#Josephine was wasted on him

[microcosme11]

This is only part of a love letter Napoleon wrote

Je ne sais pas quel sort m’attend ; mais s’il m’éloigne plus longtemps de toi, il me [devient] insupportable ; mon courage ne va pas jusque-là. Il fut un temps où je m’enorgueillissais de mon courage, et quelquefois, en jetant les yeux sur le mal que pourraient me faire les hommes, sur le sort que pourrait me réserver le destin, je fixais les malheurs les plus inouïs sans froncer le sourcil, sans me sentir étonné. Mais aujourd’hui, l’idée que ma Joséphine pourrait être mal, l’idée qu’elle pourrait être malade, et surtout la cruelle, la funeste pensée qu’elle pourrait m’aimer moins, flétrit mon âme, arrête mon sang, me rend triste, abattu, ne me laisse pas même le courage de la fureur et du désespoir… Je me disais souvent jadis : les hommes ne peuvent rien à celui qui meurt sans regret ; mais aujourd’hui, mourir sans être aimé de toi, mourir sans cette certitude, c’est le tourment de l’enfer, c’est l’image vive et frappante de l’anéantissement absolu. Il me semble que je me sens étouffer. Mon unique compagne, toi que le sort a destinée pour faire avec moi le voyage pénible de la vie, le jour où je n’aurai plus ton cœur sera celui où la nature aride sera pour moi sans chaleur et sans végétation… Je m’arrête, ma douce amie ; mon âme est triste, mon corps est fatigué, mon esprit est étourdi. Les hommes m’ennuient. Je devrais bien les détester : ils m’éloignent de mon cœur.

Je suis à Port-Maurice, près Oneille ; demain, je suis à Albenga. Les deux armées se remuent ; nous cherchons à nous tromper. Au plus habile la victoire. Je suis assez content de Beaulieu ; s’il manœuvre bien, il est plus fort que son prédécesseur. Je le battrai, j’espère, de la belle manière. Sois sans inquiétude, aime-moi comme tes yeux ; mais ce n’est pas assez : comme toi ; plus que toi, que ta pensée, ton esprit, ta vie, ton tout. Douce amie, pardonne-moi, je délire ; la nature est faible pour qui sent vivement, pour celui que tu animes. [...]

Adieu, adieu, je me couche sans toi, je dormirai sans toi, je t’en prie, laisse-moi dormir. Voilà plusieurs jours où je te serre dans mes bras, songe heureux mais, mais, ce n’est pas toi…

--------

I don’t know what fate awaits me; but if it keeps me away from you any longer, it [becomes] unbearable to me; my courage only goes so far. There was a time when I prided myself on my courage, and sometimes, casting my eyes on the harm that men could do to me, on the fate that destiny could have in store for me, I stared at the most incredible misfortunes without frowning, without feeling surprised. But today, the idea that my Joséphine could be unwell, the idea that she could be ill, and above all the cruel, fatal thought that she could love me less, withers my soul, stops my blood, makes me sad, dejected, does not even leave me with the courage of fury and despair… I often used to say to myself: men can do nothing to those who die without regret; but today, to die without being loved by you, to die without this certainty, is the torment of hell, it is the vivid and striking image of absolute annihilation. I seem to be suffocating. My only companion, you whom fate has destined to make with me the painful journey of life, the day when I will no longer have your heart will be the day when arid nature will be for me without heat and without vegetation… I stop, my sweet friend; my soul is sad, my body is tired, my mind is dizzy. Men bore me. I should hate them: they take me away from my heart.

I am in Port-Maurice, near Oneille; tomorrow I'm in Albenga. The two armies move; we seek to deceive each other. The most skilful wins. I am quite happy with Beaulieu; if he maneuvers well, he is stronger than his predecessor. I will beat him, I hope, in a good way. Don't worry, love me like your eyes; but that’s not enough: like you; more than you, than your thought, your spirit, your life, your everything. Sweet friend, forgive me, I am delirious; nature is weak for those who feel keenly, for those whom you animate. [...]

Goodbye, goodbye, I'm going to bed without you, I'll sleep without you, please let me sleep. It's been several days since I held you in my arms, happy dream but, but, it's not you…

link to the entire letter on napoleonica

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

"Oh, there's a little pun in there somewhere," Dorian commented with a sly smile as Elizabeth happily embraced Emily back; at this rather cryptic comment, Randall's brow furrowed, and he couldn't help but echo, "Pun?"

"Ah, I'll tell you later," the young master grinned, clapping his best friend on the back as finally, mercifully, the group began to move towards trick 'r treating, much to the relief of the children, who happily ran ahead of their family to get their sweets from the other residents of the Mansion, who were more than happy to dole out treats for the youngest members of the household: Beau gave them both full-sized candy bars, Madame Leota dropped spider-shaped chocolates into their buckets, and the Hitchhikers gave them some rubbery, squishy toy bugs, with Lon immediately throwing his centipede into his sister's hair, to which Erika responded by squishing the beetle into his face.

"Oh, and don't forget your apples!" Phineas added, dropping a pair of them into the buckets, adding with an awkward chuckle, "An apple a day keeps the doctor away! And I should know...I was one..."

"Aw, c'mon, Phinny, no self-respecting little kid wants that crap in their goodie buckets!" Ezra scoffed. "Not unless you're smothering 'em in caramel and nuts or somethin'!"

"It wouldn't hurt them to combat that sweetness with something a little healthier, Ez!" Phineas objected with a shrug, as the family passed through the crypt and out into the park itself, with Lon practically vibrating with excitement as he looked out at the park, all glittering and aglow with greens, purple, and oranges, shining string lights in the shapes of pumpkins and bats, and costumed characters of the more villainous sort walking around, giving playful scares to the mortal guests, all of whom were giggling and squealing with delight over the booming, bouncy music.

[choices-binglebonkus]

I occasionally think about this (tragically incorrect) prediction I made from when ILB was still releasing, and what a wasted opportunity it was :/

It Lives Beneath Prediction

You know how Diavolos died in chapter 11 and came back in chapter 15 as a terrifying zombie horse?

Well, here’s some food for thought: Kyle Garza died in chapter 1 and was never seen again after that except in flashbacks.  PB commissioned a completely new character model for Kyle, made him a love interest, essentially made him the catalyst of MC wanting to look into the drownings in Pine Springs, and yet they only included him in one chapter.  

This makes me strongly believe they’ll bring Kyle back as a zombie similarly to how they brought back Diavolos.  Maybe Josephine will try to use Kyle to do her bidding and kill off Grandpa or Elliot and if MC’s nerve is high enough, they can get through to Kyle, and if their nerve is too low, Kyle will kill someone (maybe even MC).

Thoughts?

[hellinistical]

in which 6 months have passed and caleb has come to collect.

part two to Stamen Cluster tw: implied pregnancy. minor character death. dubious consent/non-con. kidnapping. coercion. wc: 13.2k

The summer sun beats down relentlessly, golden rays drenching the village in warmth. The air hums with life—cicadas drone in the trees, the distant chatter of market-goers echoes through the streets, and the chickens in your yard cluck contentedly as they peck at the plump grains you toss their way. They've grown fat and glossy, their feathers shining in the sunlight like polished gold.

The world around you seems to have flourished. The grass is lush and vibrant, swaying lazily in the soft breeze. Wildflowers bloom in riotous colors, dotting the landscape with splashes of red, yellow, and blue. Even the market has transformed—stalls overflow with fresh produce, their owners smiling and calling out to passersby with cheer you hadn’t seen in years. 

The market boomed in the village square, its stalls overflowing with fresh produce, colorful fabrics, and trinkets brought in by traveling merchants. The air was filled with laughter and the chatter of bartering voices, the scent of baked bread and spiced meat wafting through the streets. Life had seemingly returned to normal, for everyone but you.

The dreams had stopped. Weeks ago, they had ceased entirely, leaving behind a deafening silence. At first, you were relieved, grateful to sleep through the night without the suffocating presence of Caleb haunting your every thought. But relief turned to unease. The absence of dreams didn’t mean the absence of him.

You didn’t forget. Not the bite, not the basket, and certainly not the promise. Every pomegranate you passed at the market brought it all rushing back. Every glance in the mirror reminded you of the scar on your neck, now faded but still there, a ghost of that winter night.

Josephine had noticed your change, of course. She would mutter about how you’d become quieter, more distant. You’d wave her off with excuses of being busy, of chores piling up- because really, how would you go about explaining to your grandmother that some man had bit you and told you that you had to go to him every six months? 

When Josephine had first noticed the bite on your neck, she squinted at you over the rim of her spectacles, her tone sharp with suspicion.

"What's that on your neck?" she asked, gesturing with her knitting needle.

You’d reached up reflexively, your fingers brushing over the faint scar. "A cat bite," you’d replied smoothly, offering her a dismissive shrug. "You know how that stray's been hanging around. Got a little too friendly."

Josephine had frowned, unconvinced, but she didn’t press.

And the pomegranates—oh, she had asked about those too.

"What’s with that basket in my room?" she’d demanded one morning, hands on her hips. "I don’t remember planting any pomegranate trees."

You’d forced a laugh, light and airy, as if her question was absurd. "A gift," you said quickly. "I was meaning to pass them along, but your room has the best sun. Didn’t want them to spoil before I could deliver them."

Her eyes had lingered on you for a beat too long, but eventually, she’d let it go, mumbling about the heat of the season and the wastefulness of letting good fruit sit too long.

The moment she’d shuffled out of the room, you’d wasted no time. Gathering the basket, you’d carried it outside, heart pounding the entire way. The sight of those glossy red fruits had turned your stomach, their weight in your hands far heavier than it should’ve been. You hadn’t even dared to bury them; instead, you hurled them into the thickest part of the woods, where the undergrowth was dense and the sun barely reached.

You’d stayed there for a moment, breathless, staring at where the pomegranates had disappeared into the shadows. Only when the breeze shifted, carrying the faintest scent of earth and fruit back to you, did you turn and walk away, refusing to look back.

But. 

The next day, the damned things were back.

You froze in place the moment you entered Josephine’s room, your pulse hammering against your throat. There they were, sitting on her table as though you’d never thrown them into the woods, the basket perfectly arranged, every pomegranate still plump and gleaming with an almost unnatural sheen.

For a moment, you just stared, your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. How? How could they possibly be here? You’d thrown them far—far enough that even wild animals wouldn’t have dragged them back.

"What’s wrong with you?" Josephine’s voice snapped you out of your frozen state. She was knitting by the window, her gaze flicking between you and the basket. "Don’t tell me you’ve lost your mind over a few pieces of fruit."

You shook your head quickly, forcing a shaky laugh. "No, no. Just... surprised they’re still looking so fresh in this heat."

"Hmph. They do look odd, don’t they?" she mused, squinting at them. "Almost like they’ve just been picked. I thought you said they were a gift from someone?"

"Y-Yeah," you stammered, taking a cautious step closer. "Guess they’re hardier than I thought."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Well, they’re wasting space in my room. You’d better do something with them before they rot. Lord knows I don’t want that smell in here."

You nodded, swallowing hard as you grabbed the basket again, its weight unnerving in your hands. They felt heavier than before, almost as if the fruits were mocking you with their persistence.

This time, you carried them even farther, past the woods and into the rocky streams beyond. You hurled them into the water one by one, watching as the current carried them away.

And the next day, they were on your bed.

You froze in the doorway, staring at the basket sitting squarely in the middle of your quilt, pristine and accusing. It was impossible—completely, utterly impossible—but there they were, the pomegranates gleaming as if they had just been plucked.

Your heart thundered in your chest as you stepped inside, the wooden floor creaking beneath your boots. You slammed the door shut behind you and leaned against it, your hands trembling.

You paced your room, back and forth, back and forth, the floorboards groaning under your restless movement.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you whispered under your breath, running your hands through your hair. The pomegranates sat there, unbothered by your panic, their bright crimson skin a taunting contrast to the faded, dusty hues of your little room.

"Why won’t you leave me alone!" you hissed, throwing your hands in the air. "It hasn’t been six months! Leave me be!"

Your words echoed in the room, falling flat against the oppressive silence. The only sound was your own ragged breathing and the faint chirping of cicadas outside the window.

You glanced at the basket again, your frustration bubbling over. You stomped over to it, gripping the edge of the woven handle so tightly your knuckles turned white. "What do you want from me?!"

The basket didn’t answer.

But of course, they didn’t answer; they were pomegranates.

You let out a short, bitter laugh, rubbing your temples. "I’m going crazy. I’m actually going crazy," you muttered to yourself, pacing again.

The fruit sat there in perfect silence, unbothered by your spiraling. Their ruby-red skin seemed almost alive in the golden summer light filtering through the window, as though mocking you with their unnatural vibrance.

Bingo. The solution hit you like a lightning bolt—if they wouldn’t leave you alone, then fine. You’d just give them to someone else. Someone could eat them, and that’d be the end of it.

You turned on your heel, marched back to the underbrush, and snatched up the basket. Dirt clung to the edge of one of the fruits, but the rest were still as pristine as ever. You wiped the sweat from your brow, muttering to yourself.

"Granny thought they were a gift for someone, didn’t she? Well, might as well make them a gift. Problem solved."

You held the basket at arm’s length, like it might sprout legs and attack you, and trudged back toward the house. The sun beat down, making you squint as your boots kicked up little clouds of dust.

The market. Yes, the market would be perfect. Someone there would take them off your hands, no questions asked. You just needed to make it quick—drop them, smile, and leave. Nothing to it.

***

The market, alive with the hum of summer prosperity, bustled far busier than usual. Vendors shouted over each other, the mingling scents of fresh bread, herbs, and livestock mingling in the thick, warm air.

Luckily, Tara's stall didn’t have too long of a line. You weaved your way through the crowd, sidestepping an overzealous butcher swinging a cleaver a little too close for comfort.

By the time you reached the wooden counter, Jenna was already sorting through an armful of herbs, her hands swift and precise. She glanced up as you approached, her brows lifting.

"Well, don’t you look like you’ve been running from something," she quipped, tying a neat bundle of rosemary. "What’s in the basket?"

You hesitated, clutching the cursed thing a little tighter. "Pomegranates."

Jenna tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "Pomegranates? In the middle of summer?"

"Yeah." You glanced down, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as you felt. "Thought Tara might want them. For...you know, preserves or something."

Jenna wiped her hands on her apron, eyeing the fruit. "Bit unusual for you to bring gifts."

"They're not—" You stopped yourself, forcing a smile. "Just...trying to get rid of them before they go bad."

She smirked but didn’t press further. "Tara’s packing up some jams right now, just give her a sec. I’ll let her know you’ve got a little surprise for her."

"Great," you said, setting the basket down on the counter. “Great, great, great.”

Not great. 

Definitely not great when Tara finishes up and comes up, all happy and excited that you’ve come to visit her, with a gift no less. She wipes a streak of flour off her cheek. “Oh, hey! What’s this?”

"A gift," you replied, forcing a smile. "Thought you might like some pomegranates. Fresh. Perfectly ripe."

Her eyes lit up as she peeked inside. "Wow, really? These are so expensive in the market right now. Where’d you get them?"

"Friend of a friend," you said quickly, waving a hand as if to dismiss the question. "Figured I’d share the luck."

Tara reached out to pick one up, her fingers grazing the smooth skin of the fruit. For a moment, you almost snatched it back- almost. Instead, you took a deep breath and said, “They’re all yours, enjoy.”

And of course, she didn’t just let you leave. “Why don’t you sit? I can take a break!” “Oh, uh, no, I shouldn’t. You know, Granny is-” “Oh come on, Y/n, we need to catch up!”

You hesitated at the edge of the stall, hands suddenly feeling too warm in the heat of the market. Tara's energy was contagious, and her smile only made it harder to say no.

"No, really, I should get back. Granny's waiting—"

"Granny can wait!" Tara interrupted, her hands on her hips, playful but firm. "We haven't had a proper chat in ages. Come on, just a few minutes, I insist!"

Her insistence was like a gentle pull, urging you to sit, and before you knew it, you found yourself taking the seat she’d pulled out for you.

"Fine," you muttered, crossing your arms as if that might stop the inevitable catching-up that was coming. "Just a few minutes."

Tara beamed, pulling her apron off and hanging it over the edge of the stall. "Great! Now, tell me everything. How's Granny? You? Any guys in your life yet?" 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at her eagerness, but it didn’t stop the uncomfortable flutter in your stomach. It was one thing to lie about the pomegranates, but talking about that?

You hesitated, trying to maintain a casual tone. “Granny’s good, really. She’s getting old, but tough as always,” you started, trying to keep it light.

"And me? Well, you know how it is. Just busy with things around the house, the farm..." You shrugged, brushing past the question of you.

Tara's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing the deflection. “Busy with farm stuff? You don’t even look like you’ve got your hands full these days.” She smirked, and for a moment, you could see the playful challenge in her eyes.

