of bringing people together. However, when this is being said by Coca-Cola, who on a fundamental level couldn’t care less about togetherness provided people keep buying their cans of liquid sugar, my natural cynicism kicks in and I start seeing such adverts as little more than an attempt to sell more drinks by associating them with something that people want at that moment in time, which is all an advert really is, if you think about it. Usually I wouldn’t care, like when they use Star Wars to advertise toothbrushes or whatever Star Wars is advertising at the moment, but I do think that the world could stand to be a little more united so the thought of massive companies pretending to care just to make themselves even richer genuinely angers me.

In my eyes, banks are the worst offenders. I’m aware that I’ve had this little rant before, but I was out of ideas for this week so I’m doing it again. The bloody Lloyds adverts have been around for a while now, with their new slogan, ‘By your side’, which makes me want to wretch. I mean, they’re all crap, but the mental health one angers me so much I try to avoid it whenever I can. It’s a good advert. It makes an excellent point about mental health and recognising it, which I suppose isn’t surprising when you consider that it was made with Mental Health UK. If this was just an advert promoting mental health awareness I would fully support its broadcast, but I just can’t for the simple principle that it was made by a BANK. Banks are not ‘by your side’. Banks are the wretched monoliths which tower above capitalism like volcanoes, just waiting to burst and pour rock and fire down on the poor people below. Banks are businesses. They can dress themselves anyway they want, put silly hats on or wrap themselves in sheep’s wool but the fact remains, they don’t care about you. They don’t care about your family, your health or your mental health. It makes no difference to them whether you live or die or are sold into slavery providing you keep giving them money. I’m well aware that there’s probably a significant number of people in the UK suffering from mental health problems because of Lloyds’ bringing them to financial or physical ruin. They don’t care about people, they care about profit, so pretending to have such noble goal doesn’t endear them to me, it just drives my ire as they profane something so worthy of respect. I suppose the slogan isn’t too inaccurate after all. If you sign any contract with Lloyds, they will be by your side for life. They’ll follow wherever you go, keeping to the shadows and just biding their time, waiting until either the world destroys you or they do so they can siphon off whatever’s left of your life as profit. By your side indeed.

All right, now you know quite how angry I am at the moment, let’s finally hit Christmas. John Lewis! Ever since that incredibly trite advert a few years ago with the boy and the baked beans the world has been watching your Christmas advert, and they’ve been going downhill from what wasn’t a high summit in the first place. This year they decided to cut all ties and do nothing to do with Christmas or John Lewis, instead showing a two minute trailer for an upcoming Elton John biopic. The implication is that if you buy something like a piano from John Lewis for Christmas, the recipient may then metamorphose into Elton John. It’s completely ludicrous. John Lewis only started selling pianos this year, just to get their advert to make sense. You get the feeling that they booked Elton John for the job then just sat back and watched a Flog It marathon. “Ought we try to write something for this year’s Christmas advert?”                                         “Nah. We’ve got Elton John.” I find it hard to believe that the planning of the advert went any other way. It’s a film about Elton John. That’s it. They end with the tagline – ‘Some gifts are more than just gifts’, which is true, but ignores the fact that 99.99% of gifts are. They certainly are if they come from John Lewis, they even have a section of their website labelled ‘Gifts’. I’m not even going to touch on how clicking that brings you to a rather sexist page for ‘Gifts for her’ and ‘Gifts for him’. I don’t think my poor laptop would survive.

Sainsbury’s! Oh no, just because John Lewis’ efforts were pitiful doesn’t mean you’re getting away with it. Sainsbury’s decided to copy John Lewis’ advert from earlier this year, the one with the school production, only they changed the song from Bohemian Rhapsody to the New Radicals’ You Get What You Give, which when you listen to the lyrics seems an interesting choice. It followed that pattern we saw in Love Actually and those dire Nativity films, where the school nativity becomes an amazing festival of music and amazing costumes that stirs the soul. In many ways it just seems mocking to actual parents who have to go to real nativity productions, which are inevitably just half an hour of four year olds with dish cloths on their head wandering about among other four year wearing bad cow suits and singing simple songs very quietly. To be fair, I’m only talking about the final number of the nativity in Love Actually where the girl comes out and sings All I Want for Christmas is You. The rest is more true to life, and the finale is played for comic effect. Just to be clear, I LIKE that film. My word, you’re unlikely to ever hear me say that in this column again.

