#Where Pariah has come to fight to see if the one who claimed his son's (Danny's) hand was worthy

[radiance1]

"May I help you, mister...?"

Pariah Dark paused, slowly looking the old (by human standards) butler up and down before slowly sheathing his sword and crossing his arms. He looked the butler up and down once more, before glancing at the mansion and back at him.

Hm.

Hm.

"May I come in?" The king asked calmly, voice kept carefully lower than he would usually speak with. He was aware that his normal tone of voice was 'loud' in human standards. The butler stared at him for a moment, before slowly stepping to the side. "Of course, sir. Though I am certain I have not yet gotten your name."

He pushed his foot forward, soon passing through the threshold as fire wrapped around his body as he shrunk. Armor being exchanged for more 'comfortable' clothing besides his cape as he stepped through the doorway and grunted. "You may refer to me as War."

The butler nodded, not batting an eye as the sudden shift in clothing or size. "You came at quite the convenient time. Would you like to join us for dinner, sir War?"

Him?

Eat mortal food?

Perposterous.

"If you would have me and it's no further effort on your part, I could make such an arrangement." He fell in step easily behind the butler, hands folding behind his back in a similar if not a bit more extra way as his cape and hair swayed behind him with his every step.

"I believe I can arrange something to your liking," There was a sliver of mischief in the butler's tone as he led the king to what he assumed to be the dining room. "So far, all of my guests had only good things to say about my hospitality. I do so hope you're among them as well, words of praise from one of your station is quite hard to come by."

"I trust that your hospitality be nothing but kind." The king said, coming to a stop at a door the butler soon held open.

"Please, make yourself comfortable while I go inform those who will join you and make something more..." There was a slight twinkle in the butler's eyes. "Attuned, to your pallet."

The king chuckled. "I look forward to it." Then stepped inside.

[redrobin-detective]

because I could not stop for death

because I could not stop for death / he kindly stopped for me / the carriage held but just ourselves / and immortality ~ Emily Dickinson

Danny Fenton was dying, properly this time.

Somehow, in the back of his head and in his worst nightmares, he knew it would end this way: bleeding on the floor of his parents’ lab where it had all began. He was so hot he felt like his skin was on fire, blood and ectoplasm were dripping all over him and his lungs and heart were working overtime to try in vain to keep him alive a moment longer. He’d imagined at the time that there would be more screaming but death, in the end, was turning out to be a quiet little affair. A lonely table set for one.

“Danny, Danny come on, you-you gotta slow down your breathing, just relax, for me, please,” Sam moaned, more than making up for his lack of noise. She was shaking and touching him all over, his chest, his face, his hair. Normally she jumped right into action but she had to know, deep down, that there was nothing she could do. All that was left was to watch her panic and cry, it wasn’t his favorite image. 

“Vlad!” He heard Tucker scream cry into the phone, “please it’s Tucker, Danny’s dying I think. The Fentons had some new invention, something about his core, please we don’t know what to do!” 

Ugh Vlad, he was probably going to be so happy Danny was on his way out. He wasn’t looking much forward to his last images being his archenemy gloating. Tucker hung up and reached down to grasp Danny’s hand so hard it hurt. “Don’t worry dude, Vlad’s coming. He knows so much about you half ghosts that you’ll be fixed up on no time.” Right, Danny was already dead. If calling Vlad, feeling like he did something, helped Tucker move on then he’d deal with it.

Danny tilted his head to the side where Sam’s fingernails were carding through his hair. It was getting harder to see with the blood pouring out of his eyes but he looked at her, and tried to memorize her face. He’d never been able to tell her how much he loved her, that any day spent with her was a blessing. Tucker too, his best bro and a part of his soul. His best friends in the whole wide world, through thick and thin. God, he was going to miss them.

“Glurk,” he said, trying to convey those feeling but the fluids in his mouth and airway made it impossible. “Blerh.”

“Shh shh shh,” Sam soothed, “it’s okay, don’t try to talk.”

“Daniel!” He heard Vlad’s voice shriek as he materialized in front of the portal. Sam and Tucker were violently pushed out the way. Danny wanted to be angry at his loved ones being taken away in his final moments but anger was for the living, he barely had the energy to breathe. This death was too long and too short all at once. He made eye contact with Vlad who all at once lost the frantic edge to his tone and and instead knelt on the floor. “Oh my dear boy. What did they do to you?”

“What is going on?” Sam demanded, shoving her way back in. Danny was glad, he could see again like this. “Why aren’t you doing something!”

“There’s nothing to be done,” Vlad said in a flat, monotone, he picked up one of Danny’s hands and patted it gently. “His core is dying, it’s like a ghost’s heart. It contains their very essence, it is from which everything they are comes from. If Jack and Maddie somehow disrupted it then there’s nothing anyone can do to save him.”

“But he’s human too,” Tucker defended, grabbing Danny’s other hand. His human warm skin burned but the contact felt so good, he twitched his fingers closer to his friend’s. “He-he doesn’t need a core, he’s already got a heart. So, so he doesn’t have powers, we can do normal again.”

“You-” Vlad hissed before taking a calming breath. “The accident that made Daniel like this irreparably altered him. His core was as much a part of keeping him alive as his other organs, without it, his body is shutting down.” Vlad turned down to look Danny in the eye and saw true, genuine grief in those hateful red eyes. 

“I cannot imagine the agony you are going through, I’m so sorry. I’d say it will be over soon but,” a hitch that sounded almost like a sob if it was coming from anyone other than Vlad. “But you’ve hovered on the edge of death for years, son, and you’ve always been such a fighter. You have minutes at most but those minutes are an eternity when you’re suffering.”

Sam and Tucker’s sobbing blended together in the background, Vlad was saying something with a miserable, stunned expression. The swirling of the portal in the background seemed louder than anything, louder than his heart beat pounding and pounding as it ran it’s last race. 