"You're dodging the question, Y/n," she teased. "Any guys? Any... interesting ones, maybe?"

You froze for a moment, the question hanging in the air like an unspoken weight.

“Really?” You forced a laugh, trying to ease the tension. "I'm busy with Granny. You know how it is."

But Tara wasn’t letting it slide that easily. She leaned in, a sly smile creeping onto her lips. “Come on, now. You’ve got to at least be talking to someone. There’s gotta be someone who's caught your eye, yeah?”

The words stung a little too much. You barely even remembered the last time someone caught your eye.

But you couldn’t let her see that. You smiled, shaking your head. “Nope, not really. No time for any of that.”

Tara didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she let it drop, leaning back in her seat. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying, you deserve someone who gets you.”

And you would laugh. Really, you would- if not for the hand that suddenly rested on your shoulder,

Tara's voice is bright, almost musical as she greets him, completely oblivious to the cold sweat running down your back. “Well, well, someone knows how to make an entrance!” She beams, her usual warmth easily shifting toward Caleb as if he’s some kind of long-lost acquaintance.

You fight the urge to panic, to back away, but something in the pit of your stomach stops you. His presence is like a shadow draped across the market, and you can feel it weighing down on you even as he greets Tara with smooth, practiced charm.

“Caleb,” he introduces himself with a slight bow, a grin curling at the corner of his lips. “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard much about you.” His tone is warm, almost too warm. But what catches you most is the look in his eyes—like he didn’t like that Tara was even talking to you, or someone who’s discovered something interesting. Tara laughs, clearly enamored. “Oh, you have? I hope only good things, then!” She waves it off with a playful flourish, completely buying into his act.

And there you are, standing frozen in the middle of it all, your heart pounding. Caleb looks at you, his eyes briefly meeting yours, and you can feel the pressure building in your chest. It’s not the same as before—not the overwhelming, suffocating grip, but something colder, sharper.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” you manage to say, your voice coming out more steady than you feel.

Caleb’s grin widens, an eerie sort of satisfaction curling through his expression. “I couldn’t resist,” he says smoothly, his gaze lingering on you for a fraction too long.

Caleb takes your hand, kissing it. His lips brush against your skin, a shiver runs up your spine, and for a moment, the world feels distant. His touch is deliberate, slow, as if marking his claim. You want to pull your hand away, but his grip is gentle yet firm enough to hold you in place.

Tara’s voice pierces through the tension, her teasing tone rising as she watches the two of you. “Y/n, you sneaky thing! You said you weren’t seeing anyone!” She laughs.

Caleb looks at you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, as if he’s enjoying this little game. His eyes lock with yours for a moment before he speaks, his voice smooth, seductive, and confident.

“Oh, Tara, you know how it is,” he says, the tone of his voice dripping with something almost dangerous. “Sometimes, it’s best to keep things  private.” He glances at you again, his gaze holding a silent promise of something unspoken.

Tara giggles excitedly, taking your free hand in hers, and grasping it tightly. “Wow, how did you guys meet? He’s so…wow, Y/n.” Your stomach churns at her excitement. 

“Oh, it’s quite the story,” Caleb says smoothly, his voice laced with charm that immediately captures Tara’s attention. He steps a little closer to you, his hand still firmly holding yours, as if to ensure you don’t slip away. “We met during one of her trips to the market. I was passing through, and, well... she caught my eye.”

Tara gasps, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “No way! That’s so romantic! Love at first sight?” She looks between the two of you, her face brimming with enthusiasm.

Caleb chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Something like that,” he replies, glancing at you with a look that feels far too intense. “She was buying pomegranates. Couldn’t take her eyes off them. I joked about how picky she was being, and she told me—well, you know how sharp she can be.” His grin widens as if he’s remembering something fond, though you know better.

Tara bursts into laughter. “That sounds just like her! She’s got quite the bite sometimes, doesn’t she?” She squeezes your free hand in a playful, affectionate way.

You manage a weak smile, your stomach twisting tighter with each passing second. Caleb’s fabricated story wraps around you like a net, trapping you in the role of a lovestruck partner. “Yeah, it was... memorable,” you mumble, hoping Tara doesn’t pick up on the strain in your voice.

“But the funny part,” Caleb continues, his tone light but his words precise, “was how she refused to accept my help carrying her things. Stubborn, determined—exactly what drew me to her.”

Tara sighs dreamily. “That’s so sweet. Y/n, why didn’t you tell me? I mean, look at him!” She gestures toward Caleb with a grin. “If I were you, I’d be showing him off.”

Your forced smile doesn’t falter, though your nails dig into your palm. You glance at Caleb, silently pleading for him to stop, but his expression is unreadable—pleased, perhaps even smug, as he tightens his grip on your hand just slightly.

Tara’s excitement is palpable, her joy genuine, and it makes you feel even worse.

"Anyway, one thing led to another, and then, as it turns out, I knew her grandmother. Josephine is lovely."

Tara’s eyes widen, her jaw dropping in surprise. “Wait, you know Josephine? Small world! How do you know her?”

Caleb’s smile doesn’t falter, his chin still resting lightly on your shoulder. “Oh, from years ago. She helped me out during a difficult time, and I never forgot her kindness. When I realized the connection…” He trails off, his voice softening. “Well, it felt like fate, you know?”  He rests his chin on your shoulder before linking his hand with your other hand. His skin was like cold, calloused.  You shiver involuntarily as his icy hand grazes the back of yours. The contrast to the summer heat makes it all the more unsettling. You glance sideways at Caleb, his smile perfectly crafted, as though he were born to charm.

Tara giggles again.  She leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "You better watch out, Y/n. If Granny likes him, then this one’s a keeper."

God, was Tara stupid or something?

You try to laugh, but it comes out more like a strangled cough. "Yeah, Granny... she, uh, she keeps her opinions to herself these days," you manage, your voice tight.

Caleb turns his head slightly, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear. "You’ve gone quiet, darling," he murmurs softly, just for you. His breath sends a chill down your spine despite the blazing summer sun.

Tara, oblivious to the tension radiating from you, clasps her hands together. “That’s so sweet! It’s like something out of a storybook!” She laughs, nudging your arm. “Y/n, why didn’t you tell me about this? It’s so romantic!”

Your throat feels dry, and your words stick, but Caleb, of course, fills the silence effortlessly. “She’s modest. I think that’s part of her charm.” His hand tightens slightly on your shoulder, the pressure subtle but firm, a silent warning.

Tara beams, completely enchanted. “I love this for you, Y/n. I mean, not just that you’ve found someone, but that he’s clearly so thoughtful and caring.”

You force out a small laugh, the sound strained. “Yeah, it’s… something.”

Caleb’s smile grows as his icy fingers trace idle patterns along your shoulder, sending chills through you. “Something, indeed,” he echoes, his tone smooth yet loaded with a weight only you can feel.

Tara leans in conspiratorially, her excitement barely contained. “So, are there any big plans? I mean, you’ve clearly got a story worth celebrating!” She winks, completely unaware of the storm brewing behind Caleb’s pleasant facade.

Tara’s eyes light up, her smile widening as Caleb speaks, his tone casual but carrying an undercurrent that only you can decipher.

“Yeah, we’ve got a big trip coming up soon,” Caleb says smoothly, his icy hand still resting possessively on your shoulder. “She’ll be staying with me for a while, just to test the waters, you know?”

Your stomach drops, and you whip your head around to glare at him, but Caleb’s expression remains calm, even charming, as if he hasn’t just dropped a bombshell. Tara’s jaw drops, her excitement bubbling over.

“Oh my gods, Y/n! That’s huge! Where are you going? How long are you staying? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” She bounces slightly on her feet, her hands clasped together.

You open your mouth to speak, your heart racing, but Caleb answers before you can get a word out.

“It’s still a surprise,” he says with a soft laugh, leaning closer to you, his voice low and intimate. “But I’ll make sure she writes to you.”

Tara practically squeals, completely charmed. “A surprise? That’s so romantic! Y/n, you lucky thing!” She beams at you, clearly convinced that this is the most wonderful news.

You try to force a smile, but it falters under Caleb’s steady gaze, the grip on your shoulder tightening ever so slightly. There’s no escaping the unspoken message in his words: This isn’t up for discussion.

***

The sun hangs high, casting golden light through the trees as the two of you walk the path home. The market’s noise is far behind you now, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the cheerful chirping of birds. But the air feels thick, heavy, as though the world itself can sense the tension simmering just beneath the surface. And the walk home? Suffocating. Caleb’s presence looms over you, his steps too close, too deliberate.

“That Tara,” he says casually, his tone light, as if discussing the weather. “Sweet girl, hmm?”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, his figure far too at ease for the storm brewing in your chest. “Please, no—”

“Relax.” His voice sharpens slightly, though the smile doesn’t leave his lips. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you take me for a bad guy.” He chuckles, a sound that doesn’t quite match the amusement he pretends to feel.

You clench your fists at your sides, swallowing the sharp retort on the tip of your tongue. The birds chirp on, oblivious, their melody at odds with the undercurrent of dread knotting in your stomach. Instead, you put your focus fixed on the dirt path ahead. Caleb seems to notice your silence, tilting his head slightly to glance at you. “You wound me, truly. After everything I’ve done for you?”

"You said six months," you snap, your voice trembling as you glance at him.

"Six months before I collect you," he corrects, his tone as smooth and unbothered as ever. He steps closer, his presence suffocating. "And I said we have a big trip coming up. I never said I wouldn't visit, dollface."

Your heart pounds in your chest as his words sink in, the casual way he speaks of your future like it’s already set in stone. Like you don’t have a choice.

You stop walking, your fists clenching at your sides. "Stop calling me that," you grit out, the words slipping through your teeth before you can think better of it.

Caleb raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. "What, dollface? It suits you."

"It doesn’t," you spit back, turning your glare on him.

His smirk deepens, his eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place—amusement, or maybe warning. "Feisty today, aren’t we? I like it."

Your stomach twists, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. "You don’t get to just... show up and act like you own my life."

"But I do," he says, his voice dropping into something softer, more dangerous. He takes a deliberate step toward you, and instinctively, you step back. "You signed the contract the moment you took the seeds. Six months, six seeds, till death. We’re bound, sweetheart. Whether you like it or not."

You stop walking. Turning to look at him, you jab a finger into his chest. "What even are you?" you spit, your voice shaking with anger.

"A god, maybe?" he says with a lazy shrug, like the answer doesn’t matter.

"You're no god of mine," you snap back, your fists trembling at your sides.

"And that," he says, his smirk widening, "is just as fine."

It’s disgusting how sure of himself he is, how he carries himself like the world bends to his whim, like even the sun would stop in its path if he commanded it. He watches you with those unnervingly calm eyes, his head tilted like he’s amused by your defiance.

You gasp as he spins you, the sudden motion leaving you breathless and disoriented. His grip is firm as he pulls you against him, his body too close, too strong.

"You gave her the basket," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, as his hand slides smoothly to rest against your neck. A cold shiver runs down your spine, a feeling of dread creeping over you as you fear he'll squeeze again, cut off your air like before. But he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers brush against the scar on your neck—the bite, the mark of what you never wanted to remember.

Your pulse quickens, thumping beneath his touch. You feel trapped, helpless under his gaze. His thumb traces the scar, and your body tenses, as if the very memory of that moment will come rushing back. You swallow hard, but your throat feels tight, constricted.

"Of course, I could just take your right hand," he continues, his lips curling slightly in a smirk that sends another spike of terror through you. "But, oh, you didn't seem to like that option. Or taking Josephine. So really, you're stuck with me."

The words sting, sharper than they have any right to be, and you struggle against his hold, the feeling of being caged growing stronger by the second. You try to step back, to pull away, but his grip doesn’t loosen; it only tightens, holding you in place.

"You don't own me," you force out, though your voice trembles more than you'd like to admit.

He tilts his head, as if genuinely amused by your words. "Oh, sweetheart. You gave me a choice. You decided this, not me."

His words pierce through you like a cold dagger, sharp and unrelenting. The memory of what you've done—the seeds, the promise you made, the trap you unknowingly walked into—plays over and over again in your mind. His grip on your face is firm, forcing you to look at him, to meet his gaze.

"You chose this," he repeats, his voice low and sinister. "And it was your fault for stealing the seeds." The way he says it makes your skin crawl, as if he's savoring your guilt, your helplessness.

You try to resist the urge to recoil, but you're trapped. His touch on your face is cold, like the ice of winter, but it's also familiar—too familiar, in a way that makes you want to escape, to break free from the suffocating weight of everything he's saying and doing.

His thumb brushes across your cheek, a mocking tenderness that doesn't match the malice in his eyes. "Luckily for you, I'm already familiar with this. Wouldn't you agree?"

The question hangs in the air, suffocating, and you can't help but feel like there's no way out. No way to undo what you've done, no way to take back the seeds, no way to escape this twisted cycle. The worst part is that you do agree, in a way. He knows you. He knows your weakness, your fear. He’s always been there, watching, waiting for this moment.

You force yourself to breathe, to try to steady your nerves. "You don’t control me," you say through gritted teeth, though your words sound weaker than you intend.

His lips twitch upward, and for a moment, the smile he gives you is almost... fond. "Oh, darling," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "You have no idea how much control I have over you."

Your stomach drops as he leans in closer, his face inches from yours. The air between you feels charged, electric, and you can't tell whether it's fear or something else that makes your heart race.

His kiss lands on your lips with an eerie gentleness, like the touch of a predator feigning affection. It's soft, almost too soft, as if he's savoring the moment—savoring the control he has over you. The cold of his lips contrasts with the heat in your chest, a confusing, disorienting sensation that makes your skin prickle with discomfort.

For a second, you almost want to pull away, to slap him, to scream—anything—but his presence is suffocating. His hand still cups your face, keeping you locked in place, and the pressure of his lips, though gentle, is impossible to ignore.

You don’t respond to it. You refuse to. It feels wrong—so wrong, like he's trying to erase your will with every soft, calculated press of his mouth. But somehow, you can’t break free. It’s like a force you can’t fight, and you hate yourself for not being able to.

When he finally pulls away, it’s not with a sense of victory, but something far more disturbing: a quiet satisfaction, as though this kiss, this small victory over you, is simply one piece of a much larger, more intricate plan. His eyes meet yours, those unsettling, dark eyes that never seem to leave you.

"You're mine, whether you want it or not," he says, his voice a low murmur, lips still close enough that you can feel the brush of his breath. "You always were, Y/n."

You blink again, your heart racing in your chest, trying to make sense of what just happened. One moment, Caleb's lips were on yours, his hand cradling your face, and the next... you're standing in the familiar confines of your own home. The walls, the creaking floors, the smell of old wood and herbs—everything is just as you left it.

But the air feels different. Heavier. The shadows in the corners seem deeper, and your breath feels sharp in your lungs as you slowly process the shift. Caleb is gone, and you have no idea how or when he left. It feels like time skipped ahead, like something changed, but you don’t know how.

Your fingers touch your lips reflexively, still tingling from his kiss. The bite on your neck pulses, a quiet reminder of what he's done, what he's taken from you. You want to scream, to rip the memories out of your mind, but they cling to you like a dark cloud.

You glance around the room. Josephine's door is still shut, the house is eerily quiet, yet you feel... watched. But he’s gone. For now. You have no idea when he’ll return—or what he'll want next.

For now, all you can do is breathe, steady yourself, and pray the walls hold up against the darkness he's brought into your life.

But at least that basket was gone. 

***

The dreams returned, but they weren't the same. Not like before, when they had been fragmented, hazy, and fleeting. No, now they were sharp, clear, as if the night itself had become a canvas, and every stroke of it was painted with purpose, with intent.

In the first dream, you were back in the field. The pomegranates stood tall and ripe, their red skin gleaming under the moonlight. The soil beneath your feet was soft, too soft, as if the earth itself had swallowed up everything you once knew. You walked through the rows, reaching out, your fingers grazing the dark fruits, feeling their weight like a burden. And then, you saw him—Caleb. He was standing at the far end, his silhouette stark against the sky, his eyes glinting as if he could see straight through you.

“You’ll learn to love them,” his voice echoed, though his lips never moved. The fruit was delicious. So utterly, maddeningly delicious. Its stain tainted your lips, the color matching his fingertips, bloody. 

You tried to turn, to run, but your feet were rooted in place. The pomegranates were all around you now, their roots tangled like vines, pulling you down, pulling you into the earth.

Another dream followed. This time, you stood before a mirror, but it wasn’t your reflection that stared back at you. It was something... wrong. A version of you with darker eyes, wilder hair, a version that had been changed, warped by the seeds, by the bargain you had made. You reached out to touch the mirror, but the reflection didn’t move in sync with you, it was always a moment ahead, always watching, always waiting.

