#Sometimes as certain characters he can just look so weary and worn (in the most attractive way possible)

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

Welcome to day 72 of wanting to trace my fingers over every line on David Tennant’s forehead

[gallickingun]

shoutodoki x todoroki shouto || gallickingun matchups

@shoutodoki​ : Hi moe!! This one will be my emoji if it’s not taken yet! 🌙 I love matchups so I hope you don’t mind me sending one in too but I would prefer a male character from Bnha 🥺👉🏼👈🏼 I love writing and drawing and I’m currently a nursing assistant, hopefully a soon to be nurse! I love helping people and brightening their days. It’s just my passion to be there for others. I dress in casual clothes, t shirt and leggings lol but I usually do like full glam makeup because why not be extra? First date would be maybe at a cafe or somewhere chill! I’m a quiet introvert so I prefer people who don’t mind relaxing and needing a break from social events! Hopefully that’s enough lol I’m not too picky haha. Love you bb take your time and also congrats on the milestone, you totally deserve it xx 🌙

Val, thank you so much my love 🧡 I hope you love what I’ve prepped for you! 

―  I think Shouto needs someone who is patient, kind, and reassuring without being overwhelmed. He’s got a lot of emotional baggage, and he sometimes needs to feel like he can unwind and decompress around a significant other who won’t judge him, but will lift him up and be there for him.  ―  Shouto is definitely an introvert, and he needs someone who will allow him to be that way, while also maybe pushing him outside his bounds sometimes. So, I think you guys would have fun together at events, but also be able to understand when the other is getting tired or weary of being extroverted. ―  To some extent, Shouto also enjoys being there for other people. He and Midoriya are close because he can pay attention to his emotions and help him when he needs to, as well as stand up for his friend whenever he feels like he’s being taken advantage of. Together, you two would make a wonderful pair who are there for your friends but also know when enough is enough. 

❁ Shouto would absolutely adore being an introvert with you - he would always take you to every hero gala and celebration, but all it would take is one quick look to you, even from across the room, and you’d know that he’s begging you to go home. He loves the way you can read his mind, how you’re so quickly in tune with his emotions and his social meter, and his with yours! He’d know that you were tired, exhausted from forced conversation, and he’d skillfully cross the floor and press his palm to your lower back, leaning down into your ear so those around you cannot hear, “Let’s go, love. I can’t wait to get you home.”  ❁ The two of you would go on lovely dates, always something new. Shouto takes you to places that are more secluded, so you don’t have to worry about others recognizing him as a famous Pro Hero and so the two of you can enjoy some alone time together. He’d take you on a picnic to the beach, a bike ride through the countryside, maybe even a hiking trip! Anything he can do to surprise and dote on you, all while making sure that you’re out of the public eye as best as possible. ❁ Todoroki loves to see you in his hero merch. Whether it’s rejected designs, stock items that haven’t hit the store yet, or exclusive merch that’s only supposed to go around to certain stores. He adores bringing it home to you for you to wear around the house, out on errands, and he especially enjoys seeing you pictured in hero magazines with you wearing his shirt designs. You’re so adorable with your big t-shirts and leggings, he loves to slip his hands underneath the hem of the shirt and run his fingertips over your back and shoulders. It’s so exciting to see you being proud of him, because he’s always yearned for that support and seeing you loving on him even in these smallest of ways makes his heart race. ❁ Your selfless, kind nature is something that Todoroki wants to emulate. He loves seeing you help others, and will often stop by the hospital just to bring you flowers or lunch, because it’s all he can do to give back to you like you give back to others. He is there to be your backbone, though, if he ever feels like you’re being taken advantage of or walked over by your friends or co-workers or even family members. He gets heated when he sees your patient soul abused by those who should be careful with you, and he’s not afraid to call someone out on this, or encourage you to stand up for yourself.  ❁ Your patience and openness allows Todoroki to truly explore and heal his tattered heart, and you’re always there to pick him back up when he falls into an emotional hole. He has moments where he is second-guessing himself and his personality - how much of himself is truly his father, his mother, and what is him? Is Todoroki Shouto a confident, snarky, intelligent, and successful man because it’s what he’s done, or because of his father? There are moments where he needs your reassurance that he’s doing something right, that he’s fighting that darkest part of himself every day. And when he feels your kiss on his cheek and your words settle on his ears, he knows that he’s doing at least one thing right.

“Shouto,” you giggle as he noses your cheek, fingers creeping over your hip bone in a tantalizing tickling motion, “you’re going to get in trouble if you skip again.”

He blows a pensive breath against your neck, squeezing your ribs and tugging you closer, “You know that I hate those things, darling, why would I go out of my way to attend them? You don’t like them either. Even better reason not to go.”

A chuckle escapes your lips and you run your fingers through his hair, tugging gently on the heterochromatic strands, intermingling red and white through your knuckles. You kiss the top of his head and slip your thigh between his legs, beckoning him closer so you can look him in the eyes, “A top ten pro hero is expected to attend all of these things, Sho’. We can’t skip all of them forever.”

“I’d rather be here, with you,” he kisses your jaw and then leans over you, loitering like a protective shadow, “eating that soba that we ordered thirty minutes ago- should I call and check?”

Your fingers slip to his shoulders, toying with the silken strands at the nape of his neck, “Hm, actually, I can think of a way to pass the time.”

Shouto’s mouth envelopes yours in a bruising kiss at the notion, hands toying with the hem of your shirt, an old tee design from his earlier sidekick days. It’s tattered and worn, but it holds memories of your time together, which makes the most sentimental side of Todoroki Shouto rise to the surface. He’s reminded of your walks through town, your simple coffee dates as you got to know one another, and then, as his fingers slip down your arm to your hand, he rolls his thumb around the diamond that’s cut into the golden band that’s taken residence on your fourth finger for a few years now, and he knows that the memories you’ve made will all pale in comparison to the memories you are destined to make in the wonderful future that the two of you have planned.

Pulling away with a gasp, your face is flushed and your lips are already swollen, and Shouto can’t help the grin that tugs on his lips. You swear you see a shine in his eyes, but you’re distracted when his attention turns to the door, a rapping knock resounding against the door.

“You sure we can’t make him wait just a few more minutes?”

“Shouto.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Matchups Original Post | Ko-Fi | Patreon | Commissions | AO3 | Writing Tag

[intomyshadow]

Meet Noyo

Word count: 1800 (5 to 15 minutes) | Rating: T | Story: Into My Shadow

Note: Swearing, body transformation mentioned,  post-apocalyptic setting, fantasy races (common and original), magic

Read Dira’s character introduction

Year 1: Shrouded Era

Next to Garres, this farming town was small. Central buildings were stone or brick, but most homes were logs or timber beaten down by rain. It was a matter of resources, and Noyo knew that before crossing the fence bordering the town with smoke and nightmares not far behind. One pressing in closer than the other. Chaos filled in the size difference, spreading through the group of survivors from the capital like an illness. They’d felt the danger had passed as they made beds and chairs out of anything that would work in this makeshift medical space. It was alright to panic now, at least in their minds. That was never true.

Still, some people cried while others called for people they couldn’t find and may never again. Noyo guessed it was some kind of closure to know there was no reason to look for the people they’d lost.

“Hey,” a tanned man interrupted their thoughts. Stout and built under a layer of padding from age rather than a lack of activity, they guessed he was the kind who built places like the hall they were in. He was certainly old enough to be their father despite their starkly different lifespans. His dark, fine hair was cut close, excluding his long stubble, and his deep-set eyes seemed weary despite their sharpness. From Noyo’s place on the bench against the wall, he looked taller than he truly was. “Fekhi’s ready to see you.”

Standing, they were at eye level with him. He led the way to a hall on his left and presumably toward Fekhi, their impromptu mayor. Leaders manifested in a crisis, often without even trying. Who knew what Fekhi was before? Now she was overseeing a town and more people than they likely ever had as guests. So far, she was managing. The lanterns dotting the halls showed the place was well-kept, if worn, and the occasional vase or landscape painting added some life to it. Before people fled to their village, it would be quaint. But they acted fast and on good advice. That was a promising sign that Noyo stood a chance of being listened to.

“I’m Enis,” he started, polite but clearly leading towards something. He turned a corner and held close to the wall while two mages passed in a hurry. Probably more survivors. The town was sizable to some, that was true. But they were running low on space as it was, and crowding would lead to desperation.

“Noyo,” they offered all the same. There was only one thing he could want from them, and it would be painful to mention no matter how they went about it. Given the choice, Noyo preferred the faster route. “You know someone in the capital?”

He looked away, focused on the path ahead with shoulders squared. “My son. Haven’t seen him among the survivors.”

“I’m sorry.” What else was there to say? If he wanted answers, he would ask for them and give a description. Approaching a plain oak door with a carved flower mounted in the center, he did exactly none of that.

“So am I.” With two knuckles, he rapped on the office door and nodded for Noyo to enter. “Head on in.”

Turning the doorknob and stepping inside, Noyo was instantly crowded out by crates, bags, and stacks of supplies piled wherever they would fit. A tower of bins leaned ominously against the wall beyond the open door and they had toe a tied-off bag aside on the way to the burdened desk where Fekhi stood staunch. Making a casual, sweeping gesture past piles of parchment and a half-filled tankard, the dwarven woman in charge extended her invitation.

“Take a seat if you can find one.”

A rich auburn braid threaded with grey hairs hung over her shoulder, and she offered a tired smile with her hospitality.

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.” Having a long drink to polish off the tankard, she sighed and stared out a window Noyo couldn’t fully see through past a different stack of crates. Not that there was much to see but watching the horizon get swallowed up in the spreading shroud, hour by hour. Days away from this place, which was not much of a comfort.

“Damn it all. Just about every soul that fled Garres is half out of their wits,” she said, as if that much wasn’t clear already, “So it all comes down to you.” Setting down the tankard with a hearty clank, Fekhi got to the point. “What happened?”

“I’m not certain on the details,” Noyo admitted. Honesty would get them further than fabrication, and they needed her trust. Sometimes, that meant delivering bad news. “I came across a Union member before that smoke reached us, and he gave me the equipment your people took from me.”

“And you’ll get your mask back when our Union is done figuring it out.”

A flat stare and slight tilt of their head said all Noyo had to. Anything that was taken in secret while they were treated by healers wasn’t likely to come back, and they both knew better.

“You’re with the Mages’ Union, I take it?”

Strange, to ask a question so pointless. Even if Noyo hadn’t been, any mage outside the Union would never be so reckless as to confess to it. “I am.”

“Then trust them if you can’t trust me.” In that short sentence, it was clear why her people did trust her. Willingness to meet Noyo in the middle, or what she thought was the middle, was an impressive gesture considering Noyo wasn’t one of her own. They raised their eyebrows in response, and Fekhi only shrugged. “You know that was the only thing protecting you from whatever’s out there. We need to find out how it works to make more.”

“You’ve got barriers,” Noyo observed, not prepared to yield regardless. This conversation would uncover where Fekhi’s limits were for patience. A promising start meant nothing for the future. “It’s only those, but smaller.”

“That’s not the point.” Exasperation bled into her voice with a breathy hiss, and Noyo expected that small shake of her head would be the end of it. “Listen,” Fekhi began, working her way around the desk to plant herself in front of Noyo with only some difficulty. “I promise you’ll get it back. First, here and now, you need to tell me what’s out there.”

Tilting her head back to make eye contact took away some of the effect, but Fekhi deserved credit for crossing her arms and continuing anyway. And Noyo did find themselves believing in her integrity. Taking a seat on a crate after all, they nodded.

Quirking a brighter smile, she nodded back to Noyo. Some of her bangs fell loose from the braid, a fact that went ignored. “Good.”

“The smoke is changing people. Some faster than others.” That was putting it lightly. Some people preferred that to the gruesome reality, although they’d all find out soon enough what Noyo meant. Still, they had to begin somewhere.

“Changing them how?”

“Their skin looks badly bruised at first. They get scared, and it gets worse. Then they get violent.” Another understatement. It would do. “Some get sick too, and their body changes. Claws, horns, fangs…” Tapering off, Noyo took a moment to close their eyes and gather their thoughts. The danger hadn’t passed yet. Now was not the time to get lost in unimportant details. Fekhi waited in silence while they took a slow, steadying breath and opened their eyes again. “It’s not consistent. It’s like magic, but nothing I’ve found in my studies.

”Muttering some harsh dwarven phrase, Fekhi flicked the braid over her shoulder and set her hands on her hips. “Will the fences hold?”

“No.” It was only the truth of the matter, and part of the whole reason Noyo asked to speak to Fekhi to start with. “But the foundation is there for something that will.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said through a chuckle and wagging her finger like Noyo was an errant child. As a fraction of Fekhi’s age, Noyo supposed they were little more than that to the mayor. “You’re barely an adult by elven standards; you leave this to us.”

“Building it up will take days. You’ll need help.”

Brushing that off with her whole hand this time, Fekhi got more insistent rather than less. “We’ve got the barrier—”

“To keep smoke out, not those who transformed.” The implication weighed heavy between the two of them, between the violence and the distortions made for tearing, biting, and piercing. Even as a mage, Noyo knew there was a limit to what magic alone could achieve.

“I know that.”

“Then you know there’s no time to argue,” they offered in agreement. Fekhi had centuries of knowledge and an effortless command, and Noyo was one of few survivors with a clear mind thanks to that mask. Together, they could turn Brook Mills into a haven and an example for other settlements to follow.

Fekhi rubbed her chin and weighed the options she had, which were not many with no guarantees among them. Clicking her tongue, she made her decision. “Tell me your plans, and we’ll bring it to the Union, see how it works with the barriers.”

Noyo frowned, casting yellow eyes to the worn floor. The Union shouldn’t be trusted just yet. Why did they have barriers ready to activate before the smog even appeared in Brook Mills? How did they have that so soon, but claimed not to know about the protective masks from the capital? Too many questions, and never enough answers. Anywhere it went, the Mages’ Union never looked kindly upon people asking questions.

“What is it?”

Looking to her again, Noyo studied Fekhi for a moment. And again, she was patient. Noyo’s options outside of the mayor didn’t amount to much either. In a way, that made them the best choice for each other to achieve what they wanted. “We should meet with them now.” Fekhi barked a laugh, clapping a hand against her chest. “You’ve got initiative, I’ll give you that.” Snatching up her tankard and a stack of papers, the mayor marched back to the hall ahead of Noyo. “You got a name, miss? Sir?”

“Noyo,” they introduced themselves, quietly glad Fekhi asked at the end once the business side of their discussion was handled. They didn’t have much reason for happiness after the people they lost in Garres, so it was nice to have what little they could. “I don’t go by miss. Or sir. Just Noyo.”

Dark elven culture allowed for a spectrum of genders, but not everyone had the same concepts in their upbringing. Yet Fekhi just shrugged and took a left out of the room, walking deeper into the building. “Noyo it is.”