“Daniel, Danny,” he focused his eyes back on Vlad who had a stubborn, unhappy set to his brow. “Do you want me to make the pain stop? An ectoblast to your chest will end your life instantly.”

“Don’t you dare touch him,” Sam shrieked, coming back into view and looking like she was trying to fight Vlad off. “You do anything to him and I’ll kill you!” Tucker just sat and stared at him, like he too was trying memorize Danny’s face.

“It’s a mercy, Samantha or do you want his last moments on earth to be drowning on the blood in his lungs.”

“Sam, he has a point. I don’t- I don’t think we can fix this.”

“No! No we always fix things, I’ll do it myself if I have to!”

Danny’s vision was starting to go, more black than anything else. He closed his eyes and readied himself for the inevitable. 

“Time Out,” Danny opened his eyes and found he was no longer in pain. He was standing up and apart from where he’d previously been lying. Sam had her hands in Vlad’s face and the older hybrid was snarling something at her. Tucker was midmotion trying to stand up, presumably to get Sam but the three of them were frozen in the moment. Danny turned and found Clockwork floating, looking very out of place in his parents lab. “Good evening, Danny.”

“You that short on cash that you work part time as a grim reaper?” Danny quipped out of habit. He looked down at his body and grimaced a bit, that wasn’t a pretty sight. No doubt traumatizing for Tucker and Sam. God how were they going to explain this to his parents? “Gonna ferry me across the River Styx? I don’t have two pennies but I think I have a bloodied $10 on me.”

“You’re core is dying and you have 17 seconds left in this world before all your organs give out and finish the process you began when you turned on your parent’s ghost portal,” Clockwork explained as he changed into child form. 

“O-okay,” Danny said shakily, trying to be brave even when he was so, so scared. He was going out whether he wanted it or not but he refused to leave crying. “Nice of you to come say goodbye then but, uh but unless you have something to say then you should let me go back. No one knows better than me that you can’t outrun death. Thanks but I’m uh I’m ready.”

Clockwork stared at him for a bit, not sure how long, time was weird like this but he changed forms a few times. “You’re quite the remarkable young man, Danny Fenton.”

“Uh thanks,” Danny added, once more looking at his body which had, according to Clockwork, a 17 second expiration date. “What’s going to happen? Am I going to become a ghost? Does heaven or hell exist for someone like me?”

“I don’t get to decide what happens, I merely see options,” Clockwork stated easily, taking his time. “If you die naturally you’ll become ghost, a mere shadow of who you are now and one who would fade fairly quickly. You don’t have strong enough anger or regrets to tie you in the real world for long.” Not great but okay he supposed, hell for his friends and family though. “You could let Plasmius deliver his mercy kill, destroying what’s left of your ghost core and ensuring you do not come back.” Better, probably won’t help the Fruitloop’s instability but he can’t save everyone.

“That one comes with it’s own caveat but I’ll get to that in a moment,” Clockwork explained. “There is a third option where you get up off the floor and walk away.” Danny blinked then looked back at his body which certainly wasn’t walking anywhere but into a plush casket. Clockwork opened his hands and the Ghost King’s Crown materialized in his hands. “If you accept your claim to the King’s Cown, it will revitalize your core and your life would be saved.”

Danny blinked.

“By sealing Pariah Dark, you won by proxy and established a legitimate claim to the throne. The Zone has been without a king for millennia, most have forgotten the old rules. Those who remembered were not too keen on a half-ghost child assuming leadership and kept you in the dark. If Plasmius ends your life then your claim transfers over to him, which he is aware of. It had been his plan all along to trick you into defeating Pariah so he could steal the Crown from you at a later date, a much easier opponent.”

Danny’s mind was overloaded with information, he didn’t know what to focus on first. He stared at his 17 seconds from death face and tried to process it all. Crown? Claim? Vlad?

“Of course,” Clockwork tutted, “he didn’t plan on your dying and in such a gruesome fashion. If he kills you and takes your claim, he would spend his remaining years ruling the Ghost Zone in a just, controlled fashion for your memory. He destroys all the stable portals and keeps the ghost and human worlds separate.” Clockwork became and old man and titled his head, “it’s not a bad timeline, all things considered.”

“And if I take it?” Danny asked quietly.

“You’re compassionate, brave and motivated, you have all the makings of a revolutionary king,” Clockwork smiled. “The Zone would experience and unprecedented era of peace, there would be positive interactions between human and ghosts for the first time since life and death split into two. Your name would spoken with reverence for the rest of time.”

“But I don’t want to be king,” Danny frowned.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Clockwork stated. “Which is why I am giving you the choice. If you pass peacefully there will be no one to claim the Crown and life will continue on, ghost attacks and all. If Plasmius kills you, he becomes an effective but unmemorable king. If you take the Crown, you can get the chance to tell Sam and Tucker how much you love them.”

Danny rubbed at his face, he didn’t want to die but he’d be sealing away his entire future with a move like this. He didn’t even know if the Crown would let him go with death, maybe he’d die and be stuck as the Ghost King until his core finally gave out lord in who knows how long. Eternity was an awful long time to carry such a responsibility. He couldn’t bring himself to ask, too afraid of the answer.

“Is there ever a timeline I became an astronaut?” He asked instead. Clockwork hummed, seemingly unsurprised by Danny’s non-sequitur. 

“Yes, in one of the few universes where you never walked into the portal. You never go into space what with human politics putting a halt on the programs but you work for NASA. You leave Amity Park at 17 and don’t come back save for your parents’ dual funeral.” He paused and Danny felt read down to his very bones, “from the moment you became half ghost you were always heading for this moment. The circumstances varied but it always came down to you and the Crown. Time is straining to continue, to see how this drama plays out. Will you accept it and all the joy and grief that comes with it?”

