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zedecksiew · 3 years ago

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Kriegsmesser

When I received Kriegsmesser in the mail I finally googled "kriegsmesser", and found out it meant "war knife". Which makes sense; Gregor Vuga's ZineQuest 2021 project is a tribute to "roleplaying games named after medieval weapons".

I love Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay's piss-renaissance Old World setting. I tend to pick up WFRP-a-likes sight unseen:

Warlock (quality);

Small But Vicious Dog (yesss);

Zweihander (which I have come to hate); etc.

Anyway: I backed Kriegsmesser without really knowing anything about it. So Kriegsmesser surprised me.

Kriegsmesser grew out of a Troika! cutting. Its 36 backgrounds are compatible with that system: each come with a couple of lines of description; a list of skills and possessions; an a visual cameo cropped from actual 16th-Century woodcut art.

Cohesive and competently flavourful. My favourite is the Labourer, who always starts with "an empty pine box":

"You've spent your life breaking your back, working hard for other people's profit. You have nothing to show for it but a spectre of the future."

(The obligatory ratcatcher-analogue , called the Vermin Snatcher, is here -- check that box!)

Kriegsmesser also comes with its own ruleset. Hits all the notes it needs to, with lots of orientation and advice for how to run a game -- but ultimately super-simple, mechanically:

Roll d6s equal to the value in a relevant skill, look at the highest result. 6 means you get what you want; 5 or 4 means you get what you want, at a cost.

It's not quite a dice pool, since only the highest result matters. No opposed tests.

Kriegsmesser intends to have this base mechanic handle fights, too. The combat rules - with armour, toughness and weapon values -- are nested in an optional section.

For a WFRP-a-like, this feels like a purposeful departure.

Many of WFRP's most celebrated adventures are celebrated for bits that their underlying ruleset does little to support: the investigative structure of "Shadows Over Bogenhafen"; the complicated timetable of "Rough Night At Three Feathers".

Ludwig von Wittgenstein never needed a statblock to be memorable.

Not to say that lethal, hyper-detailed fights isn't super Warhammer-y. (Kriegsmesser includes an injury table, broken down by body-part -- check that box!)

But here it feels like Gregor is saying: "I'm not Games Workshop and Roleplay isn't an ancillary of Warhammer Fantasy Battle; we can evoke grim-and-perilous-ness even if we fork away from heavy combat rules."

It has become ritual for me to read my partner Sharon to sleep.

Sometimes I read her RPG things. The other night, after I read her Kriegsmesser's introduction --

" The Empire wages an eternal war against Chaos. Its priests preach of Chaos as an intrusion, something unnatural ... These men see Chaos in anything that does not buttress their rule. They call it disorder, anarchy, corruption. They say that to rebel against their order is to rebel against god and nature. That the current arrangement is natural, rather than artificial.

" Meanwhile, the common people look to the Empire to deliver the justice that they were promised and they find none. They look to the Empire and do not see themselves reflected in it. They look around at what they were taught was right and good and see only misery.

" Their world begins to unravel. Chaos comes to reside in every heart and mind sound enough to look at the world and conclude it is broken. "

-- Sharon remarked: "Nice one."

The RPG things I read her generally leave Sharon lukewarm. She has enjoyed a couple -- but, yeah: for many of these books, text isn't their strong point.

Kriegsmesser is the only time I can recall Sharon praising the writing of an RPG book without my prompting.

Nice one.

That introduction surprised me. It underlines Kriegsmesser's biggest departure from its WFRP-a-like pedigree: how it characterises Chaos.

Corruption, a mainstay of most grim-dark-y games, is made an optional rule, like combat. Explaining this, Gregor writes:

" Kriegsmesser partially subverts or deconstructs the traditional conceit of Warhammer where the characters are threatened by the forces of Chaos. In this game it is the player characters who are the agents of 'Chaos': they are likely to become the 'rats' under the streets, and the wild 'beast-men' in the woods bringing civilisation down. It's the Empire and its nobles and priests that are corrupt ... "

Describing the Empire, Gregor writes:

" The Empire encompasses the world yet is terrified of the without. It enforces itself with steel and fire yet considers itself benevolent. It consumes the labour of others with bottomless hunger yet calls its subalterns lazy, or wasteful, or greedy. "

Holy shit this is the first time I've seen the word "subaltern" in an RPG thing, I think?

I love this.

Rant incoming:

With every passing decade Warhammer abridges its Moorcockian roots more and more; nowadays it is "Order = Good" and "Chaos = Evulz", pretty much.

Gone are the days when chaos berserkers are implied to grant safe passage to the helpless (because Khorne is as much a god of martial honour as he is a god of bloodletting); Or that the succor of Papa Nurgle is a genuine comfort to the downtrodden; Or that Tzeentch could unironically embody the principle of hope, of change for the better.

As Chaos is distilled into unequivocal villainy, Order goons get painted as Good Guys by default --

Giving rise to Warhammer's contemporary problem, wherein fans are no longer able to recognise satire.

When I was introduced to 40K, it seemed pretty clear that the Imperium was a Brazil-esque absurdist-fascist bureaucratic state: planets are exterminatus-ed due to clerical error; the way it stamps out rebellions is the reason why rebellions begin in the first place.

Tragi-comic grimdarkness. That was the point.

Nowadays that tone has shifted -- and you're more likely than not going to encounter a 40K fan who argues that the Imperium's evils are a justified necessity, to prevent worse wrongs.

We went from:

"Space Nazis because insane dumbass fuckery, also chainswords vroom vroom rule of badass!"

To:

"Space Nazis because it makes sense actually, and also chainswords make sense because [insert convoluted rationalisation here]."

Even Fantasy Flight's Black Crusade line, which ostensibly offers a look at 40K from the perspective of Chaos, never truly commits to its conceit.

With prep you could play a heroic band of mutant freedom fighters, resisting the tyranny of the Evil Imperium --

But I don't remember Black Crusade giving that kind of campaign any actual support. Its supplements service the relatively more conventional "You can play villains!" angle; the Screaming Vortex is a squarely Daemons-vs-Daemons setting.

This tonal drift culminates, in my mind, with Age of Sigmar, Games Workshop's heroic-fantasy replacement of the old WFRP / WHFB setting.

Here's the framing narrative for AoS's recently-launched Third Edition. Let's see whether I've got things right:

A highly professionalised, technologically-superior tip-of-the-spear fighting force (the Stormcast Eternals);

Backed by an imperialist military-industrial complex (Azyrheim);

"Liberating" rich new territories (Ghur) for exploitation by a civilised settler culture (Settlers of Sig-- I mean, Free Cities);

Justified because the locals are irredeemable heathens (Chaos and Kruleboyz).

I mean, that's a sweet-ass Warhammer setting. It's contemporary, laser-guided lampoon. Except it is played totally straight.

In AoS, a literal crusade is justified as the moral good.

I think Kriegsmesser surprised me because its framing of Chaos -- as a promise, as the light of hope shining through cracks of a broken world --

It feels so fucking right.

Yes: its a subaltern deconstruction of the conventional moral universe of Warhammer -- but it is a take that is also already implied / all but supported in the various depictions of the setting: from WFRP to the modified title-crawl of Black Crusade.

I'm annoyed I didn't think of it, myself. Damn you, Gregor!

And I'm annoyed that more Warhammer fans aren't thinking it, also.

lmagine if Kriegsmesser's perspective stood on equal standing as the GW orthodoxy. Imagine if, instead of simplifying stuff into "Order = Good" and "Chaos = Evulz", GW did a Gregor Vuga.

You'd have a Rashomon-ed Warhammer, where villainy depends on perspective:

You are fearful villagers, huddled around your priest, muttering prayers against the wild braying coming from the trees beyond your gates.

You are Aqshyian tribeswomen, defying the thunder warrior towering over you, the foreigner demanding you bow to his foreign god.

You are a Tzeentchian revolutionary cell, desperately trying to disrupt a Inquisitor's transmissions so your home planet isn't destroyed by fascist orbital fire.

Get Kriegsmesser HERE.

+++

( Image sources: https://theenemywithinremixed.wordpress.com/2021/05/21/thoughts-on-the-4e-death-on-the-reik/ https://www.criterion.com/current/posts/59-brazil https://www.deviantart.com/faroldjo/art/Warhammer-40k-Black-Crusade-273596035 https://www.warhammer-community.com/2021/06/09/fancy-a-new-life-bringing-order-to-the-mortal-realms-join-a-dawnbringer-crusade-today/ https://www.nme.com/blogs/the-movies-blog/team-america-15-anniversary-south-park-2558750 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Palestinian_children_and_Israeli_wall.jpg )

#reviews #kriegsmesser #gregor vuga #warhammer #writing #rants #overthinking #rpgs #wfrp

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zelenacat · 4 years ago

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When We Were Young- An Obitine Story- Chapter 5

“Satine?” Obi-Wan whispered.

“Hm?”

“I’m going to wipe the guards’ memories.”

Opening her eyes, Satine sat up. Obi-Wan was already dressed.

“And then I’ll have to go.”

Satine drew her knees up to her chest, “I’m going to miss you, Ben.”

Obi-Wan leaned in and kissed Satine.

“We’ll see each other again, Love.” he whispered when they separated, their noses inches apart.

Satine nodded and Obi-Wan left, quickly the Duchess dressed and made her way through the servant’s passageways to her quarters.

“You need to get better at sneaking around.” Fesma observed from behind her.

Opening a painting, Satine gestured for Fesma to go first. The lady smiled and passed her, breakfast tray in hand.

“Obi-Wan will be leaving soon,” Satine said, going straight to her closet, “I want to see him off.”

“Where is your lover now?” Fesma teased.

Satine crossed her arms, “Erasing the memories of people who might’ve seen us.”

Fesma snorted.

“Well,” Khaami said, entering through the front door, “that must be very convenient.”

“It is.” Satine grinned.

Once she was dressed, Satine shoved a piece of toast in her mouth and ran down to the landing pad. Obi-Wan was waiting by the ship.

“Your Grace,” the Jedi bent down and kissed Satine’s hand, “thank you for kindly showing me your home.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Obi-Wan.”

“I’ll see you again, my love.” he whispered.

“I do hope so, Ben.” the Duchess smiled.

The Jedi had a gleam in his eye when he strode back to his ship and took off. Satine on the other hand, felt a terrible weight settle on her chest.

“Come,” Fesma wrapped a hand around Satine’s arm, “you must eat more before you attend your council meeting.”

Over breakfast, Satine recounted the tale of her first kiss with Obi-Wan.

“He had just saved my life,” the Duchess reminisced, “and we were still separated from Master Qui-Gon. It began to rain, but before we ran to the cave, I kissed him.”

“You,” Fesma questioned, “the perfect Duchess of Mandalore who’s never done wrong in her life-”

“Kissed a Jedi?” Khaami raised her eyebrows.

Satine sighed.