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[redeyedryu]

Cross Dimensional Problems

Chapter 2 - Hmmm... | [Ao3]  | 1 | x |  » |

Hey look! Another chapter! And it hasn't even been a day! Amazing, I know. Who knows when the next one'll come though.

Summary:  What if I told you that your whole existence is nothing more than a creation meant to entertain people?

What if I told you that you're not even the original, that you're just some recolored imitation?

So. This is apparently a thing that's happening. And you’re pretty sure it really is because those slaps to the face didn't exactly feel pleasant. Neither did the pinches. Your company is probably questioning your state of mind after that display and honestly? That's fair because you're currently doing the same thing.

The proverbial “they” say you can't feel pain in a dream but what if your brain is just really good at playing pretend? It'd make more sense than this—sitting on a thread bare, obnoxious green sofa that doesn't make you think of a very certain event in a very certain game. The skeletons kind of drive that point hard enough, you don't need more reminders, thank you.

Someone clears their …throat? Whatever, the sound is made and it draws your attention, your eyes drifting to one skeleton in particular out of the three—the Classic™ one.

“heya,” he says and oh boy, that is a really deep voice. Very nice, very rumbly. You could listen to it for hours, you think. “what’re uh… what’re ya doin’ down here, bud?”

You purse your lips and squint your eyes, fingers pinching and pulling and scratching at the suede fabric of the couch you are sat on. It’s wedged off to the side of the safety hazard that is the sparking boiler-thing, just near enough for you to have dazedly stumbled over to.

“Hallucinating, I think,” you eventually reply as you continue to fidget. The fingers of one hand slip and you accidentally stab the side of your thigh with a particularly sharp nail. You don't so much as react to the stabbing pain. “Or maybe I'm actually having some kind of mental break?”

You watch (see: blatantly ogle) as the skeleton’s expression shifts, his sockets pinching as his brow furrows, as that perpetual grin of his dips at the corners. He pulls his shoulders in a shrug, that iconic blue hoodie of his bunching and creasing with the motion.

You never did get around to ordering one of those. Too bad, it looks really comfy.

“gonna be honest, kid,” that deep, soothing bass breaks through the wandering of your mind. “wasn't expecting to see a human down here.”

“Didn’t really expect to be down here,” you shoot back. You let loose a heavy sigh, pushing air through your nose as you slouch and violently throw yourself back against the couch. Your arms flail as you rant, “There’re bags of popato chisps and Grillby’s takeout bags and talking skeletons and couches from video games and nothing is making any sense! ” An arm lays across your face, shielding your eyes, as the opposite lays bent above your head.

There’s an awkward stretch of silence, though you're pretty sure you hear the ruffling of fabric, the sktch of someone’s shoes coasting along the filthy floor. And then,

“uh… what?”

Your arms shoot up, fingers splayed, and you glare at the ceiling as you shout,” Video games, Sans! Video games!!” You pull yourself back into a proper seated position and meet the eyes (eye sockets??) of the vanilla bean. Oh. Huh. He’s doing that pitch black eye socket thing. Looks like the edgy bastard behind him is doing it too. Maybe the tall one is as well. You can't tell with Papyrus types--sometimes they have eyelights, sometimes they don't. Oh well.

“What?” Your brows furrow and you purse your lips as you tell them to, “Stop doing that eye-thing at me.”

They don't listen, of course. Just continue to creepily, silently stare at you.

“Stop it!” you demand, and in an effort to get them to cease and desist, bring your hands together in a rather forceful clap. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at the way they jolt at the noise.

Sans clears his non-existent throat again, then he shuffles in place, before finally, “how’d ya know my name, kid?”

You quirk a brow.

“What? You're telling me most people wouldn't recognize the brother of monsterkind’s mascot?” Hey, look at that, he really does sweat blue magic. Neat. “Aren't there only like two skeletons in all of existence? Your alternate copies don't count.”

Op. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say ‘cause the voided eye sockets are back again.

“Hey, no! You stop that!” You snap your fingers several times in quick succession and thankfully, it seems to work.

”I mean… Y’all are on the surface, right? This is a post-pacifist ending timeline, right? It usually is in these kind of scenarios.”

And before the sweating Sans so much as squeaks, you hear a rumbling growl, see a blur of reds and black, and then you’re being pinned to the sofa. Underfell Sans is literally right up in your grill, his snarling, sharp-toothed face mere inches from yours.

“th’ fuck kinda shit’re you spoutin’, ya sack a’ shit?”

Oh. This is awkward. Not to mention uncomfortable. He’s practically kabedon’d you, arms on either side of your head, a sneakered foot precariously positioned between your legs.

Kinky.

His voice is pretty nice, too; a deep bass like his vanilla counterpart, though there’s an edge to it that the blue-clad skeleton’s clearly lacks. You think you could listen to this guy's voice for hours too.

You sink into the couch a bit, entirely unimpressed, and shift your weight to the side, bringing up a hand to push against his arm, and slide to the side, out from under him. Your nonchalance seems to catch him off guard as he just stares, befuddled, as you casually extricate yourself, resettling against the arm of the couch.

“C’mon,” you start, gaze shifting from Underfell, to Undertale, to Underswap, “you're smarter than that. You can pick up on the context clues, can't you?”

“the machine…” Your gaze shifts back to the tall, lanky skeleton still standing towards the back as he speaks. His voice is definitely somewhere in the tenor range, though it’s a bit raspy. It's nice, but nowhere near as smooth, broadcasting quality as Sans's is. “you're from an alternate timeline.”

He sounds so convinced, so sure of his deduction. You? Not so much.

“Mmm… something like that? I guess?”

The edgy skeleton beside you shifts, lowers his arms from the couch and instead just… lets himself flop into the cushions. The action causes you to jostle slightly.

“whadda ya mean, ‘summin’ like that’?” he all but growls, scowling at you.

“I mean what I mean. It's something like that but not quite? Because uh…” You drag your eyes from one skeleton to the next and then back again before shifting your gaze to the left and right. Man, this place is an absolute pigsty. “Because hmmm….”

Sans, the Classic™ one, chooses that moment to re-engage with the conversation. He lets loose a world weary sigh and plops onto the other end of the couch, sandwiching his Underfell variant between the two of you.

“‘hmmm’?” he prompts.

“Yes, hmmm,” you respond, face scrunching up in thought. Well, the cat’s pretty much out of the bag (not that it was ever really in one to begin with) so. What’ve you got to lose?

“It's a game,” you begin and you don't miss the way they all seem to snap to attention. “Undertale, by the way. That's what it's called. Came out a few years ago. Actually just had its what… fourth anniversary the other week?”

Underswap Papyrus, likely envious of everyone else sitting but him, comes over to the couch and props himself against the opposite arm. “so… what. we’re just a buncha video game characters to you?” He appears to be frowning as he fishes a honey sucker from his hoodie pouch pocket and wedges the treat between his teeth.

“Mmmmmmm… no. Not exactly. Sans—the original one—” and you point to the blue-clad skeleton, “is technically the only video game character. Which by the way, congratulations on making it into Smash, even if it’s just as a costume.”

Sans’s expression twists in confusion, a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his skull as he responds, voice slightly higher pitched, “…thanks?” He has no idea what you’re talking about.

“You’re welcome. But as I was saying, Sans is the original, the main branch, as I’m sure you’re all familiar with that particular analogy. You,” and you point to the Papyrus, who quirks a brow, “and you,” you point to the scowling, sharp-toothed Sans whose scowl only tightens in response, “are from AUs—Alternate Universes created by fans curious about different takes on canon. Underswap and Underfell, respectively.”

It occurs to you, then, that maybe you should go at this a little lighter, maybe don’t be so blunt about everything… but. Well… you don’t really know how else to lay this down. You’ll apologize about any existential crises you induce later, you guess—asking for forgiveness over permission and all that. Besides, it’s not like you asked for this situation to unfold, either; it’s not like you know what the hell is going on. You’re pretty much in the same boat as these jokers.

The skeleton seated beside you growls (he likes to do that a lot, doesn’t he?) and twists to face you, the little lights in his eye sockets burning red hot.

“s’what? we’re s’posed t’believe yer a human from sum kinna reality where we ain’t even real? jus’ summin made up fer yer own sick entertainment?”

You recoil at the sheer animosity in his voice, back sinking into the worn padding of the couch’s arm. It’s a miracle you don’t just tumble over the side of the thing, honestly, with how far you pull away.

“Uh… I mean. No? You’re free to believe whatever you want but it’s not like I just decided to break into some random dingy basement in my lounge clothes for shits and giggles.”

He just stares at you, his scowl tightening, his sockets creasing and his face just absolutely scrunching in anger before he’s just. Gone. Poof! Shortcutted right the fuck outta here.

Well.

That was a thing that happened.

You can empathize with the guy to a certain degree but well. You don’t exactly want to spend too much energy thinking about things. Not right now. Like a lot of things in your life, you’ll deal with it later.

Brushing that exchange aside, you find yourself releasing a lot of pent up tension you hadn’t realized you were holding onto (in your shoulders, your neck, back, even your jaw ) and address the two remaining skeletons still sat with you. Sans doesn’t appear to be sweating anymore, though he does look like he’s thinking something over. Underswap Papyrus is much the same, though he’s taken to fiddling with the stick of his honey sucker.

“So hey,” you start, effectively drawing their attention, “got any popato chisps?”

You want to know if they taste any different from regular potato chips.

[bottled-bliss]

We could belong in this world

Inspired by this beautiful edit by @headedstraightforthekastle and my twisted need to put characters through all sorts of crap. Part 1/2

When Frank returns home, he glances at Karen’s jacket hanging on the back of the one chair he owns. She had worn it to work on an autumn day, thinking she might need it, but had found out the weather was warmer than she’d expected, so she’d ended up carrying it around for nothing. She had tossed it on the chair as soon as she came in and slowly removed the rest of her clothes before pouncing on him like a tiger. Frank had smiled against her lips, put both his hands on the small of her back and held her to him for some time, as she told him about her day at work; how certain she was that she’d found out who was the leader of the drug syndicate she was investigating. She’d been tired, but happy and proud of herself and Frank had shared her pride. In the morning, he had reminded her to grab her jacket but she’d refused, saying the day seemed too warm for it and that she would get it tomorrow. Or later, later was always an option. But she never came back. And it has been sitting there ever since, collecting dust, like a shrine to decay.

Sometimes, when his whole body doesn’t start convulsing at the mere thought, or when Murdock and Nelson haven’t beat him to it, he goes to her grave. He never brings flowers because he never bought her flowers when she was alive –one of the many things for which he curses himself- and there are plenty of those strewn across her headstone at any given time anyway; sunflowers and roses and daisies. They wilt and wither and then, they are replaced. That’s what he can’t stand, the replacement. But he has to admit he would have chosen daisies for her too. He likes to think it’s Nelson that provides them. He knew her better than Murdock ever did, he would have known she preferred the subtler things, the demure whiteness of a dog-daisy over the dark red roses Frank keeps finding there.

He realizes he hasn’t cried once. All those months and not a single tear. Not because he doesn’t want to; it almost feels as if he has been cursed with constantly being on the verge of tears, but not being able to actually cry. Some losses might be too great to experience like a normal human being would. He handles it well enough, all things considered. Life goes on, as Karen used to say. There should be an after. What comes after Karen Page? He’d go chase it, if he could find it- if it existed at all.

He doesn’t dream about her often either. Every once in a while, sure, as a reminder that even when he isn’t actively thinking of her, she’s on his mind. He has seen how fast memories can fade and he has to wonder if the lack of dreams means he’s letting go of her. But he never meant to do that. It hasn’t even been that long. There are times when the smell of her perfume lingers in the bedroom, like she’s only just left for work, like he’s going to hear the door shutting behind her, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the corridor. As long as she’s not forgotten, she’s not really gone. He can’t forget her. He won’t.

One night, after his repeated attempts at picking fights have borne fruit, bloody and bruised he stumbles to Curtis’s apartment, dispassionately dismissing his friend’s solid advice to quit being a self-destructive moron, as he gets patched up. “Jesus Christ, Frank,” Curtis exclaims. “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

Frank knows he’s slowly slipping out of consciousness when he sees Karen, standing over him, her eyes full of worry. “Hey, sweetheart,” he mumbles, wishing that there was a way for her to know how much he’s missed her. “There you are. Come to get me?” he asks and as the apparition starts weeping, Curtis gives him a puzzled look. “It’s Karen, she’s…”

“Karen is dead, Frank,” he says, an expression of pained consternation on his face.

“I know,” Frank replies with an exhausted tone. The shadow of his lost love moves forward, reaching a hand out to him, but disappears before he has the chance to lift his own hand to try and touch her. The moment she vanishes from sight, weariness overtakes him and all the lights in the world dim out. In his sleep, he feels cool fingers delicately brushing his forehead, but it’s only a dream. Couldn’t be anything else.

He assures Curtis he’s going to go home and get some rest the next day, even though he doesn’t really want to. Honestly, he’d rather go someplace where he could have the living daylights punched out of him, see if he can discover something, anything that hurts more than this absence, this hole Karen left behind; a broken nose and a few loose teeth aren’t nearly enough, but he doesn’t know what would do the trick anyway. He decides to stop at Karen’s favorite coffee shop, sit down and have a cup of coffee and some breakfast maybe, delay his return to the empty, desolate apartment. The waitress brings him his order and promptly walks away, leaving him alone, the way it’s supposed to be. People go about their lives and he watches them through the window, thinking back to a time when he’d hoped to be one of them, to be dull and ordinary and in love. For a split second, he thinks he sees Karen’s reflection on the glass surface and turns his head quickly, almost certain she is going to be sitting in the chair across from his. There’s nobody there, of course. Coming here was a stupid idea to begin with. He leaves some money on the table and scurries off. He won’t be coming back anytime soon.

As expected, his apartment isn’t the least bit warm or cozy. It’s not even an apartment at all; it’s more of a cavern really, but it’s also the only place which holds the most memories of Karen these days. A wiser man would have moved out. He has considered it, but that would require moving her goddamn jacket from the chair, putting it away, for good maybe and turning his back to everything they had tried to build together. Frank lies in bed and stares at the ceiling until his vision blurs, while darkness falls in the city and gathers around his heart. He squeezes his eyes shut and when he opens them again, two hours have flown by, as the clock informs him.

But something feels different, something’s wrong. The hair on the back of his neck stands up and he grabs his gun immediately. He doesn’t know who is coming for him but somebody’s coming. His instincts are screaming at him as he carefully makes his way to the living room. Apart from the noises outside, everything is quiet. There are no red dots dancing across his chest, nobody lurking behind furniture. There is absolutely nothing worrying. He thinks about lowering his gun, when he sees a shadow under the door. It’s moving anxiously from side to side, not at all like a trained killer would move, no precision or skill involved. It takes him a couple of seconds to walk over and look through the peep hole. There’s no one outside. He unlocks the door and opens it to find the corridor completely empty. Just his imagination giving him something to fight then, he thinks as he goes back to bed. It makes sense.