Danny looked over at Vlad, still mid-sneer but there was a scared desperation in his face. He and Vlad sniped at each other all the time but Danny didn’t really hate him and he didn’t think Vlad did either. Leaving him alone, plus making him be king was a heavy burden to put on his enemy. 

Sam and Tuck probably wouldn’t recover from this, he’d put them through so much already but he just knew that they’d never be the same. Could he do that to them? Take the easy way out and leave them to suffer? Mom and Dad didn’t deserve to come home to a dead son, the truth would come out and they’d never forgive themselves. Jazz certainly wouldn’t, she was 2 states over at University but he could already hear her angry, grief-stricken screams. 

Death, death was quiet. It was quiet and merciful and sad, but it was also easy. And Danny Fenton had never once taken the easy route. He reached out and took and the crown before shakily placing it on his head. He gasped, throwing his head back as his core swelled, taking up residence once more right next to his heart. Clockwork smiled, looking like the cat who ate the canary. 

“The Crown of Fire, pardon me the Crown changes with each core, the Crown of Ice is now yours as is the Zone. Your reign begins now but so too does the rest of your life. People are waiting for you. Time in.” Danny slammed back into awareness on the floor of his parents’ lab, the floor he’d almost died on twice. 

He sat up as cold radiated off his body, causing frost to crawl down his arms and along the floor. Sam, Tucker and Vlad, who’d been frozen up until now, jumped back to life. There was a new, familiar weight on his head that he didn’t dare acknowledge. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and said a silent goodbye to a quiet, normal life. It wouldn’t be all bad, he could be happy like this but the Crown still felt like a iron manacle around his neck. But he got used to the ghost powers, he could get used to this too. Maybe one day he won’t look at the stars and say ‘what if?’

“Danny!” Sam shouted, throwing herself into his arms soon followed by Tucker. Their warm weight, their relieved sobs, their shaky breaths in his air, now this was something worth living for. He squeezed them tightly.

“But how dude, you were at death’s door!” Tucker asked, still not letting go.

“You accepted the Crown,” Vlad said evenly, “I wasn’t aware you even knew about your claim. Who told you?”

“You don’t know everything, Vlad,” Danny sighed, sitting himself upright. Ugh his shirt was covered in blood and ectoplasm. He needed to trash these clothes before his parents freaked. And find a way to hide the floating ice crown on his head. 

“Even an old man can be surprised every now and again,” Vlad said wearily. He stood up to his full height before startling Danny by dipping down to one knee. “Then allow me to be the first to welcome my new king and wish him well.”

“I thought you wanted this,” Danny questioned.

“I do, I did,” Vlad said, unusually off balance. “To be quite honest, I’m not sure how to feel about it but, right now, I’m just immeasurably happy you’re alive, little badger. Now I best be off, enjoy your kingdom, my liege, I’ll be sure to come bother you some time soon.” Vlad disappeared in a swirl of pink leaving just him, Sam and Tucker still clinging to him.

Danny may have a kingdom, a job he didn’t want and his whole life decided in a spur of the moment choice, but he also had something very important. He squeezed his friends tightly.

“I love you guys, thank you for being my friends even though I have the worst ideas for activities. Dying? On a Sunday night? How lame is that?” Sam laughed, a bit hysterical but it was real and it made Danny feel weightless. 

“Don’t do that again, buddy,” Tucker breathed into his shoulder. “So you gonna explain what just happened and why you’re apparently the Ghost King or something?”

“Yeah, yeah I will but let’s get changed first. Mom and Dad will be home soon and I think I’m going to need to have a conversation with them about my new job.” 

[paintball-writes]

Day 3 - Identities

Day1 - Day2 - Day3 - Day4

Marinette had been living with the waynes for over a month now. The reason? Tom and Sabine sent her away to her biological father. Apparently To Dupain was not her biological, but Bruce Wayne was.

Marinette had a sliver of hope, A really, really thin one. Which had faltered by the month.

Marinette had defeated Hawk Moth with Chat Noir. Apparently Plagg found the brooches along with two sleeping kwamis accidentally. At night when Gabriel and Natalie were asleep, He had stolen the miraculous. On the patrol that night, Chat had told her that the miraculous were right under their noses. He gave her the two brooches and told her that Plagg had found the brooches in his father’s study. He told her that Gabriel was Hawk moth and Natalie was Mayura. Then he de-transformed and handed her the ring saying that he wanted to continue his life as a civilian.

Later that week it was announced that Chat noir found out who Hawk Moth was and he had stolen the miraculous at night. He then said that Gabriel and Natalie were the Villians. He then revealed himself saying that he was innocent, and he had no idea that his father was Hawk moth. Marinette had thought that with Hawkmoth gone she could beat Lila, But no, it Backfired. That was the reason she was Shipped off. Like an object. She was replaced just like an object.

Her only wish was to die. But she had tried to do that multiple times. Someone always managed to save her. So no, that option was unavailable. She had thought that she would finally be able to die in Gotham by sucide, But no, Selina, Cassandra or Jason always managed to save her.

By now she had started to see the woman as a mother figure. The Waynes hated her. They didn’t even listen to her side of the story. Only Cass and Jason had seen that there was more to the story. Selina and Alfred too, of course. The waynes saw her with disgust. They laid out certain rules.

And of course she figured out they were Bat family. She may not be from Gotham, but she wasn’t certainly stupid. She had to admit, The Waynes were really good at hiding the Batfam thingy. But what gave them away? Misplaced Batarangs by Tim. Then Tikki had also found the cave. She wasn’t stupid, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne were good friends and certainly Batman and Superman. The people of Justice league stopped by often at the Manor too.