“When we were eight you cried when Bo-Katan killed your pet frog.” Fesma grinned.

“I know,” Satine bit her lip, “but hey, if I was going to do something bad, why not do something really bad?”

Khaami laughed, Fesma shook her head.

“Are the servants saying anything?” Satine asked, suddenly serious.

The ladies looked at each other.

“Tell me.” Satine surged. “People are still suspicious of you and the Jedi.” Fesma confessed.

Satine found out exactly how suspicious the palace was at her afternoon briefing.

“Perhaps, Your Grace,” a male minister smiled politely, “it is time you think about taking a husband.”

Satine’s mouth fell open.

“If I may, Your Grace,” a female minister interrupted, “my colleague only suggests such as it would strengthen the duchy and give the people something to celebrate.”

“Are we not doing well,” Satine asked, “are the programs we instituted to help rebuild the economy and the planet not working?”

“We are doing well, Your Grace,” said Prime Minister Djarin, sliding Satine a graph, “but a husband could be of assistance.”

“Could,” Satine emphasized, “I can’t have a power-hungry man on my hands who doesn't have the peoples’ interests at heart.”

“No,” the Prime Minister agreed, “you can’t.”

The Duchess crossed her arms, her point made.

“A husband would put the rumors to rest about you and your Jedi companion.” the male minister from before spoke up.

Satine tilted her head, “I thought you held a better opinion of me, Minister.”

“Your Grace, I meant no offense-”

“Then perhaps you should think before you speak,” Satine stood, frowning, “I shall take a husband when I choose.”

The Duchess left her advisors speechless, Her Grace had never walked out of a meeting before, she was quite agreeable and wanted what was best for her planet. Though, this was a matter of personal nature.

“I won’t marry.” Satine vowed to herself in the mirror.

“You may fall in love again.” Khaami suggested from her left.

Satine glowered at her lady and the woman shoved a fork of dinner into her mouth. They were sitting in her personal parlor eating.

“Perhaps,” Fesma began, “if we threw more social engagements, people might think you’re open to the idea.”

“Or I could give speeches.” Satine suggested.

“Both would be best,” Fesma continued, “this past week you were a little withdrawn.”

“I was busy.”

Khaami huffed, “No kidding.”

The next day at her council meeting, Satine announced that she was going to hold a ball for her twentieth birthday.

“May I ask what caused this change of mind, Your Grace?” asked an advisor.

“I will attempt to find an ally among the noble youth,” Satine crossed her arms, “and if I discern any of them worthy I shall consider marriage.”

The Prime Minister smiled, “Yet you don’t think you shall find anyone.”

“No.”

The advisors looked at one another.

“I also would like to attend more social engagements.” Satine announced.

Half of her advisors were at a loss for words.

“Perhaps, Your Grace,” a female advisor piped up, “an afternoon with the betterment society helping plant trees or other humanitarian work would please you.”

“I would certainly make for good press.” added the Prime Minister.

“Then let’s fill my schedule,” Satine decided, “planting trees, helping with animals, cleaning public parks.”

The Duchess kept herself busy for the next month until her twentieth birthday, she took philanthropic photos, gave speeches at volunteer societies, and made a couple donations. It was a great way to keep her mind off Obi-Wan, and it made it easier to bear missing him.

“I wonder what he’s doing now?” Satine mused one day at dinner.

They were eating in the dining hall now, just Satine and her ladies.

“It’s not good to indulge those thoughts.” Fesma advised.

“Probably meditating,” Khaami answered, “or whatever else the Jedi do.”

Satine smiled at the difference in her ladies’ answers.

“We do have a big day tomorrow, though,” Fesma interjected, raising an eyebrow, “someone has a birthday.”

“Ah, yes,” Satine sighed, “small talk and socializing.”

“Do you really think you’ll find a new beau?” Khaami questioned.

“No,” Satine shook her head, “but it gives the impression that I’m thinking about it.”

The Duchess felt slightly guilty as she was readying for her birthday ball. Was she prideful, because she enjoyed being pampered. In the early morning after breakfast Satine and her ladies got their nails done with some of the other noble ladies. At first, there was an awkward silence when Satine came in.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” the Duchess smiled, “I too enjoy good conversation.”

The women looked at each other.

“What color, Your Grace?” asked one of the attendants.

“Violet.” Satine answered.

The girls immediately started whispering to one another.

“Is that the color of your gown, Your Grace?” piped up a young noble daughter.

Satine winked, “You’ll see.”

The conversation turned to the beau’s of noble sisters and what lord was the most handsome.

“What about you, Your Grace,” prodded a mother, “any noble son you have your eye on?”

It was subtle, but Satin knew what the woman was asking.

So with a sigh, she answered, “It’s such a difficult position to be in, though I suppose I would like a husband who speaks eloquently.”

“What an interesting choice, Your Grace.”

A beat of silence.

“Satine,” Fesma began, “if your preference hasn’t changed since we were twelve I daresay you’ll fancy half of Mandalore.”

Khaami giggled.

Satine blushed, “Oh, Fesma, it’s true I like blue eyes, but what do I know?”

“Blue eyes?” questioned a young noble daughter.

“I find them dreamy.” Satine confessed with a smile.

That immediately got the ladies whispering, and satisfied, Satine leaned back. After her nails were dry, Satine and her ladies went to inspect the jewel room.

“What colors are you wearing, Your Grace?” asked the attendant.

“Gold and violet.” Satine straightened her shoulders.

“Lovely,” the attendant paused for effect, “and your ladies?”

Khaami gasped, Fesma’s eyes looked like they were going to fall out of her head.

“Blue and silver.”

The attendant bowed, “Let us browse, Your Grace.”

“We’re going to wear jewels!” Khaami squeaked.

“You’re my ladies,” Satinie smiled, “you have to look the part.”

Khaami ran into Satine’s arms and kissed her cheek.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The Duchess laughed.

“You’re so kind, Satine.” Fesma’s eyes watered.

“We’re friends,” Satine held out her hand, “I realized I haven’t yet thanked you for your service to me.”

Fesma took the Duchess’ hand and squeezed, “Thank you, Satine.”

Once the proper jewels were chosen, Satine bathed, and while a maid began working with her hair, Satine dismissed Fesma and Khaami to get ready themselves.

“You have glorious hair, Your Grace.” commented the maid.

“Thank you,” Satine smiled, “I’m glad I inherited my father’s color.”

“If I may say, Your Grace, I believe the Duke was as well.”

Thinking of her father made Satine remember the day he was killed. She hadn’t seen it, as she was rushed outside, but she’d heard the shot, and that was enough.

“Your Grace?”

“Oh,” Satine sighed, “I was just thinking of the difficult task ahead of me.”

“The system will adore whoever you choose to wed, Your Grace.”

Satine looked at the maid in the mirror, “Thank you for saying as much.”

Khaami and Fesma returned just as the maid, whose name was Parna, opened up the box that held the jewels Satine was going to wear.

“You look lovely, ladies.” the Duchess smiled.

“I feel like the belle of the ball already,” Khaami grinned, “and it hasn’t even started yet!”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Satine smiled, placing a crown on her head, “you're going to help me manage my dance card.”

“Oh my,” Fesma clicked her tongue, “what a task.”

The announcer was more than thrilled to announce his Duchess and her ladies, but the ballroom was more receptive. As Satine walked by whispers reached her ears, she was gorgeous, she was young, she was looking for a husband.

Satine stood gracefully in front of her throne.

“I would like to thank you all for coming on this special day for me,” Satine began, “I am extremely grateful to the extensive work you all have done to help me rebuild are planet, and tonight, I would like to celebrate that work.”

The Duchess paused and the crowd clapped politely.

“On this occasion, my twentieth birthday, I am reminded of how fortunate I am,” Satine swallowed, grabbing a glass, “and so tonight is as much of a celebration of yourselves as it is of me. I would like to make a toast: To the good of Mandalore!”

“To the good of Mandalore!” the crowd agreed.

Satine led the way into dinner, her ladies behind her, and, beyond her ladies, found herself seated next to Count Tarrei Vizsla and Countess Ursa Wren.

“Happy birthday, Your Grace.” the Countess smiled politely.

“Thank you, Countess Wren,” Satine smiled, “I do hope you enjoy the evening.”

“What a wonderful speech, Your Grace,” the Count commented after a beat, “it’s wonderful to see humility reflected in a government.”

“Why thank you-”

“I wonder is it a trait you learned from the Jedi?”

Satine raised an eyebrow, “I think not, my father, the late Duke, was a firm believer in a moral compass and loyalty to one’s country folk, I think such traits are honorable, don’t you, Count Vizsla?”

“I do, Your Grace,” the edge of the Count’s lips twisted, “the late Duke was a man of honor.”

Satine wondered if the Count was implying that she wasn’t honorable. Instead, she smiled and daintily spooned some soup into her mouth.

After dinner, Satine looped her arms between her ladies and let the guests lead the way into the ballroom. Characteristically, the first man to approach her waas Count Vizsla.

“Your Grace,” the man bowed, “may I present my son, Pre Vizsla, Earl of Larrayne.”

Pre Vizsla was neither handsome nor ugly, but when Satine looked into his eyes she saw ambition, and right then she knew that the count Vizsla could never be her father in law.

“Your Grace, would you like to dance?”

Politely, Satine smiled, and held out her hand, “Of course.”

The Duchess and the Earl kept up a polite conversation, but there were stagnant pauses that made both of them despise the other. After the dance, Pre Vizsla bowed and the Duchess was surrounded by a sea of men.

Next, Satine danced with the Viscount Saxon, the Count Awaud, and the Lord Eldar. Although, on the latter, Satine noticed how their conversation kept turning to Khaami. After the dance, Satine took the Lord’s arm and led him to where her ladies were socializing.

“Khaami,” Satine smiled, “May I present Lord Eldar.”

Their eyes met, and Khaami blushed.

“Would you like to dance, Lady Khaami.”

Khaami looked to Satine, who nodded.

“I would love to.”

Satine took Khaami’s glass and joined the conversation, looping her arm through Fesma’s.

“Have you any favorites yet, Your Grace?” winked a noble daughter her age.

Satine swirled her drink, “Unfortunately, I found I have lost some faith in the male sex this night.”

Fesma snorted.

“Don’t worry, Duchess,” a lady said earnestly, “the night is still young.”

“Your right,” Satine took a sip of her drink, “perhaps we’ll all get less intoxicated as the night goes on.”

Fesma giggled.

“I suppose then, Your Grace,” another lady ventured, “that you’ve already made up your mind?”

“Well,” Satine hesitated, “I suppose I wouldn’t mind being swept off my feet.”

“By a blue-eyed gentleman.” Fesma added.

“A romantic gentlemen.” Satine corrected.

“Oh,” agreed a young noble daughter, “wouldn’t we all.”

The ladies giggled.