The bite on your neck burned as if it had never healed, the scar still angry and red beneath your skin, even in the dream. And Caleb’s laughter, soft and mocking, rang out in the background, swirling around you like smoke.

The dreams weren’t dreams anymore. They were memories, and they felt like warnings.

And when you woke, your heart hammered in your chest, your breath coming in frantic gasps. For a brief, terrifying moment, you wondered if the line between sleep and reality had blurred completely.

You clutched the covers tightly, as if trying to hold yourself together. 

The chickens clucked outside. It was…comforting. 

***

The tension in the air was palpable, thick with a sense of desperation, of something dangerous stirring. Lips pressed together in a fierce, bruising kiss—teeth clashing, not out of passion, but out of something more primal. Something almost violent. There was no tenderness here, no softness. Just a raw, chaotic hunger that neither of you could control.

Your hands were everywhere, grasping, pulling, pushing. His fingers dug into your skin, scratching and clawing like they were trying to leave a mark, trying to stake some claim on you, on your very essence. You didn’t know if you wanted to break free or if you wanted to pull him closer, as if the intensity of the moment could somehow swallow both of you whole.

His hands were on your body, your neck, your waist, burning through your clothes as if they weren’t even there. The sharpness of his grip, the way he maneuvered you against him, felt almost like a punishment. He was everywhere, his scent, his touch, his voice. You couldn’t escape him. No matter how much you struggled, you were trapped in this moment.

Your pulse raced in your throat, and his lips trailed down, leaving fire in their wake. But the world around you was blurring, the edges of reality slipping away like water between your fingers. All you knew was him, all you felt was him.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

You didn’t even know how you got here, but it felt like you’d been drowning in this moment for hours, for years—time didn’t seem to matter anymore. All that mattered was the chaos of his presence, the way it shook you, the way it marked you.

When you finally pulled away, gasping for air, your lips swollen and red, your body burning from the heat of it all, Caleb’s eyes were on you—dark, intense, unreadable. His chest heaved as he stared at you, as if trying to decide what to do next. A string of spit connected your lips. He brushed it away with his thumb from the corner of your lips. 

“You’ll learn to crave this,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine.

And for a moment, he looks almost guilty. 

Your heart races in your chest, your breath shallow as you gasp for air, the remnants of the dream still clinging to your skin. The sheets are tangled around you, your body slick with sweat. You clutch your pillow tight to your face, muffling the scream that rises in your throat.

It felt so real. Too real. His touch, his words—everything about it lingered like a shadow in your mind. You couldn’t shake the sensation of him, the feeling of his hands, his presence, suffocating you.

You sit up, your legs shaky beneath you, fighting the panic that claws at your chest. The sunlight filtering through your window is harsh, but it does little to clear the fog that clouds your thoughts. The world outside feels like a distant memory, too distant from the nightmare that still echoes in your mind.

As you moved, you paused.

Your underwear felt warm. Warm and wet. 

Of course, you rush to the bathroom and tug your waistband and underwear to see. 

 You stare at the crimson stain, your heart pounding in your chest. This isn’t normal. It’s too soon—weeks too soon. You grip the edge of the sink, your legs trembling as you try to make sense of it.

Your reflection in the mirror looks pale, almost ghostly. Panic rises as your mind races. You’ve never been early before. Never like this. You fumble for the calendar on your phone, quickly scrolling through the dates. It confirms what you already knew: this isn’t right.

“Okay, okay,” you mutter to yourself, trying to calm down. Maybe it’s stress. That’s a thing, right? Stress can mess with your cycle. Or maybe it was something you ate.

But deep down, you know this isn’t just stress.

The dreams, the bite, the pomegranates—it all feels like pieces of a puzzle you’re too afraid to put together. You grab a fresh pair of underwear and a pad, trying to shake off the nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach. The bright light of the bathroom feels too harsh, too exposing.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just a fluke.

Yeah. A fluke. 

***

The crisp air of fall settles over the village, painting the trees in fiery reds and golden yellows. The scent of earth and fallen leaves lingers, grounding you in a way that summer never could. For the first time in months, your life feels...ordinary.

The pomegranates no longer appear on your bed or at your door. The oppressive weight of Caleb’s presence, real or imagined, seems to have lifted. You can breathe again.

The chickens are still assholes, the market bustles with preparations for the harvest festival, and the days bleed into one another in a blur of chores, conversations, and fleeting smiles. It’s not happiness exactly, but it’s close enough that you don’t question it.

Josephine scolds you for tracking mud into the house, Tara chats with you in the market, and for once, you don’t feel like the shadow of someone else lingers behind you. Nights are quieter now. The dreams are gone, leaving you with nothing but the sound of wind brushing against the windows and the occasional hoot of an owl.

You stop keeping track of the days. It doesn’t feel important anymore. Caleb fades like the last vestiges of summer, distant and unreal. 

Josephine hums softly as her fingers work through your hair, weaving seeds and flowers with the kind of care that only she could manage. You sit still, trying not to squirm under her meticulous touch.

"You look lovely," she says, her voice soft, almost reverent. "This shade of pink suits you."

You glance down at the folds of the doric chiton, its fabric catching the golden afternoon light. It feels too delicate, too perfect. A stark contrast to the mud-streaked skirts and work-worn tunics you’ve grown used to.

"Granny really outdid herself," you mutter, trying to muster some semblance of gratitude.

Josephine chuckles. "I just want you to shine at the festival. You know how much this means to me. Besides, it’s not every day you get to dress up for the gods. And the festival only comes once a year. Make sure you give them a proper thanks for all we’ve been given this season.”

Your eyes flicker to the small table by the window, where your offerings sit—a neatly arranged basket of bread, fruit, and herbs, alongside a small clay figure you’d crafted. It feels enough. It has to be enough.

“Do you think they’ll listen?” you ask softly, almost to yourself.

Josephine frowns, her hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “The gods are always listening, child. Whether they answer is another thing entirely. But you must offer with a full heart and trust that they’ll hear.”

You didn’t know if you even believed in the gods after well, that.

It’s been months since...since then. Long enough that you’ve almost convinced yourself it’s behind you. Caleb is gone, the pomegranates stopped appearing, and life has returned to a semblance of normalcy.

But as Josephine ties the final braid and steps back to admire her work, you can’t help but roll your stiff shoulders. The seeds in your hair feel heavier than they should, but maybe that was just the style. 

Shaking off the thought, you stand, smoothing the folds of your dress. “I should go finish preparing,” you say, reaching for the basket.

Josephine nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Go, then. And don’t forget to enjoy yourself tonight. The festival isn’t just for the gods, you know- Oh!”

“Hm?”

She goes to your basket, her fingers deftly plucking a single cherry from the offerings. Without hesitation, she bites into it, the juice running faintly down her chin. Then, before you can ask what she’s doing, she takes your face in her hands. “Hold still.”

And you do. You do as she rubs the exposed half of the cherry onto your lips, the sweet, sticky juice staining them a deep red (or as red as they could get). 

“Isn’t this a bit much?” “Nonsense. The gods love beauty, and they care for presentation. Now, I want you to be safe- don’t over-do the wine, but mingle. Don’t stay with Tara the whole time, understand?” “Yes, grandmother.” “And if you get hungry and have lost your coin, there’s seeds in your hair.” “Of course, grandmother.”

A gentle smile plays at your lips. She returns it halfway. 

“Soon, you’ll have to leave me, you know.” “...I know.” “You’ll have a husband, children- but don’t forget about me,” theres a happy lit to her voice now. 

“I’d never!”

“I know.”

It’s quiet for some time. The sun would surely set soon. 

Josephine sighs, clapping her hands together. 

Well… off you go. And don’t smudge it before anyone gets a good look- enjoy yourself! But go before I find something else to start fussing over.”

You laugh, and with that, she gives you a light push toward the door. The warmth of her hands lingers on your cheeks as you step outside, basket in hand. The cherry’s taste stays with you, its sweetness mingling with the crisp autumn air as you make your way toward the heart of the village. It’s a small thing, but as you catch your reflection in a passing window, you can’t help but admit—Josephine might be onto something. 

As you step outside again, the cherry’s sweetness lingers, mingling with the crisp autumn air. You adjust your grip on the basket, glancing down at its carefully arranged contents. The offerings look the same as before, but now, with the touch of Josephine’s flair, they feel... different.

Special.

You shake off the odd sense of unease that creeps up your spine and head toward the square. The distant hum of the festival grows louder with every step, the laughter and music pulling you in like a current.

Let them notice, you think, the faint taste of cherry on your tongue. Let them see.

***

The festival buzzed with life, every sound and sight merging into a symphony of joy. Flutes and lyras trilled high notes, while the deeper, resonant hum of lyres and kitharas anchored the music. The bonfire crackled at the heart of it all, sending sparks spiraling into the night sky like fireflies escaping into freedom.

Your shoes were long forgotten, discarded somewhere along the edge of the square. The cool earth kissed your feet as you spun and swayed, the soft fabric of your chiton billowing with each movement. You held your skirts high, free from the constraints of formality, your laughter blending into the melody of the celebration.

Tara appeared beside you, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire and the exhilaration of the dance. She grabbed your hand and twirled you around, both of you stumbling and giggling like children. “Look at you!” Tara shouted over the music, her voice full of laughter. “Who knew you could dance like this?”

“Shut up!” you replied, grinning as you spun her around. “You’re the one showing off!” The two of you laughed, the sound blending with the music and the cheerful chatter of the crowd. Around you, other women joined in, their movements graceful and free, their laughter ringing out like bells. For a moment, the world felt simple, unburdened by the weight of your thoughts or the strange, dark memories that lingered in the back of your mind. The firelight painted everyone in shades of gold and amber, and the music carried you, light as air.

“Come on!” Tara shouted, pulling you closer to the fire. “Let’s see if you can keep up!”

You laughed, following her lead as the music grew faster, your feet moving instinctively to the rhythm. Around the fire, the festival carried on, a celebration of life, of the gods, of the turning seasons.

As the flames illuminated your face even more, more compliments seemed to spill from Tara’s lips. Her cheeks were rosy as if she’d been wined and dined, greedy for more. “You look stunning tonight!” she shouted over the music, her voice brimming with sincerity and joy. “I swear, you’ve outdone yourself!”

“Oh, please,” you replied, laughing as you caught your breath. “It’s the dress! Granny picked it.” She shakes her head, giggling. “Remind me to thank her!” Linking your arms together, the other women link as well, circling and dancing. 

Brightly dressed women clapped their hands and twirled, their skirts fanning out like petals in the firelight. Children darted between the adults, their giggles carrying on the wind. Men cheered and clapped from the sidelines, some joining in to pair off with dancers, while others lingered with mugs of spiced wine.

For a moment, everything else melted away. The tension, the strange unease you’d carried with you for weeks—it was all burned away by the fire, drowned out by the music and the easy joy of the festival.

"Come on!" Tara called, pulling you further into the throng. "No holding back tonight, Y/n!"

And for once, you let yourself go. You danced until your feet ached, until the world spun from more than just twirling. The festival carried on, vibrant and alive, as if nothing else mattered but this night and its revelry. And nothing did. 

***

The hours blurred together in a haze of laughter, music, and the smoky scent of the bonfire. You barely noticed the passage of time, caught up in the festival’s intoxicating energy.

Jenna, Tara, and you had become an inseparable trio for the night, weaving through the crowd and sharing stories between bites of roasted lamb. The juices ran down your fingers as you tore into the leg, the savory richness melting on your tongue. Each bite was perfection, seasoned just right and charred to smoky deliciousness.

Jenna, however, was in her own world, her cheeks flushed from more than just the firelight.

"I swear," she slurred, her words tumbling over each other as she clung to your arm for balance, "if I see that baker again, I’m—I'm gonna marry him! Just—poof! Right then and there."

Tara snorted, nearly choking on her drink. "Jenna, you said that about the butcher last week."

"I changed my mind," Jenna declared dramatically, swaying as she gestured with her cup. "He gave me free bread, Tara! Bread! What more do you need in life?"

"Steady legs, for starters," you teased, catching her just as she stumbled.

Jenna burst out laughing, her head tipping back as she clung to you tighter. "Oh, Y/n, you’re the best. If this baker thing doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll just marry you instead!"

Jenna hiccups, a sound so sudden and loud it startles both you and Tara. She blinks, swaying slightly as she grins mischievously.

"Let’s—hic—let’s play a game," she announces, slurring just enough to make you nervous about where this might be headed. "Truth or dare!"

Tara groans, shaking her head as she leans back against the bench. "Oh, no. Jenna, you’re terrible at this game when you’re sober. I can’t imagine how this is going to go right now."

Jenna waves her hand dismissively, nearly whacking you in the face. "Nonsense! I’m great at this game." She hiccups again, giggling. "Come on, Y/n, Tara—hic—it’ll be fun! I’ll go first."

You exchange a glance with Tara, her raised eyebrow mirroring your own apprehension. Still, you can’t help but smile at Jenna’s enthusiasm.

"Fine," you sigh, playing along. "Go ahead, Jenna. I’ll go first- uh, hmm…dare.”

And Jenna gets all into your face, and you swear she was pretending to be drunk with how sober she suddenly seemed. “I dare you to go to the temple- not Kore’s temple. The other one. Take a fruit.”

You blink, momentarily taken aback by the sudden shift in Jenna's demeanor. The air feels heavier, and there's an odd intensity in her gaze that makes you hesitate. You swallow, trying to maintain your casual tone.

"Wait, the temple?" You glance at Tara, hoping for some kind of reassurance, but she looks just as confused as you. "Jenna, what are you talking about?"

Her smile widens, almost predatory in its sharpness, though her eyes are clouded with drunkenness again. "You know," she says slowly, as if speaking to a child, "the temple. The one at the edge of town. There's fruit there.”

"Why would I..." you trail off, not sure if you even want to entertain this idea. The thought of taking fruit from there doesn’t sit right with you, especially given everything that’s happened in the past.

Tara looks between you and Jenna, narrowing her eyes. "You really want her to do that, Jenna?" she asks, her tone cautious.

Jenna's grin widens again, though there's a glimmer of something else behind her eyes. "You don’t have to do it," she says in a sing-song voice. "It’s just a dare.” She makes a sound as if to imitate a chicken.

"I—I can’t," you mutter, shaking your head as you try to laugh it off. "That’s... that’s too much."

But Jenna leans in closer, her eyes boring into yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "I dare you," she whispers, like it’s a secret only you need to hear. "Go. Take a fruit."

Tara’s laugh is nervous now, her voice dropping lower. "Jenna, what is this really about? What’s going on with you?"

The tension hangs in the air. You feel the weight of Jenna’s dare pulling at you. The temple... What could go wrong, right? Just grab a fruit. 

Your feet move before your mind catches up, and you feel the heat of the wine still dancing in your veins. With a strange sense of defiance, you rise to your feet, your voice louder than you intended. "Grandmother didn't raise a coward."

Tara looks at you, her expression a mix of concern and confusion, but you don’t give her the chance to voice her concerns. You begin walking toward the temple, the dare fueling your movements.

You tell yourself it’s a joke, a simple dare. You won’t actually take a fruit. You’ll just go in and out. No harm done. What’s the worst that could happen?

The night air feels cool on your skin, a contrast to the warmth of the wine still swirling in your head. The temple stands ahead, its silhouette looming against the starlit sky, its pillars casting long shadows. Something about it feels...wrong. You try to shake off the feeling, but it lingers.

As you approach the entrance, the heavy wooden doors stand slightly ajar, an invitation or a warning? You can’t decide.

With a deep breath, you step inside. The air shifts as you cross the threshold, and a strange silence envelops you. There are no sounds of night creatures, no rustle of wind—just stillness. The faint glow of candles illuminates the altar ahead, and there, piled with offerings, sits an assortment of fruits, their colors deep and vivid in the dim light.

You freeze for a moment, your pulse quickening. The temptation to grab just one, to complete the dare and return before anyone notices, rises within you.

But you hesitate. The air seems to thicken, and you feel eyes on you, though you see no one. The weight of something ancient presses on your chest.

Just take a fruit. Just one.

***

The marble feels slick beneath your feet as you step further into the temple, the coldness biting into your bare soles. You hadn't expected it to be this cold, this quiet. The usual sounds of the night outside, the rustle of leaves or the calls of distant animals, were replaced by an eerie stillness, as though the air itself had frozen in time.

You glance around, the space stretching before you, each stone gleaming under the faint light of flickering candles placed carefully on the altar. The faint scent of incense lingers in the air, sharp and intoxicating. It's a strange place, a place of both reverence and... something else.

You bow low, instinctively following the rituals your grandmother drilled into you. Your lips whisper the necessary prayers, your fingers curling around the edges of the hem of your chiton, your heart pounding in your chest. You can almost hear your own heartbeat echoing in the silence.

And then you hear it.