Speaking of the Justice League, They had given her an offer to join the League, but she declined. They had given her a satellite phone for emergencies to contact the league. They had praised her high and low. Batman was even Concerned for her when he found out her age range. Concerned! If they knew that Ladybug was their new sibling who was claimed to be a bully, she’d be declared a threat and her take Miraculous away.

Her routine was the same. Wake up. Eat breakfast in silence as she was being glared at. Study something. Do commissions while talking to her boyfriend, Luka and the others. Eat Lunch while being glared at. Study the Grimoire with Alfred. Sketch some designs while talking to Selina and Cass. Draw illustrations while Jason talks. Eat dinner in Silence. Stay up till 3 am doing commissions. Sleep.

Last week she had introduced Luka to Cass, Selina, Jason and Alfred. It went really well. Especially when Jason found out he was Jagged Stone’s son.

She was thinking how she could step up her game with the Waynes. In her thoughts she didn’t see Selina coming in.

“What are you thinking about Kitten ?” Selina asks, seeing the half sketched dress.

“Gah! Selina don’t scare me like that! Anyway I was thinking, ``What do I do to annoy the waynes?” Marinette asks the Master of scheming Cat-woman.

“Hmm, what about going to your true self? Being in headphones, ignoring them, Snide answers, and stuff like that?” Selina says thoughtfully.

“Selina, that's brilliant! You’re the best Mom!” Marinette says. She covers her mouth with her hand realizing what she said.

“Aww, Com’ere Kit. I love you.” Selina says softly.

“You’re not mad?” Marinette hesitantly asks.

“Of course not!” She says.

“You’ll be more of a mother than Sabine will ever be to me.” Marinette says with a small voice and hugs the older woman.

Then the Chaos was unleashed. Whenever the Waynes wanted to ask her something she’d ignore them and she always had her headphones on.

- - - - - - - -

“Marinette, tell me why did you hurt the poor girl?” Bruce asks in a stern voice. Of course Mari didn’t hear him because of the blaring music.

“Marinette, Why did you hurt the poor girl?” Bruce asks again, obviously annoyed.

“MARINETTE-” He was cut off from Alfred of course.

“If I may Master Bruce,” he says, earning a nod. He gently taps the girl’s shoulder. Marinette moves her hair away and removes her Airpod. The music is loud enough for everybody to hear.Meanwhile Bruce flushes in embarrassment. “Miss, Your father wants to ask you something.” Marinette nods. She turns to her Father.

“What?” She asks.

“I asked, Why did you hurt the poor girl marinette, around two months ago?” He asks, patience bearing thin.

“Oh? I didn’t know that I could make a clone of myself and Send one to the fencing class and the other to beat her up at the Seine?” She says in a bored tone. Jason and Cass, not being able to hold their laughter any longer, burst out laughing.

Later that night they checked her attendance, sure enough she was in the fencing class.

- - - - - -

One day Marinette got a call from the Justice league, Stating an emergency. She quickly transformed to Ladybug and Portalled to the Watchtower.

“Ladybug, welcome to the Watchtower,” Wonder Woman welcomed, standing at the head of a group of heroes. Interestingly enough, Batman and all of his brood were among them. Nightwing, Red Robin, Black Bat, and Robin and the others.

“Wonder Woman,” she greeted back. “What’s the problem?”

“Your former partner has been kidnapped.”

Ladybug’s face turned pale, but she took a deep breath instead of panicking. “What do we know?”

“Ra’s al Ghul has taken the former Chat Noir in an attempt to convince the Guardian of the Miraculous to turn over the jewels to him,” Batman reported.

Her face turned up into a snarl. “The League of Assassins,” she spat.

They were surprised that she knew Ra’s. But they hid it well.

“I take it you understand why we cannot allow the Miraculous to be surrendered to his control,” Batman continued.

Wonder Woman stepped in before Ladybug could reply. “Ladybug, we need you to tell us who the Guardian is so that we may protect them.”

Ladybug let out a cold laugh. Shivers ran down everyone’s spine. “Wonder Woman, you misunderstand. The Order of the Miraculous is all but dead. I’m all that’s left. You want the Grand Guardian of the Miraculous?” She spread her arms wide. “You’re looking at her. And Ra’s al Ghul can have them over my dead body. ”

The gathered heroes looked stunned. “Now where is Adrien?”

Red robin started, recovering first. “You’re not going alone.”

“You’re right,” Ladybug cut in. “I’m not. I’m gathering my team.”

“What Red Robin meant to say is that Batman and his assembled partners are going with you,” Wonder Woman soothed. “They have experience dealing with Ra’s and would be a great asset.”

“I’ll be back in ten minutes, at the most.” She said. Everyone nodded. She portalled away to gather her team.

Five minutes later a portal opened and stepped out Honey bee, Dragoness and Cobra in the Glory. The portal snapped shut when Ladybug entered.

“This is not enough! We’re dealing with Ra’s al Ghul and the league here!” Ladybug said. “We need her. She’s the last resort if we lose!” Dragoness exclaimed. The Justice league was confused. Who were they talking about?

“You’re right. Bee, you’re the only one who knows where she is. You’re her best friend. I can't find her in all of paris!” Ladybug asks, turning to Honey bee.

“You’re right, I do. It’ll be easy to find her. She’ll be in her room. She’s always Isolated, so don’t worry about getting caught.” Honey Bee answers.

“Isolation! I thought I told her to Socialize!” Ladybug exclaims.

“Yeah, but her family treats her like a pariah except some people. But Ladybug I don’t know if she’ll be able to fight.” Honey bee says.

“Rossi?”

“Rossi.”

“Now location please.” Ladybug says.

“Right. Wayne Manor, Gotham, New Jersey.” Honeybee whispers. Earning surprised looks from Ladybug and the Supers.

“Alright.” Ladybug portals away. This was all staged of course. She had recently found a spell to make a clone of herself.