The dancing went on late into the night, though Satine only danced a couple more times, she and Fesma were fed up with pleasantries. Khaami however, had a wonderful evening in the arms of Lord Eldar.

“He’s my boyfriend now.” Khaami told Satine and Fesma that evening.

“Really?” Fesma grinned.

“Yes, Warx asked me and everything.”

“Warx?” Satine raised an eyebrow.

“Lord Eldar.”

Satiine smiled, “Ah.”

Fesma returned all the jewels while Khaami helped Satine into her nightgown.

“I’m sorry you had to put on this ruse.” said the lady.

“It’s what’s expected,” Satine replied, knowing exactly what she was talking about, “falling in love with a man I can’t have, that was unexpected.”

“Still, I’m sorry, Satine.” Khaami included.

The full weight of missing Obi-Wan fell on Satine, it had been a week since he’d left, and the Duchess was beginning to wonder what it would be like if he never came back.

“Satine, maybe you should ask about Tyra,” Khaami suggested, “I’m sure Master Qui-Gon would be kind to you.”

“He would’ve,” Satine agreed, “but Master Qui-Gon’s dead.”

The Duchess dismissed Khaami to the room she shared with Fesma and climbed under the covers. Guilt gnawed at her, Satine couldn’t give her children the lives they should’ve had, yet she wanted to keep them close. Satine cried on and off for the next few hours, but eventually fell into a restless sleep. Awaking before Fesma and Khaami would come with breakfast, Satine stared at the ceiling and thought about what Tyra’s life must be like at the temple. Then she thought about Korkie. He was beyond the point of waking up in the night to cry, but he still needed loving care and attention. Something she wasn’t really able to give him with her busy schedule.

“Satine?”

Swallowing, the Duchess sat up and turned to Fesma.

“Are you,” the lady paused, “alright?”

Satine nodded, but said nothing. Fesma stepped forward and set down Satine’s tray, Khaami soon followed with purified water. Satine grunted a thank you.

“I’ll go,” Fesma looked around, “pick out your outfit.”

Khaami sat down on the edge of the bed, “Satine, what’s wrong?”

The Duchess sighed, “I miss Obi-Wan, that’s all.”

“We could arrange time for Korkie in your schedule if you like, Satine.” Fesma added, coming out of the closet.

“I’d like that.” the Duchess admitted.

After she ate, Satine let her ladies help her dress, and escort her to the council meeting.

“You don’t need to worry,” the Duchess told her ladies, “I’ll just say I’m hungover.”

Khaami and Fesma shared a look.

“Okay, okay,” Satine sighed, “I’ll try to smile.”

Fortunately enough for the Duchess, today’s topic was very interesting to her.

“Naboo and Cerea are unhappy with the new tariffs,” the Prime Minister announced, “and both have requested audiences with the Duchess to negotiate new terms.”

“Parliament will dislike that.” observed one advisor. “Perhaps,” Satine spoke up, “I could visit Parliament and see what they feel strongly about, then I would be better prepared for the meeting.”

“Your Grace is willing?” questioned an advisor.

“Yes.” Satine nodded.

The meeting scribe jotted something down. After Satine had dismissed her advisors, the Prime Minister pulled her aside.

“Parliament is a lion’s den,” said Jaru Djarin with care, “you must be prepared to growl when you go in there.”

“I will,” Satine nodded, “is there anything you recommend?”

“Become the crown, a statue, be everything Parliament was made to serve,” at seeing Satine’s look, the Prime Minister added, “I shall be there as well for assistance.”

On the day she was going to Parliament, Satine dressed as if she were going to war. Enrobed in a white and gold dress with the Kryze colors on a royal sash across her chest, Satine looked much like she had when she was crowned.

“What crown shall I send for, Your Grace?” Parna asked, appearing in the doorway.

“The golden warrior’s eye,” Satine decided, “the one that looks like the sun.”

Parna curtsied, “Yes, Your Grace.”

When she’d left, Fesma turned to Satine, “Going to make an impression, are we?”

“My father wore that crown to his most important state affairs,” Satine stated, “I want to show Parliament that I am like my father.”

Fesma nodded, “It does bolster male egos to see a man in charge.”

“True,” Khaami agreed, “shall we do your hair in a braided bun?”

“Yes, I think so.”

When Parna returned, she gently held out a golden box to Satine.

“The Jewel Master wanted me to tell you he thinks you’ve chosen wisely.”

Satine took the box, “Thank you, Parna, do tell him later that I appreciate his sentiment.”

Parna smiled, “I will, Your Grace.”

Satine’s ladies helped her to the carriage, but from then on she was on her own. When they arrived at the Parliament building, Satine noticed some photographers outside.

“It’s not everyday the Crown visits Parliament, Your Grace.” observed the driver when he caught Satine’s eye.

The door opened and a hand was offered to help the Duchess out of the car. When she stepped out, chatter stopped, the cameras flashed.

“Duchess Satine,” the Prime Minister appeared on the stairs above her, “may I escort you in?”

“I would be delighted.” Satine smiled, gracefully ascending the steps and holding out her hand.

The inside of the Parliament building was decorated with chiseled busts of important leaders, symbolic paintings, and marble pillars that, combined with the marble floor, caused Satine’s shoes to echo with every step.

“The Honorable Prime Minister Djarin and Her Grace, Duchess Kryze of Mandalore.”

Satine felt every pair of eyes in the room on her, she hadn’t graced Parliament with her presence since she’d opened it when she was a new Duchess.

At the end of the room there were two chairs which Prime Minister Jaru led them towards, one a wooden throne, elegantly carved, sat on the left of the center throne, which was marble. Ascending the dias, Satine turned and sat gracefully on the center throne, once she was fully seated, everyone, including the Prime Minister, followed.

“Our monarch is here today,” began Jaru Djarin, “to hear your reasoning behind the strict tariffs on Cerea and Naboo, she would like to open the floor to discussion and hear what you feel strongly about.”

Satine studied the room, Mandalore had four political parties that each held an amount of seats in Parliament, the long hall had four seating areas against the walls, and each group sat under a flag of singular color. Red, orange, yellow, and white.

“Your Grace,” a minister from the red group stood, “we have just been through a terrible ordeal, and Naboo and Cerea, our closest trading partners, certainly wouldn’t mind helping us.”

Chatter rose up around the room.

“Unfortunately,” the Duchess began, speaking as loud as she could while remaining dignified, “they do mind, and feel they are being treated unfairly. If we wish them to help us, we must give them something in return.”

That certainly sparked whispers.

As more and more ministers stood, Satine saw where the argument split, the red and yellow parties were on one side, while orange and white were on the other. The red and yellow parties felt that they should be aggressive with the tariff negotiations, the orange and white parties disagreed, and thought the opposite.

“Perhaps,” Satine began, trying to calm the uproar that had suddenly erupted, “we should stand firm on our implementation of the tariffs, yet be lenient and willing to negotiate on some of the principles.”

The room went silent.

“What principles do you suggest, Your Grace?” asked the Prime Minister.

Satine straightened, “We lower the percent of tax down from twenty five percent to fifteen, yet we ask for a loan to be repaid without interest.”

The ministers whispered among each other, the Prime Minister smiled. It took an hour to hammer out the rest of the details, yet all of Parliament agreed that the Duchess had divulged a good tactic.

The next morning, Satine woke to a squeal from Khaami.

“Satine!”

“Sh, Khaami-”

“Satine, you won't believe it!”

Sighing, the Duchess sat up.

“They’re calling you the She-Wolf of Mandalore!” Khaami giggled.

“Your performance yesterday was spectacular, Satine.” Fesma agreed.

Grinning and giggling like a little girl, Satine asked to see the holonews.

“She-Wolf of Mandalore,” Satine smiled, “I like that.”

#satine kryze #duchess satine #satine x obiwan #obiwan #obi wan kenobi #korkie kenobi #korkie kryze

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mortuarybees · 5 years ago

Note

oh I just sent you an ask and then realized that you answered my question in a previous ask, so ignore me. (Though I do have another question about them getting married or at least choosing to be committed to each other forever). Thank you for this AU though!

THIS GOT LONG I’M SORRY. The chef suggests that this be paired with Mitski’s cover of Let’s Get Married, which actually invented the institution of marriage.

It looks like this:

It’s a balmy Sunday in April, 2014, and Aziraphale’s hands are clasped before him, forehead pressed to his knuckles. He’s nervous; he shouldn’t be, he knows, but he is. The pew is hard and uncomfortable, unforgiving–Crowley would laugh at that, and even as he smiles, the thought makes his stomach clench.

The service ended a while ago, but he likes to remain, reading through the echoing chatter until everyone has gone and he can have a word alone with Her. Praying in a room full of others feels obscene and vulnerable, like leaving the front door open for the neighbors to peak in.

Please, please, please, he thinks. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, praying, knows that if today is the day, he needs to go home before Crowley gets irritable and worried, but he wants to feel certain, the way Crowley had been.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale likes gold. Loves gold; he grew up in an ancient and wealthy family, with so much money they’re casual about it, crystals dripping from chandeliers and fine tableware so old it belongs in a museum, and he won’t admit it–not now, especially–but he misses the elegance, the luxuries, misses a wardrobe full of Harris tweed and Burberry and Liberty’s. He likes gold, he would want gold, and Crowley is helpless to do anything but give him what he wants.)

It’s been a long time, Aziraphale thinks. He’s getting older–I’m getting older–he only gets one life. He’s the restless kind, what if he says no?

He asked first, he reminds himself, and then counters it by pointing out that last time, it didn’t mean much, to him. No, that isn’t fair, it meant something, but it wasn’t binding.

He doesn’t need to bind himself to you, he tells himself. He’s committed in every way he can. He’s never been the restless sort when it comes to us.

I’m overthinking this, he thinks, bemused, and as if God agrees with him, he hears the door behind him open, and Crowley’s relieved voice boom, echoing in the empty church and certainly disturbing the bad-humored priest, “Christ, there you are. I thought maybe the Rapture came and the rest of London was too godless to notice.”

Thank you, he prays. Amen. He turns around and smiles. “Crowley, dear. Would you like to sit?”

“Best not,” Crowley says, stopping at the end of the pew Aziraphale occupies. “Surprised I haven’t burst into flames yet, don’t want to push my luck getting comfortable.” He looks around and points at a painting of Saint Sebastian, posed in a rather un-agonized manner. “That why you come here all the time? An excuse to gawk at younger men?”

“Crowley,” he scolds, getting to his feet. He ducks his head to hide his smile and puts his hands in his pockets, toying with the small velvet box inside. “Please, dear, keep from blaspheming inside the church. Besides, you’re far better looking.”