Footsteps behind you. Jenna. She had followed you, hadn't she? She didn’t trust you to do it alone, didn’t trust you to carry through with the dare. You don't have to look to know she’s there, watching, waiting.

But you're here now. You’ve come this far. The fruit sits before you, gleaming temptingly in the dim light. You were supposed to take one, weren’t you? It felt like part of some unspoken pact, an offering, a symbol of submission. You glance back briefly and catch the gleam of Jenna’s eyes, expectant and a little too eager.

Should you? Should you take it, just like the dare demanded?

The weight of the moment presses heavily on you.

His voice cuts through the silence, smooth and teasing, and you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. The words, the tone—it's all too familiar. It's Caleb, standing there, his presence like a shadow you can never quite shake off.

You didn't even hear him approach. How long had he been watching? The cold air grows heavier, the weight of his gaze pressing on your back. His footsteps echo as he moves closer, and you can feel the tension building in the space between you.

You don't turn to face him. You can't. But you hear him step forward, his boots clicking softly on the marble floor.

"Don't act so surprised," Caleb continues, his voice low and almost intimate, "I’ve been watching, you know. You think you can just sneak away to the temple and pretend I won’t notice?"

The way he says it makes your skin prickle, like he's always one step ahead, always aware of what you're doing. You grip the hem of your chiton tighter, your pulse quickening.

"Perfect timing," he repeats, almost as if savoring the moment, "And look at you, all dressed up. For me? You shouldn't have."

You try to keep your composure, but the unease crawling along your skin betrays you. It’s the last thing you expected — no, it’s the last thing you wanted. Of course, it’s no coincidence that he’s here now. You shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have even considered it. His presence, his- Jenna.

That motherfucker. 

You swallow, your throat dry, and force yourself to face him. He’s not even hiding now, stepping fully into the dim light, his figure outlined against the shadows. The flickering candlelight casts a soft glow on his features, but his eyes — those eyes — they’re colder than the stone beneath your feet.

You glance down at the fruit on the altar, the one Jenna dared you to take. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if that would make a difference, if taking it would somehow tie you closer to him.

But you know better. You know there’s no way out.

“So,” he continues, his voice lowering, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he approaches, “which fruit will you choose, hmm?”

He waits for an answer for a good 5 minutes before saying anything. “Come on, Kore. Don’t keep me waiting, yeah? After midnight, well- it’s been six months, love. So come on. Pick a fruit.”

The nickname makes your blood run cold. Kore. The name slips from his lips like a promise, laced with meanings you can’t fully grasp but feel all too keenly. It’s mocking and intimate all at once, and it burrows under your skin like a splinter.

“Stop calling me that,” you snap, but your voice wavers.

Caleb only smirks, his head tilting ever so slightly as if amused by your defiance. “Oh, but it suits you so well. Don’t you think?” He gestures to the altar, the fruits glistening under the faint candlelight. “Now, let’s not waste time. Pick one.”

You glance at the altar, then back at him, your chest tightening. The air feels too thick, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place.

“I’m not playing your game,” you say, taking a step back.

His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something sharper in his eyes now, a warning hidden behind his otherwise relaxed demeanor. “It’s not a game, love. It’s a choice. Your choice. But let me remind you,” he steps closer, the click of his shoes echoing off the temple walls, “I’ve been patient. Six months, patient. And patience, well… it has its limits.”

You shake your head, backing up until the altar presses against your lower back. The cold stone is a stark reminder that you’re cornered. “You said—”

“I said I’d give you six months before I collected you,” Caleb interrupts smoothly, his voice dangerously soft now. “And here I am. But you… you’re still making this difficult. Always so stubborn, aren’t you, Kore?”

Your heart pounds against your ribs as his fingers trail along the edge of the altar, dangerously close to the fruit. “Why are you doing this?” you whisper.

His laugh is low, dark, and it curls around you like smoke. “Because I can,” he says simply, his hand finally stopping above a ripe pomegranate. He picks it up, rolling it in his hand as he inspects it. “Because you invited me in when you took the seeds. And because…”

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he finishes, “You’re mine, and you always will be.”

You want to scream, to run, to fight, but your body won’t move. Instead, you stare at the pomegranate in his hand, its dark red skin gleaming like blood.

“Pick a fruit, Y/n,” Caleb murmurs again, his voice a silken command. “Or I’ll pick one for you.”

His breath brushes your neck, and you can feel his gaze on the back of your head, lingering in a way that feels like a predator eyeing its prey. His hand in your hair sends shivers down your spine, an unsettling mix of warmth and danger. The sweetness of his scent is thick now, almost overpowering, making it hard to think clearly.

“Beautiful work,” he repeats, his voice soft and almost teasing as his fingers gently tug at the strands of your hair, weaving through the braids. “Compliments to Josephine.” There’s a bite of something else in his tone, something that makes the compliment feel less genuine and more like a warning.

Your heart races, but it’s not from fear alone—it’s the confusion, the fury, and the helplessness all blending together. You don’t know what you want more: to break free from his grip or to slap the smirk off his face.

You’re so close to him now, his body just a breath away from yours. His warmth spreads across your skin, and it makes you dizzy. You struggle to pull yourself together, your mind desperately searching for something, anything to do.

"You're not playing fair," you manage to choke out, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "I won't—"

“Won’t what?” His lips brush your ear again, and this time, his words are like poison. “Won’t take the fruit? Won’t accept what you’ve already given me?”

He reaches over to a basket, pucking a fruit. The pomegranate he holds glistens in the dim light, its bright red skin a cruel reminder of the price you’re about to pay. His fingers slide through your hair one last time, his hand holding your head just firmly enough to make sure you don’t look away from the fruit.

"All this time, and you still don’t see the inevitable, do you, Kore?” He chuckles low in his throat. “Six months ago, you ate the seeds. And now… it’s time to collect what’s due."

Your breath catches in your throat. You feel trapped. Stuck. There’s nowhere to run. No way to fight this. And worse, part of you… part of you wants to give in, just to make it stop.

His words hang heavy in the air, the mockery laced with something far darker. The way his gaze roams over you makes your skin crawl, even as heat rises to your cheeks against your will.

"Oh, would you look at that," he says, tilting his head as though examining a prized possession. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you got all dolled up for someone else. But that couldn't be, could it?"

His smirk widens, sharp and cutting, as his hand trails down to brush the fabric of your chiton, lingering just enough to make your stomach twist in disgust. “No, this was for me, wasn’t it, Y/n? Everything you do always circles back to me.”

You grit your teeth, your pulse pounding so hard it’s a roar in your ears. “I dressed for the gods. Not you.”

He laughs, low and rich, the sound vibrating through the marble halls. "Sweetheart, I am your god now. Whether you like it or not."

You recoil from his touch, jerking away enough to put a sliver of distance between you. His grin doesn't falter; if anything, it grows wider, as though your resistance only amuses him further.

“You don’t have to keep fighting it,” he says, stepping closer, erasing the space you just created. “The sooner you stop pretending, the easier it’ll be. For both of us.”

Your jaw clenches, the fire in your chest sparking again. “I’m not pretending,” you snap. “You don’t own me.”

“Don’t I?” His voice drops, the teasing edge sharpening into something far more menacing. He leans in, his lips so close to your ear that you can feel the chill of his breath. “You gave me your soul the moment you swallowed those seeds. Whether you meant to or not.”

His words send a cold dread creeping through your veins, but you refuse to show it. Instead, you glare at him, your voice trembling but steady. “I didn’t know. That wasn’t a choice.”

“And yet, here we are,” he says smoothly, straightening and gesturing to the temple around you. “All roads lead to me, love. Always have, always will.”

His confidence, his dominance—it’s suffocating, and yet, somewhere deep inside, something stirs. A spark of defiance that refuses to die, no matter how much he tries to smother it.

You take a deep breath, forcing steel into your spine. “You don’t scare me,” you lie, the words falling from your lips like a challenge.

His smirk turns predatory, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “Oh, Kore,” he murmurs, stepping so close that your breaths mingle. “You should be scared. But that’s what makes this fun.”

His finger presses lightly against your temple, the touch cold and electric. A shiver runs through you, but before you can pull away, the world slips out from under you.

The marble of the temple dissolves, the flickering torches extinguish, and the air grows heavy and still. Darkness consumes everything, as thick and impenetrable as ink.

You try to speak, to move, but your limbs feel weighted, your voice trapped in your throat. Panic flares in your chest, and you struggle against the void, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

“Shh,” Caleb’s voice whispers, soft and velvety, reverberating all around you. It feels as though it’s coming from inside your head. “Don’t fight it, love. You’ll only make it worse.”

His laughter echoes, sharp and cruel, slicing through the oppressive silence. “Relax. It’s just a little... adjustment.”

You want to scream, to demand what he’s done, but all you can do is drift, weightless and disoriented. 

And then, just as abruptly as it began, the darkness recedes.

You’re standing in a field bathed in golden sunlight. The sky above is impossibly blue, the air sweet with the scent of wildflowers. Everything is vivid, dreamlike in its perfection.

But something feels off.

You look down and realize you’re still in the pink chiton, its fabric shimmering unnaturally in the sunlight. A crown of flowers rests on your head, their petals vibrant and freshly bloomed.

And then you hear it—a low hum, melodic and haunting, carrying on the breeze. It sends a chill down your spine despite the warmth of the sun.

Turning, you see him standing at the edge of the field, his figure dark against the brightness. Caleb, watching you with that ever-present smirk, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

“Welcome home,” he says, his voice carrying effortlessly across the distance. “Do you like what I’ve made for you?”

The pomegranates were alive again. Alive and thriving. But just as soon as you saw them you were back, Back in that bed- the one from before, where he had choked you- nearly killed you0 and left that horrible, horrible bite. 

Caleb leaned against the door frame as you sat up. There was no smirk on his face, no smile, no frown. His voice is surprisingly gentle and…wanting?

“It’s midnight, You’ve had your wine and dance. Just…just 6 months of your time. Not a year, not forever. I just want you back K-Y/n.”

His steps are soft, and it seems he’s done a 180 in his manners. 

His touch is a contradiction—gentle enough to soothe, yet possessive enough to remind you of the control he wields. His fingers trace the curve of your arm, light as a feather, but it sends a jolt down your spine. You hate how your body responds, how his touch lingers like a ghost long after he moves away.

The bed beneath you is a trap, its plush surface too soft, too inviting, pulling you in as though it has a will of its own. You shift uncomfortably, trying to push back against the suffocating comfort, but it only seems to draw you in deeper.

Caleb’s hands slide down to your waist, his grip tightening just enough to make you notice. There’s an aching sort of yearning in the way he touches you, as though he’s memorizing the shape of you, mapping out every curve, every hollow. It’s suffocating, intoxicating, infuriating.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low, a whisper of honeyed command. “I’m not going to hurt you... not unless you make me.”

The threat is veiled in sweetness, his tone so soft it almost feels like a caress in itself. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms as you fight the overwhelming sensation of helplessness.

And you ask what seems like for the millionth time: “What do you want from me?” you ask, voice trembling despite your effort to sound strong.

His lips curve into a slow, soft smile. “Everything.”

It’s a single word, but it feels like the ground shifting beneath your feet, the air being sucked from your lungs. His hands remain on you, warm and firm, a reminder of the weight of his presence, the inevitability of his claim.

***

His lips are molten against your skin, every kiss igniting a trail of fire that seems to seep straight into your veins. He’s deliberate, moving with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what effect he has on you, and you hate how your body betrays you, arching instinctively to grant him more access.

His hands, strong and unyielding, pin yours on either side of your head, fingers interlocked as if he’s binding you to him. There’s a dangerous intimacy in the way he holds you—gentle, yet unrelenting, as though he’s savoring the moment of your surrender.

You’re disgusted with yourself, with the way your breath hitches when his mouth finds that sensitive spot below your jaw. You can feel his smirk against your skin, a silent acknowledgment of your weakness.

“See?” he murmurs, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Your body knows what it wants, even if you don’t.”

Your teeth clench, and you glare up at him, but your defiance feels hollow when your pulse betrays you, pounding under his touch. “Get off me,” you hiss, though your voice wavers, lacking the strength you want it to have.

He chuckles softly, his breath warm against your ear. “Oh, sweet girl,” he says, his tone both teasing and reverent, “we both know that’s the last thing you want.”

Your heart races, your thoughts a chaotic storm of anger, fear, and something else you refuse to name. You hate how easily he unravels you, how effortlessly he reduces you to this trembling, conflicted mess.

And yet, even as you fight against him, a part of you wonders if he’s right.

A part of you winders if he’s right as he cups your face, kissing your eyes, your cheeks, your nose, your lips. 

A part of you winders if he’s right when his lashes brush across your skin, butterfly kisses soft as he promises devotion. 

And a part of you winder if he’s right as his hands are so, so genlte that it makes you cry. 

The tears come without warning, hot and unbidden, slipping down your cheeks even as his hands continue their soft ministrations, brushing tenderly across your skin. His touch feels like silk, each movement almost reverent, as if he’s cherishing you in a way that feels far too intimate, far too real for you to grasp.

His lips continue everywhere.

Your cheeks, your nose, your lips. Each kiss is so light, so gentle, that it feels like a confession in itself, as if he’s offering something more than just a physical connection.

The soft brush of his lashes against your skin feels like a whisper from some dark, hidden part of yourself, and for a moment, you almost want to believe him. You almost want to surrender to the devotion he promises, even though every fiber of your being screams that it’s a lie, a manipulation, a trap. His kisses, tender and patient, ghosting over your cheeks and lips, seem to slow time, stretching the moment into something agonizingly beautiful. His hands, impossibly gentle, caress your face with such reverence that it stirs something deep inside of you. Something raw and fragile.

You hate how vulnerable you’ve become in his presence, how his careful tenderness is unraveling the walls you’ve spent so long building.

“You don’t have to fight,” he murmurs, his voice like silk, soothing, coaxing. “I can give you what you need. All you have to do is let go.”

Your chest tightens with emotion you can’t name, a surge of dread and longing so tangled together you can't separate them. You want to pull away, to tear yourself from his embrace, but your body betrays you, sinking deeper into the warmth he offers, yearning for something you can’t understand. The contradictions inside you churn.

“Stop it,” you whisper, your voice cracked, but even the words feel weak as they leave your lips. You’re terrified of what might happen if you give in, terrified of what part of yourself you might lose in the process. But you’re equally terrified of what’s left—this part of you, so full of confusion and tears.

He just smiles, a slow, knowing smile. “No, love. You’re too precious to let go now.”

"Such a beautiful, perfect creature," he murmurs, his voice so sweet it feels like honey dripping into your ears. It’s intoxicating. His breath is warm against your skin, and for a moment, you feel like you’re drowning in him, in the sweetness of his devotion, in the promise of something you can’t name but long for anyway.

But the tears—why are there tears? You’re angry, confused, terrified, and yet his gentleness makes you break, makes you lose control in the most vulnerable way possible. Your body is betraying you, responding to him in a way that makes you hate yourself for giving him even the smallest hint of satisfaction.

"Don’t cry," he whispers softly, brushing away the tears with his thumb, as if the mere touch of him could erase your fear, your resistance. "You’re safe here. You’re mine."

The words send a chill down your spine, and part of you wants to push him away, to reject everything he says, every soft caress, every whisper of devotion. But another part, a treacherous, aching part of you, wonders if there’s truth in his words.

If you are his.

***

Clothes had been forgotten long ago. Only the sounds of your gasps for air, moans, and whimpers fill the room, save for the blasphemous squelch of his fingres dragging inside you, curling at that spongey spot that makes your eyes close, the darkness swimming with floating lights. 

One calloused hand is working through your sobbing cunt, the other pressing two fingers down on your tongue. His teeth dig into your shoulder as he works you through another orgasm. 

Spit pools in your mouth, and you find yourself twitching, shaking drooling when he adds a third finger, working you open. 

“Like I said, this is only the beginning. Let’s do good, yeah?”

And Caleb is so sure- so incredibly sure that you’re his that there is simply no room for doubt in his mind. Why would there be, when he takes his fingers out and watches your cunt glisten, connected to his fingers by the strings of your juices. He licks them clean, save for his index. That, he removes his fingers from your mouth, replacing it with that so you taste yourself. 

“See? See what I can do for you?”

He’s greedy. He doesn’t wait for any answer- he doesn’t need to hear one. Because he knows. He knows as he lays you on your back, his lips finding your tits, worshipping them for some time, his tongue swirling around the erected, hard nipple, relishing in how your thighs twitch again, as if you’re just not going to get used to this. 

He lets them go with a lewd pop before he gets between your legs. You don’t dare look, lest your face burn hotter than it was already, as his cock leaks, a pearl of divinity seeping at its pink tip, just waiting to be of use. The vien is big, and he’s thick- you’re sure that it’s not going to fit. 