Everything stops making sense shortly after that incident.

He finds Karen’s favorite book on the table when he comes back from work three days in a row and all three times, he wonders how it go there and whether he didn’t actually pick it up and put it back in its place, like he clearly remembers doing. It’s open on a different page each time too. Once upon a time, she had asked him to read it but he’d never gotten around to it. He might, eventually. Since the book doesn’t fly out of the shelf a fourth time, he puts it out of his mind.

It’s almost a week later that Frank steps into the bedroom, thinking he’ll have another quiet night of wallowing in misery, when the darkness in the room stirs, a shadow setting upon him. He barely has time to reach for his gun before Daredevil pins him to the wall. “Where is she?” he hisses as Frank pushes him back.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Murdock is the last person he wanted to see tonight, or any night for that matter.

“Do you know how my abilities work, Frank?” Matt is breathing heavily. He must be angry about something, except Frank hasn’t done anything that could have pissed him off lately. “You might have guessed but in case you haven’t, let me explain. It’s not just my sense of hearing that’s sensitive, you see. I can hear the couple on the first floor whispering about not being able to make rent this month while their kids are playing in their room, but I can also smell the detergent they use for their laundry. It’s Molly’s Suds, by the way. One of the kids probably has allergies.”

“Christ, I thought I was finally free of your rants,” Frank rubs his eyes. “Why are you telling me about it?”

“I’ve been following you for days. I was just making sure you’re staying out of trouble at first, not going back to your old habits.” He gives a short, unamused laugh. “But then my motivation changed, because I caught a smell on you, around you.”

“I don’t give a shit about your motivations,” Frank tells him. “You’d better stop following me, Red. I’m keeping my head down, you have no reason to stalk me.”

“If the only thing I can do for Karen now is look out for you, then I’ll do it and pray that she forgives me for my failures.” He seems like he’s about to cry and Frank feels sorry for him for a split second. Murdock inhales sharply. His head snaps to the side, like he’s just heard something confusing and then he turns back to Frank with a whimper. “You don’t know how guilty I feel about what happened to Karen,” he says. “You will never understand--”

“I’ll never understand how guilty you feel?” Frank growls. “You got some nerve, altar boy.”

“I can smell her all over you, Frank. Out there, in here, wherever you go, no matter how much you reek of booze or blood. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she’s been in this room recently.”

If things were different, if Frank were the same man he was a few years ago, he would have punched Matt’s teeth out. As it is, he can do nothing but stand there, hands to his sides, guts twisting and twisting. What he wouldn’t give to have Karen back in this room, laughing, sticking her cold feet on his legs to steal some warmth, eating cookies in bed while she worked on her lap top; he wouldn’t even complain about the crumbs now, he’d let her do anything she wanted. All this is making his head spin. A faint, silver light dances in his peripheral vision, dragging a wave of nausea with it.

“Everything fades after a while,” Matt continues. “Colors, memories. Smells are usually the first to go. So why is it still here, Frank? After all this time?”

“You’re imagining things,” Frank tells him with a strangled voice. “Karen’s gone. There’s nothing left.” Of her, of them, of him. They stand in silence as the burden of the moment weighs them both down. Frank has always known love makes you vulnerable, that’s why he’d tried so hard to avoid it. But while being vulnerable with Karen was perfectly fine, he’ll die before granting Murdock that privilege. “If I catch you in here again, I will shoot you.”

Matt chuckles dryly. “No, you won’t.”

After Murdock leaves him the hell alone, Frank plops down on the floor, elbows on his knees, his chin on his fists. Everything fades. He wonders how much longer it will take him to fade.      

That night, there’s a jumble of voices speaking to him all at once in his sleep, asking something or asking for something, but it’s really difficult to understand what each one wants with all the noise they’re making. They sound like a furious wind, raging around him as he tries to keep to his feet. Maria’s voice rises above the rest, giving him something familiar to cling to. “You chose to stay,” she says and he responds yes, yes and I would do it again. “You didn’t make the choice only for yourself. You formed ties that can’t be broken,” she tells him, but he doesn’t understand and the other voices grow louder and he can’t think and he screams just so he can make sure he still has his own voice, that it hasn’t been stolen and forced to join the racket. A whisper suddenly floats over the ear-splitting clamor, silencing it with surprising ease as it addresses him. “It’s just a dream. It can’t hurt you.” Frank feels a cold palm pressing against his cheek. “It’s okay, I got you,” it says and lulls him into restful sleep.

He’s walking to work when he sees Karen again. She’s a little bit ahead of him, head bowed, a waterfall of blond hair hiding her face but Frank knows, he knows it’s her. Not a reflection on a window, not a fever dream. His pace accelerates along with his pulse as he tries to catch up to her, but she’s gone in the blink of an eye. He looks around, trying to figure out which way she went, how to find her, while his mind insists he was mistaken. But she was there a moment ago, she was there, she was…

The next time he notices her among the crowd, he has to remind himself to be more critical. The eye sees what it wants to see, so it’s very possible that the tall blonde across the street is just some woman, a stranger whose hair caught the sunlight just right, blinding him long enough to create the perfect illusion. He feels like he’s going to explode while he waits for the light to turn green, it’s taking too long, too goddamn long. “Karen!” he shouts and a couple of people jump at the coarse sound of his voice. The woman slowly raises her head. Their eyes meet for a moment before a random guy passes in front of her and then, she vanishes into thin air. Frank forgets how to breathe for a while; he starts gasping and thinks he might actually cry this time. He’s growing desperate and desperate people do crazy things. Maybe that’s why he decides to call Nelson.

“Nice place,” Foggy sneers when he arrives at the shoddiest bar in town, where Frank has asked to meet him. “At least tell me their food is great.”

Frank almost laughs. “Their food is great,” he says, grateful for Nelson’s friendly presence. “Thanks for coming.”

“What was I going to do, abandon you in your time of need? Oh, don’t give me that look,” he exclaims when Frank raises his eyebrows. “You might seem all cool and aloof now, but you sounded miserable on the phone. It’s, uh… It’s been a while since I heard you use that tone.” He rubs his forehead. “So, what’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Karen.”

Foggy looks happily surprised and nods. “Sure, that’s healthy. You should talk about it, about her. Get things off your chest. ”

“No, not just talk about her in general.” He tries to ignore the lump in his throat. “I was wondering, because she always got herself into some serious shit, you know, do you think that maybe…” he sighs. “Could she have faked her own death?”

“What?” Foggy scrunches up his face and stares at him in disbelief. “Are you seriously asking me that? You, of all people? You were there, Frank.”

He was. He was meeting her after work, he was going to take her out to dinner and ask her… something that didn’t matter anymore. She had turned the corner and smiled to him and he’d rushed to greet her with a kiss. They had been blissfully unaware of the world around them, so they failed to pay attention to the approaching car with the tinted windows; the first shot had surprised her just as much as it had surprised him. Frank had immediately wrapped his body around hers like a shield and received two of the many flying bullets in the back, as the car sped off. No license plates, he’d noted before turning to Karen who was pressing a shaking hand to her throat. He’d asked her if she was okay, hoping for a positive answer, despite knowing very well that the wetness making his shirt stick to his torso wasn’t sweat. “No, no, no…” Frank had stammered, trying to find the wound and apply pressure to it. “Hold on, baby, hold on. I got you,” he’d said but had fallen with her when she crumpled down onto the sidewalk. The gurgling sound of blood spilling from her open mouth as she lay dying in his arms seemed like the punchline to the cruelest cosmic joke.

Frank hangs his head.

“I identified her body at the morgue,” Foggy’s voice comes out in an angry whisper. “I made the arrangements for her funeral. Do you think it was just for show?”

“I think you’d do anything to protect her,” Frank mutters and he must sound so broken that Foggy’s expression changes. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Karen wouldn’t do that,” he says. “She might do that to Matt, easily, and me, with a pang of regret, I hope. But she would never do that to you, Frank. You would be the first person she’d tell. You don’t really need me to tell you that, do you? If Karen had to disappear, she would have chosen to disappear with you.”

“Foggy,” Frank sighs and his eyes move nervously around the bar. “I keep seeing her everywhere.  At the apartment, in the street, everywhere. Even saw her at the park this morning. I know I’m grasping at straws here, okay? But there’s gotta to be an explanation for this.”

“There is an explanation, a very simple one,” Foggy tells him. “You’re grieving, Frank. Of course you’re going to see her everywhere. I do too, sometimes.”

“It’s not that,” he grumbles. “She looks real, like I could reach out and touch her.”

“And have you? Reached out and touched her?”

“No, she…” Frank realizes how crazy it all sounds. “She always disappears before I can do anything.”

“Like a dream,” Foggy insists. “Like a memory.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. Reluctantly, but he agrees. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Let her rest, Frank,” Foggy’s voice cracks. “And let yourself rest too. Don’t go back to the way things were before.”

“You think I’m gonna kill him.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t even tried. So relieved,” he places a palm over his heart and exhales slowly, “but surprised.”

“Yeah, I thought about it.” Frank shakes his head. Karen had gathered all the necessary information to take that scumbag down. All that was needed was someone to write the piece in her absence. It was a shame, a damn shame that she didn’t get to do it herself, but Ellison made sure to give her all the credit after Frank delivered her flash drive to him, notes and all. Was there sweeter revenge than beating someone from the grave they put you in? This was her victory, all hers. He could never steal it from her. “Decided against it.”

“A wise decision,” Foggy says, smiling kindly. “Karen would back me up on this.”

Of course she would. Frank can’t help but laugh.

He takes the long way back, the very long way back, the one that goes through the cemetery. This is something he’s become very familiar with, sitting among graves at night, having conversations with dead people in his head. He’d prefer it if Karen hadn’t joined their ranks, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. If he hadn’t been so careless, if he hadn’t made space in his life for the happiness she brought and kept looking over his shoulder, maybe she’d still be here. “Are you mad at me or something, is that it?” he says out loud, leaning against her grave. The cold breeze that blows by makes his cheeks burn even hotter. “I’m at the end of my rope, Karen, but I’m doing my best. So cut me some slack, okay?” It would be ridiculous to think that she could hear or answer him, but he still waits for a reply that never comes.

When Frank returns home, he glances at Karen’s jacket hanging on the back of the one chair he owns. He feels a howl building up inside his chest, his whole body aching with the effort it takes to suppress it. “Why won’t you give it away?” a voice whispers behind him. Even though it sounds distant and weak somehow, the words are clear. “There are a lot of people in need of clothes out there. It’s not like I’m going to wear it again anyway.” And then, a sigh.

If that voice belongs to a memory, why is it talking about things that are happening in the present? He turns around slowly, reminding himself of the facts; loss does funny things to people, loneliness makes it worse, Karen bled out on the concrete outside his apartment, Karen is dead and buried. She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead. But she’s standing right there, leaning against the door frame, frowning at the dust-covered jacket before looking up at him. “I really wish there was something I could do to help you,” she says. The sound is still muffled, like something’s covering her mouth, but he can see her lips moving; shadows don’t speak. He flicks on the light switch and blinks at the sudden burst of brightness, but Karen seems unaffected by it, as she watches him curiously. “This is new,” she mumbles.

“This is crazy,” he responds and decides to take a long pause so that he can properly question his sanity.

AO3 

Part 2

[ericdeggans]

Scarlett Johansson Controversy Reveals How Terrible We Still Are at Thinking Through Issues of Racism and Representation

It was so bad, even the hosts of The View had to weigh in.

The topic: Star actress Scarlett Johansson’s steadfast belief that she should be able to play any character she chooses as an artist without enduring a backlash rooted in “political correctness.”

But worse than revealing Johansson’s mistake of standing fiercely in a bubble of privilege, her comments in a recent interview also show how, every few days, a controversy erupts that shows how little most people understand about how to think through issues of racism and representation in America.

And it’s crippling our ability to talk about it.

Johansson’s quote, dropped during an interview as part of an As/If magazine cover shoot, sounds relatively innocuous. “You know, as an actor I should be allowed to play any person, or any tree, or any animal because that is my job and the requirements of my job…There are a lot of social lines being drawn now, and a lot of political correctness is being reflected in art.”

Those lines take on a more ominous tone, when you recall that Johansson has taken a fair amount of criticism for a couple of choices; playing the lead character in the live-action film of Japanese anime franchise Ghost in the Shell and initially agreeing to portray a transgender character in the film Rub and Tug (before public reaction pushed her to relinquish the part).

She took a lot of criticism online, including from me. I tweeted: “One definition of white privilege is being able to pretend the advantages you have -- in this case, an industry full of executives who will let you play any characters you want in a way they don't for actors of color -- are just an exercise in fairness.” That post drew 2,800 retweets reaching over 263,000 users.

Still, Johansson’s position is an easy one to embrace. Isn’t equality in Hollywood reached when anyone can play any character, regardless of identity?

Unfortunately, no. And the answer to that conundrum lies in the peculiar dynamics of representation in movies and TV shows.

(At left: Johansson as Mira Killian; at right: Major Motoko Kusanagi.) 

Let’s use Ghost in the Shell as an example. It’s a film based on a Japanese manga comic that is steeped in Asian culture -- from its costumes to the look of the futuristic city where it takes place to the names of many characters. Johansson plays Mira Killian, a person whose human brain was placed inside a cybernetic body; at the movie’s end – Spoiler alert! -- it is revealed that Killian was actually a woman named Motoko Kusanagi.

Okay, anybody who’s actually seen Ghost in the Shell knows I’ve left out a lot of plot details; I don’t think they’re that important for this discussion. What is notable, however, is that by casting white actors like Johansson, Michael Carmen Pitt and Pilou Asbaek in major roles, Ghost in the Shell becomes a film centered on Asian style and culture where Asian actors are pushed to the sidelines.

Something similar happened with Marvel’s movie about a superhero sorcerer, Dr. Strange. The character who serves as Strange’s mentor, The Ancient One, is Asian in the comic books. But he was also a horrific collision of Asian stereotypes. To avoid that problem, Tilda Swinton was cast as The Ancient One and given a new backstory as a bald, Celtic woman.

So Strange trains with The Ancient One in a city in Nepal, inside a building that looks like a pagoda, wearing clothes which seem strongly inspired by what samurai might have worn. But only one major character is Asian. Once again, a movie has usurped the historic style, look and mysticism of Asian culture but placed white actors at the heart of the action.

(At left: Tilda Swinton as The Ancient One; at right: The Ancient One in comic books.)

Contrast these two examples with the latest season of HBO’s True Detective. Creator and showrunner Nic Pizzolatto has admitted he originally intended to cast African American actor Mahershala Ali as the main character’s best friend in the show’s third season. But Ali convinced Pizzolatto to rewrite state police detective Wayne Hays as a black man and give him the part.