“Damn right,” Crowley huffs, and he takes his arm possessively when he exits the pew, pulling tight against his side. He looks beautiful in the mid-morning light, hazy and soft, hair loose around his face, the stained glass painting colors on his pale face when he squints up at it as they leave. The face of John is mirrored perfectly in the lenses of his dark glasses for just a moment, and Aziraphale wishes he’d ever really tried his hand at art, just to immortalize in rich oil paint the rainbow of light on his face, the Beloved Disciple in his eyes, the swipes of glitter across his cheekbones, the black lace top under his leather jacket, pierced a million times over with all manner of pins over the years; he thinks if he wasn’t at peace before, this picture does it.

“You’re beautiful, darling,” he murmurs when it’s ended, when Crowley tilts his chin down, curls his lip against whatever blasphemy he was certainly thinking and it’s just him again. Just them, and God as far away as She always feels.

“I was kidding, angel,” he says, thumb stroking a reassuring line down his coat sleeve. “Ogle some guy all–” he gestures, quite theatrically– “shot up with arrows if you like. He’s dead, I’m not. I win.”

(It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and Crowley and Aziraphale arrived in London six months prior, alone and uncertain, refugees on a foreign shore. They both grew up in rural villages–wildly different experiences; Aziraphale’s family had an estate and he attended some posh boarding school on the moors, Crowley slept on a bus bench on more than one occasion–and the city is new and frightening and exciting. It seemed like the place for two young queer men to go, newly anointed adults forging a life together.

Aziraphale likes it, Crowley knows he does, he likes the museums, he likes the beautiful old buildings and the British Library, he likes taking walks in the park, and he likes having a home of their own, a home with Crowley. He tells him everyday, a comment here or there with a soft smile. But he’s wounded and mourning; he misses his family, and his new way of life is a bit of a shock. He won’t admit that it hurts, just sniffs and insists he knew it was coming, but Crowley knows him better that that. He loves London, but he can’t help but see the life he’s lost in every crevice of the life he’s found.

Crowley doesn’t believe in divine providence, but if he did, this would be the surest evidence of it: on his way home to their shithole of a flat with his first paycheck in his pocket, he passes the window of an antiques store, and sees it in the window. It catches the afternoon light perfectly and shines gold against the black velvet display; it’s a clunky old-fashioned sort of ring, with angel wings forming the band. Crowley has been thinking hard about this for years now, and it’s absolutely perfect.)

The sunlight outside comes weakly through the clouds, pale but just bright enough to avoid dreariness. Crowley relaxes once they step from the church steps and onto the sidewalk; his first boyfriend broke up with him with a vague and plausibly-deniable note in a cheap bible left on Crowley’s front porch when he returned home from a summer church camp, and Aziraphale thinks he’s always been afraid in the back of his mind that Aziraphale is going to come home from church someday and do the same thing, though he’s never said as much.

“I brought the rolled oats for the ducks,” Crowley says. “Figured we ought to stop in, since we missed last week. Otherwise they might mutiny.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, and that had been his plan, but it’s all becoming so terribly real and sudden, isn’t it? He could wait just a little longer–

No, he can’t. They’ve waited long enough.

(It looks like this:

Crowley, ever-charming, talks the proprietor of the antiques shop into setting the ring aside for him. She’s suspicious of him, with his sibilant S and the pins on his leather jacket, but he’s wearing his work uniform, a perfectly respectable red polo shirt and black slacks, and he gives her a down payment and a long and terribly touching story about his college sweetheart that’s mostly true, apart from the gender of the lover in question.

The truth is, there are some things which can be easily done without, and some things that can’t. Aziraphale prefers fancy vintages from significant years and miraculous rains in the French countryside, but a £5 bottle from Sainsbury’s won’t ruin New Years. They can buy store brand cereal, the eggs discounted because one of them has been cracked, they can throw Aziraphale’s fancy embroidered throw over the pullout and hang richly dyed moth-eaten curtains from the theater department’s dumpster and pretend it’s the Hotel d’Alsace. But there are some things that must be done right, some things that cannot be done without, and he’s convinced that this is one of them. He could as easily propose with a plastic ring from the coin machine at their favorite bar, but Aziraphale is going to love this ring; even if he says no, pats Crowley on the cheek and says, “How romantic of you dear boy, but that’s not really what’s done, is it?” he’s still going to love it.

He’s secretive and vague about the extra hours and side gigs he takes on to make the payments. Aziraphale notices, he knows he does, he knows him too well not to, and he’s curious and a little alarmed, but he felt bad enough lying about where part of his first paycheck went without having to do it again every month when he stops in to make a payment on the ring.

It takes six months, but she finally hands it over, along with a comment about how she’s thought about it and she thinks it’s really rather noble, what he’s doing, and he best keep to it, best not break this poor girl’s heart, she’s read about people like him, giving it a go with nice girls for a couple years and then skipping out, sticking them with kids and a broken life. He rolls his eyes and says he’ll pass the message along to his boyfriend after he proposes, and saunters out, a skip in his step. It’s perfect; he’ll still wear it every day and admire it on his hand the way Crowley admires it now in the sun, and even if he says no–well, that would be a fine consolation prize.)

There is a bench they’ve been coming to for fifteen years now, so habitually the ducks flock to them when they arrive, flicking oats into the water. Crowley is catching him up on the fight he missed while he was out (the walls are thin and the neighbors provide endless entertainment with their incessant and bafflingly banal bickering; it’s a proper extended universe, their family disputes, and the mother-in-law is visiting, so it’s been an exciting weekend), and Aziraphale is trying to listen, he really is, even though he insists eavesdropping and gossiping aren’t especially neighborly–“oh, come off it, angel, you know they’ve got their ears pressed to the wall when we fight, not to mention when we–” “Crowley!”–but he cant focus on anything but the weight in his pocket.

He’s been putting money away for a year now, ever since legislation to legalize it was introduced last July. He’d known it would take some time to pass, but if they were willing to propose it, it would be soon.

“Alright, what’ve you got squirreled away, huh?” Crowley demands, the dozenth time in a few short minutes his hand has gone to his pocket to ensure it’s still there. “I’m hungry. Was so worried you’d gone off and joined some cultish offshoot I couldn’t eat. Well, a more cultish offshoot. Is the Catholic church an offshoot? Suppose it must be, not like Jesus named a pope–”

“It’s not food, dear,” Aziraphale says, sighing. “And he did, he gave Saint Peter the keys to Heaven and he was bishop of Rome. Blasphemous old serpent.”

“I’m sure they all say that,” Crowley says, waving a hand. He eyes him curiously, flicking a rolled oat so it hits a duck in the head. “What is it then?”

Aziraphale’s heart thuds chaotically in his chest. “Crowley, dearest,” he says, turning to face him. He takes his hand in his, desperate for the anchor, the reassurance. “I love you.”

“Love you too, angel,” Crowley says, looking alarmed. “Are you alright?”

“You love me,” Aziraphale repeats, both wishing desperately he could see Crowley’s eyes, search them, and desperately glad that he can’t. Crowley’s bare eyes are so terribly expressive, the sight of them so intimate, he couldn’t bear it.

“‘Course I do,” he says, with conviction. “More than anything. What’s this about?”

“Crowley, my love,” he says hoarsely, and he kneels on one knee, still clinging to his hand.

(It looks like this:

It’s October in 2000, and it’s been raining like the coming of the second flood for days. Crowley stands at the window, biting his lip and scowling at it, sick of it and about to start refreshing himself on the principles of chaos magic in a bid to end it.

“Crowley, dear, you’re making me nervous,” Aziraphale grumbles from the sofa. He loves a nice rainy day, loves curling up against Crowley with a cup of tea and a book or one of those awful television shows with the flouncy costumes and overwrought acting, but even he is growing tired of being stuck inside all day and getting soaked to the bone on his way to work. “Come sit down, would you?”

“I’m busy,” Crowley mutters.

“You don’t look busy,” Aziraphale says. “It looks like you think you can scowl the rain into submission.”

“Works on the plants,” Crowley tells him, and he knows Aziraphale is rolling his eyes without having to look. He’s half a mind to do away with his idea all together, just do it right here in their cramped little studio, when quite suddenly, the rain lets up to a light mist. He stares at it, jaw slack, for several long moments. When it doesn’t start pick up again, he shouts, “Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Aziraphale frowns. “In this?”

“It’s just misting and we haven’t gone out properly in days,” Crowley says eagerly. “C'mon, get dressed, I want to go to the park.” He won’t have time to get dressed properly, doesn’t want to risk the return of the storm–which is a crying shame, he had such an outfit planned–but he yanks the pants he knows make his ass look the best out of their dresser and a deep purple blouse with lace around the cuffs Aziraphale once said made him look very royal, stripping out of his pajamas and hopping into them as quickly as he can.

“The park?” Aziraphale puts his book aside. “Well, I suppose I would rather fancy a stroll, stretch my legs–”

“Excellent!” Crowley throws him a horrible pair of houndstooth slacks and the first button down he sees. “Get dressed.”

“Crowley–”

“Dressed!”

“These don’t even match!”

“I don’t care! Get dressed!” He darts to their vanity, staring wild-eyed at his reflection. Eyeliner is smudged raccoon-like around his eyes, but his sunglasses will cover that. He picks up a brush and yanks it violently through his hair. His eyes dart to Aziraphale, taking his sweet time picking out a new button down. “Dressed! Dressed, c'mon!”

“I’m getting there,” he mutters, waving lazily at him. “What do you think, green or white, dear?”

“You look best in blue,” Crowley tells him. He pulls his hair back, then lets it fall again, then pulls the front back and secures it a few pins and a comb he knows Aziraphale likes. He spins around to see Aziraphale quite leisurely buttoning up his shirt. “If you don’t hurry, I’m leaving without you.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but his fingers quicken, and he sits down to tie his oxfords. Crowley hurries to join him, shoving his feet in his boots and lacing them up as quickly as he can. The moment they’re both done, he yanks him up, hauling him to the door, shrugging his leather jacket on and tossing Aziraphale his blazer. “Wait, I’ve got to get my bag–”

“You don’t need your bag,” Crowley insists, and reaches into his pocket to make sure the ring is there.

Aziraphale frets the whole way to the park about how it’s bound to start pouring again any moment, and Crowley rushed him so much he forgot to bring an umbrella, they’re going to get drenched, they forgot bread for the ducks–unaware as they were that one ought not feed a duck bread, for its own sake–and St. James’ Park is positively sodden and it’ll take ages for his wool socks to dry out. Crowley doesn’t care; he links their arms and slogs bravely on to their usual spot, grateful that the heavy rain has cleared it out. The only other people around are a mother and child, some ways off, enjoying the brief respite.

“Angel, I’ve got something to ask you,” he says urgently, and he wrenches his sunglasses off–wait, he forgot, the eyeliner–he slides them back on, then takes them off again; he knows how Aziraphale likes to see his eyes.

“Yes?” Aziraphale looks confused and alarmed, he doesn’t like surprises or irregular reactions. He jumps to the worst every time, starts overthinking every twitch of Crowley’s face, and Crowley loves him, the anxious prat.

“I love you,” he says. “Do you love me?”