You try to close your thighs but he just doesn’t let you, kissing away your worries as he lines himself up. 

Your breathing quickens, and he pushes himself in. 

If you screamed, you didn’t hear it. 

Not when you feel yourself being torn open so carelessly, when there’s a wild look in his eyes as he’s finally, finally inside you, finally splitting you open. 

When you open a pomegranate carelessly, it’s so messy. You hardly have time to enjoy it. The pomegranate bursts open in your hands, the seeds spilling out with reckless abandon. Juice splatters across your fingers, dripping down your wrists, staining the fabric of your dress. It's sticky and messy, and it leaves behind a trail of crimson marks wherever it touches. The sweet-sour scent fills the air, but it's no longer the delightful fragrance you once associated with the fruit. 

You try to clean it up, but the more you do, the messier it becomes. The juice smears across your hands and lips, irreversible.

You don’t miss the gasp he takes as he spills inside, nor the smile of finality. 

***

The ring slips on your finger unnoticed, a subtle weight you don’t even feel at first, not when his touch is so consuming, so overwhelming. His presence fills every inch of the space around you, and everything else, every shred of reality, fades into the background.

The soft gleam of the ring feels like an afterthought, an inconsequential detail, as your focus is entirely on him—his voice, his breath, his touch. His promises. His devotion. It’s intoxicating, and for that fleeting moment, you almost forget the consequences of what you’re allowing, the choices you’ve made without truly thinking.

But then your mind snaps back, and the weight of the ring finally registers—your gaze falling to it with a sharp, sinking realization. How did it get there? Was it his doing, was it the culmination of everything he had whispered, everything he had touched you with?

You look up to meet his gaze, and in the depths of his eyes, you see something—too familiar, too sure. His smile is soft, but there’s something possessive, something triumphant in it. He knows. He knows the ring is on your finger, and he doesn’t have to say it out loud to make it clear.

You are his.

And that realization, that truth, sits heavy in your chest.

***

The next morning, as you woke up, you noticed the sunlight streaming in from a window you didn't see yesterday. And beside you, on the nightstand, was a bulbous figure.

A scream tore through your throat.

Jenna's head, with her skin peeled back like the arils of a pomegranate.

[vibinsane]

so, i had seen a lot of people saying that xavier only loves queen mc, but after reading his 3rd anecdote, i’d beg to differ. 

there is a quote in there where he says “no matter how many times it takes, no matter where you are… i will find you.” 

to xavier, mc is both hunter and queen. there is no difference. even if mc were to have another life, xavier will still see her as the same person, the love of his life basically. and no matter how many lives it may take, he will go through anything and everything to find her and be with her in some way.

also, his relationship from queen mc evidently carried over to hunter mc. remember in his myth where she was in a duel with xavier before he was taken away and jeremiah came up to talk to her, but when xavier returned and saw jeremiah’s arm around mc, xavier clearly was pouting and even told him basically to stay in his own lane. then we have hunter mc who jeremiah was measuring her figure in order to create an outfit to fit her fake role only for xavier to deadass spray water at him like a misbehaving dog saying that she can do it herself. 

i know damn well jeremiah had a ball in both instances, he just enjoys provoking xavier whenever possible.

his jealousy shows the same whether queen mc or hunter mc, perhaps he learned from his mistake before, but his efforts with hunter mc seems more like ‘i’ve made this mistake before, i won’t allow it to happen again’. because, if it were truly only for queen mc, then why would xavier go out of his way for hunter mc; when mc lost caleb and josephine, how she felt lonely and xavier told her about snowflakes falling on loved one’s shoulders by their passed loved ones. or even the most recent cards such as ‘romantic afternoon’ and ‘succumb’  as well as his 4* memories altogether. 

for someone who is coined as the one who only loves and cares for one version of a woman…he sure treats hunter mc a lot better than he did with queen mc. but, i still stand on this hill that xavier loves mc, no matter what version she is. also something i want to add, man is old, he’s been traveling space to and fro, he would never waste his time on someone he didn’t genuinely want to be around or simply be with.

when i say it transcends, this is legit what i mean.

to him, queen mc is right there with him, once made to be his knight, now hunting and defeating wanderers side by side.

also for @ly-pleiades because she asked to peek into my thoughts about xavier and such and i am happy to deliver what i can

[theheraldsrest]

Hey! I really really love your blog! If I may request, during downtime, how would the members of the inner circle react to find the Inquisitor drawing/sketching them?

“Companions react to Inquisitor drawing/sketching them”

After our *cough* little thing with Bull, let’s have some fluff, shall we? Thank you anon for the ask!

-Lord Lex

Cullen

“You did this? It’s certainly…it’s…how did you even…it’s amazing.”

-So surprised, no words. It makes him feel a little special that you’d choose to sketch him but also very embarrassed. In return, he tries drawing you. Might not be as good and there are a few rough sketches that were thrown in the fire, but he wanted to return the favor. 

Josephine

“Oh! Look at the detail and the softness! I wouldn’t have even thought it was me from how stunning it is!”

-Absolutely gushing over it. Josey’s always had a fascination for the arts and to be the subject of the piece from someone close to her? Adores it, even asks to keep it. She has it tucked away in one of her favorite books. Will always compliment your art even when talking to dignitaries.

Leliana

“I commend you on your artistic talent. Though, I’d ask you not to sketch me. Perhaps one of the ravens would make better practice?”

-Like Josephine, Leliana has an eye for art. She loves looking at the little details in your sketches and finds it a surprise that her face is amongst the papers. As much as she appreciates it, she’d rather her face remain a secret. She is your spy master, after all. Though, if she becomes Divine, she keeps the sketch as one of her favorite pieces of her. 

Vivienne

“Darling, as much as I’d like to say you're wasting your talents by leading the Inquisition instead of honing your skills, you are equally talented in both. Most usually fail to make me look this stunning.”

-It might not show on her face or in her words but she loves it. Several times people have been commissioned to paint her yet none come even close to your level of detail. More points if it’s of her smiling or laughing, the lines on her face as well as the wrinkle around her eyes gives her a sense of…normalcy. If she becomes Divine, she commissions you to do her portrait, no one else.

Varric

“You drew me? I think that’s gotta be one of the scariest pieces of your art I’ve ever seen! When you're done, can I keep it?”

-Though it doesn’t sound like it, he brags about it constantly. Even when he’s making fun of his slightly crooked nose or how his eyes might seem smaller than other dwarves, he’s complimenting the skill you put into the very minute details of his face. Varric will try to pay you for it even if you refuse, later trying to commission a drawing of Hawke when they come around.

Cole

“Oh, it’s me! Not really, but it’s Cole. But you’re trying to draw me…I can still remember his face, then.”

-He’ll stare at it for hours, his shoulders down. It’s been sometime since he’d been able to see his own face, forgetting that he even had a face. To see you draw that face, the real Cole, just from looking at him makes him happy. Will ask to look at it every now and then, just to make sure it’s still the same.

Solas

“I must say, you are quite talented and steady with your hands. It does allow others to see how the artist sees. You certainly make me seem…at peace.”

-From one artist to another, he gives you high compliments with very few complaints. It is unusual to see him drawn in such a way since he’s so used to seeing only the mosaics. He meant to get rid of it when he left the Inquisition, but just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Cassandra

“Inquisitor, though your craft is very beautiful and I admire how you can make these pieces, I must ask you not to sketch me.”

-Don’t get her wrong, she loves seeing your sketches but it’s mostly out of formality (and somewhat embarrassment) that she asks not to be your subject. If she becomes Divine, it’s one of the only pieces she prefers over the paintings. Though she does ask you, if you have the time, to draw something for her. When you give her a perfect picture of her brother and her, it’s one of the few times she truly hugs you.

The Iron Bull

“Holy shit. I’m alright when it comes to sketching, but you make it look pretty damn easy while so complicated! You even got my scars and the detail on my patch! Damn, boss!”

-Bull is used to doing quick sketches, usually of small details to make sure he could track someone or to remember something easier. Never had he really seen himself drawn so picture perfect that it completely baffles him. He looks at all the details with a smile on his face.

Dorian

“I can’t believe you managed to get my good side! In all honesty, though, this is remarkable. And not just because it’s me.”

-He had studied some art pieces before and never really found any he liked, but he has now found one of his favorite artists. Constantly asks if you’ve done any new pieces just so he can look at the heart that goes into them. Ask if you could teach him to sketch as such so that he can add better drawings to his research notes.

Sera

“What the fuck! That’s me! How the fuck! How did you do this! You even got my eyes to be lined up! How the hell did you do that?!”

-We all know Sera’s drawing style. She keeps saying the same things over and over again because she’s at a loss for words. Except for cuss words. Along with the rooftop hangouts, she insists that you two just draw together sometimes. Some of the goofiest drawings come from these times, especially one of a cartoonish Coryshit falling from a very detailed tower.

A little speech bubble near it says “Oh shit, I shat myself!”

Blackwall

“I…I’m honored to be one of your subjects. Not to blow my own horn, but this looks stunning. You really are something special, hm?”

-Blackwall has done a lot of sketching himself and finds your art a breath of fresh air. Other than looking at bits and pieces of his reflection, he usually tries to avoid seeing himself. So when he sees your drawing of him, he almost doesn’t recognize himself. You both trade sketches of each other just for fun and even sketch together.

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

The Copollogism Essays - Part 3: Lester's Reaction

This is a short scene, but a powerful one in my opinion. Let's break it down :3

“His name is—” “Don’t, Meg,” Josephine warned. “—Commodus,” Meg continued, then frowned. “Why am I not supposed to say his name?” “He pays attention to such things,” I explained. “There’s no point in letting him know we are talking about—” Meg took a deep breath and yelled, “COMMODUS, COMMODUS, COMMODUS! COMMODE CITY, COMMODIANA. COMMODE DAY, MONTH OF COMMODES! COMMODE MAN!” The great hall shook as if the Waystation itself had taken offense. Emmie blanched. Up in their roost, the griffins clucked nervously. Josephine grumbled, “You shouldn’t have done that, hon.” Leo just shrugged. “Well, if Commode Man wasn’t watching this channel before, I think he is now.” “That’s dumb,” Meg said. “Don’t treat him like he’s so powerful. My stepfather—” Her voice caught. “He—he said Commodus is the weakest of the three. We can take him.” Her words struck me in the gut like one of Artemis’s blunted arrows. (And I can assure you, those hurt.) We can take him. The name of my old friend, shouted over and over. - The Dark Prophecy

Apollo calls Commodus his old friend. And while calling your lover your "friend" is usually gay-speak for significant other, in this case...it is referring to Commodus as a friend.

Because that was what they were- before they were even lovers, Apollo and Commodus were friends. Their relationship was that of friends-to-lovers (-to-enemies), and a tragic one at that.

Something small. But something so gut-wrenching too :')

Also amazing how even Apollo's carwreck of a relationship has platonic undertones. hello fandom of the aspecs we just keep winning <3

I staggered to my feet, gagging, my tongue trying to dislodge itself from my throat. “Whoa, Apollo.” Leo rushed to my side. “You okay?” “I—” Another dry retch. I staggered toward the nearest bathroom as a vision engulfed me…bringing me back to the day I committed murder. - The Dark Prophecy

This final line that ends the chapter has always struck me. It preludes to the assassination scene, but this is actually SO FACSINATING because the next chapter has this:

I KNOW WHAT YOU are thinking. But, Apollo! You are divine! You cannot commit murder. Any death you cause is the will of the gods and entirely beyond reproach. It would be an honor if you killed me! I like the way you think, good reader. It’s true I had laid waste to whole cities with my fiery arrows. I had inflicted countless plagues upon humanity. Once Artemis and I slew a family of twelve because their mama said something bad about our mama. The nerve! - The Dark Prophecy

Wait for it.

None of that did I consider murder.

These two lines combined paint SUCH a scene. Apollo at this point is still trying to convince us, the reader, how terrible of a person he is. That's why he's so blasé about the murder of Niobe's children.

That's why he's so distraught over murdering Commodus.

He tells us, straight-laced, that this act, this one act, was unjustifiable.

That is was more unforgiveable than slaughtering thousands of people.

But that's the kicker- we know it was wrong for Niobe's children to be killed, and we know it was right for Apollo to kill Commodus.

Apollo is trying to throw us off the trail. He's trying to make it look like he's okay with child murder/mass murder, but specifically him assassinating a tyrant is unforgiveable.

(hello, therapy? yeah i have a patient for you. yeah he's a piece of work but i have faith in him and also he's babygirl so. <3)

He's trying to be such a dichotomy we don't know what to do or say or think about him.

To bad for him, for the ToA fandom is quite good at catching his tells and slight of hand ;)

You ain't fooling us Apollo, just like you didn't fool Leo and Meg the very next day ;)

[aheathen-conceivably]

The wooden floorboards in the hallway that connected Zelda and Antoine’s bedroom to Violette��s slowly grew more worn with time. On some nights it was Zelda’s feet that walked back and forth over them as Antoine got to spend a few moments alone with his guitar; on other’s it was Antoine’s as Zelda read a few pages of a book between her hours of work and sleep.

On that night it was Zelda’s steps that echoed down the hall. Before she even opened the door she knew that the sounds of guitar awaited her; but not even that could make her feel better, so she didn’t bother to look at Antoine as she entered the room. Instead she walked straight to the vanity and reached for the zipper between her shoulder blades. As she struggled with it Antoine spoke behind her, “Is she asleep?

His playing hadn’t stopped, because his months of practice had already made it so that he could easily speak without ever missing a note, just the way he could at the piano. Despite herself, Zelda let out a small laugh with her answer, “No. She acted like she is, but I know the second I closed the door she opened that book again.”

His voice kept coming, unbroken alongside the music when all she wanted was silence, “There are worse rules to break. I would wager a bet you were much the same with it when you were young.”

Zelda kept her eyes on her reflection as she gave up trying to unclasp her zipper, instead redirecting her fumbling hands to her earrings. She offered Antoine nothing but a terse nod in response, but the void of her silent answer was quickly filled with the vibrations of guitar strings. As her earring back refused to budge she turned away, retreating into the cold silence of their bathroom to undress alone.

When she emerged the room had grown quiet, the guitar neatly set against the opposite wall and far out of reach. Antoine was on the edge of the bed, looking at her intently. She looked back at him, wondering how she could deflect the pain that she knew he had detected. Before she could think of anything he spoke, asking her what the matter was. Her hands fluttered as she avoided his gaze,  “Nothing, it's - it's the corn. It’s not growing as well as last year, no matter how I try.”

But he wasn’t fooled, and when he said her name, it was filled with an honest imploration simply to talk to him. She started to spiral, because she knew that the moment she spoke, she would reopen the wound that they had both been trying to ignore for months. But again, he said her name, this time even calmer and softer than the first time. Another half dozen lies went through her head, but each of them seemed like a paltry waste of energy; so instead, she sat beside him.

“Zelda, I know it's not the corn. I know your face. Don’t lie to me.”

He’s here, telling him won’t jeopardize that. You know that. You know. “It’s just - it’s just in those brief moments when she opens up to me, when she’s kind and excited to be around me, I realize just how much more she likes you, how much more she likes Josephine…”

His hand immediately went for hers, a tangible guilt driving his touch that she had been fiercely trying to avoid, “Don’t say that. It's not true, you know it's not true.”

“No, no. It’s fine, it is true,” she tried to brush it off, to look at their hands and stop herself before her words went too far, “I suppose it’s only natural. I was more like my father. It just makes me wonder, makes me think if we had another, maybe they’d be more like me, maybe they’d…”

But she had already done it, and she knew it. She had shattered whatever tenuous peace they had found in their untenable solution to preventing any more disappointments. She dropped his hand and tried to move away, but his arms immediately went around her. “Zelda, we can try again. We can try all you want. I didn’t want to push you, to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, I know. I’m — I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to be disappointed anymore. If we didn’t — then I wouldn’t — then at least I would know there was no chance. I should have told you…”

With the words spoken it was easier to let him pull her closer. Immediately the guard she had so carefully constructed crumbled, “Please don’t apologize, please. You didn’t need to explain. I knew. I understood.”

Half of her was crying with relief as he pulled her back onto the bed against his chest. They had never consciously decided to cut out this part of their relationship, only drawn an inevitable link between the pain that wouldn’t stop coming and any sort of intimacy that wasn’t purely domestic and mundane. It had become a way of doing what they did best, ignoring the problem until it became a problem itself. Only then it was even harder to tell him why, because as the physical distance grew between them, so did the emotional one.

So now, both seemed to unravel together, the spoken words lifting the wall that had risen and seemed impossible to break through before. As his hand traced along her face, it became easier to speak too, “I just…I don’t want to try anymore. I don’t want to plan it or time it or think about it. I just want us to go back to the way that we were when we first got here. I just want it to be about us again.”