Hays also has an African American wife and son, adding more diversity to the cast. His ethnicity also gives the story added dimension, as Hays fights racism and his ineffectual superiors to chase down the perpetrator of an awful crime.

This isn’t always the case. But often, when white actors are cast to play characters of color – or cis gender actors are hired to play transgender people – those actually depicted are marginalized. They are not allowed to tell their own stories, though the exotic flavor of their culture may be used to spice up costumes and locations. Instead, white characters sit at the heart of their stories, just as they do in many other corners of American life.

On the other hand, when non-white and transgender actors are hired for roles which might have been written for white and/or cis gendered characters, the result is often an expansion of diversity. People who were once relegated to the sidelines get to stand in the spotlight. They can also be humanized – like the judge played by transgender actress Alexandra Billings on Amazon’s legal/crime series Goliath, whose storyline has nothing to do with her gender status. Stories of romance (Crazy Rich Asians) or chosen family (FX’s Pose) gain new urgency because of their authentic and culturally specific roots.

This goes beyond an individual performer’s right or ability to play a specific role. It’s about how a single casting choice can change the entire statement a film makes about certain groups of people or their culture. It’s an impact many people don’t recognize right away, because they are used to talking about diversity and equality in more simplistic terms.

(Examples of white actors playing Asian characters, known as “yellowface,” through the years.)

After the social media explosion, Johansson issued a statement published by Variety, in which she said her comments were “edited for click bait” and “widely taken out of context.” She also nodded to the idea that the industry hasn’t been fair in casting non-white or transsexual actors: “I recognize that in reality, there is a wide spread discrepancy amongst my industry that favors Caucasian, cis gendered actors and that not every actor has been given the same opportunities that I have been privileged to.”

She didn’t explain how to eliminate that discrepancy, given her belief – articulated in the same statement -- that “Art, in all forms, should be immune to political correctness.”

I can understand why Johansson may be weary of bearing the brunt of these discussions. After all, there are producers, a casting director, an overall director and studio executives who often sign off on who gets a role. When controversy erupts, their name isn’t in the headline of a tough column.

But I often liken weaning Hollywood of its prejudicial tendencies to training a pet. Sometimes, you have to use negative consequences -- shame, embarrassment, boycotting -- just to get everyone’s attention.

Eliminating Hollywood’s preference for casting white cis gendered actors requires bold challenges. It requires asking: Will this casting change exclude rather than include? Can we embrace racial, cultural and gender complexity rather than avoid it?

It requires looking past simplistic notions of equanimity to see what true equality looks like in the real world.

And it probably requires telling highly-paid, accomplished actors like Johansson some version of that old saying: “When you’re accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.”  

[kumeko]

spider

Prompt: konan-Nagato power swap

Character/Pairing: konan, nagato, zetsu, tobi

A/N: written for the @mixupnojutsuzine. It was interesting writing for Akatsuki, I’ve never really touched them before and it’s been an eternity since I’d even thought of ‘original, idiot’ tobi.

Summary: In another time, in another life, the people might have called Nagato saviour, called Konan angel. In this one, though, he was a spider and Konan was not allowed to exist.

...

...

...

...

“The spider is here,” a child shouted, hopping up and down excitedly.

 Briefly, Nagato glanced to the side, to the bedraggled boy gazing up at him in awe. His worn mother grabbed his hand, hushing him sternly. Turning to Nagato, she bowed apologetically. “Please ignore him, he means no harm.”

 “It’s fine.” His voice croaked from disuse. From his waist, four thin paper limbs jutted out, each ending in a sharp spike. Spider. Perhaps he did look like one. These fake limbs kept him high above the average citizen and now they bent down, lowering him to the woman’s eyesight. Glancing at the boy, he added, “No harm done.”

 “Thank you.” She smiled gratefully at him, pushing her son’s head down so he apologized. Then she quickly hurried him along, the scent of fear still strong on her despite Nagato’s reassurances. Around them, other citizens averted their eyes and perhaps the difference between awe and fear was a thin one.

 After the pair had disappeared, he rose once more, his long limbs slowly guiding him through the crowds. A ship on land, he swayed from side to side as he walked, each paper leg stabbing the ground to get a grip. The crowds parted like water before his wake. From up here, he watched a bird fly to an alcove, a worm in her mouth. Above them, the rain had paused, the clouds still heavy and pregnant, and Pain must have returned from his latest mission.

 Nagato turned to their headquarters, to the main hall that had become something akin to home.

 Home is where this is, Jiraiya had said long ago, poking Nagato in the chest. Yahiko’s and Konan’s smiles flashed through his memory and no, he was wrong. The building was just an abode. Home had died long ago.

 When he reached their headquarters, he lowered himself once more, his spindly legs thickening as paper transferred up to make him shorter. The tips of his feet brushed the ground but he couldn’t feel that anymore, couldn’t feel anything below his paper harness. Entering the dimly lit building, he blinked as his eyes adjusted.

 From the corner, he heard a chuckle. “Now you’re more of a tarantula.”

 Nagato squinted, adjusting to the light. Half-hidden in the shadows, Zetsu leaned against a pillar. Half-hidden if only because with his white half, it was nearly impossible for him to ever be entirely invisible. Standing straight now, he snorted. “A pest either way.”

 If it weren’t for the voice change, it’d be hard to tell which half of him spoke what. Even now, months after they’d first met, it was still unsettling to see this half black, half white man, a morality division come to life. “Your mission is done?” Nagato rasped, ignoring the insult.

 “Who do you think your talking to?” Zetsu’s brow narrowed in irritation, both halves of him united for once.  His arms crossed. “Of course it is!”

 Nagato contemplated if it was worth killing him, Madara be damned. Whatever uses he had, he was almost as much of a nuisance as ‘Tobi’ was. “I’ll inform Pain.”

 “Hurry to your master, puppy,” Zetsu sneered, his black half’s lip curling. His white half waved pleasantly and there was something unnerving about how both halves of his face had different expressions. About how both halves him were doing two entirely different motions, an impossible feat for humanity.

 No, if Nagato were honest, it was unsettling how Madara kept recruiting these unhinged strangers. Each one was stranger than the last and while he knew Pain could keep them under check, he still disliked the situation. There was something wrong about this, about all of this. His paper legs tapped quietly along the stone floor as he headed to Pain’s room, gibberish Morse code echoing off the walls.

 And even that made more sense than what they were doing.

 -x-

 We are stronger together, Yahiko had stated cheerfully, his smile as ethereal as the sun. Just like your papers, Nagato—alone they’re weak but together they’re indestructible.

 And when the sun finally set, when together they were unable to survive, Nagato lay infirm on his bed and stacked a sheet of papers. One by one, he layered them on top of each other, pouring his chakra in like glue. Grief, anger, joy, he pressed his emotions into the very fibres of the material until he was all emptied out.

 Spider, the people called his paper legs, called the emotions he had tried so hard to hide away. Maybe there was a truth to that, to this intricate web he was laying down to change the world. However, he wasn’t sure if he was the one trapping or being trapped.

 -x-

 “Welcome back.” Konan gave him a tired smile, sitting up on her bed. She looked paler than usual, thick black bags under her eyes, and her arm trembled as she waved. Only the blue paper flower in her hair gave her any colour. The big black Akatsuki robes engulfed her entirely, making her look smaller than usual.

 Frailty was on the tip of his tongue. Sitting down on her bed next to her, he clasped her hand, sandwiching it between his. Cold, her skin felt cold, and he wondered once more just what the cost of her powers were. The toll on her body. He could see her veins and perhaps the path they were taking was just as transparent. “Are you okay?”

 On a chair on the other side of the bed, Pain sat motionless, a puppet waiting for its next command. Yahiko had never been so still in his life and with the corpse’s blank expression, it was easy to think of him as ‘Pain’. As anyone but Yahiko. Only this body had such special treatment; on the floor across the room, three more bodies lay on the ground, waiting to spring into action.

  “I’m fine,” Konan replied unconvincingly, her voice stronger than the rest of her. She closed her ringed eyes, the damned circles that were both their saviour and their tragedy. Squeezing his fingers gently, she opened her eyes once more, her focus darting from one body to the next. Each one rose smoothly in turn, standing in attention. She was getting better at this. “It takes more energy than I expected.”

 Her hand shook in his, faint ripples on a pond. As it was, she could barely get out of bed without support, most of her energy expended on moving each of the corpses. A plan they both agreed to but his price was far smaller. Pressing his forehead to their joined hands, he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

 Konan eyed him, a long moment. He remembered another time, another place, her brow furrowed as she glared down their enemies. Yahiko bled out, Nagato’s legs were crushed, and he was never certain if the resulting scream that came was from her or him. Only that everything melted into black fire immediately after, the normally cheerful girl a raging inferno. In the present, she was neither, just calm, still water. A dead lake. “Don’t be.” She patted his deadened legs, her eyes soft. “We both suffered.”

 It wasn’t the same, but he didn’t push the matter. Instead, he pulled out two sheets of paper from his pocket, creating a butterfly. With a small push of chakra, it flapped its wings and flew to her flower, landing on it lightly. “I found a candidate for the next path.”

 “Another one.” She surveyed the room, her expression grim. Her fingers twitched, moving all four puppets at once, before she dropped her hand with a weary sigh. “The room needs to be ready after that one.”

 “Oh.” Nagato watched the butterfly flap its wings slowly, each beat a breath. “It’s time?”

 “I can barely move as is,” she replied wryly, letting the bodies drop once more. Holding out a finger, she watched awestruck as the butterfly lighted on it. Light pink wings fluttered as it balanced on her skin. Her eyes softened. “This is beautiful.”

 “I saw it on my way back.” He was already pulling out more sheets of paper, constructing flowers from the orchard he’d visited. Each petal was a bright colour, a blood orange or a neon yellow or soft lavender, colours that Konan could not find in this room anymore. Finally, he made a small bird, a delicate creature with a head the size of a thumb. When his chakra breathed life into it, the bird cocked his head and flew around the room. “I thought you’d like it.”

 “Amazing.”  Konan gathered the flowers, her bony fingers pressing the blooms together. The bird twittered, gliding through the air until it landed on Pain’s head. She used to call his hair a bird’s nest and this merited a ghost of a smile. “You’ve gotten better at this.”

 Nagato gestured at the paper legs, his only method of movement. “I have to.”

 “That true.” She relaxed her posture, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her body is broken glass, all jagged edges, and he wasn’t sure how long it’d be before she was just skin and bones. For a moment they sat there, watching the bird fly about. When she spoke next, he could barely hear her, her voice low and serious. “Did Madara say anything else?”

 “Phase one is almost complete,” he answered, resting his chin her hair. Like everything else about her, it felt paper thin. Nagato frowned. “I have no idea how he can act like Tobi sometimes.”

 “Me neither.” There was a long pause and he waited for her next words. Everything was deliberate with her, slow. With nothing else to do, she spent a lot of time thinking. “I don’t trust him. He’s up to something.”

 No disagreements there. Though Nagato was not sure of just how much of what Madara had said was true, if that man even was actually Madara. “He probably is. But we can use him.”

 She pulled away, her ringed eyes boring into his. Her voice was soft, a warning. “Be careful not to be used yourself.”

 “I will.” He squeezed her hand, her bones as fragile as a bird’s. “I’ll protect you at least.”

 Konan’s brow furrowed. “Don’t worry about me.” At once the puppets were alert and Yahiko’s—no, Pain’s—body was standing protectively beside her. “I can protect myself.”

 If he were honest, he knew that all along. Her eyes which could change the world, which could save the world, they could do easily protect her. It was a small vice, a holdover thought from when they were younger and Konan refused to use her powers, terrified of the strength she had.

 (I wish I had yours, she had confessed once, in the cover of night. They were all huddled together, hiding form the rain. I wish I could control it, I wish I was normal, I wish I had yours.)

 Instead, he got up, gesturing at the Pain’s body. “Our meeting is soon.”

 “Be careful,” Konan repeated, her words coming out of Pain’s body as it rose. It was unsettling how silently he moved in death, how blank and empty his expressions were. There was none of Yahiko’s charisma, his cheer, his rage. There was nothing, an empty vessel that only served to mirror their plans.

 Pain headed to the door, holding it open for Nagato. Before they could exit, Konan called out to them, “Maybe you should try to smile more.”

 That stopped him dead in his tracks. Perplexed, he turned back to her. “What?”

 “The spider thing.” Konan clarified, the barest hints of a smile on her face. Just how she found out about he, he wasn’t sure. “They might say that less if you smile more.”

 Konan didn’t smile much either, but he didn’t point that out. Nor did he mention that was something he used to worry about, back when they were younger and he kept his hair long to hide his face. Young Nagato worried about how others thought of him.

 Older Nagato did not care about such things. Older Nagato knew that there were more important things out there. Still, humouring her, he nodded. “I’ll consider it.”

 It had been ages since he’d last smiled. He wasn’t sure if he remembered how to.

 -x-

 Tobi was waiting in the corridor, the only one of the Akatsuki members who ever ventured this far in. The only one they’d allow to venture this far in. There was a cheerful wave, and Nagato knew he was in his Tobi persona and not his Madara one.

 “It’s time for the meeting? Tobi almost forgot!” Tobi chirped, a creature of whimsy and inherent silliness. It made him even more dangerous, if possible, and Nagato gave him a wide berth as they passed.

 Konan’s fear was not unfounded, he knew. They might not be able to tame this monster, to subdue it and destroy it. But there were no other options, no other ways. He had already failed Yahiko once, he would not do it again. If this was the only way to peace, he would take it.

 “Don’t be late,” Pain replied, brushing past Tobi.

 “Of course!” Tobi’s voice shifted suddenly, deeper and more imposing. “And I will meet you soon for the next step.”

 Nagato repressed a shiver. Truly, it was a monster he was dealing with.

 -x-

 Nagato was an adult now. It was strange to think that, to realize that which each passing day he was turning an age Yahiko would never reach. Soon he would be older than his parents were, heading into a territory that was vastly new and unexplored.

 Only Jiraiya had reached these ages before and he was not here anymore.

 With his long spindly legs, he traversed the city once more. Konan had stopped the rain briefly, a rainbow arcing above him. A sight she would never see with her bare eyes but his papers could not replicate it nor the other beauties of the world.

 Below him, a child stared up, her mouth agape. “A spider,” she murmured.

 Smile, Konan had said. He lowered himself to the ground next to her, before her father could yank her away. His fingers already forming a paper flower. “For you.”

 The child stared at it before hesitantly grabbing it, her pudgy fingers crushing the petals. “For me?”

 “Yes.” Nagato did not smile. He had forgotten how to do so long ago.

 But the child, the child smiled, as broad at the rainbow above them. Maybe this time he could protect that smile. Maybe this time, becoming an adult, getting older, did not have to mean losing things.

 It was a small hope, but it was all he had left.