Having said that, I actually don’t mind Tesco’s advert. It does what it needs to, shows lots of attractive food and just generally gives a sense of festive relaxation. It’s not a master class in film making, it isn’t going to shatter the earth, but it’s certainly the best offering so far. It does what was asked of it. Oh yes. You’ve seen it coming haven’t you. I’m getting ready. In less than one sentence I’m now going to segue into The Apprentice! The link of course being that Jackie and Khadija completely failed to do what was asked of them in the hairdresser’s courtyard during this week’s gardening task. Rather than jet wash the place as requested, they poured water on the floor and then brushed all of the dirt that had lifted from under the plant pots into the centre. It was not a good showing. They are ridiculously lucky that their team won. Khadija didn’t even seem to understand how a leaf blower works, and I don’t mean the mechanics of it, I mean that it blows leaves. I’ve no idea how long she spent in that courtyard blowing leaves around, but given that there was nowhere for the leaves to go, the fact that she tried at all indicates a condemnable fault in reason. Did she think that a leaf blower blew leaves out of existence? Then Jasmine and Sabrina claimed to have renovated a rooftop by painting odd planks of a bench yellow and dotting Homebase plants about in their sale pots. I hope they at least took the prices off.

To be honest, I don’t think that Kayode deserved to be fired. There were people on the other team who were far more deserving. However, he did dress up in a daffodil hood and call himself the sunflower guy, which is difficult to ignore, and he had a howler in the pitch last week, even though it wasn’t explicitly his fault. So farewell Kayode. You weren’t useless, but you were rubbish.

[omegasquire]

Rose Gold: Prologue

A weightlessness encompassed his body, taking away all concept of gravity and eliminating the need for solid boundaries. Behind closed eyelids played a film of colors: greens, blues, yellows, white. The hypnotic, serene lap against his senses kept him in a lull. Time was also an element that had been erased, blending together seconds and hours.

Caught in a state akin to slumber, Cloud could offer no resistance as a hand gently touched his forehead. Slender fingers pushed aside his bangs, the act so tender and motherly, for a moment he thought it truly was his mother. He called to her, his voice soft and wondering. An equally soft, humored tone drifted his way; he couldn't place whose voice it belonged to, though it did comfort him.

It was fond of him, carrying a familiarity he didn't know existed. He felt he should know who this person was, but his mind was too lethargic. He could only enjoy as that gentle hand stroked his hair and cupped his cheek.

Like a kiss farewell, his lips felt warm. The heat spread along his body, teasing his skin. Gradually, it encompassed his form, bringing with it his sense of touch, hearing, and sight. Hesitant, he opened his eyes and was greeted with an array of colors that reflected what had danced behind his eyelids. They glittered, hundreds of tiny lights dancing upon invisible currents.

Cloud tested his movements and turned. He moved effortlessly, as if he was floating, and managed to take in the vast space about him. An endless sea...

It was such a contrast from the turmoil he'd lived for the last six, seven years of his life. He honestly couldn't tell when his hardship began, if it was when he was a child, ostracized for a mistake, or at Midgar, when it became glaringly clear he was nothing more than a failure, destined to be strung up like a doll. History became a hodgepodge of events he could never quite sift through. For years he lost himself, lost his focus, lost everything.

Just barely had he managed to piece it all together, gathering shards and fitting them into a proper picture. He couldn't have done it alone. The comrades he met, the friends he made, all stabilized him and helped him find who he was meant to be. He couldn't imagine a world where that support was removed from his life.

He didn't think such a world even existed.

But such a world does exist.