He looped his arm around her shoulder and her entire body responded to the movement, letting go of it’s tension and relaxing into every point where their bodies met. He sensed her movement and tightened his grip, “Then we don’t have to, my love. It can be what you want it to be, okay? If it’s meant to happen, it will happen. We don’t have to worry beyond that any more than you want to.”

She reached over to take his face in both of her hands as she leaned over onto him. Then she kissed him, truly kissed him, for the first time in months. If it’s meant to happen, it will happen.

Previous / Next

[mudstoneabyss]

It's really such a waste that they haven't done anything more with Charles considering how interesting of a character they set up. Aside from being the canon "Desert Bluffs! Carlos" and therefore being connected to two of the most beloved characters in the podcast, which is obviously something that would make people interested in him, what we see of his character outside of that is compelling.

he's from outside of Night Vale and Desert Bluffs, but not from a "normal" place like Carlos and any of the other characters who we actually see something from, like Nilanjana and Kareem. He's explicitly from Cactus Park, a town we know next to nothing about but is close enough to be competing in local football matches with nv and db, and Pine Cliff, the town we know the most about outside of nv and db, and I find particularly interesting with the way Night Vale talks about ghosts. notably, both are, even without having a lot of info on them, canonically weird places. which we even indirectly see more of with Cactus Park in the Mudstone Abyss, with them sharing the experience of having certain "weird" things in both their childhoods

and that kind of adds to this almost duality Charles has, where he's both seemingly one of the most responsible and put-together characters in the show and, well, an insane freak. He's a good father who puts his son first and makes an effort to be clear and direct in communicating rather than avoiding or lying about any matter that might be unpleasant- but he's also a self-identified theocrat who is actively into some of the cult and dictator shit Kevin was doing, and it does take a special type of person to want to fuck Kevin from the moment he met him, at no point lose that desire after all the blood and gore decoration and aforementioned cult and dictator shit, and then afterwards decide that this is the guy you want to help raise your son. fascinating behavior I would love to know more about how much is because none of this is new or shocking to him. he lived in a ghost town and who knows what went on in Cactus Park

Perhaps the most interesting thing about him, though, isn't even anything i think we need to know more about, but does make me want to know more about him in general. It's the one thing that completely contrasts him from so many other characters throughout the entire podcast- which is his reaction to Kevin. He is the ONLY one we see meeting or even just seeing Kevin for the first time who isn't completely horrified and/or disgusted by him and his appearance. Relistening to the Sandstorm, I had to pause the part where Cecil says for people to "pray, too, that no one should ever have to meet this vicious wretch of a man" to listen to, well, Charles meeting that "vicious wretch of a man" and treating him like any other person. Like someone deserving of knowing and loving without an initial hurdle of judgment. and, again, he is the Only one we see doing this after Kevin is met with fear and bias throughout the entire rest of the podcast. Fuck, we even see some of the db citizens being afraid of him. The only other person, aside from the other db citizens like Lauren or Josephine who are used to the... everything, who maybe didn't have a negative reaction to Kevin is Carlos, but we never actually see that. And personally, I do hc that he was scared of Kevin at first. So having someone react differently- and kindly- to Kevin after years and years of no one else doing that? That alone would make me obsessed with Charles

[dilf-destroyer-04]

Yall I'm kinda confused about the ending of the main story update...

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE SPOILERS OBVIOUSLY !!!

i just wrapped up the main story and it was a WILD ride indeed.

But the ending had a couple things confusing me. so is professor Lucien the leader of ever? or does he work for them/under them? or is it like a paired partnership - most likely temporary because he doesn't seem to speak of them with high regard at all.

I don't understand his role in all this at all. Besides the fact that he's responsible for the black crystal stuff that seems to be turning very sick or dying people into "monsters."

Caleb doesn't seem to be one of them, yet the game did mention something about the "price he had to pay for coming back to life..." but he mostly seems unaffected.

I remember previously, Zayne was working on treating someone with some other doctor organisation that he clearly disdains. I think? my memory kinda sucks. BUT I do remember the person talking about Zaynes skills would be useful and he's wasting his potential at Akso hospital. Zayne didn't seem to agree with their questionable methods. Something about the human body being weak and finding out experimental ways to overcome that?

are those past events related to what's going on now?

I'm also curious on Caleb's roll in all this. So yes he's the Colonel of the fleet. and the game hasn't disclosed how that came to be yet. But I wonder... is he going to betray us at some point? he's already had the opportunity to, the entire time we were in skyhaven. We know from the story in version 1.0 that Josephine was part of a team that were running these kinds of experiments and then decided to quit it when the moral compasses finally kicked in 💀 we also know that MC was the only specimen (for lack of better terms) that was successful. So now is the child that the professor Lucien keeps referring to MC? if so, that would mean Caleb is feeding him information about us. he said something about our powers not being fully awakened still. which is confusing. I thought that after sylus helped us complete our aether core, we'd have reached our full capabilites but I guess not.

somebody PLEASE break it down for me! to be honest, my mind hasn't been fully focused on the game because I have exams in like 30 seconds 💀 so I definitely plan on replaying soon. Probably the whole main story actually, it's been a while and I think I've forgotten a lot of key information they've been feeding us in little hints throughout the game.

that said... WHEW! YANDERE CALEB CONFIRMED?!

it's very interesting to me how caleb seems to fulfill the dark, twisted romance role that everyone initially thought sylus would. it's an interesting dynamic. seeing MCs flashbacks of dialogue with Caleb from their childhood let's us known that he's always been overprotective. It's clearly warped into a dark messed up obsession. but you'll hear no complaints from me.

SORRY THIS IS AN ENTIRE ESSAY OMG. I talk too damn much 💀

[cafiffle]

ok it's time to be cringe on main (like I ever wasn't)

in honor of the new game finally maybe happening, here is a collection of the Dragon Age OCs I've developed over the last decade or so. only two of them were my actual video game protags and have evolved a lot from there, SEE IF YOU CAN GUESS WHO (or don't, I'm not your dad)

(L to R, top to bottom)

Sina, Keeper's First of Clan Dahlasanor and baby lesbian who had to leave her clan in search of healing for the anime wasting sickness that claimed her life in her early twenties. She was all about that good good Dalish nature magic and thought of it as a sort of healing. A gentle soul with strong convictions, she spent her last months securing the union of her (small, decimated) clan with a larger, thriving one by marrying their male First.

Cade Harimann of Starkhaven, the second son of a noble family who gave him to the Chantry at a young age. He endured Some Bullshit at the monastery, leaving him already somewhat unhinged before he served in Kirkwall prior to the Mage-Templar war. He was kicked out of the Templars "for his own good" due to his massive PTSD-induced emotional problems, and now lives in the woods with his chill elf gf who doms him when he needs it.

Teren von Skraedder*, from a po-dunk town on the border of Nevarra and Orlais, is every bit the Grey Warden stereotype: a liar, a convict, and just generally kind of an asshole. She was recruited in her early 40's as an alternative to being executed for treason against the Nevarran crown, and has settled into Wardening over the last twenty or so years. She loves her younger siblings-in-arms, even if she's mean to them, and she gets a little more deranged every time one of them gets their Calling or dies in combat while she continues to grow older.

Benedict Quintus Artemaeus is an Altus mage from Minrathous who preferred to spend his days getting high and fooling around with other rich boys, shirking his studies and the politics of his Magister mother, nearly into his twenties. He finally had to get serious when his tutor aligned with the Venatori and got them both captured by The Enemy (the canon good guys), leading to a rocky but gradual ascent from hedonistic fuckup to Sort of Competent Guy Who Cares Occasionally. he's been compared to Emperor Kuzco and that's not inaccurate ok

Josephine "Fifi" Mariette* is a regular ol elf from Val Royeaux who, after failing to make it in the city ballet/opera/ye olde whatever, made her way as a cabaret dancer and prostitute until her marriage to a human accountant, Jacques. His family never accepted her, so when he was drafted and killed in the War of the Lions, she left town to briefly join the Freemen of the Dales. Finding that she was as invisible there as anywhere else, she opted to put her status to use and become a spy for (and on) the Good Guys while working as their housekeeper.

Obeisance "Just Barrow Please" Barrow*, a farmer's son from Crestwood, went off to join the Templar Order as a means of finding adventure, leaving home, and making his extremely religious parents happy without having to take over the farm. He served in the Jainen Circle for many years without incident, but very casually deserted when the Mage-Templar war began (hit da bricks, just walk out etc). He spent some time afterward as a mercenary, and his MO is to bop around being helpful where he can while also absolutely never talking about what he used to do. it's none of your business

*if you think you know her/him from somewhere else: you do, I recycle these shitheads constantly

there have been a few more but they didn't Take in the same way, so just these for now. ok byyyeee

[dross-the-fish]

I'm curious! What kind of Inquisitor did you play and do you have art of them?

I tried all of the different origins for the inquisitor and I think the play through I had the most fun with was A Cadash who romanced Josephine. I was mostly indifferent to the romances in Inquisition but I found Josephine's to be very likeable. This was also the play through where I had the worst relationship with Solas. Some of the shit he says about Dwarves was just too much and I couldn't think of any reason my character would over look it and I eventually ended up punching him. I know the canon dwarf Inquisitor is a smuggler from the surface but I was really intrigued by the idea of playing someone with a background from the Legion of the Dead. I wish we could have had bigger reactions to running into mobs of darkspawn wandering around in some of the areas (Seriously, weren't those like...A BIG DEAL in origins? I get that the blight is over but why does encountering a group of them in the wild get almost no reaction?)

I imagine that in his personality he's confident. Easy going but has a flare of temper that surfaces when his patience is tested. If he can sense that he's not going to sway someone's opinion he will shut the conversation down rather than continue to waste his time negotiating. This isn't done rashly or out of spite, he simply has no interest in trying to win someone who's already made up their mind.

[blakelysco-pilot]

All Of Me

From the Love Letters Series

Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal x Josephine Harris (OFC)

Jo struggles with her response to Rosie's first letter but later finds help in an unlikely friend with shared common ground. It's his second letter back-to-back, however, that stacks her worry like wobbly apple crates, ready to tumble at a moment's notice.

Read part 2 Here Follow along with the Love Letters Playlist

October 1943

My Dearest Robbie, 

Today is Halloween, so it would be remiss of me not to wish you a Happy one. I know you won’t be celebrating; not that we are either, but it’s still heartwarming to see some of the littles in the neighborhood running up and down the streets looking for sweets. I’m saving a Hershey bar for when you’re back, so that we can share it like we always do. The leaves have all turned by now, and Prospect Park is a beautiful shade of golden hues. I’ve taken to walking with your sister, as it fills a small void in my days. She’s excellent company, and somehow always has some local gossip at the ready for when I need cheering up. I couldn’t help myself and told her the story of your bicycling disaster. Please don’t be too mad at me. I hope that by now, you’ve learned to ride a bike properly, and that poor Pappy hasn’t had to fish you out of any more ditches. Please thank him for me, because I don’t know what I would have done if he had not been there to rescue you.

If I know you at all, I know that you’ve been hemming and hawing over the weather over there, but the longer it rains in England, the better I feel knowing you’re on solid ground. I’m glad to know you’re able to find some respite in the Officers Club, even if it’s just some jazz records and mediocre scotch. Good company can make all the difference and it warms my heart to know you have that in your crew and fellow officers. I’m putting my bet in now on Nash and the Red Cross girl. Having someone is important, so if he finds that in her, I’m glad for them both. Tell Pappy not to be so pessimistic though, I’m sure Nash will make her very happy. 

Speaking of having someone waiting, I paid a visit to Harry Crosby’s wife, Jean. I thought she could use a friend, so we spent an afternoon in the city, having lunch and doing some shopping. It’s lonely enough moving to a new city, but with her husband overseas, I can’t imagine how she feels. I know how I feel waiting for you, and so she must feel it tenfold. With the holidays approaching, I’ve invited her to spend Thanksgiving with us. I couldn’t bear the idea of her spending it alone. She’s a darling woman, and I agree, we will have to double with her and Harry once you’re both home. 

Sweetheart, how you could ever think that I will not worry about you while you’re over there, is a mystery. I will worry, and miss you, every single day until you’re back home. I will be holding you to that date, Robbie, and am counting the days until we’re on the dance floor, together. Until then…

Forever yours, 

Jo

Reaching for the bottle of perfume on the dresser, Jo quickly spritzed a generous helping of the floral scent on the paper in her hand, to ensure it lasted the long journey, before folding it up and sliding it into its designated envelope. Carefully, and with a delicate hand, she addressed the letter to Thorpe Abbotts Airbase. She had received Rosie’s first letter earlier in the week, and had spent that time drafting multiple responses; all of which had ended up in the waste paper basket in the corner of her bedroom. She had spent three nights mulling it over, before deciding that she should clear her head, and write as if he was sitting next to her. Well, it was not so much her deciding as it was advice from Jean Crosby. If anyone had experience in writing these types of letters, it was Jean. And so, Jo had written as if Rosie was sitting next to her; as if he was leaning across the table and telling her the details of his latest adventure with enthusiasm, and she had written back with equal vigor. 

Picking up the letter, and her purse, she made her way from the bedroom, downstairs to where her mother was having coffee with Mrs. Rosenthal. Entering the kitchen, both women ceased their discussion to greet her, her mother holding out an envelope for her. 

“Josephine, this came in the mail for you.” 

Jo gently plucked the envelope from her mothers hand, smiling when she saw the handwriting on the front was none other than Rosie’s. Carefully, she slipped it into her purse to read once she was alone. 

“Another letter so quickly?” Her mother’s grin widened. “He must miss you terribly.”

“He doesn’t write to me that frequently,” Mrs. Rosenthal joked, sending a subtle wink in Jo’s direction. “But then again, he’s not in love with me.”

“Somehow, I think he’ll always love you most, Mrs. Rosenthal, and I’m quite alright with that.” Jo smiled. 

“Where are you off to?” Her mother asked, noticing that she had her purse in hand. 

“Off to post this to Robbie, and then to meet Jean Crosby for lunch.” 

“Oh, well then, travel safely, and let her know she’s welcome to come here for dinner tonight if she wants.” 

“I’ll let her know, mom,” Jo smiled, moving to bid her mother goodbye with a quick peck to the cheek, before doing the same with Mrs. Rosenthal. “Now, you two can go back to your gossip.”

“It’s not gossip, Josephine, if we’re talking about our children.” The older woman’s voice held a lilt to it as Jo exited the kitchen. 

“Then stop planning our wedding!” Jo called back with a laugh as she exited their home and made her way out into the Brooklyn sunshine.  

The fall air was chilly, but not unbearably so as she walked down the block to the Post Office, letter in hand and a prayer in her mind that it would reach Rosie safely. She knew that the post could be unreliable, and take time to reach those stationed overseas, but she hoped against all odds that maybe her letter would get to its intended recipient a little faster than all the rest. It was silly of her to think so, after all, she wasn’t the only woman in New York who was missing her sweetheart, but this was new to her. To both of them. Beginning a romance with thousands of miles between them. Some days Jo regretted not saying anything sooner, wondering if they would have had time before he shipped out. But, then she thinks to herself that they did have time; years together growing up, and learning the ways of each other inside and out, and for that she would always be thankful. 

A short cab ride later, and Jo was knocking on Jean Crosby’s front door. When the door swung open, Jean on the other side, the two women greeted each other as if they were old friends. A kinship that was shared in the dark times of war, but somehow found a ray of light to brighten their days. 

“Jo! I was starting to think you got lost!” Her friend teased. 

“No,” Jo grinned, red lips stretched into a smile. “I had to stop by the post and drop off Robbie’s letter.”

“Finally finished it, then?”

“I did. And just in time to reply to the one I got this morning.”

“Back to back?” Jean looked at her, eyebrow raised in what Jo could only describe as concern. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jean sighed, stopping mid way of pulling her white gloves on, to face Jo with a serious expression. 

“Well…”

“You don’t think…”

“The only time I get back to back letters from Bing, is when something bad is happening over there.”

“Jean…”

“If it came from him, he’s fine, honey.” she reached out, hand coming down over Jo’s in reassurance. 

“It’s in my purse,” Jo confessed. “I haven’t read it yet.”

“Do you want to go sit and read it before we leave?”

“I suppose I’d feel better if I knew for sure he was alright.”

Nodding, Jean pulled off her gloves, and dropped her purse back on the credenza by the door, before guiding Jo further into the house.

Once settled in the living room, Jean began to step away, to allow Jo the privacy that a letter from your man overseas deserved, when Jo’s hand shot out to stop her. 

“Could you…?”

“Of course.” Jean smiled softly, settling into the sofa next to her, but with enough space not to read over her shoulder. 

Jo carefully opened the envelope, fingers trembling as she slid the paper from its confines. Unfolding it, her eyes scanned over the paper quickly, before releasing a shuddering breath of relief. 