[capell0]

The Reason Why

A Tales of Zestiria fanfiction

Summary: Another day spent on their lively journey with their friends, Mikleo comes to realize that something is off, different. Trying to figure it out would be the next logical step, but are things really that simple? (SoreyMikleo)

Genre: Romance, Humour

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: I do not own Tales of Zestiria or any of its characters. Tales of Zestiria belongs to Bandai Namco. All I own is the story as you see it written below.

A/N: Please shoot me... Regarding spoilers, anyone who´s been to Pendrago once should be safe enough to read this. Really, I don´t think there´s anything in here that could serve as a spoiler. I hope you enjoy reading! 

The Reason Why

They had been travelling across the Pearloats Pasture for the better part of the day and the sun was slowly crawling towards the horizon, but whichever way they turned, the scenery hadn´t changed much. The group had passed countless wheat fields, walked up hills and treaded over fields of green grass, fighting hellions on occasion. But, although the Pasture was vast, it offered little shelter from the night winds or rain, so their quest of finding a place to camp any time soon got more and more difficult the further the day progressed. With no other choice, they would have to continue their marsh until they found somewhere proper to rest for the night.

Wandering for another hour, the blue of the day sky gradually turning deeper shades, Sorey and the others came across a pair of merchants transporting their goods on a wagon. Or at least that was what they tried to accomplish, had they not gotten stuck in a slope on the side of the road. Taking a closer look at it, Sorey and Rose offered to give them a hand and with some added effort, they were able to lift it back onto track. Gratefull for the help, the merchants asked them where they were headed and after Sorey explained their predicament, the merchants told them about a small traveler´s inn that was supposed to be a little ways ahead and offered to take them there on their wagon. At the prospect of getting to rest their weary feet and bones, they happily accepted.

And so it happened that Sorey and Rose found themselves sitting in between cargo bags and crates of boxes, enjoying the slow but restfull ride. “I´m sorry it´s so cramed back there but we received a pretty large order the other day. I hope there´s enough space for you two to sit somewhat comfortable”, Maggy called to them after they had finished introducing themselves. She sat in the front next to her partner, Leif, who was charged with maneuvring the horses.

“Oh please, don´t worry! This is plenty”, Rose chirped, more than satisfied to finally not be walking anymore. “Thank you for letting us hitch a ride in the first place.”

Laughing, Maggy waved a hand at the younger girl. “Don´t mention it. If it weren´t for you two we´d probably still be stuck in that slope!” In a much gruffer voice but playfull all the same, she added: “Thanks to a certain someone here.”

At that Leif turned to her with a grumpy expression. “Hey! Is it my fault the road´s in such bad shape? I´m not in charge of Rolance´s maintenance work I´ll have you know!”

Giggling in return at their antics, Rose leaned back against the bag behind her and stretched her arms leisurly as she let the two fellow merchants alone with their bickering. She yawned heartedly. “Guess Rolance´s lack of street work was right in our favour this time.”

“And just at the right time, too!”, Sorey nodded backing into the box behind him. “...Though I feel kinda bad for admitting that”, he added in a smaller voice.

“Ever the gentle Shepherd”, Rose sighed flatly.

“That´s the naive Shepherd for you, alright”, Edna stated inside Sorey´s head, which earned her a high pitched shriek and an angry retard from the red haired Squire.

“Uuuh, I told you not to do that anymore!”

“I think it would spare you a lot of trouble if you just got used to it”, Mikleo offered, appearing next to Sorey while he said so as to not scare her even more. Following his example, Lailah´s form materialized beside her a moment later.

“That would certainly be most opportune”, she agreed, but the small, forced looking grin on her face said it was something far easier said than done. Mikleo didn´t doubt that for a second.

“Can it!”, Rose yelled angrily. “What´s wrong with being scared of bodyless voices in your head?! Also it´s getting way too crowded in here”, she said and crouched back to make some space for the two seraphim to sit, anyways.

For someone who´s always so straight forward she sure is contradicting her words a lot, Mikleo thought with a smile, thinking it wiser not to mention that.

“You sure are contradicting sometimes”, Sorey commented a heartbeat later. Well, there went that theory.

Just as expected, it didn´t make Rose happy. “Like you´re one to talk”, she fumed. Continuing their arguement for a while longer, it soon died down as the conversation started being filled with more yawning than actual words. “I think this whole voices-in-my-head business got me more worn out than walking and fighting hellions all day...”

“For that you were arguing pretty energetically”, Sorey teased, before a yawn escaped him as well.

Rose crossed her arms in front of her chest and flopped back. “I was making a point, there´s nothing to argue about!”

Lailah laughed. “And quiiiite a point”, she said, imitating the red head´s manner of yawning half-way through.

Rose couldn´t help but break into a grin. “Whatever, this is it for me. I´m taking a nap until we get to that inn.” And with that, she closed her eyes and dozed off.

Sorey laughed warily at that. “That sure was fast...”

“Well, it does remind me of someone”, Mikleo commented not bothering to hide his grin.

“Looked in a mirror recently?”, Sorey countered, rasining an eyebrow.

“Checked that logic of yours recently?”

“Like–“

But before either of them could continue, Edna´s voice echoed in Sorey´s head, sounding profoundly annoyed. “If you two are the next to start an argument I will send the ground beneath us rumbling and trembling until it´s cured you both of your stupidity. Rest. Sleep. NOW.”

And without further ado, both of them were quiet.

“Edna-san...” Grinning sympathatically at the two boys, Lailah couldn´t help but laugh weakly. She cleared her throat. “I don´t quite agree with the wording”, she said, “but it is a good idea. Why don´t we all rest up while we have the chance?”

“...Guess sleep does sound like a good plan.” Obviously deciding not to argue and risk being at the mercy of Edna´s wrath, the brown haired youth sat back silently, resting his back against one of the larger wooden boxes. Either that, or he was just genuinly tired from the way he less leaned but slumped against the crate. Mikleo almost laughed at that.

“What about you, Mikleo-san?”, Lailah asked as she noticed he was still outside. It wasn´t necesarrily that he had to return into Sorey´s body to rest but he and the other seraphim had made a habit of it since it was the way that put the least burden on him. At night they´d all stay outside to sleep, anyways, although seeing as space was something of an issue at the moment, the latter was probably not very ideal.

“I think I´ll stay outside just a little bit longer”, he aswered regardless. A little longer wouldn´t make the difference. When he saw the critique in her eyes, very possibly fearing the two boys would start another argument after all, he motioned for her to look to his side. Following his gaze, Lailah looked relieved as she found Sorey with his eyes closed and fast asleep.

When her mind was put at ease at last, she gave a long yawn herself. Not having to worry about being toppled out of the wagon during one´s sleep took the edge off, after all. “Alright. If something comes up, do not hesitate to wake us”, she said, lowering the sleeve she used to cover her yawn with. Lailah´s form desintegrated into a small ball of light, floating back into Sorey´s body.

And with that, he was left alone.

Relaxing against the boxes behind them, he looked outside the wagon and watched the scenery go by. It had been some time since they´d passed through anywhere this peacfully, not to mention that since they usually had to walk everywhere, merely sitting here and getting to observe the shining green grass sway in the winds and still progress onwards, Mikleo thought it was a moment he should enjoy while he could. The water seraph grinned when he thought of how Sorey would agrue that he and Rose were actually the only ones who had no other choice but to walk since everyone else could simply seek refuge in him if they got tired of it. Well, that is true, Mikleo mused, grin broadening. Though Mikleo didn´t think Sorey even really minded that. Long as they didn´t rub it in his face every opportuninty they got.

After some time his gaze drifted upward to watch the blue sky above, nostalgia washing over him for a moment. Its blue was radiant with barely a cloud to be seen. Much like in Elysia. It was in moments like this in which Mikleo realized just how much it reminded him of home. Often a time, when they took a break on the road or stopped somewhere for the night, Mikleo would sit there and look up into it, becoming lost to his thoughts and the world around him. It was strange, but even so far away from the village they grew up in, so far that it almost seemed like another world completely, the sky was still shining in the same bright blue on a sunny day, the same bright stars glowed down on them at night and became covered by the same cold grey when it rained. Looking up into it, even if only for a moment, it felt to Mikleo like he and Sorey were still home and never left, exploring ruins and managing their daily lives together with their family. As if nothing at all had changed.

And yet, so much had changed.

There was no denying that ever since he and Sorey embarked on their journey, things had gotten... a little out of hand. They had set foot into the world outside Gramps´ domain and with that into a world where most people couldn´t see or hear seraphim, something they were so used to being a given, despite being the told the opposite numerous times. But after travelling for this long, they had come to know it as a world filled with people as colourfull in character, personallity and desires as the seasons, mysteries that had yet to be unravelled and with a lot of its history yet unknown, even to the two of them. Mikleo didn´t think it was too much to call it a world of tales both tragic and wonderous. And somehow they had ended up in the fight deciding its very future. He sighed at that, shooting a glance at the certain someone responsible– alright, mostly responsible to be fair. So looking up into a sky that looked the same no matter where their travels turned them, was somehow reassuring. To him it was like a reminder that, however dark and uncertain the way before them, somewhere it was still light. And that there were some things that never changed, no matter the circumstances.

Like this guy always mumbling in his sleep, Mikleo thought with a sigh when he heard Sorey´s voice sound next to him. More than the sky or the ever reoccuring seasons, Mikleo thought it was Sorey who changed even less. Be it his love for ruins or his inability to tell a lie even if it were to save his life, his childhood friend had kept to all those quirks and notions he–

Mikleo frowned. Well, the way he tended to mumble stuff in his sleep that not even he could tell what it was supposed to mean, how he got lost in his thoughts whenever he came up against a wall, the ferventy with which he believed in their dream of finding a way together for humans and seraphim to live alongside each other, all that hadn´t changed one bit. And his thickheadedness still stood unrivaled. A light laugh escaped Mikleo. Well, maybe not so unrivaled anymore. He was pretty sure Rose came in at least close second to his childhood friend.

“Like you´re any better!” ...and he was pretty sure that would be Sorey´s answer if he ever were to tell him how he thought about it. The seraph couldn´t help but laugh again. No matter how chaotic and weird things had gotten, he could at least say it was never dull. Even if he had to admit their lives had changed a lot in this short amount of time, Mikleo was glad he was able to say that despite the many trials they faced on their travels, they were never alone; and he and Sorey remained the same people in their hearts. Be it exploring ruins or what was weighning down on his mind, thanks to growing up together, Mikleo was usually able to tell what was going on in Sorey´s head as if reading a well studied history tome. But, if truth be told, the knowledge that it worked the other way around, too, did annoy him to a certain extend. Though he´d bite his tounge before admitting that in front of Sorey. The other had enough ammunition to tease him with already and he was not about to help him gain more on him, thank you very much. Especially when–

He was startled out of his musing when the wagon was lifted a good distance into the air with a sudden surge. It came crashing back down onto the ground a moment later with a loud rattle. Mikleo jumped in his place, alarmed, his eyes darting around as he tried to spot the source of what just happened. He couldn´t find anything that would have served as an explanation at first, but when the wagon moved along a couple of meters, Mikleo´s sight caught on an unusually large rock just by the side of the road. For a moment he thought it might have been Edna´s doing but had to withdraw his accusation as he noticed it had not been created by a seraphic arte. It seemed Leif had thought the rock safe enough to drive over and not anticipated to be rattled through by the shock.

Man, no wonder they got stuck in that slope before, Mikleo thought grumpily.

He heared a soft murmur. Turning his attention to the girl in front of him, Mikleo had actually expected Rose to be awake, her daggers drawn in an instant at the sudden ruckus, but the usually so stealthy and ready to act assassin was still cold out, a goofy and content smile on her lips. The young water seraph had the urge to face palm but his feelings on this were just too mixed to make up his mind. Was she just so out of it that she didn´t notice or could it be that–

Before he got around to finishing his thought, he was interrupted as his ears picked up on a small, almost inaudible thud next to him, followed by the feeling of a heavy weight pressing into his side. Mikleo turned his head to look down his right shoulder, already fairly certain what awaited him.

And sure enough. Although he hadn´t woken up from the commotion either, Sorey´s body had tilted to the side and, balance lost, dropped onto him, his head bumping against the seraph´s shoulder. Since they were little they stayed up late reading book after book until they literarily dropped asleep, be it at home or in the ruins they wandered around in. Even now, it wasn´t like they were walking around carrying blankets and pillows, so they made due with what they had. So it wasn´t like this was the first time he had fallen asleep leaning on him like that. His childhood friend simply happened to be a klutz like that. And just like all those times  before, all he had to do to fix it was reach over and put his friend into a proper sitting position. If Maggy or Leif were to turn around now, they´d see Sorey sleep in a pretty... odd position, after all. And at first, it had been Mikleo´s intention to do just that.

At first. Yet, here he was merely sitting there, frozen in place. It was like all noise around him had suddenly ceased existens as he watched his friend´s shoulders rise and fall with even breaths.

It wasn´t like he minded, really. Just, lately, things that used to be so natural to him until now, seemed... different somehow, outlandish even, and he couldn´t even tell why. He didn´t remember when he first noticed, but Mikleo was aware of something being off for quite some time now. Even though they were the same age, Mikleo had grown up to be the more composed and rational of the pair, so it frustrated him all the more when he couldn´t figure out how it had come to this. In the past, if there was a riddle that needed solving, he could think it through, no matter how long it took. He could search for the answers in books and scrolls who were always ready to help with their insights. But usually, two heads were better than one, so unless they had a competition going, he had Sorey to talk to about a solution. This time, though, he was utterly on his own with a problem he had no clue how to go about.

Mikleo was no fool. He knew full well that life meant change, and change was mostly inevitable. But, somehow, Mikleo had believed that the friendship between him and Sorey was one of those few, rare exceptions. Had he been in a different state of mind, he might´ve had the spare thought to feel embarrased at his naivity. Mikleo was a very observant person, so knowing Sorey like the back of his hand the water seraph found himself puzzled at all the small, really trivial things he came to realize, as if they´d shown themselves but a little while ago. For instance, how many of Sorey´s habits Mikleo was so used to suddenly seemed so familiar yet managed to catch him off guard even though he´d anticipated them all along. Be it when they were walking through ruins theorizing, a town to gather information or just sit somewhere reading a book, they were all situations that had occurred time and again on their travels together but for some reason, Mikleo couldn´t help but feel like there was something different about it, about them, although things should mostly have stayed the same. It was the small things that happened along the way that had him wondering. Take for instance his predicament at hand. He had no way of telling how many times he´d merely reached over in the past when Sorey´d slumped onto him and just pushed him to the other side, there was nothing much to think about. But now, he´d come to find himself hesitating to even reach out his hand and pat the other on the back at times.