“Why won't the hero be able to fight? She’s a hero!” Batman exclaims.

“Depression, you overgrown furry, Depression. She’s tried committing sucide several times. We saved her.” This earns many shocked looks.

Cue opening a portal. All of the Paris heroes Gasps. All in glory Multimouse is standing there.

When Honey Bee saw Multimouse, she gasped and enveloped her in a hug, muttering French endearments and saying how much she’d missed her. Dragoness stole Multimouse for a hug next before passing her on to Viperion who also received an extra peck on the lips in return, while Ladybug watched with a soft smile.

With Kaalki involved, it was child’s play to get into the assassin stronghold. Team Miraculous filled the gaps and worked seamlessly in their own right, simply a step away from Gotham’s Bats. They beat assassins on their own. The Bats just watched in awe.

It didn’t take them long to make their way to Ra’s.

The man wore a self-satisfied smirk on his face as he greeted him from his throne. A bruised and bloodied but otherwise intact Adrien was being restrained on the dias a few feet away.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Team Miraculous,” Ra’s mused, looking down the line. His eyes paused on Multimouse and his expression shifted to intense amusement. “And if it isn’t the latest in the Detective’s brood. I suppose heroics truly do run in the family after all.”

A number of shocked and confused gazes snapped to Multimouse, who simply stared at him down with cold eyes growling quietly.

“And yet she isn’t why we’re here,” Ladybug cut in coldly, shoving that problem in a box for later.

Ra’s shifted his oily attention to her. “Yes, I believe I requested the Guardian, young Bug.”

“And here I am,” Ladybug said simply. “But I will never cede the Miraculous to you.”

“Well, then I suppose the Blonde Cat dies.” The assassin near Adrien tried to kill him only to turn to orange smoke. Ra’s growls when he realizes he was tricked.

“Your reign is over. Your crimes won’t continue much longer. Tell me, just how long have you been using the Pits to keep yourself alive?”

“Goodbye, Ra’s al Ghul,” Ladybug intoned. “We’ll leave you to what remains of your empire.” She turned and motioned for the Fox to open the portal to the Watchtower. The Bats followed behind.

Adrien was at the fringes, attempting to escape a hero that was trying to get him to the Medbay for medical attention. He only had eyes for Multimouse.

“Marinette!” he called.

The Bats were shocked at both the name and the blatant outing of a secret identity.

Adrien broke free from his wounds. “Marinette, I’m so sorry,” he said brokenly.

It was quiet for a moment. “I take it they told you why I left, then,” Multimouse said, carefully devoid of emotion.

“I never thought-”

“Don’t, Adrien,” Queen Bee snapped.

Adrien gaped at his friend, shocked at the venom her words carried against him.

“But her Lies, they weren't hurting anyone!”

“How?” Multimouse snapped, her voice cracking. She took a deep breath. “How was it different? Because you told me I had to ‘take the high road?’ Because her lies would unravel themselves? Because she wasn’t hurting anyone? Bullshit, Adrien! They were hurting me!”

“She followed your advice at first,” Queen Bee said sharply. “She shouldn’t have, but you were her friend and she trusted you. By the time she realized that it had been a mistake, it was too late. Everyone else was in too deep and you did nothing . When Mari tried to tell everyone that they were being lied to, she was made to look like a liar. A bully.”

“Do you realize that the rest of us had people on watchlists?” Ryuko said bluntly. “People at risk of Akumatization that could bring the city to its knees. Aurore, because of Stormy Weather II. Ondine, because of Syren. But do you know who was on top?” She let the silence sit. “Marinette. Marinette was on top of that list. The only reason she was above Ladybug was because Marinette was drowning. But any time she tried to get through to the others, Lila hit back harder and you would ask Mari to back down. Because we don’t want to upset Lila, right? We don’t want her to become an akuma. Again.”

“My parents believed her, Adrien,” Multimouse said quietly. “They sent me away because I was ‘out of control’. I’m treated like a criminal where I am now! So I’m sorry, Adrien, but I can’t forgive you. You said you didn’t want to live with more lies, but then you stopped telling the truth when it threatened your ‘peace’. Even when that ‘peace’ might have ruined my life.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “But you know what they say, right? Never meet your heroes.” She turned and looked straight at Batman. “They’ll always just disappoint you.”

- - - - - - - -

The next week was tense at the Wayne manor. But eventually they apologised to marinette. She became close with them. She and her family then sent lawsuits to the Akuma class.

The saying is true then. “All’s well that ends well.”

@maribat-bdbwm

[geekgirles]

Your Heart

A centuries-long feud between two of the world's most mysterious and otherwordly species is put to a halt by a sudden crisis. Danny Phantom, unofficial protector of Amity Park and indisputable King of the Ghost Zone, seeing no other choice, must make a risky decision for the sake of his people and loved ones.

But can a ghost truly trust a witch given their people's history? Or will he fall under the spell of the hypnotising Queen of the Witches of Amity Park?

READ ON AO3

Word Count: 5725

CHAPTER 1 -- Desperate Measures

Neon green.

Neon green eyes. 

The same sight that has accompanied him ever since that fateful day when he was fourteen and he entered his parents’ portal to the Ghost Zone.

The very first time he looked himself in the mirror after the accident he was greeted by those very same eerily green eyes, coupled with no little amount of panic and anxiety. And how could he not be frightened at the sight? Not only his eyes had changed colour, he himself had drastically transformed, too. 

What once was a cascade of black hair falling down his face had become an avalanche of white strands. The black and white jumpsuit he’d worn as he entered the portal was still black and white, but the colour scheme was reversed. Surprisingly, instead of looking even paler than usual, his complexion gained a healthy tanーas soon as he learned what he had turned into, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the ridiculous notion of a dead guy having more flesh-coloured skin after dying. He couldn’t even recognise his own voice! And it wasn’t the typical “my voice sounds different now that I hear it recorded” type of different. No. There was a certain...echo to it. 