“I love you more than words can say, darling, what’s going on?” His eyes search Crowley’s face, his brow furrowed.

“Do you–” he swallows hard. They’ve never talked about this, not really. “You don’t think this is–y'know, a sin, right?” It feels so awkward in his mouth, his tone not weighty enough. The truth is, he’s never really seen what all the fuss was about, why so many other queer people struggled so much to reconcile their lives with the Church. The Church rejected him, so he rejected the Church, and he hasn’t looked back. But it means something to Aziraphale. He doesn’t know if he struggles with it still, but it means something to him. It means a lot to him.

“Oh, Crowley, dear,” he says, his eyes clearing. He touches his cheek, so gently Crowley could scream. “Of course not. This could never be a sin, I’ve been reading–”

Crowley can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Of course you have,” he says, beaming at him. “Of course you have. What have you been reading, angel?”

“Well, Montefiore’s ‘Jesus, the Revelation of God’ points out that Christ’s early life–”

“Flaming homosexual, Jesus was, then?” Crowley asks, unable to smother his unhinged grin, and Aziraphale isn’t sure what he’s so giddy about, but it seems like he can’t help but smile back, a little uncertainly.

“There was John, of course, the Beloved Disciple, and there’s a rather interesting idea about the Wedding at Cana, which is of course in some ideas thought of as a symbolic marriage of Christ to the church, and some–there’s this beautiful German print, of Jesus and John at the wedding, I’ll have to show you–some have suggested that it’s also a more literal marriage between Jesus and John–”

“Christ, angel, you’ll marry me, won’t you?” Crowley breathes, and he kneels.

Aziraphale blinks at him, brow furrowed, his mind clearly trying to catch up to this sudden switch in the topic of conversation. It’s always hard to interrupt one of his rambling little speeches, he gets so invested in them, but Crowley will just have to make it up to him later, let him lecture above him well into the night about apocryphal writings and stained glass and this print or that; right now, he just need to be engaged to this ridiculous man. “Er, what?”

“Marry me,” he says. He had a whole proposal planned, but he’s forgotten it, and it was stupid, anyway. “Marry me, I–” he fumbles in his pocket, pulls the ring out of the little felt bag the proprietor put it in and holds it up like an offering. “I have a ring. Will you marry me, Aziraphale?”

“Are you–” Aziraphale’s eyes are getting wide, his breath coming fast. “Crowley, you’re not joking about this, are you?”

“Why the fuck would I joke about this?” Crowley snaps. “Look, see, I got a ring and everything. Do you like it?”

“Crowley–” Aziraphale gasps, a wet and rough sound. “I–I suppose it would be legal, technically, but I–Crowley, you know how I feel about, about–what do you mean–”

“It’s not legal, I know, but neither is buggery, technically, just can’t be prosecuted, but that’s never stopped us,” he says. He knows, he knows how Aziraphale feels about playing to his assigned gender, even when it’s convenient. “Look, it’s not like Jesus and John had a marriage license, is it?”

And Aziraphale starts crying.)

“Angel,” Crowley says, staring down at him. “The hell are you doing?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale releases his hand to pull the small velvet box out of his pocket, opens it carefully, precisely, and holds it out to him. “Crowley, my dearest, will you marry me?”

“We’re already married, angel,” Crowley whispers, and as if unconsciously, his thumb strokes the tattoo on his left ring finger.

“Well, certainly,” he says. “But it’s legal now, and I know that what the state has to say doesn’t matter much, but you know–well, you remember how it can be, without something legal. Something on paper,. And you don’t have a ring.”

“I have better than a ring,” Crowley says, but his eyes are glittering, fixed on the little black ring in the box, a band of silver around it.

Aziraphale swallows hard. “Crowley, I would really quite like to marry you, officially, dear, if you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll–I swear to somebody, angel, you’re the stupidest genius I’ve ever met,” he swears. “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot, I–what the fuck does the ring say, Aziraphale?”

He smiles, can’t help but be pleased that he’s noticed. On the inside, in his own hand writing, is You Make Me Live, Dearest, in deference to the song Crowley has, on many occasions, blasted so loud their neighbors have pounded on the wall, practically shouting the lyrics at Aziraphale, hauling him, laughing, into terrible dancing that usually ends up knocking something over. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and sings very quietly, and off-key, voice wavering (he hasn’t sang since his second puberty; he had a lovely voice, before, he was in a choir, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it since), “Oh, you make me live, whenever this world is cruel to me–”

Crowley grabs him by his lapels and hauls him up into a hungry kiss, passersby be damned.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale is crying, his face in his hands, and Crowley is frozen on his knees, all his giddy joy slowly leaving him, a hollow humiliation replacing it.

“Angel,” he says, hating how his voice cracks. “Angel, I’m sorry, you don’t have to say yes–you can keep the ring, I want you to have the ring–I won’t–I won’t leave, if you say no–unless you want me to, obviously–” Shit, shit, shit, he didn’t fuck up that bad, did he–

Aziraphale drops his hands, startled, and stares at him. “Why on earth would I want that?” he asks, and he goes to his knees on the wet concrete, pulling the ridiculous handkerchief that matches his ridiculous bow tie from his breast pocket, dabs at his eyes, wipes his nose, and puts it in his pocket with a deep breath. “I never–I never thought this would be possible, the way I wanted it,” he says at last. “I never even–considered it, really, I wished, perhaps, but I never–” he stops, and he stares at Crowley with such warmth and love it settles him, a little. He’s not going to turn him out, and that’s really all that matters.

“I just thought, I know you wouldn’t want to do it…officially, so it might not be legal, but maybe–you and me, we could say some vows,” he says. “If you wanted. If you don’t, that’s fine,” and his voice, the goddamn traitor, cracks again on the word.

“Oh, dear, I haven’t said yes, have I?” Aziraphale says, and he smiles, a watery thing, puts his hand on Crowley’s wrist. “Yes, darling, I’d love nothing more than to marry you, I really wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” he says, and a smile begins to form. “Oh. That’s–great, then.”

“You ridiculous thing,” Aziraphale says, beaming, and he throws his arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. He can feel his lashes flutter against the soft skin there, the slide of warm tears, his breath ghosting across the fine hairs, and he shivers.

“Hey,” he says, nudging him. “Hey. Did you see the ring?”

Aziraphale laughs, leaning back onto his haunches, and wipes at his eyes. “The ring?”

“Yeah, the ring,” Crowley says, waving it about. He thinks it looks even more impressive in the washed-out grey light, shining like a second sun.

“Crowley,” he whispers, seeming to really truly notice it for the first time. “Where–where did you get this?” His hands hover around it, reverent, as if he’s afraid to touch it.

“An antiques shop,” he says proudly. “Give me your hand.”

“How did you afford it?” he asks wonderingly, and he lets Crowley take his hand in his, slide it onto his finger, smiles at his little sigh of relief when it fits.

“Saved up,” he says. “That’s, er. What I’ve been doing, going out.”

“I was curious,” Aziraphale says, and his eyes well up again. “Oh, darling, all this time, you’ve been working?”

“Wanted you to have the best,” he says. “Look, see, they’re angel wings.” He runs a finger around the band, beaming at it. “You like it?”

“Crowley, my dear, I love it more than I can say,” he says fervently, and he puts a hand on his cheek again, leans in to give him a chaste, brief kiss. “Let’s go home,” he suggests. “I’ll thank you properly.”

Crowley leaps to his feet, bringing Aziraphale with him, and they don’t quite run to the bus stop, but it’s a very close thing, giggling like drunk teenagers sneaking out late, laughter peeling through the park when Crowley’s poorly laced boots send them tumbling, arms linked, into the grass.)

It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and it’s 2014, and they run home from the bus stop in a sudden downpour of rain, having forgotten umbrellas, absent-minded and distracted by more important things. A leather jacket is shed onto the floor, a tweed coat thrown in the vague direction of a coat rack; Crowley throws Aziraphale’s suspenders off his shoulders with pleased gusto, a tie, belt, shirts, hit the floor with abandon, sunglasses are placed very delicately somewhere safe. Crowley pulls at Aziraphale’s binder insistently, in 2000, yanks his white undershirt over his head in 2014; oxfords and combat boots are tossed and hit the walls and floor; they stumble over their pants as they try to take them off without stopping, without taking their hands off each other for even a moment, and the old bed creaks when they tumble onto it. The headboard cracks against the wall, knocks the crucifix loose, and the thud is followed by shaking laughter overtaken by gasps, and cries, and fervent declarations, hands clasped, mouths sliding inelegantly together. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you; and they’re both thinking with desperate and delighted devotion, my husband, my husband, my husband.

#Sorry This Is So Long #i got carried away #look i had to fit in two proposals #thank you for asking im love human au #henry speaks #ineffable husbands #good omens #human au #Anonymous #can you tell i was raised protestant and very much not catholic #apologies to my catholic friends for any errors on that front #hi im henry a gay christian and very emotional about it #henry writes

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djarinbarnes · 4 years ago

Text

Promise? II

Author: Dina

Word Count: 3118

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Warnings: angst, funeral... childbirth.

masterpost

December 1943

The memorial and burial of Bucky and his comrades was beautiful. You were allowed to see his casket before the service, and you had cherished every moment. You told him about everything that had happened, how the little one inside your womb had started kicking when you talked about him, and how it would nudge against your hand as you held it while you cried.

You had brought along a small teddy, holding it closely to your belly as the pastor said his words for the fallen soldiers. Tears slid down your cheeks as you watched the ceremony. Some of the widows were motioned to say their goodbyes. You felt your heart sink deeper into the darkness as you were approached by an elderly woman, her smile apologetic.

“It’s time to say goodbye, darling.” she said, and you broke down. Hearing the nickname from her lips plunged deep into your heart, the realization that you would never hear Bucky call you that again clouding your mind. You sobbed in agony, hands squeezing the teddy bear tighter. You weren’t ready to say goodbye. You never would be.

You approached his casket slowly, clutching the teddy, feeling a swift nudge against your ribs. You inhaled deeply, finding some comfort in the life growing inside you. You laid your hand on the white surface, sliding your hand over the soft curve. You leaned down, your lips resting on the cold exterior, channeling all your love into the top. Your forehead came to rest just over where your lips had laid.

“I love you, Bucky. We love you.” you whispered as your tears fell softly on the white exterior. You kissed the surface again, leaving your lips lingering for just a short while. Images of Bucky flooded the back of your eyelids.

Bucky admiring his favorite painting at the Met. Bucky kissing the back of your hand. Bucky tagging you along through Central Park, showing you his favorite spot. Bucky leaning in to kiss you softly, your first. Bucky in the soft glow of the sunset. Bucky on top of you, making love to you. Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

You brought the soft plush to your lips and exhaled through your nose, mind clouded with Bucky. You placed the teddy bear on top of the casket, along with another kiss. You pulled away as the tears kept streaming down your face, hands coming up to embrace your growing bump. You winced as a shot rang through the graveyard, followed by another. In honor of our fallen soldiers.