Cloud startled, looking around him. A soft, gentle voice spoke in his head, murmuring between his ears as if it had always been there. It was no voice of the conscious, but a true presence that made him tense with uncertainty.

“Who…?”

Life is experienced through an infinite number of choices. These choices can lead to different destinies.

He didn't know this voice. Instinct made him question if he should trust it. As he was wrapped in a warm embrace, he started to doubt. He shifted and searched for the source, but found nothing.

Where one may be friend, another may be foe. Maybe they do not know each other at all. The choices made define what is to come, and the choices not made discard what could but never came to be.

He couldn't pinpoint it, but this voice was almost familiar. He had heard it before. When or how were questions he lacked answers to, and it nagged at him to find out.

Have you wondered of a time when the ones you lost could be saved? That your enemies could be friends? That abandoned dreams could be made true?

Cloud flinched. He'd wondered plenty of times about the what if’s. He thought of being able to save Aerith, or save Zack. He thought of a life when Sephiroth didn't fall to the whims of Jenova and chose to destroy the planet. He dreamed of the day he could have been a true SOLDIER, not just some infantryman who had to hide his face to avoid the shame of his failures and inadequacies.

They were all things he'd thought about countless times, and it stung to hear these questions aloud when he had asked them so many times already.

Would you take a path that followed a different destiny?

He frowned at the implication. If things had been different, could he have prevented the disaster? What of his friends? His family? Could he go back and start over?

Time cannot be rewound. What was meant to be was meant to be.

Despair settled heavy in his chest. The hope that had begun to form was already withering. In its wake came ire; he didn't like this game.

What is cannot yet be determined until the first step is made. New destinies can be formed.

The vague speech was both confusing and irritating. Cloud couldn't keep up. He wanted an end to this tête-à-tête. He wanted to get the point.

Are you a warrior willing to take the first step toward battle once more? If given the chance, would you accept the offer to follow a new destiny? The path will be long, it will be difficult, but at its end can be a well of happiness.

Cloud, I ask you be a warrior once more. The souls of many have been lost to the poison that has yet to be purged of the land and her people. There are those whose hearts have not mended from the tragedy.

A very precious person’s heart has been broken...

That was a heavy task to fulfill. Cloud was hesitant, the numerous lines of scars from his battles silent reminders of all the pain he suffered and the trials he had to endure to reach the destiny still colored with life. To do something like that again was akin to stepping one foot in his grave.

Then again, he never had both feet out. He was at a perpetual teeter, fighting for stability, reaching out for a hand to help him out. If he said yes, there was a chance he would finally fall in. Death haunted his shadow, waiting patiently for the moment he would slip. Be it now, tomorrow, or even ten years from now, it would come.

If he was bound to die sooner or later, then he could do it for the sake of saving whoever it was that needed saving. He couldn't put up his sword just yet. The placidity of a normal life wasn't just his; it was meant to be shared. He would do what he could.

Thank you.

A small, delicate hand touched his chest. Cloud's eyes widened at the sudden appearance of a young woman clothed in an elegant gown dyed the same shades as the scenery around them. She smiled kindly at him, reaching up to touch his cheek. The cool caress of her palm against his skin astonished him, a fair contrast to his own heated body. Staring into her eyes, he realized she was old. Not years, not centuries, but eons. She was a gentle breeze of life and wonder that enraptured Cloud. In that moment, he knew who she was. She was the mother of this planet, the source of energy and life, the reason he was still alive. Gaia.

Yes. I know this will be difficult for you, and perhaps I am asking too much, but she is precious to me, and I can only offer this much. I trust you will make the right decisions. You have a strong heart, Cloud, a heart full of compassion. Share it. Trust in it.  Everything will turn out as it is meant to be in the end.

He didn't understand, but he couldn't fight her. Nodding, he surrendered to her. A heaviness drew down his eyelids, lashes dusting atop the crest of fair skinned cheeks. He couldn't see, couldn’t hear, his senses fading one by one. The last thing he felt was a soft press of lips upon the crown of his head.