“He’s alright,” her hand flew to her chest as the words escaped her. “He’s somewhere called the Flak House?”

“Never heard of that,” Jean looked confused. “What is it?”

My Dearest Jo,

Sweetheart, I can’t promise this letter will be as happy as my last one. What I can promise is that I’m alright, and spending the next week in the English countryside at a place called the Flak House. It’s a place used to help soldiers rest after rough missions. Jo, it’s been three rough ones, back to back, with what felt like no end in sight. I will spare you the details, because you shouldn’t have to read about all of the blood, and horrors, but I do sadly need to tell you that we lost Herbert Nash on the first mission. It happened so quickly, it didn’t register until I had my feet on the ground again. I broke the news to Helen, his Red Cross girl, and I pray that what I saw on her face, is something no one will ever have to see on yours. 

One day, maybe, I will give you the details of our third mission, but for now, I know I should be counting my blessings. And enjoying this time, because sweetheart, this estate truly is something, but the kind of something I would want to be enjoying with you. Together, in the warm sun, reading our favorite books, or rowing on the lake. The boys are enjoying their week of R&R, but I can’t find it in me to relax. Though, I suppose you knew that already. Nobody knows me better than you, Jo, and it’s a time like this that I wish I had you near. 

I couldn’t sleep, which is the reason for this letter, and I think a part of it is that I needed to make sure you knew I was alright. The other part of me, in some way, needed to get this all off my chest. I’m sorry for burdening you with these ugly truths. I’ll try not to do it often, and I hope that it doesn’t become a habit with every mission, that I’m left rattled to my core with fear. I can hear you telling me to take care of myself, and honey, I promise I’m trying. By the time this makes it to you back home, I will be long gone from my stay here, and back on base. I’m sorry for the short letter, darling. I promise the next one will be longer, and happier. Until then…

All of my love, always

Robbie

Jo finished reading, her stomach dropping as she turned to Jean, to confirm that the other woman had in fact, been right. 

“Jo, what is it?”

“He couldn’t say much, spared most of the details, but he said it was rough up there.”

“Is he alright?”

“Robbie’s fine,” Jo confirmed. “But, Herbert Nash, is dead.”

“Oh that poor Red Cross girl!” She gasped, hand coming to cover her mouth in shock. “Didn’t they just meet?”

“They did,” Jo nodded. “I told Robbie I was rooting for the pair in the letter I just posted.”

“How could you have known?”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel sore over it.”

“I know you do,” Jean sympathized. The woman had enough sense to stand, and pull Jo up with her, knowing if she didn’t get them out of the house, her friend would likely spiral with worry. “Now come on, put that letter back in your purse, and let’s get out of the house for a bit.”

With a sigh, Jo nodded, and carefully put the letter back in the safety of her purse, before turning and following Jean towards the front door. For now, she could breathe easy, knowing that Rosie was safe. She knew that his mind was likely full of dark clouds, replaying events of the damage over and over, causing him grief and sadness; it brought with it a melancholy feeling that she wasn’t with him, and couldn’t be there for him to lean on. She knew he had his crew, and now, Harry Crosby, and she prayed that he had the sense to use that to his advantage. 

Jo was grateful that she had Jean. Their afternoon out kept her mind off of the letter that was burning a hole in her purse, and the man who was an ocean away, suffering the loss of a friend. They had stopped by the Automat for lunch, before taking the train uptown for some window shopping, and at Jo’s insistence, a new hat for Jean. By the time she had gotten back home, her mother was already cleaning up dinner. Her father was in the living room, the radio on while he listened to the nightly news. 

“Josephine, you missed dinner.” Her mother lamented at the sound of the front door closing behind her. 

“I’m sorry, mom,” Jo sighed, entering the kitchen and sliding into one of the empty chairs. “We got a late start on our lunch.”

Turning from her spot at the sink, Mrs. Harris surveyed her daughter, before promptly shutting the water and moving to sit across from her. 

“What happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Jean and I just had a busy day is all.”

“Josephine, don’t lie to me.” She spoke with the authority of a mother who meant business, and Jo couldn’t help the few tears that escaped from behind her eyes. 

“Robbie’s letter,” she swiftly wiped away the first stray tear. “Oh mom, he lost one of his closest friends!”

Mrs. Harris let out a shuddering breath at Jo’s admission. The fear she had felt at the sight of her daughter's tears made her think the absolute worst for the young man who had become part of their family, and stolen her daughter’s heart. 

“Who was it?” Mrs. Harris asked. 

“Herbert Nash. He trained with Robbie in Texas, and he was killed on their first mission.”

“May his soul rest in peace.” Mrs. Harris made the sign of the cross. 

“Robbie said it was so bad, three flights, back to back. He didn’t say much else, just that it was too much blood and horror to share.”

“Jesus, that poor boy.”

Jo fished the letter from her purse, sliding it across the table to her mother, giving a small nod for her to read it. 

“Are you sure you want me to?”

“Just the once.” Jo smiled slightly. 

“Well, alright then.”

Mrs. Harris pulled the paper from the envelope, and then the only sound in the room was the breathing of mother and daughter, and the muffled sound of the radio coming from the living room. The pair sat together until Jo’s mother folded the paper back up, and handed it back to her. The silence was growing thicker the longer they sat there, neither sure of what to say. When Jo’s father joined them in the kitchen, the two women seemed to snap out of their daze. 

“What’s going on in here then?”

“She’s got another letter from Robert.”

“Didn’t you just get one? Is he alright?” 

Jo nor her mother missed the recognition in Mr. Harris’ eyes. Having served in The Great War, he knew what could be in any one of the letters his daughter received, and he hoped for her sake, that none of them would make her cry the way she was now. 

“He’s fine. Lost a man during his first mission, and was sent to an estate for rest.” Her mother filled him in for her. 

“Jesus, already? Didn’t the boy just get over there?” Her father looked shocked. 

“He said it was really bad, dad.” Jo spoke up, finding her voice again. 

“Well, the best thing you can do is be there for him, even though you’re far away right now.” Her mother let her hand fall to cover hers, eyes filled with the understanding of a woman whose husband had been away once before. 

“Your mother was what kept me going during the war,” Her father agreed. “I can promise you, Robert will take your words with him up there when he’s flying.”

“Go now,” her mother ushered her out of the kitchen. “Clean yourself up and write him back. You’ll sleep better tonight knowing you got your feelings out.”

She felt heavy as she stood from her chair, her legs like lead as she made her way upstairs to her bedroom, numbness encompassing her until she had the door shut securely behind her. The words blood and horror swirling around in her mind over and over, like the edges of a cyclone that showed no signs of slowing down. Is that what this was? A storm that would continue to speed up, with nothing to stop it, until the last bomb was dropped, the last round fired? She wasn’t sure, but she turned the ideas over and over, words sticking together in her head as she changed for bed, removed her makeup, until finally, she pulled out the chair at her desk to begin her reply to Rosie. 

My Dearest Robbie, 

Sweetheart, I don’t think there are enough words for me to express just how sorry I am for you after opening your last letter. To lose Nash so quickly, and in such a way. I hope that it didn’t pain you too deeply to break that news to his Red Cross sweetheart, and that she is able to find some happiness again soon. Do not apologize for the length of your last letter. Every letter from you is something I treasure, whether it’s three words, or three pages. I will always reply, so long as you’ll have me. 

I’d like to hear more about the Estate you spent the week at, if you’re willing to talk about it. It does sound like the kind of place I would love to spend time with you, though, anywhere you are, is somewhere I want to be. Maybe we can escape somewhere lush and green once you return, and spend our days under the sun, with nothing but time on our hands. Until then, yes, you were right, I do wish you’d take care of yourself. I know you will, but that sometimes it takes a bit of pushing. Don’t try and shoulder the burden all alone, Robbie. You have people who will shoulder it with you; Pappy isn’t just your co-pilot in the sky. Try and remember that. 

I’d like to try and make you smile, if only for a moment. I found our mothers gossiping at the kitchen table this afternoon as I headed out. They claim it’s not gossip if they’re talking about their children; I suspect they’re plotting as usual. Speaking of your mother, try and squeeze in an extra letter for her, if you can. She misses you, though she claims to be alright with you writing to me more than her, I know she’d appreciate an extra piece of mail and to know you’re doing well. Don’t give her too much grief for the gossip, you know she can’t help it.

I’m counting the days until you’re here again, Robbie, and we can carry on as we were meant to; together. Until that time comes, I’m sending you all of my love. 

All of me, always

Jo

Read Part 4 Here

A/N: Thanks for reading! This series will continue for Rosie & Jo, so if you enjoyed this, please like, comment, reblog- whichever is your poison. Feedback is always welcome & my ask box is always open. If you want to be added to my tag list, or removed, let me know!

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[ic-napology]

My Scott's Napoleon review (short version)

Ok so I'm ready for my Scott's Napoleon review (late of course).

The beauty of its form and aesthetics can't be argued. I'm not in awe though, because it was a standard I pretended from Ridley Scott and Apple. Sadly, the content made it feel a huge waste.

What do you do with the thought, be it accurate or not, that Europe was ruined by wars because a vile man might have been frustrated by a toxic relationship? Is this idea something worth creating such an e x p e n s i v e movie about? Why so much bling?

To a Napoleonic fan, it would cause a soul-bleeding, because of how shallow and inaccurate all this is. To a non Napoleonic fan, it would be just... I don't know, depressing? Lame? It would be even if they remembered that this movie would contain a personal and artistic re-elaboration of history by a filmmaker (known for doing that all the time).

My main issue with this movie, both as a fan of Napoleon and Josephine and... as a person I guess?, is about how it deals with the "humanizing Napoleon" thing. I am ok with the intention per se. I am ok with giving a personal touch to a story. I'm not ok if that means mortifying him, without leaving any redeeming quality nor charm for balance. It wouldn't sit well with me about any character, whoever they are.

It could have meant adopting a more empathetic frame towards Napoleon's life and character. It would have given insight to qualities, vision and goals of the character too. Empathy doesn't require to justify someone's eventual horrible sides. It could work even in a movie where you mostly want to point out a villain's faults. I would dare say that if you make the viewer empathise with a villain, just before showcasing the worst of his deeds, it would be even more shocking and hard to deal with.

Best villains are the ones you could get some insight and connection with. And this movie fails to connect you with Napoleon at all. "There's nothing we can do", other than despise him.

Ridley Scott can manipulate history and mansplain all the historians he wants, he still has become a coward storyteller.

[faded-mage]

Solas

Solas opened his eyes to see the tent ceiling. Wisdom said she was alive, out there somewhere. That she was close by. The elf rushed out of the tent and almost knocked down Dorian in the process. From the deep lines in the snow, Dorian had been pacing outside the tent waiting for Solas to return. The mage looked to Solas, hopeful. The elf breathed out, “I believe she is alive.” The Tevene’s legs almost buckled under him and Solas held out a hand to steady the man. After a brief pause the two mages bolted towards the searching members of Haven with Cullen at its head.

Cullen looked to them as they approached, making eye contact with Solas. “She is alive. The Herald is close.” A flurry of emotions passed over the Commander’s face. He looked at Solas questioningly but relief ended up taking over and he asked no questions. Solas suspected no one cared about where the information had come from, only that it was true. The elf dashed past the standing Commander out into the blizzard, not wanting to waste time standing there. A scout to his right called out through the wind, “I think I see a green light!” Solas turned in the direction of the voice and saw it. In the distance there was a flicker. It was faint, it was far but the flicker was there. The green light acting as a beacon in the darkness. The same light that was anchored in Avise’s hand. 

He moved faster than Cullen and Dorian behind them, the elf barely sunk into the snow as he ran. Solas was still wearing his tunic and pants, having removed his armor shortly after they set up camp but he did not care. His only thought was to get to her, to get to the green light. Her dark silhouette contrasted against the white snow falling behind her. The sound of wolves howling met his ears and he moved faster. His lungs burned, the cold bit at his face but he kept going. She was stumbling, moving slowly and hunched as she waded through the deep snow but she was alive.

Cullen’s voice drifted from behind him, “There! It’s her!” He did not slow down, watching as Avise crumpled into the snow as he reached her. “I have you. Don’t worry, I have you.” Repeating over and over in elvish as he picked her up from the snow. He felt her shivering against him as he walked with her. Dorian cast spells to help warm up the shivering elf in his arms as they made their way back to the relative safety of the camp. Cullen tried to take her from him and he refused adamantly. Now that he had her, he was not going to let her go until they arrived, he needed to know she was safe and in one piece until he could look over her injuries. The Commander ran ahead to assemble the healers and to locate an empty tent for them to work on her. Solas moved as quickly as he could through the encampment, Josephine and Leliana pushing away onlookers as he passed.

The elf gently placed her in a cot, immediately kneeling next to her and looking over her injuries as the other healers arrived. Her skin felt ice cold but she was breathing. Her breaths were jagged, likely some broken ribs. Solas hoped that none had punctured her lungs. Gently untucking the cloth shirt from her pants, he pulled up the fabric to check her ribs. The deep purple bruises along the entirety of her torso indicated he was likely correct. He rubbed his hands together to push out the cold, moving his fingers as he warmed them with his own magic. Moving his fingers up her torso, a soft glowing blue light encased his hands, pushing healing spells into her body. The ribs seemed to be one of the two particularly dangerous injuries the woman had. The other was however long she spent in the cold. Her body continued to shiver as he worked despite her being unconscious. With some initial healing done, he pointed to her ribs for another healer to continue while he assessed her other injuries.

The healing mages seemed to take to him as the one calling the shots, which he appreciated. He wouldn’t have let anyone else take over anyway. Her legs had some scrapes and bruises but overall they were fine. Solas noticed her shoulder sat at an odd angle, like something had pulled it from its socket. Gesturing to Dorian, the mage came over and knelt next to Solas as he inspected her arm. “Her shoulder is dislocated, I need to re-align it. But her armor is too restrictive.” The mage next to him nodded, pulling a small dagger from his waist as he cut into the fabric of her armor. Dorian chuckled weakly, “She is going to be pissed, she loves that armor.” Solas gave him a weak smile before he moved to check for other injuries while Dorian worked. By the time he did his full assessment her arm was free. Around her wrist was a large bruise in the shape of a large hand. Corypheus, thought Solas. The magister was not meant to have survived opening the orb. Guilt ate at him again before he refocused on Avise near him.

Despite Avise being unconscious, he whispered to her anyway, “This is going to hurt, falon.” He moved to kneel next to her, placing her arm gently against his chest and placing his hands on her bicep and shoulder. Solas slowly applied pressure to the arm, trying to push the arm back into the socket. It took a few minutes but it was the easiest way to do so without significant additional pain or doing more damage to her arm if he went too quickly. He felt it pop into place as a soft groan escaped her lips, her brow furrowing in her sleep.

The healers finished their work, the largest concerns dealt with. Smaller cuts and bruises would heal with time but she was stable and Solas found he could sit down for the moment to catch his breath. He had been running on adrenaline the entire time. Dorian returned with some blankets to cover her, as she was still shivering. The last thing to handle was warming her up. He could do so through magic and he considered it but a selfish part of him wanted to sit with her and not let go. Once the healers exited the tent, Dorian and Solas placed the blankets on her before Solas moved so her head was resting in his lap and his legs were on either side of her torso. He would use his own body heat while also able to keep an eye on her in the process. Dorian took a seat on the cot next to them.

They sat like that for awhile, Solas was not sure how long. The Inquisition leaders stopped by every so often to check on their progress. She had warmed up significantly in that time, her skin no longer cold and she was not shivering. As Cullen stood there asking for an update, Avise rolled slightly. Soft sounds coming from her lips. The woman was asleep and dreaming. Her fingers wrapping around Solas’ leg that was pressed against her. The Commander looked relieved to see she was okay, that she was going to be fine. Giving the two mages a weak smile before leaving the tent.

Solas looked down at the sleeping woman in his lap and brushed her hair from her face. He had never been so happy in his life to see the vallaslin that decorated her face.

- - -

Once Avise was warmed thoroughly, Solas and Dorian had been kicked out of the tent. Mother Gisele took over watching the Herald in her slumber. Her body temperature was normal and the elf was sleeping off some of the more painful parts of the healing process. She was alive and on the mend but even then Dorian had to drag him away. 

In a tent nearby the two mages sat, watching as the Inquisition leadership crumbled and bickered in the center of the camp for at least an hour until their shouts died down to awkward silences. Every single one of them looked tortured and unsure of what to do next, none of them able to agree on any course of action. It seemed that without Avise, they likely would not have been able to get as far as they had. She somehow became a deciding voice for the Inquisition. Movement from his right brought his attention to the healers tent, Avise standing beside one of the tent poles, watching the leadership before her. Her head bowed slightly and he saw her exhale slowly. Solas moved to stand, wanting to go to her. Talk to her. But a soft voice rang out from behind Avise in the tent.