“(Y/n) Barnes?” you whipped around when a male voice spoke up behind you.

“Yes?” you managed to croak out.

“I’m Sergeant Roone.” he told you, laying a hand on your arm. “I fought alongside your husband. He was a brave man.” he stilled for a moment. You embraced him tightly, tearing up yet again.

“I’m so sorry Sergeant. It must have been awful for you, out there. What you had to see..” You bit back another sob as he held you out at an arm's length.

“My sweet girl, nothing compares to the loss you’re feeling.” he motioned to your stomach and you nodded. You felt his hand on the side of your stomach, and you sighed. “He was always talking about you. I wish you could have seen him when he read your letters. His face always lit up, when the mail came.“ you sobbed as you felt your heart flutter in your chest. “I was lucky enough that I got to travel with the… fallen.. out of there. I don’t know what else would’ve happened if I hadn’t,” you laid your hand over his and mustered a smile at him.

“Sergeant Roone, thank you for your service.” you told him with a grateful squeeze on top of his hand. “Do you know if Bucky got my last letters?” you asked, wanting to know if he died knowing.

“I do not, unfortunately. But that was the reason I approached you. We managed to salvage your letters from the site. And one on your husband when we found him. We figured he was writing when he fell before the enemy.” He pulled out a stack of letters, handing them over to you. You felt your heart halt, and skip a beat.

“Oh my god.” you whispered, feeling a sting in your heart. Here they were. The letters. Your letters. His last letter? You felt the tears well up in your eyes as you embraced Bucky’s comrade in another hug. “You don’t know how much this means to me. Thank you so much Sergeant.”

You came home that evening feeling defeated. You had the letters he had sent you tucked away in a box under your bed. When a day rolled around where you missed him too much, you would read them over and over again. And you read them many times. The loss of the love of your life was unbearing, and you missed him so much your heart stung in your chest.

Today was one of those days. You quietly found the box under your bed, softly caressing your hard bump. It was February soon, and the symbol of your love would soon be born into this world. The nearing of the date was almost painful, and with every day passing, you felt the dreading grow larger. You didn’t want to do this without your Bucky by your side.

You had moved into Bucky’s apartment shortly before he shipped out, your mother coming to visit you almost every day. You shuffled to your couch, settling down softly against the back of it, wincing at the discomfort. You pulled out the first letter and slid it out of the envelope, already tearing up by looking at the neat handwriting that belonged to your late husband.

May 27th 1943

My dearest, darling (y/n).

I know that I left barely a week ago, but I already miss you so dearly.

Some of our chaps received their marching orders tonight and tomorrow they’re going to the Dr.s’ to be examined for the front. Some of them expect to leave for England on Saturday.

I know you were distraught when I left that morning, and I deeply wish I could’ve stayed with you, held you and loved you forever. I will love you forever though, but for now, I will love you from a distance. That morning I couldn’t make out what was up, whether you didn’t want to say something that someone might’ve heard or if you felt like something was up with me?

I know you wanted to say something but couldn’t bring yourself to it, but please don’t ever keep anything from me, my love. What pains you, pains me.

Now my love, I must sleep. It’s a warm night tonight, and all I can think of is the warmth you fill my heart with.

Goodnight for now.

I love you.

Your Bucky.

A sob left your lips as you read over the last two lines again and again.

I love you.

Your Bucky.

I love you.

Your Bucky.

You packed away the first letter and found the next one. It slid out of the envelope easily, and you sniffled.

June 8th 1943

Dear, lovely (y/n).

What have you been doing today? I suppose you’ve read your favorite book, or listened to your favorite Billie Holiday record. I miss you so much.

As you probably have heard, we’re in England now. It’s nice here so far. Almost doesn’t feel like war. One of the chaps has just come in the room feeling a little better than good, if you know what that means, and is trying to get into bed. It is just the sort of thing to make one think and wonder how men came make such fools of themselves … I guess it is up to me to go over and take his clothes off now.

It’s strange, how different lives are. How different we want them to turn out. In all likelihood, I imagine a grand day, and I imagine ending up with my little doll and a kiss that I can feel now. Have I not much to be thankful for? Am I not lucky? And should not my life show this good fortune (if I may call it so) in many ways? There are some questions for you to help me in solving. I often ponder over them and can only see one course ahead.

But where am I taking you? Away off into philosophy, I suppose you would call it. I’d like to call it Life. The grand, the noble, the fascinating problem of living. Sometimes, you know, I think that I could be happy, yes truly happy, away off far from the bother of human uproar, hidden away in some place of grandeur alone with you.

You have pictured it to me and I can see it, but, no darling, that would not be true happiness. I’m sure we would both tire of it in a very short while. It would be gorgeous and lovely for a time, but I think there would be a longing for a something that was not there.

I like sometimes to think of a different scene, perhaps something like this: a room filled with books and all the necessities of a library and you, I and our child reading Alice in Wonderland together. We are all tired, for it is after a strenuous day, and oh how we are enjoying it and are happy as happy can be.

I know this is longer than what you’re used to, but I’ve just missed you so much lately and all this writing is letting me unravel my thoughts to you. I’ve almost forgotten what you like me to say, what you want me to say and what I want to say myself.

One thing I do remember though, is that I love you.

Your Bucky.

You smiled at the thought of the two of you reading Alice in Wonderland again. You had read it aloud to him during the winter, and he had stared lovingly at your lips with every word that fell from them. You put the letter back into the envelope and pulled out the next one. You took a deep breath and wiped your cheeks.

July 1st 1943

My dear, sweet (y/n).

First and most important, I suppose that you have heard the news. This time I think that it is sure and that we will be on the frontline some time this side of Sunday. That is about all I can think of at present. It does not seem possible, after so many disappointments that we are really going. The boys seem to be going crazy; by tomorrow there will be no holding them. There is to be a parade of every man in the battery then and the news will come to us officially.

My, it’s so long since I have seen you and so long since I promised to write you and again so long since talking with you that it is hard to find much to write about. Writing is at its heart but a very poor apology for speech and when I think that it will be but a short time till I can tell you all the news.

Your Bucky.

You sniffled yet again, wiping your nose on your handkerchief. You picked up the next letter.

July 7th 1943

My darling (y/n).

We’re at the frontlines by now. I wish I could muster writing you more letters, but it always seems like there is never the time. I promise you, I will write to you soon.

I love you so much, my dear.

Your Bucky.

You sighed before putting it back into the envelope. You found the small package of letters, setting it on the table in front of you. You undid the string holding the letters together, removing the dog tags bound along with them. You looked through them, grasping the two last ones. You looked at your handwriting on the front of the last envelope, then turning it over slowly. It had been opened. He died knowing. You felt the tears well up in your eyes, putting the envelope down.

For the first time, you looked at Bucky’s last letter. You felt the acid burning your throat as you took in the dried red splatters on the folded piece of paper, and you slammed it down on the table before running to the kitchenette and emptying the contents of your stomach into your trash bin. You felt your cheeks wet with tears again, crying silently while hunched over in an uncomfortable position.

You rose and washed your hands, dreading the walk back to the table where you knew the blood-splattered letter was resting. You wiped the tears off your cheeks before softly padding over the floor, picking the letter up and unfolding it. Another sob tore through you, just seeing his handwriting.

August 16th 1943

My dearest, sweetest (y/n)

My dearest little treasure. I just could not help crying as I read what you had written and the tears rolled down my cheeks as I thanked God for having given me such a little treasure as you are. Two treasures, now.

Dearest, if I should lose you I dare not think what I should do! I love you so much and want you with all my heart and soul just for myself (and sprout, of course). I could be happy anywhere with you. Now more than ever. The seed inside of you is growing, and you are carrying our love inside of you.

My dearest (y/n), how much you have helped me so far. I used to think that perhaps it was not the right thing for me to “fall in love” when there was so much ahead of me. But as time went on, and I knew you better, those feelings gradually left me. You grew more and more into the woman I had imagined, more and more I watched your faith and admired your goodness for I can find no other word to express it; you had emerged in a simplicity and a purity, which was hard for me to realize.

Why all this? Well it was no temptation to you to have me holding you in my arms; you were innocent, you cured me with a pure and unsullied love. To have me with you was satisfying in itself. I never in my life have as tempted as with you. I think it was because I loved you from the start. I can still feel that there is more in love than many think.

It has taken me some time to pen all this; I could not talk to you in the same way. I would simply stumble over the words and not manage to say anything at all.

Now dearest, I think I will have to leave this for a while. Oh! I do pray that we will both be proud to be united again in health and strength and to work along our journey together. I cannot wait until you are in my arms again, along with our love brought into the world by you.

I love you so much my dear. And sprout as well. So much.

Your Bucky.

You clutched the letter tightly against your chest, crying until your throat couldn’t muster any more sounds. Your eyes itched terribly from the constant wetness, and as you looked up, you realized it was night. You had no recollection of how long you had been seated with the letter, simply crying.

As you laid back in bed that night, you pulled your legs up underneath you as you cradled your bump. You glanced over to the folded up American flag on your dresser, silver dog tags gleaming in the moonlight streaming through the window.

“Daddy loves you, sprout.” you whispered as you stroked the soft skin of your belly. “He loves you so much.” your body gave in to the exhaustion, falling into a sleepless slumber.

February 1944

January had been the slowest of the slowest. Every move you made was a painful waddle, every thought you thought was Bucky. He was everywhere. You sighed as you tried getting comfortable in the nest of pillows you had built, one between your legs and another under your head. The baby had limited it’s movements as January came to an end, and you were starting to get worried. You groaned in pain as you felt another contraction, the discomfort subsiding too slowly for your liking.

“Mom,” you managed to whimper, and she hurried to where you laid, stroking your forehead slowly.

“Shh, honey, it’s alright.” she managed to get your focus on her as your ragged breath strained your throat. “Breathe with me,” she guided your breathing to a steady, regular breathing as she held your hand. “That’s it, baby girl, good job.”

You smiled at her weakly, eyebrows furrowing together in a tight knot. You let out a muffled, pained groan as another contraction washed through you, and you felt the pressure moving downwards.

“Mom, it’s happening. Is the midwife going to be here soon?” you looked at her, eyes full of fear as you gripped her hand tightly. She nodded and wiped your forehead with a damp cloth.

“Relax honey, she’ll make it. There’s nothing to be scared of. I’m right here.” your mother assured you as you heard a faint knock on the door before it opened, revealing your midwife and a doctor. You relaxed against the bed as her presence calmed you down. Oh thank god.

“Mrs. Barnes, how are you feeling? Are the contractions bearable?” she asked as she laid out a few layers of cloth on the bed before helping you move around into her desired position. You barely nodded before she lifted your loose nightgown and checked in between your legs.