In the beginning Mikleo thought it was simply his mind playing tricks on him and tried to shake it off. Sorey hadn´t shown any sign of noticing anything being different between them either, so he hadn´t paid much heed to those little discoveries and left them as they were. However, among all those trivialities, there was the one change Mikleo had not been able to deal with quite as efficiently.

He closed his eyes for a second, letting out a deep sigh, breath rustling trough Sorey´s hair as he tried to will all those unwanted thoughts and emotions that swarmed his mind back into submission. The pounding of his racing heart was more than enough to deal with.

His face heated up as if he had gotten too close to one of Lailah´s fire artes when he noticed how he´d been staring down at Sorey without intending to. But he didn´t turn away. Contrary to Sorey, he was easier to pick up on such things but never in his wildest dreams would he have thought that of all things he would fall in love with Sorey. No matter how many times he mulled over it or tried to find a different explanation, it was always the same conclussion Mikleo came to in the end.

He crossed his arms with a heavy sigh. He made sure he didn´t move too much so he wouldn´t accidentally wake the other now. Sometimes Mikleo was gratefull of how oblivious Sorey could be. Because, although Mikleo– dispite his efforts– had had a hunch about what it was that changed for far longer than he ever cared to admit, the young seraph didn´t have any intention to share it with the other. Mikleo had long since decided to stay ignorant to his own feelings and was of no mind to reconsider now.

Say if he told Sorey how he felt – given he´d be lucky enough to manage up the courage and find a good moment to do so – what would happen to them? All their lives, he and Sorey had been best friends and rival scholars. They were always together since they were little kids; it didn´t matter if it was going out to hunt with the others in the boars woods, exploring the Mt. Mabinogio ruins or reading books in gramps´ library; they were inseperable.

But if Sorey knew he thought of him as more than a friend and family, would Sorey accept it? Could he? Would he be angry at him for suddenly feeling this way? Would he be too shocked to give him a proper answer? He knew Sorey was too kind hearted to ever hold something like this against him but he also knew Sorey would beat himself up if Mikleo should end up hurt over it. To Mikleo, his friendship with Sorey was too important to risk because he didn´t give things enough thought. But most of all, he didn´t want to hurt Sorey.

Another possibility kept bugging Mikleo. If he only thought Sorey was oblivious and yet, the other knew how he felt all along and simply decided not to say anything for the same reasons? They could usually tell when something was bugging the other, so the idea wasn´t far fetched... And yet so unlikely. Mikleo almost snorted at the idea. Now that was his brain grasping for straws to reason with itself. If the other knew about it Mikleo would have noticed long ago. Compared to him, Sorey had a hard time keeping things a secret.

But that didn´t change the situation. Although Mikleo had tried his best, he was barely able to stay unconcious to this feeling much longer.

His mind was finally eased a little after thinking more and more about the same things he´d been worrying over for weeks now. He noticed how his fingertips had started digging into his arms. Looking down at them, he released them from his iron grip and rested them lightly atop each other now. He´d thought about this so many times now that he had no idea what to think anymore. But continuously listing all his worries had so far been the only way to keep him from talking to Sorey. He knew no amount of pondering the same things would change that he was still hung up on them. It would only draw out the inevitable that much longer. Now they fought and travelled alongside their friends day after day, trying to struggle against odds they couldn´t have imagined before in their wildest dreams, but here they were.

“But here we are...”, he mumbled to himself. Not entirely sure if he should, he looked back down at Sorey anyways. Eyes firmly shut, he still showed no intention of waking up. Though, he didn´t mind. A break was rare enough to come by and like this, he could at least avoid Sorey seeing him red faced like that. Like this, he could look at him sleep and did not need to be cautious to make sure his true feelings wouldn´t show. There was no need to fight his blush or the small smile tugging at his lips. Now, there was something he´d really rather avoid having to explain. Relaxing against the weight against his, Mikleo closed his eyes, feeling at ease at last. So what if the two merchants turned around and found Sorey sleeping in an odd position? Seraphim existed. He was living proof of that and they might as well start acknowledging it.

A yawn finally escaped him and suddenly there was a new thought that started to form in his mind. For now they were fighting and struggling alongside their friends and each other. But maybe one day, when they found their answer and the battles ahead were fought, Mikleo might reconsider. Perhaps when all this was over, he could see past the worries and fears and be honest with Sorey and tell him how he felt. But that was for him to think of another day. For the time being, he´d listen to the soft rattling of the carriage, the whispers of a warm breeze, the even breaths next to him and the pounding of his heart lulling him to sleep.

A/N: First off, thank you to everyone who has read this story to its end! It means a lot to me. And I so hope I was in character enough. Then some, I guess, editorial (?) notes. I know, some might have been confused why I had Lailah add -san to everyone´s name. I played the game in Japanese and hence I´m just used to it; also, seeing as she´s always so formal it felt right and translating it into the equivalent of “Mister”, “Misses” felt odd as well not adding it alltogether. As too why I worte in the beginning “Please shoot me...”. Well, first off all, I actually try not to ship Sorey and Mikleo. So this is actually one out of the only two stories I ever plan on writing about them in a romantic setting. Call me a hypocrite if you want but I actually like their dynamic as is. Last but not least, I think I owe a massive apology to everyone who´s played through the game. (Or maybe I´m overthinking?) I´m so sorry! Again, that´s why “Please shoot me...”, too.  Alright, that was enough babbling from me! I hope you guys enjoyed reading and if you have any critique or thoughts on this or my writing in general, point out mistakes, feel free to tell me. Much appreciated! Capell0

[unicornforcewinds]

WAM Chapters 3 & 4

The Wolf and the Mermaid: Solas is a forensic financial investigator, and Lavellan is a mermaid performer with a mysterious past. Fluff, Smut, Angst, and lots of Drama. Solas POV.

Chapters 1 & 2. Entire fic on AO3.

Chapter 3: TPG’s Annual Garden Party

When the invitation arrived, his lips quirked up into a smile. This was the Wolf in his element. That’s what they called him, on account of his keen predatory instincts. This was not a party, oh no, this was a hunt, and he would absolutely leave with blood staining his jaws. But then, he was perhaps taking this metaphor a little too far.

He had not been himself lately, thoughts of her entering his mind much too often, and maneuvering through The Game was sure to set him right. Usually, his work involved copious amounts of reading files and computer forensics, but sometimes a job veered more into the realm of corporate espionage. He cut his teeth on more traditional cases, but this is how he earned his reputation. As soon as he scented his prey, the Wolf would be on them, revelling as they squirmed.

Choosing a black, well-tailored suit and a grey silk tie, he cut a decent figure but was still unassuming enough to avoid unwanted notice. He enjoyed the artifice of it all, crafting a character in the details of his appearance. A little obvious, perhaps, his cufflinks emblazoned with a wolf, but he had his pride. Besides, people believed what you wanted them to, if you gave them just enough of a story to build from. And, if someone noticed such a minute detail, it told him they needed to be kept an eye on.

The Pentaghast woman greeted him when he arrived, Cassandra, he recalled. She looked uncomfortable. Pulling at the neckline of her dress. He considered that she might be ill-suited to this line of work, but then, being stolen from and lied to did tend to disagree with most people. He supposed that was a good thing, since he’d be out of a job otherwise.

She briefed him quickly, wanting to get everything over with. It wasn’t really necessary – he had studied the case files, but he decided it best not to interrupt.

“Solas, you are certain they will be here?” she asked.

“Whoever is doing this, if they are not personally tied to you, has someone leaking them information that is. It’s also a good idea to note any people who are absent, just in case, but I believe the person I’m after is too smart to risk raising suspicion.”

She heaved a sigh, her shoulders slumping. “I hope you are right.”

“I am very good at what I do, Miss Pentaghast, try not to worry.”

“Easier said than done,” she paused, a hand on her forehead, “Go down the hall to your left, and you’ll see the doors to the garden. I will be here, trying to pretend I would not rather be anywhere else.” He offered her a rueful smile and took his leave. Now, he was on the prowl.  He didn’t get very far outside before spotting Leliana, who waved him over.

“You seem to be in good spirits, Nightingale.”

“Oh, I am, Wolf. They hired a mermaid , can you imagine? She’s elven, and she’s absolutely lovely.”

“They… what?” He felt warm, hand reaching up to tug on the collar of his shirt, unable to guard against the look of surprise on his face. This could not possibly be happening, had he misheard her?

“Oh my, there is a story there, I think. I have never seen your mask fall before! She must be very special.” she teased him.

Leliana was not someone you wanted knowing your secrets, even if she was your friend and could be trusted. She hoarded scraps of information like they were baseball cards. Fenhedis . He did not want his to be part of her collection.

She wasn’t in the water today, instead, lounging on a chaise inside a giant clamshell, not entirely at odds with the wall of moss behind it. Framed as she was, on either side, by the curved staircases that lead to the balcony, it made for a stunning tableau that he badly wanted to paint. He knew that was a terrible idea, but resistance was futile. She was so well suited to the estate’s garden, looking ever the image of a queen. He imagined she would be well situated no matter where she was, such thoughts impossible to push aside.

He didn’t see Bull anywhere; the qunari’s presence might have been helpful, since he stuck out like a sore thumb and would have tipped him off immediately about Ellana. Then he’d have had the chance to steel himself and not let Leliana seem him lose composure. As it was, leaning against a sculpted column and nursing a glass of wine, he found himself staring at her and feeling wistful. This was not why he was here, and he had work to do… but that’s when she waved.

At least, he thinks she did. Maybe it wasn’t to him. He had intentionally stood outside of her direct line of sight so that his staring would be less awkward, but that plan had apparently failed. He looked around to see if there was someone else she might be looking at, but no. When he turned back, her eyes were zeroed in on him. If there was such a thing as fate, it obviously hated him. Chiding himself, he walked towards her. Why was he such an ass?

“Should I worry that you’re stalking me? You do seem to show up an awful lot.” An odd choice of greeting.

“I… no!, Most certainly, I would –“ she cut him off with her laughter.

“Oh, I’m just teasing you, Solas! Are you always so tightly wound?”

The man who appeared to be her handler in Bull’s staid – a human, strong, with weary eyes and a thick beard – was moving further away - to give them some privacy, he assumed.

“Yes, if I’m being honest, but I am much worse around you.” He was shaking his head now; rubbing the back of his neck. Why was he telling her this?

“Well, I could send you a copy of my schedule, that way you’d know what parties not to attend. Would that help?”

“It would, yes,” he returned, chuckling, and the smallest bit sincere.

“I like your shoes, by the way. A different pair every time I’ve seen you, always very nice.”

His face felt hot all the sudden, wash he blushing? This was more than he could bear.

“I’m sorry,” she laughed, “I didn’t mean to make you feel self-conscious! I… have… a thing with shoes. I mean, everybody has to wear them, right? That’s innocent enough, but it’s kind of become an obsession.” She shook her head, chiding herself. Was she rambling? Her gaze was turned away.

“I,” he cleared his throat, “it is something of a fixation of mine as well.”

She looked up at him, their eyes locking. Everything felt surreal, how did this keep happening? And now they were telling each other personal things. It was definitely getting warmer, he should’ve worn a lighter suit. Too many thoughts, and the silence was going on too long, he needed to break the ice.

“Though I must admit, it seems an odd choice for someone with fins.”

She smiled then, mouth dropping open a bit. “You are so lucky I can’t reach the water, because I’d definitely splash you.”

“My shoes and I are both grateful.”

She laughed, and so did he. The pleasure he derived from it was honest, untainted. It was something he hadn’t experienced in a long time – something he wanted to experience more of.

He caught something at the edge of his vision, turning his head just enough to get a better look. Leliana, she was watching him; watching them. Suddenly he wasn’t smiling anymore, and she looked concerned.

“Are you alright?”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve been distracting you from your duties for too long.”

“It’s no trouble,” she had started to say, but he kept walking. This was work, and he was behaving like a damned fool! The Wolf was a hunter, a predator, not some tongue-tied schoolboy with a crush. To risk his reputation so carelessly, it was not like him to be reckless. He needed a drink.

At the bar, he recognized the waitress – she was the same one from the Dorian’s party – golden skin, long black hair, bright but cheeky smile. The world was feeling smaller all the time.

“Vodka –“ he began, but she interrupted him.

“With cranberry, right?”

“No,” he breathed, “just the vodka. Go ahead and make it two.”

“You got it, love.”

Both drinks he downed in a single swallow, looking forward to the reliable warmth that would soon fill his stomach. He needed to be grounded, to shake himself out of this state. He was not here to socialize, he had a job to do; owed it to his clients to be at his best. As he crawled deeper into his pit of self-flagellation, he observed the man sitting next to him, a man whose eyes had clearly landed on his cufflinks; a man whose face had shifted, almost imperceptibly, at the sight.

Sometimes it wasn’t a reaction you were looking for at all, but instead, a lack of reaction. The slightest tightening of a jaw in an otherwise emotionless face was a strong indication that something hidden was going on beneath the surface. When someone tried to intentionally obfuscate their reactions by masking them with a placid façade, it meant that whatever they were hiding was usually worth discovering. Maybe the day was salvageable, after all.

The man, a human in his mid 50s?, had noticed that he was being noticed. Unlike his earlier observation of Ellana, Solas had actually been employing his expertly honed discretion. That meant that whoever he was, he was a skilled player in The Game and definitely a person of interest.

“It looks like neither of us is enjoying the party,” the man offered, cutting through the tension with his words.

“I am not certain this is the kind of party that’s meant to be enjoyed.” His voice was cool, the Wolf now alert and at the wheel.

“Not unless you like standing next to gaudy shrubs and making small talk, at least.” He was good, his attempting to find common ground to gauge him…

“Alas, I do not.”

“Something we have in common.” The human extended his hand and he shook it. “Alexius.”

The man’s handshake was firm, but not overly so, an exact match for his own. That too was by design – the way you shook someone’s hand could tell them a lot about you. If someone’s grip was overly firm, or not firm enough; if their hand was stiff, or limp, or sweating - all invaluable clues that revealed a surprising amount of information. This man’s handshake was meant to reveal nothing, and that on its own was significant.

“Solas.”

“I must unfortunately get back to my rounds. Perhaps we’ll meet again.” He gave a polite, closed-mouth smile as he got up to leave. I’m sure of it, he thought, I’ve caught your scent now.

Solas fished his phone out of his pants pocket, fingers tapping on the screen.

Solas 3:12pm Alexius.

Leliana 3:18pm Tevinter. Dead wife. Sick son. You think it’s him?

Solas 3:20 Perhaps.

Leliana 3:21 I suppose that Mermaid Lyna is another possibility. You did seem far more interested in her.

Leliana 3:29 Do you know that the tips of your ears have turned pink? I could talk to her for you, if you like. Put in a good word.

Solas 3:30 No.

Leliana 3:30 ( ◕ ︵ ◕ ,)

Solas 3:31 … What is that?

Leliana 3:32 It’s a little crying face! Isn’t it cute?

Solas 3:33 No.