He watched as Avise glanced behind her, startled to see Mother Gisele had begun to sing a song to the Maker. Solas himself frowned, noticing Avise grow more and more uncomfortable with the song. The cleric stood next to the Herald and he watched as the elf crawled into herself. Standing awkwardly as she looked to the ground. It only got worse as more people in the camp joined the song, her eyes flickered over the crowd as more of the people from Haven moved into the clearing and sang with the cleric. Then they began to kneel in front of the elf and she took a step back, clearly unhappy with the turn of events. More people singing, more people kneeling until the song was over and the entirety of Haven had knelt in front of the Dalish woman near the tent.

Solas recognized that look on her face, someone forced into a symbolic role that they never claimed nor wanted. Like one remembered as a god but had readily refused the title. He also knew that history would not be kind to her. She was a Dalish elf and a mage. The Chantry would happily scrub away and hide whatever made her remarkable. Her existence would not fit their view on who the Herald should have been.

- - -

Avise retreated once she could, sitting down on the cot inside of the tent with her face in her hands. Solas made his move, weaving through the people who milled around the campfire before stepping inside of Avise’s tent. “Avise, a moment?” The elf glanced up to see him and relief spread over her features. She stood, somewhat stiff in her movements, before wrapping her arms around his torso. He gently placed his arms around her to return the hug, “Thank you for finding me, lethallin. Dorian told me you were the one who found me and brought me back.” Solas chuckled, “I could not leave you in the cold. Even if you sent me away.” A choked laugh vibrated against his chest, Avise having buried her face there. “Come, we have something important we must discuss.”

He led her away from the prying eyes and ears of the main encampment. With a flick of his hand, Solas ignited a torch that sat at the edge of the camp. Avise had followed him silently, as Solas was lost in his own thoughts. He needed to give her more information, to tell her something. She needed to be able to protect herself from Corypheus and the aftermath of everything that would come. She looked tired, uncertain and afraid as he spoke. “The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting. Her faith is hard-won, lethallan, worthy of pride… save one detail. The threat Corypheus wields? The orb he carried? It is ours. Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave. We must find out how he survived… and we must prepare for their reaction, when they learn the orb is of our people.”

He saw as his words sunk in, her body language betraying her as she slumped. Her hands rubbed her face, a small groan forming on her lips. Avise did not ask him how he knew. Whether she knew what answer he would give or did not care, he did not know. As usual, her words were filled with wisdom beyond her years, “Even if we defeat Corypheus, eventually they’ll find a way to blame elves.” The woman knew the precarious position she was in, that elves were in at all times. She lived it and seemed to understand what was at risk as much as Solas did. “I suspect you are correct. It is unfortunate but we must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies. Faith in you is shaping the moment but it needs room to grow.” Her eyes raised finally to meet his and he moved forward, reaching out to touch her face before dropping his hands to grasp her shoulders instead. “I know a place. By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it. Changed you. Scout to the north. Be their guide. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build… grow… It is called Tarasyl’an Te’las. The place where the sky is held up. Skyhold.”

- - -

The Inquisition arrived at Skyhold about two weeks prior after traveling for days in the snowy mountains. In that time, as Solas expected, the Inquisition named Avise the leader of the Inquisition, the title of Inquisitor. He knew it was only a matter of time. Her actions at Haven were heroic and many in their ranks saw it as another way Andraste had chosen the woman as her Herald. That her survival was through a touch of the divine.

In that time he had hardly seen Avise. She was dragged from meeting to meeting. Cleanup efforts of the fortress were going relatively smoothly. He was happy to see his previous home being used for something good. He once built another fortress in the Fade to protect another elf but she refused it. Then there was Avise who wholly welcomed the aid and made it feel like home.Despite it feeling a bit surreal to walk the halls again in his waking world. Most people stopped questioning Solas’ knowledge. The elf often cited he saw it in the Fade which was a very easy way to lead people where he wanted them to go. Off the main hall he took the rotunda for himself and filled his time with painting frescos on the walls.

The style was from his time. He needed a way to express himself and tell the story of the Inquisition, of the Inquisitor. It was the only way for him to process what she meant to him and to process how he almost lost her to the same man he gave his foci to. Solas feared the Dalish elf’s contribution to the world would be forgotten, cleaned away and tidied up for the masses. That her heroism and legacy would become one tied to humans and non-mages.

Late one evening she wandered into the rotunda as he painted. He felt her presence before he even saw her, her light footsteps causing little sound in the echoing room. “Solas these are beautiful.” She said quietly, breaking the silence. Leliana’s birds two stories up cawed loudly, echoing in the room below. “I should have known you were an artist, lethallin.” The elf stopped to look at him, a smile on her face. Solas finished a final stroke of what he had been working on, resting the paintbrush on a nearby table. He picked up a rag, unable to look at her directly. He felt a tight knot in his chest with her being so near and it tore at him. Solas knew he could not start anything with the woman but every other part of him screamed, wanting him to do it anyway. He wanted to touch her, be near her.

“Do you want to tell me a story from the Fade, I still want to know more about you.” Avise’s voice floated over towards him as she looked up at his most recent fresco. Solas finally glanced up towards her and their eyes met, he could not help but smile. “You continue to surprise me. If you would like, I can meet you in the Fade this evening. We can talk somewhere more interesting than this.”

The elf gave him a lopsided smile and nodded, “I would love that.”

- - -

Solas fell asleep on the couch in the rotunda shortly after Avise left for her own chambers. He reached out to find her, following the string that tied them together in the Fade before pulling her quickly to him. He had chosen Haven this time, before Corypheus. Solas did not want to risk bringing her to a memory of Skyhold, in case it gave something away he was not ready for her to see. As they walked up the steps towards the Chantry building, Avise looked at the snow and cabins as she trailed behind him.

He led her to the Chantry basement, the dungeon where she had woken up after the Conclave was destroyed. “I sat besides you while you slept, studying the Anchor.”

They stood and stared at the empty dungeon, the same shackles that were on Avise’s wrists lay on the floor empty. Avise stood beside him, her eyes locked on the shackles. “I’m glad someone was watching over me.” Her voice was soft as she spoke, a fondness there despite the memory being a time of anxiety and fear. “You were a mystery. You still are,” he glanced at her momentarily, a slight teasing to his tone. She frowned at him but she leaned in to whisper to him, “I wanted to know more about you.” Gesturing to the empty dungeon, “This feels more about me.”

“This is about me. I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing. Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.” Avise bit her lower lip, unable to resist, “Cassandra’s like that with everyone.” Solas surprised himself with the quick chuckle that escaped him, “Well… yes.” Solas turned towards the door and shortly after the two elves exited the Chantry building into the blinding light outside. Avise continued to trail behind him slowly as he spoke.

“You were never going to wake up. How could you, a mortal sent physically through the Fade? I was frustrated, frightened. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach. Although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra… or she in me. I was ready to flee.” Avise looked startled by his candor, he realized. She had not considered that before she awoke he wanted to run. “The Breach threatened the whole world. Where did you plan to go?” Solas smiled and shrugged, “Someplace far away where I might research a way to repair the Breach before its effects reached me… I never said it was a good plan.” The elf standing before him chuckled, now looking up at the sky. “But you stayed.” Solas leaned in, his voice dropping lower. “I did.” And he was glad for that. Despite everything, he would have regretted not knowing her more.

He took a few steps away from her, raising his hand towards the glowing Breach in the sky. “I told myself: one more attempt to seal the rifts. I tried and failed. No ordinary magic would affect them. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then…” He thought of the moment when he pulled her close to the rift, the magic flowing through her hand and sealing the rift easily. He remembered how he felt, how the world had shifted below him and he had hope again for the future. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation. You had sealed it with a gesture… and right then, I felt the whole world change.”

Solas turned back to her to see she was standing close behind him. They were less than a foot apart and a curious expression had settled on her face. Her eyes met his and felt a vulnerability there before she spoke, “Felt the whole world change?” Avise’s voice sounded tight, strained. Solas felt the knot in his chest return. It ached when he looked at her, it ached as he thought about touching her. Kissing her. He felt nervous, “A figure of speech.” The elf shook her head at him, not breaking eye contact. “I’m aware of the metaphor. I’m more interested in felt.”

He felt his heart thrum in his chest as she stepped closer. She was barely a few inches away, his arms felt heavy. He wanted to hold her. “You change… everything.” He finally sighed out, unable to help himself. His brain screamed at him to stop it, to step away but every other part of him was relieved at his words. That he was finally speaking these feelings aloud. Her gaze averted, a slight pink settling on the tips of her ears, “Sweet talker.” 

He smiled at the moment, looking away from her too. He felt helpless standing so close to her. If it weren’t the Fade, he might have even been sweating. Avise raised her hand up to his cheek to turn his face towards her, she stood on her toes to reach him and pressed her lips against his. Solas was stunned, finally able to feel the soft press of their lips together. The elf quickly pulled away from him, as if she were embarrassed by his lack of response.

He couldn’t hold it in any longer, every rational thought left him the moment her lips touched his. Solas wrapped his hand around her hip and pulled her close to him, kissing her hungrily like he had wanted to back on the Storm Coast. Like every kiss he daydreamed of since he realized his attraction to her. She kissed him back with the same intensity, her hands wrapping around his biceps as he held her in his arms. Avise’s lips parted for him and he slid his tongue between them. He never wanted to stop but he finally pushed her away. His eyes met hers once more and he pressed one more chaste kiss. Solas stepped away, speaking quietly and breathless. “We shouldn’t. It isn’t right. Not even here.” Logic had returned to his mind and he hated it. Avise looked confused, her cheeks flush after the kiss. “What do you mean, ‘even here’?” He realized then she did not remember they were in the Fade, the illusion had been so real and she was distracted by him that she had forgotten that was where they were meeting.

A smile danced across his lips, the sensation of hers on his still lingering there like static. “Where did you think we were?” She looked around them at Haven, glancing up at the Breach. Realizing all of the things around her were gone. They had been destroyed in the real world, it was a memory. “This isn’t real.” She sighed, eyes meeting his again. “That’s a matter of debate… probably best discussed after you wake up.”

- - -

Avise

Avise woke up in her bed with a start. How had she not remembered she was dreaming with Solas in the Fade? She could still feel his body pressed against her, his arms wrapped around her hips and his lips pressed against her skin and she sighed. It felt so real and reignited so many thoughts and feelings she had about the man. It was hard to push them away when he kissed her back like that.

She spent the remainder of the morning distracted, her fingers tracing her lips absentmindedly while her advisors spoke to her on next steps. The elf swore she could still feel his mouth on hers. Josephine had to repeat a question three times before she heard her. They all looked concerned by her distracted mood and she waved them off saying she just slept poorly. It only prompted Josephine to promise more pillows for her bed. Avise wasn’t sure she could fit more pillows on her bed but it was less embarrassing than admitting she made out with their apostate in the Fade.

It was past lunch time by the time she could excuse herself to find Solas. She needed to talk to him about what happened, she needed to know if it was an odd dream in the Fade or if he was really there. The minute she walked into the rotunda, his eyes met hers and she knew by the way he looked at her that it happened. There was a soft hunger in his eyes as his gaze darted down towards her mouth. Turning from her, he began to work on part of the mural in front of him, “Sleep well?” His tone husky, quiet. It pulled at her heart, he knew what he was doing. She could play coy too, “I had some odd dreams. Very odd dreams. Like how it ended, though.”

His laugh rang out, he turned his head and she could see the corner of his lips curl into a smirk. The same smug expression he had when he was right about anything, “I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill considered and I should not have encouraged it.” His words however did not reflect the look on his face, Avise’s lips curled into a frown. Did she pressure him into a kiss? Was he not interested? No, he had to be with the force he kissed her back, the hungry look in his eyes when she walked into the rotunda just now.

“You can say that, but you’re the one who started with tongue.” Solas turned to her, stopping mid stroke of his paint brush. A mixture of embarrassment and confusion on his features. “I did no such thing…” Avise canted her head to the side, “Oh, does it not count if it’s only Fade-tongue?” He looked at her perplexed by her words. Maybe he really did not want to kiss her and she had misread him. Her expression softened and she stepped closer, “Solas, I thought you were interested. If I misread you, I apologize.” The look on his face fell and he looked away from her, “No, you have no need to apologize. I… It has been a long time and things have always been easier for me in the Fade. I am not certain this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble.”

Avise considered what sort of trouble he could be worried about. It could be odd seeing the Inquisitor romantically involved with an elven apostate but she was also an elven apostate in the eyes of the Chantry and the Inquisition brought the rebel mages in as allies so if anyone would be surprised, they’d be stupid. Poking the inside of her cheek with her tongue, she decided to go for it, stepping closer. She kept her voice low in case anyone was nosy in the levels above them. “I’m willing to take that chance, if you are.”

She was uncertain and it was clear across her face. The elf rarely put herself out there, especially in cases like this, the fear of rejection being so high. Solas responded, unable to look her in the eye but there was still a small curl to his lips, a tempted smile, “I… may be, yes. If I could take a little time to think. There are… considerations.” She tensed but it was not an outright no at least, not yet. Avise nodded, “Take all the time you need.” The elf gave him a small smile and took a step back before turning to walk away, Solas’ voice behind her made her stop as she was halfway towards the stairs to the library. “Thank you, Avise. I am not often thrown by things that happen in dreams. But I am reasonably certain we are awake now and if you wish to discuss anything. I would enjoy talking.” She turned and flashed him a smile, “Well, now that you mention it…”

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 All God's people find their place, and I love you like a mountain 🎶

Sometime before noon Antoine finally rose from bed. He had donned a plain vest and then rolled up his sleeves, both for the heat and knowing that his arsenal of robes and patterned ties wouldn’t get him far on the streets of New Mexico. His fingers exaggerated each movement, heavy with the weight of his need to succeed for his family’s sake as well as his own.

As he put his hat atop his head, he knew that he couldn’t drag out the inevitable any longer. He had never felt comfortable asking for help, much less begging for a job. A skilled pianist, a business owner, a decorated war veteran; what was any of it here? He was an unskilled laborer in a foreign land, saddled with debt and nerves.

He took a shaky breath and crossed his arms, a French prayer coming to the front of his mind. Rather than fight it he kept his eyes closed and silently went through the words before signing the cross and walking out the door.

When he walked onto the porch both Giorgio and Zelda were already standing in the middle of the yard, deep in conversation as Zelda pointed to the shed and the crops. He waved at them and asked where Josephine was; with a weary shrug Giorgio called back that she was still asleep. 

Zelda gave him a knowing smile and whispered good luck, her words almost silent but clear to Antoine even across the farmyard.

He set off on foot toward town, following the directions that Giorgio had given him to the places that he heard were looking for workers. He had offered him a ride the day before, but Antoine knew that in their situation gas was a luxury not to be wasted. Besides, there was something about all of these cars and roads that he didn’t trust. 

Zelda joked that it was the city boy in him, afraid of the open road. It was her new favorite nickname and one that he was growing increasingly delighted with as her Henford roots continued to show. Even her clipped English accent, softened by her years in New Orleans and his own Creole voice, had seemingly strengthened in the days since they’d arrived. 

But perhaps she was right, the city boy wasn’t prepared for the speed at which the cars flew by his shoulder. Yet as the loud engine passed him and disappeared down the road beyond, he was left in the peaceful desert air. It felt older and stiller than anything he'd ever known, so much so that it erased the worries from his mind until he forgot the task at hand and actually began to enjoy his walk.

Yet as the days went by the comfort he drew from the surrounding desert began to dwindle. One after another, shop owners and farmers turned him away. The kinder ones gave him a new address, another place to look. They passed the buck along, scared for their own security and unwilling to take on another mouth to feed as the newspaper headlines grew more grim and the line of unemployed longer by the day.

But many simply muttered under their breath and turned away. For others, he was lucky if their insults were so subtle. Hunger and fear had left the worst of them volatile and inhospitable, desperate for a scapegoat for their frustrations in whatever form it arrived.

Get off my land, grifter. Find another place to beg, Okie. We’ve got nothing for you, you damn migrant. He was no stranger to slurs, but these were new, and they held a whole different capacity for insult, new weight and freshly perceived inadequacies for him to digest each time they were hurdled in his direction.

So day after day, week after week, he went home to Zelda as his failures mounted and hopes dwindled down to nothing. Still, their creaky iron bed grew more comfortable and the peeling wallpaper an ever soothing sight. He laid there in her welcome embrace until the word went still and the panic quieted.

Each night it became easier to recount every moment of his day, coupled as it was with his growing fear and worry. When he couldn't, he listened to Zelda speak of the new things Violette had learned, or the progress that she and Gio had made on the soil. In the quiet of the desert air one of their voices filled the void that the world had created for them, until their eyes began to grow heavy and there was nothing left to worry about until the sun rose again on a new day.

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