Just what had he turned into?

As that first excruciating month after the accident would prove, he’d become a half-ghost, half-human hybrid.

He, Danny Fenton, was a halfa, as the locals liked to call him. 

And by ‘locals’ he didn’t mean the people living in his hometown, Amity Park. He meant the ghosts living in the Ghost Zone. The parallel dimension to Earth that his parents had dedicated years to find, hence the creation of the Ghost Portal that led to the start of his rare condition. 

And no, he couldn’t say ‘unique’ because there was another halfa that had been around for twenty years prior to his own accident. But he wasn’t going to go in detail about that; thinking about the fruitloop always put him in a bad mood. And he already had enough on his plate as it was. 

To say his first year as a halfa was difficult would be an understatement, maybe as much of an understatement as it would be to call the sinking of the Titanic a midnight swim. 

His first year with ghost powers had been brutal. There was just too much to take into account when living a double life. And if having a secret of such magnitude could take its toll on an adult, then that was nothing compared to what it could do to the already delicate psyche of a teenager. Wait, psyche? He wondered to himself, Where did that come from? Maybe Tucker is right and I need to meet some new people… Psychological talks are always a tell-tale sign that I’ve been spending too much time with Jazz.

But it was true, wasn’t it? 

While his classmates at Casper High worried about pimples, or getting their first girlfriends or boyfriends, or fitting in with the A-listers, thoughts of his secret being discovered plagued his mind 24/7. It was a miracle he hadn’t outed himself the moment he got his powers, given how little control he used to have over them. 

And it wasn’t like he could just train his powers and figure out what to do from there in peace. Oh, no. That would’ve made things easy for him and, as he would come to learn over the years, the universe just loved making things unnecessarily difficult for him. He was the cosmos’ favourite chew toy. 

No, of course not. He had to learn to use his powers while countless mischievous ghosts set out to complete whatever crazy agenda they had or to pummel him to the ground materialised in Amity Park for the first time in...let’s see...ever?

He also met the fruitloop which, of course, always brought lots of pleasant memories of an obsessive psycho attacking him, mocking him, drooling and pointlessly flirting with his mum, trying to kill his dad, only to then do a complete 180 and try to convince him to abandon his ‘idiot father’ and join him as his own son… No, no! Not going there! He really couldn’t afford losing his temper at the moment. 

His only saving grace those first few months had been his best friend, Tucker Foley and, some time later, his older sister Jazz. 

Tucker was the first to know about his secret because he was there the day of the accident. Though not a fan of the paranormal, Tucker was really into technology; always had been. Unfortunately, that earned him the nickname of ‘Techno Geek’ back in their high school days. But it was precisely that interest in the crazy inventions his parents often came up with that had led them to checking out the, then busted, Ghost Portal. And it had been his friend’s conviction that the two of them could surely make it work that had led to his molecules getting rearranged. 

Jazz was a completely different case. 

Growing up with ghost-hunting parents, meaning they focused their inventions on the paranormal side of life (and that included ectoplasm-filled dinners), Jazz had taken it upon herself to be the ‘responsible, trustworthy, and caring’ (her words, not his) older sister. Since they were little, his sister wholeheartedly believed it was up to her to make sure her brother was safe and got the attention he needed, seeing as their parents could be scatterbrained, at best. 

It goes without saying that such a mindset, though appreciated as they grew up, turned her into a meddlesome know-it-all in the eyes of any younger sibling. But if the aforementioned younger sibling happened to have developed ghost powers just as he hit puberty...well, that made her a nightmare. 

The first few months Danny tried keeping his sister at arm’s length, much to her chagrin. But she eventually learned his secret anyway and kept it away from their parents, something her little brother could never thank her enough for. 

How did she learn his secret? According to her, she found out during Danny’s first encounter with the misery-inducing ghost known as Penelope Spectra. But she didn’t reveal that she knew until a certain turn of events.

Said turn of events?

In his shortsighted search for power, the fruitloop had freed Pariah Dark, the dreaded Ghost King, from his eternal slumber and imprisonment. And not only did he free an ancient, power hungry spectre, he also stole the Ring of Wrath, the powerful item Dark needed to gain infinite power alongside the Crown of Fire already in his possession, and took it with him to Amity Park, endangering everyone in the process. 

Pariah’s plans to conquer the Ghost Zone anew, only this time he coveted Earth as well, had led to many events in a surprisingly short amount of time. But the most surprising of them all was his ascension to the throne of the Ghost Zone. 

After an agonising battle where he risked his very life from merely trying to go toe to toe with the tyrannical spirit, his quick decision-making made a difference that day. Stealing the Ring of Wrath and the Crown of Fire from Pariah Dark in an attempt to keep such raw power away from his person, Danny finally succeeded and imprisoned him once and for all inside the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep. 

That day, he saved both his world and the Ghost Zone. 

That day he became Danny Phantom; Amity Park’s greatest hero.

...until he, and everyone who had previously been celebrating him, found out that a link between him and the ring and crown had been formed after he defeated Pariah Dark, which made him the new ruler of the Ghost Zone. 

All at the tender age of fourteen.

At first, he tried bargaining with the Observants and Clockwork, ghosts who would act as his rule’s Council from them onwards; he tried convincing them of how unfitting he was to rule an entire dimension. And to this day, he still maintained that belief. Back then he was fourteen, he couldn’t even drive, let alone rule over an entire race he barely knew the basics of! Many of the Ghost Zone’s inhabitants were his enemies, on top of that. Just because they’d agreed to fighting by his side during Dark’s return didn't mean they would suddenly be okay with him being the boss of them! What’s more, many of them would surely challenge him for the throne; his rule would be forever accompanied by war and anarchy! And most importantly, he was half-human. How could someone like him, who had an entire life outside the Ghost Zone, ever be fit to be its king?