Leliana 3:34 I bet Lyna would think it’s cute.

Solas 3:34 Marjorlaine.

Leliana 3:35 ( ╹ _ ╹ ) 凸

He was pinching the bridge of his nose now. This was a woman who could strike fear into a person’s heart with a look, whose bread and butter was blackmail and coercion, and she was typing ridiculous little faces into her phone. He felt his jaw clench and let out a harsh breath through his nose. Had he always been so old ?

His spirit should be soaring, having a lead, but instead there was a pit in his stomach. It felt like things were unraveling – like he was losing control. The one party this year he thought he’d actually enjoy, and it might’ve been worse than the others. He hadn’t forgotten the discourteous way he’d treated Ellana, either, and neither had she, he was sure. This was a mess.

When he got home he tried to work, but his mind refused to focus. Defeated, he prepped a canvas and took out his paints. The first brush strokes were reluctant, tenuous, but he quickly found his rhythm and was engrossed. By the time he went to bed, he’d finished her face. He still didn’t know what her eyes looked like. Falling asleep tonight would not be easy.

Chapter 4: A Luncheon with Dorian

Reluctantly he hit the play button on his answering machine, letting out a deep sigh.

Hey Chuckles, it’s me, Varric. I know you’re home and screening your calls and probably won’t pick up anyway, but you’re coming over Thursday night for dinner. If you noticed, which of course you did, I didn’t actually ask, so you don’t have the option to say no.

Anyway, it’s just dinner with friends, nothing formal - Cass will be there obviously, Blondie, Ruffles and… you haven’t met her boyfriend yet I don’t think, and then Fli – no, scratch that, she said she probably couldn’t make it. Bring a bottle of wine. Should be starting about 7:30.

Tonight was Tuesday, so that was more or less enough time in advance for an informal dinner, but he’d have to think about it. Things were getting serious with work, and progress was going at a snail’s pace. He was already meeting Dorian for lunch, and one social event was more than enough for any given week. No, it was better to stay home and continue his progress on the files. This case was much more difficult and complex than he’d imagined, and it appeared that money was being siphoned out of multiple accounts and then funneled into foreign banks in Seheron and Tevinter.

The connection with Tevinter kept Alexius fresh in his mind. He was much too smooth to be uninvolved, but he hadn’t been able to connect any dots. Besides the few tidbits she’d offered him, even Leliana’s well was dry. Considering that she knew just about everything about almost everyone, that put together a highly suspicious profile. Breadcrumbs, he just needed a trail to follow, one piece at a time and then the bigger picture would slowly unveil itself before his eyes.

He’d been trying to avoid the den where a half-finished fresco was waiting for him, a reminder that he shouldn’t be chasing after a fairytale. There were real things he needed to do, and that was a level of distraction he hadn’t realized was even possible. It didn’t help how he’d left things the last time he saw her, and it was likely that he’d never see her again, anyway. He couldn’t bear to finish the painting, but he also couldn’t throw it away. How could a woman he didn’t even know have turned his life so far upside down? Being stuck on this case made it easier for his mind to wander. He needed some kind of breakthrough.

His phone alarm chirped, letting him know it was 12pm, and he needed to leave to meet Dorian. He let out a deep breath and carefully closed his laptop – he might have inadvertently slammed it shut in his irritation once or twice and that was not a smart thing to do.

The restaurant was some new hipster place he was too old and not hip enough for. He hated it immediately. Rave reviews, Dorian had said, obviously from idiots with no taste. Their waitress, a blonde elf with questionable fashion sense, sat them by a window. Her manners left a lot to be desired.

“Right then, wot d’ya want?”

“Malena, da’lan –“

“Wot, no, I don’t speak that elfy shite.” Solas felt like he’d just been slapped.

“I,” Dorian began, trying not to laugh, “I think we’ll need a few more minutes.”

“Ugh, yeah, course, sir elvhen glory has’ta make everyone wait.” He tried to ignore the eye roll before she trotted off. He glared at Dorian, his eyebrows lifting.

“Rave reviews, I believe you said.”

“Me?” he balked, splaying a hand across his chest, “I don’t recall that conversation.”

Solas heaved a sigh as he opened the menu. It was… qunari-dwarven… fusion. His stomach churned. None of this could possibly be edible. Dorian was conspicuously looking everywhere but at Solas.

“You do have to admit that was a little funny… and I mean, being verbally assaulted by your waitress is a memorable and entertaining experience!”

“Very amusing when not being directed at you.”

Dorian cleared his throat.

“Ahem, well, what looks good?”

“The menu selections at restaurants that serve palatable food.”

“It can’t be that ba-, Sweet Andraste! Marinated nug with…” Dorian swallowed, the lump in his throat violently rising and then falling, “I, why don’t we just try one of the specials?” He tried to smile, but the edges of his mouth were turned downwards and it was very unconvincing.

“What makes them special, does the side of food poisoning come at no extra charge?”

“Mmmm. I’ll just,” her turned his head to look for the waitress, waving at her and calling “Hello, miss.”

“Right, so, wa’dya want?”

“Actually,” began Dorian, hesitating, “We wanted to know about the specials, or perhaps there’s a dish you might recommend…” His face had turned a shockingly pale shade. It was hard to tell which one of them was more horrified. They should probably just leave.

“So, two Red Jennies it is.” The waitress said, scribbling on her pad.

“And, would you mind terribly explaining to us –“

“Ugh, you rich tits, thinking everyone else’s time is free. Some of us have ta work, you know? I’ll go put in ya order.”

“You know, on second tho- “ She effectively cut Dorian off by walking away.

“Very well handled Dorian, you’ve a way with the young people.”

“Oh, do shut up.” He tossed one of the whatever they were at him from the basket on the table. “Elvhen glory.”

He shifted his head out of the way, the suspicious lump of what he thought was intended to be bread landing on the floor. “And what is it she called you? A tit, I believe it was?”

“It’s not my fault that a good pedigree is so easily recognizable.” He gave his moustache a little twirl with his index finger.

“Yes, you would take anything as a compliment.” He was rubbing his eyes now, a headache bound to appear at any moment.

A few minutes passed and then their server, used in the loosest possible sense of the word, dropped two steaming plates covered in an unrecognizable amorphous blob.

“So, like, can you get satellite with that thing?” she was inclining the pen in her hand towards his head. Dorian burst out laughing.

“Excuse me?”

“Right, you’re excused. I mean yer ‘ead. You know, on account of it’s so shiny, like. Do you get any signals from space when the sun bounces off just right?”

He could feel the color draining from his face.

“Shut. Up.”

“Jeez, sorry, no need ta go getting all offended. It was a fair question.”

The look he gave her must have been significant because she turned on her heels and walked away without saying another word. Dorian was looking incredibly smug, trying and failing not to cackle.

“Dorian,” he said, grabbing his spoon and digging it into the substance, “can you do me a favor?”

“Wh-“ Solas shoved the spoon into his mouth the moment he’d opened it. “Ahhh, ooh” and he began choking.

He raised his hand and called out, “Check please!” A small smile forming on his face. Dorian was turning green.

They decided to go back to his apartment, since it was in walking distance, and Dorian would be able to purge whatever bits of the ‘food’ he’d accidentally swallowed.

While Dorian made a beeline for the bathroom, Solas decided to brew some tea. He sat at the breakfast bar, turning on his laptop, while he waited for the kettle. The tea was ready by the time Dorian found his way back to the kitchen.

“I’ve made some tea, it should help your stomach, it’s elfroot.”

“Elvhen Glory root, you mean?” He was trying to smirk but his face wasn’t cooperating.

“I think I see a little bit you’ve missed in your moustache,” he looked up at him from the screen, raising one eyebrow.

“As if I’d fall for… my, my moustache you say?” and he was running back to the bathroom, his hand covering his mouth.

His own self-satisfied little smile remained until he took a sip of his tea. Eugh .

He had looked over all these files dozens of times and still nothing. He was beginning to get frustrated. There had to be something he was missing. He opened to a picture of Alexius, and just stared at it for a while, willing it to tell him something.

“Kaffas.” Dorian breathed over his shoulder, he hadn’t even seen him coming out of the bathroom.

“That tea should settle your stomach.”

“My stomach was fine until I saw that,” he lifted his arm, extending his index finger to point at the picture of Alexius. “Why is that on your computer, Solas?”

“He’s a board member of the Pentaghast Group. How do you know him?”

“ Fasta vass . If you’re thinking of investigating him, don’t. I’m not terribly fond of you, but I’d prefer if you didn’t wind up dead.” He looked genuinely grim, which was not something Dorian did.

“Forgive me my doubt, but you do sometimes have a propensity for melodrama. Why would I end up dead?”

“Because that man is Gereon Alexius and he has ties to powers in Tevinter so scary that people in Minrathous are afraid to whisper about them.”

“Can you give me a name?”

“What, no!” He threw his hands in the air. “Did you hear what I just said Solas? I’m not getting involved, and you shouldn’t either. I have a very pretty head, and I like it where it is.”

“I just need a name Dorian, something I can work with. I promise not to involve you and your pretty head .”

He was rubbing his neck now, the seriousness of his demeanor worrying. If he wasn’t at least being sarcastic, then Solas would trust what he’d said. That didn’t mean he was going to stop pursuing this; in fact it meant he’d be pursuing it harder. Dorian didn’t need to know that though, there was no reason to make him worry.

“I can’t close the case and deliver a report to my client without something to offer, Dorian. I’m just asking for a name, that’s all. You can even write it down if you don’t want to say it out loud.”

“We both know you’re going to pursue it to the end, you stubborn old idiot. I just hope your pride doesn’t get you killed.” He heaved a sigh, closing his eyes, and shook his head. “Venatori, they’re known as the Venatori. Alexius is one of them, and an old family friend. He tried to recruit me, but like I said, I like my head where it is. And now, here we are.”

“Thank you Dorian,” he put a hand on his shoulder and gave a small squeeze before being shrugged off.

“Yes, thank you Dorian for signing my writ of execution because I’m too worried about my Elvhen Glory to have an ounce of sense…” he was shaking his head again, “I think I’ll head home, I have a date with a bottle of wine, and I promised I wouldn’t be late.”

“I’ll be fine Dorian, there’s nothing to worry about.”

He didn’t turn around. “Sure, right. I’ll talk to you later.”

He walked out the door and left Solas’ mind running a mile a minute. There was so much he needed to do, but if it really was that dangerous, it was best not to use his computer, or even use a computer at his home. He wasn’t looking forward to more of her teasing, but he’d probably need to read Leliana in, and if things were truly so bad, maybe even Vivienne. That would be an absolute last resort however, their methodologies did not mesh well.

[throwaway8472]

An American Fairy Tale

Once upon a time,  A village burned.  Ever since Prometheus passed along the idea of making fire to a caveman somewhere at the dawn of civilization, human beings have enjoyed burning things. It started with wood, moved on to your neighbor’s wood, and then the natural progression was to set fire to your neighbor as well. Prometheus would have rolled in his grave if he’d ever been allowed to die. But this fairy tale takes place before the Catholic Church had gotten its world renowned reputation for burning people in all sorts of ingenious and incredibly creative ways, when the concept was still on the cutting edge of brutality and not something that happened on a day to day basis. Burning villages was still an avant-garde art-form that only the most cultured artists of the era had tried their hand at. The most talented among these was a man named Atilla the Hun, who had reached the forefront of his field slowly and methodically. Like most fools, what he lacked in talent he made up for with endless practice and quite admirable tenacity. Through sheer force of will a man who is inept at a task may slowly become a master.  That is also an accurate summary of the human race’s plodding and asinine progress through the last ten thousand years or so.

 But that is not the point of this fairy tale. This fairy tale follows in the same classical tradition as the immortal and universally hallowed morality tales of the great Greek storyteller Aesop. It is a homage, if you will. Which is to say is to say that its message is about as subtle as a brick flying out of the back of the truck in front of you, smashing through your windshield as quickly as it takes a grumpy old man to complain when you change the channel from yet another NCIS rerun, and near instantly pulverizing your skull so completely that when the paramedics finally show up to scrape your lifeless husk out of your 1973 Oldsmobile Omega, the grizzled 20-year veteran paramedic actually gags a little.

 This is one of those kinds of fairy tales.  Once upon a time,  A village burned.  A young man stumbles from the ruins. He is covered in ash, and the softly moaning wind blows his soot stained shawl up against the side of his body, revealing his hollow chest and the bones of his rib-cage. If you’re having a hard time picturing this, imagine him looking a bit like like a character from Loony Toons who’d blown himself up chasing a roadrunner, but admittedly it’s a lot less comedic considering the boy’s circumstances, which are as follows:

 Two days before, he had gone out into the wilds alone on his first hunt. This was the right of passage into manhood for this particular village, in which when a boy reached the age of thirteen, all of the older men in the tribe forced him to go out into the nearby forest alone covered in nothing but what amounted to a tattered sack. Sometimes they gave them a stick, too. He had three days to kill an animal of some sort, preferably a big one that tasted good, then bring it back so the village could throw a big party and eat whatever the boy caught. After this set of arbitrary conditions had been met, the boy was thought to have become a man, and everyone congratulated him for slaughtering the animal and not getting killed after they had all abandoned him in the woods. It was a sort of proto college fraternity hazing ritual, basically. The French anthropologist who first studied this practice, Arnold van Gennep, christened it “rite de passage” and so ever since anthropologists have called this the “The Rites of Passage Tradition”, but everybody else calls it “Fucking Retarded.”  On the second day of his rite de passage, the boy returned with a promising deer only to discover every single person that he had ever known was dead. If you actually took the time to trace the modern Gregorian calendar all the way back to when the boy came back to find that everybody and everything that he’d ever known was on fire, you would find that it in fact occurred on a Monday, which anybody probably could have guessed anyway, since it’s without a doubt the worst day of the entire week.

 He hadn’t stayed in his village long after he had returned to find it burning, only pausing to take a broken sword from what was left of his own home. He didn’t bother gathering any food; he didn’t plan on traveling much. This was because the young man had decided to kill himself. The burning village had been his home his entire life. He was born there, and he had once expected to live a long life, start a family, and eventually die there surrounded by friends and loved ones. That was obviously off the table now. "Up in smoke”, if you will.  Like many suicidal people, the boy also developed a certain inexplicable taste for irony and the macabre. The shattered sword he carried had been passed down from father to son for generations. He supposed now that since his father and brothers were dead that it now belonged to him. His plan was to travel far enough away from his old home so that he could no longer see the flames and billowing smoke rising from what was left of the village, and then take his broken sword from its sheath and slit his throat. There was a cliff outside the village, and for a time he stumbled toward it slowly like a zombie from a bad horror film, but he never got there. He kept looking back on the life that was behind him, and each time the fires in the distance reflected in his eyes. Eventually he stopped and sat on a rock, and sadly watched as his future slowly turned to ash. It would be a disservice, I think, to call what he felt sadness. Nor would it be accurate to call it the mind-numbing torturous emptiness that sucks at a person’s chest like an open wound, which we name despair. It was a kind of peace, maybe, but not the kind which gives us grace in times of trouble. If there were any word to describe it, perhaps it would be resignation. Yet even that is a disservice to the countless millions that have died by their own hand. Who can say what is in the mind of a person who is about to take his own life? They silenced their own voices before they could tell us their stories– their thoughts, whatever they might have been— are gone now forever, hidden from us as though behind the reflective sheen of a darkly tinted two-way mirror: from the outside looking in, impossible to understand, and from the inside looking out, impossible to explain.  But don’t worry. The boy did not die. Well, he did eventually, of course, but not like that. This isn’t some horribly-ending German fairy tale, after all, but an American one. It’s right there in the title.  The sun would soon set in the west. The boy took his sword from its sheath and placed it alongside his throat. The steel was as cold as something that’s really cold, and a drip of blood slowly began to pool at its point.