“You’re having a baby soon, Mrs. Barnes. I can see the head already!” she smiled as she took your hand, stroking it softly. You smiled at her weakly, the doctor moving in between your legs to help you give birth. “When you feel the urge, you need to push, Mrs. Barnes!” the midwife told you as you tightened your hand around hers and your mothers, pushing as if your life depended on it. You focused on where the silver dog tags swung from. Where you were gripping your mother’s hand. He was there. You felt it.

You suddenly felt empty. A searing cry tore through the small apartment, letting you know you succeeded.

“Congratulations Mrs. Barnes. It’s a boy!”

#Bucky barnes #Bucky Barnes au #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #marvel smut #avengers smut #sebastian stan imagine

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thiswasinevitableid · 5 years ago

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INDRUCK 6 PLS (sfw is prob more appropriate for this prompt but idc)

#6: their mentor just died (of natural causes don’t look at me like that). If I went to the funeral out of costume would they recognize me?

Indrid sees the obituary as he’s reading through the tiny, local paper, eggnog latte in one hand a plate of poptarts before him (his metabolism has been odd ever since he got his super powers).

Leo Tarkesian (1954-2020), passed away in his sleep. Mr. Tarkesian was a beloved figure of the Midtown Kepler community. He was dedicated to keeping the charm and friendliness of the town alive.

“And dedicated to being a pain in my ass.” Indrid grumbles.

A small funeral service will be held at Green Hills Cemetery, followed by a celebration of his life at the house of his long-time friend, Duck Newton.

The date and time follows, but Indrid keeps looking back at that name: Duck Newton. Or, as he’s known to Indrid, the Green Knight, superhero and thorn in his side.

Indrid moved to Kepler because it was a small enough city that he assumed there would be no heroes to get in the way of his villainy. Or, what everyone insists is his villainy: the disasters linked to his name were never his fault.

The thievery, art heists, and blackmailing of a few (corrupt) local politicians he takes full credit for.

Leo, AKA Lionheart, was mostly retired until Indrid appeared, at which point he took on a protege in the form of Duck Newton. Along with their friend Minerva (AKA Blue Thunder) they defended Kepler as “The Chosen Squad.”

In truth, Indrid does not bear Duck as much ill will as he should. And most of it is currently coming from the black eye he’s nursing, the result of his last fight with the hero. The man is noble, even as heroes go, never more aggressive than he needs to be, and (annoyingly) rather charming at times.

Then there’s the fact that Indrids powers of future sight have shown him glimpses of Duck’s daily life (those same powers are why he knows his foes’ secret identities, but they have no idea about his). A mild mannered park ranger, a good friend, a bachelor who talks to his cat in extremely funny voices.

He flips through timelines until he lands on what Duck Newton will likely be doing today. In each one, the hero looks worn, and when he wipes his eyes or his voice goes rough, Indrid turns his minds-eye away. Even obnoxious do-gooders deserve privacy.

Would it be strange for him to visit the funeral and offer his condolences? He’s fairly certain his secret identity would stay that way.

No, it would be ridiculous. Leo was well-liked, and no doubt Duck will have plenty of support. There’s no need for Indrid to put his identity at risk just to say “I’m sorry.”

—————————-

Indrid stands at the back of the clump of black-clad bodies. He found a black suit jacket buried in his closet, but no slacks, so he had to opt for the nicest black jeans he could locate. To be extra safe, he’s removed his trademark red glasses. He dislikes how exposed he feels without them.

The ceremony is indeed brief, Duck giving a short eulogy as the casket lowers into the ground.

Indrid waits, letting others speak with Duck in hushed, sad tones. Looks around the cemetery as he does; it’s peaceful, full of flower beds and stone benches, not overly manicured. It might be a nice place to come draw one of these days.

When next he glances back at the headstone, Duck is nowhere to be seen. He must have left for his house already.

Indrid tries not to be too disappointed, turns back towards his car. He’s nearly there when something black catches his eye through a clump of tangled rosebushes.

Duck Newton, alone on a bench, with the bearing of a man trying and failing to get himself together.

Indrid steps through the archway into the little grassy circle, at the center of which sits a fountain, barely bubbling.

“Tissue?” He produces a small packet of them from his pocket. A villain must be prepared for everything, after all.

“Oh, uh, thanks, uh.” Duck looks at him just long enough for Indrid to start worrying. Then he reaches for a tissue and wipes his eyes.

“You, uh, a friend of Leo’s?”

“Not really. But I went to his store regularly, and he was always very kind. It seemed only right to pay my respects.”

(It’s not a lie. Indrid’s loft is on the same block as Tarkesian’s General Store. So what if they were enemies, sometimes you run out of milk).

“That’s, uh, that’s real kind.” Duck keeps his eyes on the ground, and Indrid sits down beside him.

“You are the one hosting the celebration of life, right?”

“Yeah. Guess I oughta head over there, since it’s technically my house. But Minerva already went ahead with the first group of guests, and I trust her and…and well, I needed a moment of not havin to run things.”

“Quite understandable. I will leave you in peace. And I am sorry.”

“You don’t, uh, fuck, I wasn’t tryin to be rude, fuck-”

“It’s alright” Indrid holds up his hand to stop Duck continuing, “You are allowed to grieve as you need to.”

Duck looks at him again, this time more deliberately taking in his features, “Do we know each other? You seem real familiar.”

“I imagine we’ve passed each other on occasion. Kepler is small as cities go. Although I don’t get out often. I embody the reclusive artist stereotype too well at times.”

“You paint?”

“I draw, mostly.” He’s about to stand when Duck leans forward.

“Shit, someone got you good.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Your eye.” Duck taps underneath his own right eye, indicating the bruise.

Cursing himself for his oversight (his glasses normally cover the mark), he blurts out the first explanation that comes to mind, “It was the Mothman, the supervillain, I ran into him in a, uh, dark alley, and there was a fight.”

Duck frowns, “Thought he knew better than to go after random bystanders. Uh, fuck, that is, he honestly don’t strike me as the mean type. Just self-centered and hurt. Uh, that, fuck, that is ah, from what, fuck I’ve read?”

Indrid ignores the terrible lie, clears his throat, “Well, that’s certainly a kinder view than most people take of him.”

Duck shrugs, “Leo always said hero and villain shit was never as cut and dry as people wanna believe. He had the right idea. I think the Mothman might come around some day.”

“Perhaps.” Indrid murmurs, wondering if is inappropriate to ask ones nemesis if they could draw them; Duck’s face is even more striking without his mask.

“I ought to be going. My condolences again.”

“Thank you.” Duck stands with him, walks out the archway by his side before they each turn towards separate parts of the parking lot, “Uh, maybe I’ll see you around some time?”

Indrid can’t stop his grin, “Most definitely.”

#indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #prompt fills #superhero au

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caulfieldpaintings · 4 months ago

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#house painters Ashwood #painters Noble Park

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seat-safety-switch · 5 years ago

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Road salt: it’s bad. Everyone says so. It corrodes our most vital infrastructure: 1982 Oldsmobile Omegas, temporary-install ferris wheels, and pinball tables. Somebody has to do something about it, I shriek to an unmoved city council, some of whom are audibly sighing into a live microphone and checking their watches to figure out how far away lunch is.

It turns out that even though I’m a noble and strong supporter of the strength of the individual, Big Government still believes I should just buy a new car every time my existing one turns into a pile of ugly red ash. I’ve tried to do this, really I have, but the dealership never lets me see the “real cars.” All they have on the parking lot are these weird ones with the current year on them, clean seatbelts, really poofy seats, and perfect paint, which I assume are some kind of advertising prop to confuse me before the bait-and-switch of an actual car for these can’t-be-real perfect cars. They don’t even have a “Scratch & Dent” aisle like the Ikea!

While I was at the dealership, though, I had this brilliant idea. They have this sort of scam deal going for “undercoat,” where they spray your car with some toxic bullshit made of ground-up sheep. This undercoat, they say, will protect your car from the corrosion promoter that is sprayed onto the roads by the city’s Betrayer Trucks. I didn’t need to hear more. With my extreme patience borne out of driving sub-100hp cars, I was able to wait in the customer service lounge for a few hours until I finally noticed the lot boy’s attention slipping. Then - with cat-like reflexes - I pounced on the jug of undercoat, and slipped it into the back of my idling Protege.

Now, with the entire car coated in rich, sticky tar undercoat, the salt has no paint to destroy or metal to eat. Now if only they made undercoat for windshields.

#oldsmobile #oldsmobile omega #mazda #mazda protege

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wroughtbetwixtfanfic · 5 years ago

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A Place To Call Home, Ch 8.

Fandom: Rosewell, New Mexico.

Summary: A canon divergent take on Roswell, New Mexico, and the relationships between Isobel, Noah, and Rosa; later parts will shift the focus to Michael and Alex, as well as Michael and Noah. What is it like to share a body with another alien? Can broken trust be mended? Do the ends really justify the means?

Rating: M.

Tags: Canon divergence, minor character death, not really character death, body sharing, polyamory, hurt/comfort, addiction problems, sickfic, revenge, fix it, friends to enemies to lovers, lovers to enemies to lovers, Noah is complicated, cw: dubious age stuff for a little bit considering Nasedo/Noah is who-the-hell-knows how old.

Word Count: 2833

Dawn broke, painting the Roswell sky lilac, magenta, and gold.

The road that led to Carlsbad was desolate. It had been easy enough to lure a driver to him, persuading them to take him to Midway RV Park. It was along his chosen escape route, lingering just far enough away from Roswell that Nasedo felt comfortable hiding there until sunrise. He kept to the scant scattering of trees, curled up against the trunk of one farthest from the RVs; sleep evaded him, but he closed his eyes and rested as much as he was able. He would have to move swiftly once it was time, and he would need whatever strength he could muster.

As the sun peeked over the horizon, Nasedo felt some measure of relief. He could feel his powers, still coiled inside his body like a rattlesnake ready to strike. It was irritating to know that it would take hours to accomplish what he, a skilled fighter, had once been able to do in minutes. Still. His powers hadn't left him. They merely required patience, and practice, to return in full. He wouldn't need more than a couple hours at most, regardless. Not if he was careful.

An old man in the RV park was shuffling past, walking towards a rusted-up truck. Nasedo waited until the man was a couple paces ahead before moving out from the trees and slinging an arm around the man's shoulder in a gesture of familiarity. "Keep walking," Nasedo said, his voice calm. "Where are you heading?"

The man's eyes glazed over. "Hagerman."

"Hagerman is a lovely place. You'll give me a ride there, won't you?"

"Alright."

Nasedo glanced around as the neared the truck. There wasn't anyone else around, but anyone could show up out of the blue. He took the opportunity to enact the first part of his plan. The lamp post near the truck had just flickered off for the day; he could still hear the hum of electricity running through it. He pressed his hand to the cool metal as the man opened the truck door, sending a surge of power through the lines. Nasedo took some of the energy into himself, sending the rest blasting outward with a crack. The power in the park sputtered and died, with lights in the distance dying soon after. The metal of the post had warped, with a lightning strike pattern branching outwards.