But the Observants and Clockwork would have none of it. 

The Ghost of Time took advantage of his “I know everything that could and will happen” powers to toy with his weakness: protecting his home and loved ones. Clockwork simply pointed out that, as the new Ghost King, he could actually keep a closer eye on his subjects than he did in the Human World, and use his position to protect Amity Park from ghosts by merely implementing some laws. Not to mention, that due to the sheer power he would possess, most of his adversaries would have to be complete morons to even entertain the thought of challenging him, meaning the amount of ghost attacks his hometown endured would decrease drastically just with him as their ruler. And, of course, there was the issue with Vlad… As Clockwork would helpfully remind him, if he didn’t accept his position as new king of the ghosts, then Plasmius was sure to take advantage of it to claim the Ring of Wrath and the Crown of Fire for himself. 

And a world ruled by Vlad Plasmius promised to be a thousand times worse than anything Pariah Dark could submit his subjects to. 

All of it, every single point in his favour, Clockwork said completely offhandedly. As if he were talking about his plans for the weekend instead of slowly but surely bending Danny’s decision to what he and the Observants believed was the best outcome. Every word was uttered as if he didn’t know the, then, ghost boy would do anything to prevent such a terrible future from happening. 

As if the choice was truly his to make. 

And that led him to where he was now, seven years since he accepted his newfound role. 

In some ways, he remained the same. 

His hair was still the same snow white mess falling down his face. His green eyes were still vibrant and alert, if perhaps filled with a maturity and sense of responsibility that weren’t always there. His skin was still the same tanned complexion he wished he could get after sunbathing, rather than the nasty burns he would easily get. And most importantly, he was still doing his best, dedicating every single minute of his life, to doing the right thing, to protecting the innocent, and to trying to balance his responsibilities as Danny Phantom, the Ghost King and unofficial protector of Amity Park, and Danny Fenton, an university student trying to get his degree in Astrophysics while keeping his parents and acquaintances in the dark when it came to his secret. 

He still loved space and, albeit harder to achieve, he still dreamed of eventually becoming an astronaut. His sharp wit and tongue had only been honed with the passage of time; his ability to outsmart and to get his opponents to lower their guards enough to defeat them had saved his butt countless times over the years. Deep down, he was still the same Danny. The kind, compassionate, and caring boy who wanted to ensure everyone was safe. Sometimes at the price of his own mental health. 

But for every single thing that had remained unchanged, many more evolved alongside the boy.

For starters, he no longer was a boy, but a man. At twenty-one, there was no trace of the baby fat that once adorned Danny’s face, having been replaced by a sharp jawline and sculpted muscles caused by several years of physical exertion. His once scrawny figure was now replaced by broad shoulders, defined pectorals and abs, and bulging biceps. With his jumpsuit accentuating every single sinew of his body. 

The jumpsuit itself had undergone minor yet noticeable changes. The white collar covering his neck  and collarbone had gradually extended until it reached his shoulders. His biceps were now adorned by two white bracelets each, and his white gloves included several bottoms which activated the different mechanisms he had scavenged from his parents’ trash and had Tucker include in his suit over the years. Just like he traded his old belt for a far more refined utility belt, which also held several surprises. And yet, the biggest change was the logo on his chest. Or rather, the fact that he now sported a logo at all. It was a rather simple, yet witty, design. A white ghost shaped to include both his alterego’s initials; ‘DP’. 

It was rather ingenious. 

He couldn’t claim the credit for himself, though. He hadn’t created the logo. It was the strangest experience and still, one of the most touching.

One day he was flying over Amity Park, patrolling to make sure everything was as it should, when, thanks to his enhanced senses, something caught his eye. Sitting on a bench in the park was a girl but, for once, he didn’t pay attention to her appearance. He couldn’t, for he was too entranced with what she was doodling on her notebook. Doodles. That was all there was to it, really, but amongst black cats, roses, and the occasional “spooky ghost”, her design for his logo stood out. 

He asked Tucker to add it to the latest update of his suit as soon as he went back home. 

That very same logo adorning his chest was also engraved on the verdigris medallions keeping his black and white cape on his shoulders. That cape, alongside the Crown of Fire and the Ring of Wrath, were his designated attire as the Ghost King. Jazz figured he could alter his appearance a little depending on the role he played at the moment in order to avoid making the citizens of Amity Park jittery. “We want them to accept you as their protector, Danny,” she once said, “the less you remind them that you’re the current king of the Ghost Zone, the better.”

That was him. The self-appointed protector of Amity Park, and the leader of the Ghost Zone, and his highest priority would always be to ensure everyone’s safety. 

Which was why he was about to do what he was going to do. 

“Great One,” Frostbite, the honorable, trustworthy leader of the Far Frozen, called out to him, “are you certain there is no other way?”

His King appraised him with a resigned look. Frostbite and his people were some of the first ghosts to accept and respect him, immediately declaring themselves at his service after he defeated Pariah Dark. His imposing appearance, that of a hairy snow monster with sharp teeth and claws and an almost unmatched proficiency in the art of cryokinesis, hid his noble, gentle, and wise interior. The leader of the Far Frozen was an ally, a mentor, a friend...But, unless he came up with an alternative of his own, he couldn’t be of much help at the moment. Sighing, Danny shook his head. 

“There probably is, Frostbite. But we’ve already lost enough time. If we don’t act soon, who knows what could happen.”

“I would.” A disembodied voice announced from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. If he were still fourteen, that trick would’ve made Danny jump a few feet high. But that was no longer the case, and he knew the owner of the voice all too well. “High chance, it wouldn’t be pretty.”