 “Evenin’, traveler. I think I know you.”    The young man spun wildly towards the source of the voice. He was especially quick to move the blade from his neck. Human beings still have a shred of modesty burned into them, even when they are about to kill themselves. The sword fell to the ground almost instantly in a quick jerking motion of his arm, a thoughtless reflex action, like the legs twitching on a dead cricket, and he assumed a position and posture that insisted wordlessly that “Oh. Hey. I had just been standing around with a sword next to my neck.” and that people doing this particular activity were as common as sneezing or starting inane  conversations about the weather. He’d just been thinking, that’s all. Sword? No, I hadn’t had a sword held to my neck. You must have seen me at a bad angle, and gee, isn’t it nice out today?  “It’s harder to kill yourself with someone watching, y'know. Makes people feel ashamed, because something in them knows it ain’t right.”    The young man stared at the the new arrival in disbelief. Anybody living today would have recognized what was standing before him as quickly as they would recognize the Coca Cola logo. Here is what the boy saw:  The stranger wore a white button up shirt, and a rugged brown leather vest, with a sort of cloak thrown over it to protect him from the elements. He wore blue denim jeans. His boots were of an odd design. They were tall, brown, the tips were pointed, and there were odd circular metal rings hanging off the back of them which were ringed with spikes. He wore a belt that had a sheathe for some kind of weapon on his right and left leg, but they were not swords. Instead of having a straight handle like that of a sword, these had a strange curved handle made out of wood. Behind the man, the sun setting in the west  gleamed off the blue steel of the two weapons he wore on either hip.

 Most importantly, he wore a hat the likes of which the boy had never seen before. It had a wide brim that circled the man’s entire head.

 “Howdy,” the mysterious stranger said. For some reason he was squinting so hard that he looked like somebody who was staring straight into the sun, even though the sun was at his back. It was the sort of weather-worn face you couldn’t ever imagine having smiled.

"Who’re you?“

 The squinting man shrugged casually, and a brown cylindrical object suddenly appeared in his hand.  He put it in the side of his mouth, and casually walked over toward where the boy was sitting alone on the rock. The boy wasn’t frightened by this. He was in a place beyond fear now. He wasn’t even afraid when the mysterious stranger sat down next to him, reached into his pocket for a small box, made a quick flicking motion, and fire appeared in his hand as if by magic. He lit the tip of the thing in his mouth with his magic fire, took a deep breath. After a moment he breathed out a cloud of smoke with a sigh that sounded like it was weary with the weight of a thousand troubles and a long and profoundly annoying 62 year Hollywood career.  "Are you a god?” the boy asked.

 The man sat there for a long while before replying, seeming to ponder this as he stared off into the distance. The sun was getting lower now.  “‘I 'aint no god. I only been here just as long as people have been around to think me.” His voice was as rough and gravelly as asphalt. He took another long drag of his cigar, exhaled. “Kid, y'know, each drag burns different, but in the final moment, they all become wind.”  The boy told him he didn’t understand.

 The stranger nodded toward the broken sword on the ground, which had only so recently been up against the boy’s throat. “That 'aint no way to die.”

 The boy shook his head. “I don’t have anything left. Why not do it?”

 At this, the stranger took the cigar from his mouth and gestured toward the setting sun and the burning village in the distance.

   “Kid, you been lookin’ at the wrong thing out there.”  The boy looked. He saw the life he had thought was his future burning. But then he saw something else, beyond, further in the distance. It was smoke, but not from the burning village. They were campfires, thousands and thousands of them.“  "That’s them,” said the stranger, “the ones that burned your village. They’re out there waiting for you to go fight them.”  The boy looked down at his scrawny body. “But if I do that, I’ll die.”  The stranger took another long drag from his cigar, exhaled, and watched the smoke as it billowed away into nothingness. “Like I said kid, in the final moment, they all become wind.”

 This time the boy understood. He picked up his shattered sword and stood up. Before he could start walking toward the horde amassed on the horizon, the stranger put a hand on his shoulder. “Figure I’ll go out there with ya’, and besides, think you could use a horse.”

 The stranger worked his magic again, and two horses were there so quickly it felt that they’d been there all along, just out of sight. He and the boy mounted up on the horses and turned them toward the fires of the army in the distance.  “Better to go out like this”, said the mysterious stranger to the boy, “and keep on fighting, for the rest of our lives.”

 “For the rest of our lives,” the boy agreed.  And so they rode off into the sunset together, and they kept on fighting, for the rest of their lives.

[lightholme]

An American Fairy Tale

  Once upon a time,   A village burned.   Ever since Prometheus passed along the idea of making fire to a caveman somewhere at the dawn of civilization, human beings have enjoyed burning things. It started with wood, moved on to your neighbor's wood, and then the natural progression was to set fire to your neighbor as well. Prometheus would have rolled in his grave if he'd ever been allowed to die. But this fairy tale takes place before the Catholic Church had gotten its world renowned reputation for burning people in all sorts of ingenious and incredibly creative ways, when the concept was still on the cutting edge of brutality and not something that happened on a day to day basis. Burning villages was still an avant-garde art-form that only the most cultured artists of the era had tried their hand at. The most talented among these was a man named Atilla the Hun, who had reached the forefront of his field slowly and methodically. Like most fools, what he lacked in talent he made up for with endless practice and quite admirable tenacity. Through sheer force of will a man who is inept at a task may slowly become a master.   That is also an accurate summary of the human race's plodding and asinine progress through the last ten thousand years or so.

  But that is not the point of this fairy tale. This fairy tale follows in the same classical tradition as the immortal and universally hallowed morality tales of the great Greek storyteller Aesop. It is a homage, if you will. Which is to say is to say that its message is about as subtle as a brick flying out of the back of the truck in front of you, smashing through your windshield as quickly as it takes a grumpy old man to complain when you change the channel from yet another NCIS rerun, and near instantly pulverizing your skull so completely that when the paramedics finally show up to scrape your lifeless husk out of your 1973 Oldsmobile Omega, the grizzled 20-year veteran paramedic actually gags a little.

  This is one of those kinds of fairy tales.   Once upon a time,   A village burned.   A young man stumbles from the ruins. He is covered in ash, and the softly moaning wind blows his soot stained shawl up against the side of his body, revealing his hollow chest and the bones of his rib-cage. If you're having a hard time picturing this, imagine him looking a bit like like a character from Loony Toons who'd blown himself up chasing a roadrunner, but admittedly it's a lot less comedic considering the boy's circumstances, which are as follows:

  Two days before, he had gone out into the wilds alone on his first hunt. This was the right of passage into manhood for this particular village, in which when a boy reached the age of thirteen, all of the older men in the tribe forced him to go out into the nearby forest alone covered in nothing but what amounted to a tattered sack. Sometimes they gave them a stick, too. He had three days to kill an animal of some sort, preferably a big one that tasted good, then bring it back so the village could throw a big party and eat whatever the boy caught. After this set of arbitrary conditions had been met, the boy was thought to have become a man, and everyone congratulated him for slaughtering the animal and not getting killed after they had all abandoned him in the woods. It was a sort of proto college fraternity hazing ritual, basically. The French anthropologist who first studied this practice, Arnold van Gennep, christened it "rite de passage" and so ever since anthropologists have called this the "The Rites of Passage Tradition", but everybody else calls it "Fucking Retarded.”   On the second day of his rite de passage, the boy returned with a promising deer only to discover every single person that he had ever known was dead. If you actually took the time to trace the modern Gregorian calendar all the way back to when the boy came back to find that everybody and everything that he'd ever known was on fire, you would find that it in fact occurred on a Monday, which anybody probably could have guessed anyway, since it's without a doubt the worst day of the entire week.

  He hadn't stayed in his village long after he had returned to find it burning, only pausing to take a broken sword from what was left of his own home. He didn't bother gathering any food; he didn't plan on traveling much. This was because the young man had decided to kill himself. The burning village had been his home his entire life. He was born there, and he had once expected to live a long life, start a family, and eventually die there surrounded by friends and loved ones. That was obviously off the table now. "Up in smoke", if you will.   Like many suicidal people, the boy also developed a certain inexplicable taste for irony and the macabre. The shattered sword he carried had been passed down from father to son for generations. He supposed now that since his father and brothers were dead that it now belonged to him. His plan was to travel far enough away from his old home so that he could no longer see the flames and billowing smoke rising from what was left of the village, and then take his broken sword from its sheath and slit his throat. There was a cliff outside the village, and for a time he stumbled toward it slowly like a zombie from a bad horror film, but he never got there. He kept looking back on the life that was behind him, and each time the fires in the distance reflected in his eyes. Eventually he stopped and sat on a rock, and sadly watched as his future slowly turned to ash.  It would be a disservice, I think, to call what he felt sadness. Nor would it be accurate to call it the mind-numbing torturous emptiness that sucks at a person's chest like an open wound, which we name despair. It was a kind of peace, maybe, but not the kind which gives us grace in times of trouble. If there were any word to describe it, perhaps it would be resignation. Yet even that is a disservice to the countless millions that have died by their own hand. Who can say what is in the mind of a person who is about to take his own life? They silenced their own voices before they could tell us their stories-- their thoughts, whatever they might have been--- are gone now forever, hidden from us as though behind the reflective sheen of a darkly tinted two-way mirror: from the outside looking in, impossible to understand, and from the inside looking out, impossible to explain.   But don't worry. The boy did not die. Well, he did eventually, of course, but not like that. This isn't some horribly-ending German fairy tale, after all, but an American one. It's right there in the title.   The sun would soon set in the west. The boy took his sword from its sheath and placed it alongside his throat. The steel was as cold as something that's really cold, and a drip of blood slowly began to pool at its point.

    "Evenin', traveler. I think I know you."     The young man spun wildly towards the source of the voice. He was especially quick to move the blade from his neck. Human beings still have a shred of modesty burned into them, even when they are about to kill themselves. The sword fell to the ground almost instantly in a quick jerking motion of his arm, a thoughtless reflex action, like the legs twitching on a dead cricket, and he assumed a position and posture that insisted wordlessly that "Oh. Hey. I had just been standing around with a sword next to my neck." and that people doing this particular activity were as common as sneezing or starting inane  conversations about the weather. He'd just been thinking, that's all. Sword? No, I hadn't had a sword held to my neck. You must have seen me at a bad angle, and gee, isn't it nice out today?   "It's harder to kill yourself with someone watching, y'know. Makes people feel ashamed, because something in them knows it ain't right."       The young man stared at the the new arrival in disbelief. Anybody living today would have recognized what was standing before him as quickly as they would recognize the Coca Cola logo. Here is what the boy saw:   The stranger wore a white button up shirt, and a rugged brown leather vest, with a sort of cloak thrown over it to protect him from the elements. He wore blue denim jeans. His boots were of an odd design. They were tall, brown, the tips were pointed, and there were odd circular metal rings hanging off the back of them which were ringed with spikes. He wore a belt that had a sheathe for some kind of weapon on his right and left leg, but they were not swords. Instead of having a straight handle like that of a sword, these had a strange curved handle made out of wood. Behind the man, the sun setting in the west  gleamed off the blue steel of the two weapons he wore on either hip.

  Most importantly, he wore a hat the likes of which the boy had never seen before. It had a wide brim that circled the man's entire head.

  "Howdy," the mysterious stranger said. For some reason he was squinting so hard that he looked like somebody who was staring straight into the sun, even though the sun was at his back. It was the sort of weather-worn face you couldn't ever imagine having smiled.

 "Who're you?"

  The squinting man shrugged casually, and a brown cylindrical object suddenly appeared in his hand.  He put it in the side of his mouth, and casually walked over toward where the boy was sitting alone on the rock. The boy wasn't frightened by this. He was in a place beyond fear now. He wasn't even afraid when the mysterious stranger sat down next to him, reached into his pocket for a small box, made a quick flicking motion, and fire appeared in his hand as if by magic. He lit the tip of the thing in his mouth with his magic fire, took a deep breath. After a moment he breathed out a cloud of smoke with a sigh that sounded like it was weary with the weight of a thousand troubles and a long and profoundly annoying 62 year Hollywood career.   "Are you a god?" the boy asked.

  The man sat there for a long while before replying, seeming to ponder this as he stared off into the distance. The sun was getting lower now.   "'I 'aint no god. I only been here just as long as people have been around to think me." His voice was as rough and gravelly as asphalt. He took another long drag of his cigar, exhaled. "Kid, y'know, each drag burns different, but in the final moment, they all become wind."   The boy told him he didn't understand.

  The stranger nodded toward the broken sword on the ground, which had only so recently been up against the boy's throat. "That 'aint no way to die."

  The boy shook his head. "I don't have anything left. Why not do it?"

  At this, the stranger took the cigar from his mouth and gestured toward the setting sun and the burning village in the distance.

    "Kid, you been lookin' at the wrong thing out there."   The boy looked. He saw the life he had thought was his future burning. But then he saw something else, beyond, further in the distance. It was smoke, but not from the burning village. They were campfires, thousands and thousands of them."   "That's them," said the stranger, "the ones that burned your village. They're out there waiting for you to go fight them."   The boy looked down at his scrawny body. "But if I do that, I'll die."   The stranger took another long drag from his cigar, exhaled, and watched the smoke as it billowed away into nothingness. "Like I said kid, in the final moment, they all become wind."

  This time the boy understood. He picked up his shattered sword and stood up. Before he could start walking toward the horde amassed on the horizon, the stranger put a hand on his shoulder. "Figure I'll go out there with ya', and besides, think you could use a horse."  

  The stranger worked his magic again, and two horses were there so quickly it felt that they'd been there all along, just out of sight. He and the boy mounted up on the horses and turned them toward the fires of the army in the distance.   "Better to go out like this", said the mysterious stranger to the boy, "and keep on fighting, for the rest of our lives."

  "For the rest of our lives," the boy agreed.   And so they rode off into the sunset together, and they kept on fighting, for the rest of their lives.