Time to go. Nasedo climbed into the truck, and the man drove out to Main Street without a word. He leaned back against the seat, taking a slow, deep breath. Using his powers in such a way was taxing, but it was vital to leave a noticeable trail. Manes, he recalled faintly, had been friends at one point with Valenti. The bastard would notice the signs. If Manes saw a trail leading away from Roswell, and the heirs were still in Roswell, hopefully it would pull suspicion away from them long enough for Nasedo to strengthen himself and return to the heirs more prepared.

He looked at himself in the mirror of the car. He didn't look much older than Max. Had he really been so young when he went into stasis? He couldn't remember anymore. Soldiers went straight from school and into service, and their species had such long lifespans, they didn't age the same way as humans. At least he recognized himself otherwise. Darker brown skin, brown eyes, black hair. He knew that, unfortunately, he would have to be careful. A little less than half the state was white, but that 'little less than half' was very loud and wasn't exactly known for progressiveness. He'd have to split his energy between leaving breadcrumbs for Manes and whatever parasites he had on his side, wiping memories, and turning people's attention from him. It would be a difficult day, but the end goal was simple. Leave a trail down to Carlsbad, take a bus from there to Albuquerque, and disappear into the swarm of humans that called it home.

Large fields, empty except for the occasional horse, gave way to farmhouses, a baptist church, and a gas station. Hagerman was small. Quaint, Isobel would have said with a little nosewrinkle, and not in a flattering sense. Nasedo would have to move on to a bigger city to avoid suspicion, but he wouldn't force the old man to go farther than intended. It wasn't worth the effort, if he could find another ride.

"Where are you heading, friend?" Nasedo asked.

The man barely blinked. "Rio Felix apartments."

"I see. Why don't you let me off at the church, and then you can be on your way."

"Alright."

The old man stopped, and Nasedo got out. He circled around to the driver's window, patting the old man on the shoulder. "Thanks. Do me a favor and forget you ever saw me."

"Huh?"

Nasedo walked off before the man could come to his senses. The truck sat there for a moment, idling, but kept going. The switch to the next vehicle happened fast. There was a car near the edge of the church, covered in Christian stickers with some lanky white man getting inside. A minute later and they were on their way to Lake Arthur. A young goth-looking sort outside Lake Arthur's city park got him to Aretesia. A larger city meant more potential witnesses, but it also meant more people distracted with their own thoughts, emotions, and lives. It also meant that, when Nasedo tapped into the energy grid at the WalMart and blew the power in the entire city, it was sure to make the news.

By the time he got to Carlsbad, delivered by a semi-truck driver who smelled like cigarette smoke and tequila, the sun was beating down and the air was thick with the summer heat. Nasedo stole one of several pairs of sunglasses from the truck, hopping out and taking in the scenery. Carlsbad was smaller than Roswell, but not claustrophobic like the others had been. He didn't feel like eyes were on him as much, which made swiping the wallet of some polo-shirt wearing douchebag easier. Fifty bucks. Enough for some food, and a one-way ticket to Albuquerque.

The Motel 6 was seedy, but the staff members were overworked by tourist season, and seemed too tired to care about much of anything. Convincing the older woman at the desk to give him a room for the night-- free of charge-- barely required any of his powers at all. Nasedo sighed as he flopped on the bed in the motel room, curling up and drifting off to sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. By the time he woke up again, the sun was setting. The clock on the nightstand read that it was seven o' clock at night. It was tempting to go back to sleep, but his stomach was roiling from a lack of food; he would have to go out and find something.

A lack of phone or computer meant having to do things old school. He flipped through the yellow pages, finding a store within walking distance. It wasn't anything fancy, but it didn't need to be. He was able to buy more water, a couple frozen dinners, and enough packaged foods to make it to Albuquerque. The woman at the check-out stand gave him a warm smile, and he forced a smile back, but he felt his insides twist. The only ones who had ever looked at him like that were Isobel and Rosa. He didn't want anyone else to, certainly not some strange human who would ship him off to a lab the moment they knew the truth.

Nasedo stood in the motel room when he got back, the silence suddenly and painfully obvious. He was alone. Before he'd met Isobel, the emptiness had been maddening-- but now that he'd known her and the other heirs, now that he'd known Rosa and tasted what it was like to have someone love him and care for him, life felt hopeless. Even if he managed to bring Rosa back to life, it could take years for Max to get strong enough, and he knew in his core that Rosa would never forgive him. None of them would, would they? Isobel would never trust him again. It was useless. And yet, Nasedo knew he wasn't owed that. Rosa deserved to live, regardless of how she'd feel about him.

He sat in the middle of the bed, crossing his legs and closing his eyes. He wished that his king and queen had survived, or that he could see his parents one last time. If only he could ask for their wisdom. The only advice he had were the last words his father ever said to him, just before the attack the fell their kingdom. Don't let poison fill where love should be. His father had disappeared moments later, marching into battle alongside Nasedo's mother while Nasedo was sent away with the rest of the royal guard.

They had been warriors to their last breath, stalwart and honorable. He had aspired to be like them to the end of his days, as well, but the crash had changed everything. Anger and hatred had festered where love had been. Isobel and Rosa had been the guiding stars in his life keeping that tainted ichor from consuming him. They were lost to him, now, and the only choice he could see going forward was to use that poison inside him to save Rosa and keep the heirs safe-- even if he had to do so from afar. He could pretend, at least, that there was something noble in that.

But even if it was the most-right choice, he was no longer what he had been. He'd broken so many oaths already. Without an elder to direct him, and knowing that punishment would be handed down on him if there were any elders left, Nasedo embraced his newfound purpose. Nasedo slid off the bed and held his old clothes in his hands, focusing. They dissolved into ash in his palms, and he dumped the particles into the wastebasket. There had been stories of warriors that had become something darker-- through necessity, but they were never spoken of, and treated as outcasts among their people. They were the ones that dispatched enemies in their sleep, using night as their disguise, or slipped toxins into their drinks. War was a bloody, terrible thing.

And what were most humans to him, except enemies in a war that had begun in 1947?

It made his next task easier to think of it that way.

He packed up everything he planned to take with him, shoving it into a backpack that he'd purchased at the store. Human food tasted strange on his tongue, intense and foreign in a way it hadn't when he shared Isobel's body, and the shower's heat and pressure was almost painful on his skin. At least sleep remained the same, providing a few more hours of relief before he set out. It wasn't hard to find some loud, irate, and drunken bigot who was looking for a fight. It felt like nothing, this time, taking the ranting fool's life. Nasedo dumped the body in the bushes; by the time anyone found it, the handprint would be visible. With any luck, it'd draw anyone who was looking away from Roswell.

The ten hour bus ride to Albuquerque followed. The air inside the bus was too warm, stagnant, and smelled like sweat. Thankfully, no one opted to sit next to him; he leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes, enjoying the rush of strength that moved through him. Taking a human life did restore some of his strength, after all. He knew he should have felt some sort of shame, but the creature had been a vicious, violent thing. Remorse was a waste of time and energy on someone who wouldn't have felt remorse for doing the same. And if it eased the ache in his core, if it healed some of the damage done to him by time thanks to hiding from murderous humans, then why not revel in it-- just a little?

Besides. With any luck, it was the last life he would have to take. As soon as he got to Albuquerque, he would convince a few tourists to generously donate their wealth, and find shelter. What else did most humans need, besides a safe place to sleep? A phone or computer, to access information and communicate. Access to transportation. Food, clothes, hygiene supplies. The hardest thing to acquire would be his human identity.

Nasedo knew a little of what he had to do. After all, Isobel, Max, and Michael hadn't come with proper papers, either. Isobel and Max's parents didn't say much about it, but their father was a lawyer himself, and had shared the story of how the three had been found nameless, mute, and naked in the desert. They hadn't had any records, of course. No parents found, no proof of any of their births. He had mentioned in passing how some families chose not to have social security numbers for their children, often due to religious reasons. It was assumed that that's what had happened to Isobel and her brothers. Kids like that could still get one later in life.

All it would take was a good story, and a little persuasion.

A four hour transfer in El Paso, Texas, gave Nasedo time to grab a cheap burger from the closest fast food restaurant. It was so unlike the ones at the Crashdown-- thick, juicy beasts piled high with crisp pickles, onions, and sweet rounds of tomato-- but it quieted the snarling in his stomach. It also gave him a chance to mull around town and pick a few pockets, gathering up a small bundle of cash; he bought new clothes at a funky boutique, changing before he got back to the bus station.

It was strange to walk among so many humans after all that had happened within the last two days. He expected that, at any moment, someone would notice that he wasn't human. Or, perhaps, someone would have recognized him somehow from Carlsbad. After all, he couldn't wipe the memories of everyone possibly within eyesight. Which was why Nasedo got nervous when, as they made a brief stop in Las Cruces to pick up other passengers, an older woman stared hard at him before taking the seat at his side. Her eyes were hazel and deeply wrinkled around the ends; she had long salt and pepper hair, pulled back into a braid, and skin just a bit darker than his own. Perhaps how his mother would have looked, had she lived to become an elder.

"I'm sorry for staring," she said, with a thick accent that he couldn't place. "You look so much like my grandnephew. He lives so far away now."

Nasedo didn't know what to say, so he pretended he was talking to an elder from back home. It felt less bizarre. "I'm sorry he's far away. Do you see him at all?"

"Not often. I'm going to see him this week. He lives in Sante Fe with his parents. It's very beautiful there."

"I've never been."

"Maybe someday." She leaned a bit closer. "Are you traveling towards someone, or away from them?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you have a look. I have two children, nine grandchildren. I know the look."

For a moment, Nasedo didn't respond. "Away from someone," he finally answered. His throat squeezed shut, and it was hard to speak. "I, uh. I messed up, and I'm trying to make it right."

The old woman reached out and rested her hand on his. "Have faith. You'll find your way back to them, someday."

"How do you know?"

"When you get to be my age, you know."

They spent the next eight hours alternating between silence, dozing, and Nasedo smiling appreciatively as the old woman showed him pictures she had of her 'favorite children'-- nine cats that were being watched by her eldest daughter, and her daughter's wife. Both were doctors, the old woman said with a proud look. When the bus pulled up to the station in Albuquerque, Nasedo had learned more about knitting and indoor gardening than he'd ever anticipated.

"Thank you for the company," Nasedo said to her as they got off the bus. The time had gone by faster than expected, and he almost felt sad at parting ways. "Have fun seeing your grandnephew."

The woman gave him a hug, and he didn't resist. "Bless you. Good luck."

He watched after her as she shuffled to the parking lot, and to a car that was waiting. A couple helped her in; to his surprise, the old woman looked back and waved through the window. Nasedo waved back, unable to help smiling.

Maybe, just maybe, some humans weren't so bad.

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