“Have you come here to offer an alternative, Clockwork?” Danny crossed his arms. A part of him knew it was futile to expect a straight answer from the Ghost of Time, his lips were sealed when it came to revealing the future. But, somehow, he still hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to, as of date, his most reckless decision. 

In a way, the ghost’s appearance seemed fitting. With his fluctuating age and his cloaked self, carrying a staff around, he resembled the Grim Reaper himself. Depending on his answer, he could either save or doom him. 

“I’m afraid not, boy. And even if I did, I most likely wouldn’t be allowed to tell you.” Clockwork shrugged, but the smile on his face somehow made the halfa suspect he didn’t lament anything. 

 Gesturing with a hand at the child-like ghost, Danny turned to address Frostbite. “There you have it. This seems to be our only hope.”

“But, sire,” Frostbite started, worry apparent on his canine features, “surely you are aware of the risks we will be taking ifー”

“I know,” his King interrupted him with a raised hand, “you don’t have to remind me. I was hoping things wouldn’t come to this but we can’t afford to lose any more time. You said it yourself, Frostbite. Aside from a very few ghosts like Wulf, who doesn’t even fully understand the workings behind his power, they are the only ones who know how the Ghost Zone’s portals work. If we want to put an end to our current problem, we have got to ask them for help.”

Shoulders slumping in defeat, Frostbite sighed, “I know, Great One. But I cannot help but fear they will either refuse to aid us in our time of need, or agree to it only to eventually betray us.” A low growl erupted from his throat. “These are extremely treacherous and unpredictable beings, my King.”

“I’m well aware of the risk, Frostbite.” The halfa reassured his friend, putting a hand on his furry shoulder. “But think about it this way: if they refuse, we can start looking for alternatives and avoid any unnecessary trouble from them; and if they accept with any sort of hidden motive, all we have to do is keep our guards up.” 

Now presenting himself as an old man, Clockwork nodded at Danny’s words, “It’s truly all we can do.”

Seeing as there truly was nothing else they could do, the leader of the Far Frozen could only pray his King’s noble, yet dangerous, decision wouldn’t become their downfall. Sighing, he finally nodded, silently expressing he and his people’s loyalty to their king, no matter what path he chose. 

The halfa smiled at his friend’s understanding nature, but it was short lived. Squaring his shoulders, he motioned to his companions to follow him. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

The three ghosts made their way around the corridors of the king’s lair inside the Ghost Zone. The hallways and rooms were empty, for once, since the ruler had previously given orders to stay away from his lair that day. It was a day for deliberating his next move, the last thing he needed was to be distracted by his subjects. 

He was doing this for them, after all. 

Opening the gates, they stepped out into the island, where a green-skinned, ghostly postman was waiting for them. The irony was not lost on Danny: the same ghost Vlad had used to trick his mother and him all those years ago would now be essential for his plan. 

With Frostbite and Clockwork flanking him, the young king approached the spectre, a serious look on his face. Extending out his gloved hand, he handed him an envelope. “You know what to do with this.” He stated firmly. 

Bowing his head as a sign of respect and understanding, the postman took the envelope from his hand, flying away to the nearest portal. 

All that was left to do was wait. 

....................

Purple. 

Purple eyes. 

Once again, she was greeted by the very eyes that marked her fate. Just by having violet eyes, her fate was sealed and outlined for her the day she was born. For twenty-one years she had been greeted by the same sight: striking violet eyes, glossy raven hair framing her face, and fair skin that contrasted greatly with the rest of her features. And even to this day a part of her was still surprised that it was all happening to her. 

When she was a little girl, her mother and grandma would often warn her of the future that lay ahead of her, a future she wasn’t even sure she wanted. Whenever her mother spoke of what was expected of her, it all sounded far too difficult for her little mind to understand. And worst of all, far too boring. 

Why would she want to host parties and ceremonies? She was too young to even know what they were like! Whenever her mother started talking about the parties she would attend, a bubble of excitement grew inside of her. She was going to go to the grown-up parties instead of staying at home! She was going to have fun and do whatever it was the older girls did there!

...only for her mother to burst her little bubble, as always. 

The moment she felt the slightest excitement about the things her mother told her about, the woman would then go into a hundred details that sounded anything but fun. 

No, she wouldn’t be having fun at the parties, but tending to her guests. No, she couldn’t dress however she liked once she was older, there were expectations set on her. No, she couldn’t turn anyone she disliked into a frog; of course not!

And her younger self always found herself wondering: what’s the point in being a witch if you couldn’t do anything with your magic?

Thankfully, when her mother became too much to bear, her grandma was always near. Growing up, Grandma Ida had been her role model. She was fun and understanding when her mother was strict and unyielding. She was wise and the ideal mentor when Pamela acted hysterical or unreasonable. But above all else, her Grandma understood her when she was an outcast in her own society. 

Being an outcast among witches, how cruel could destiny be?

When she was a little girl she didn’t understand she was an outcast so much as she knew something was wrong with the other girls from her clan. They were never mean to her, per se, but they also never wanted to play with her. 

Not like she was ever allowed to play much, anyway. 

She spent most of her time awake listening to her mother’s lectures, or trying to pay attention during her governesses’ lessons, or, and this was her favourite part of the day, watching her Grandma in action. 

As she grew up, she started connecting the dots, understanding the reasons behind her sheltered and lonely upbringing. 

The other girls would never say a mean thing about her, nor would they get too close to her, because she was off-limits. If they ever disrespected her, their families might find themselves in a tight situation and fall from grace. But if they ever included her in their activities, making her feel like one of them, then she could be distracted and get sidetracked from her studies and her true purpose. 

Such was the life of the future Queen of the Witches. 

Growing up, she often tried to rebel against the role imposed on her since birth. A role she was forced to play ever since she opened her eyes for the first time and that forsaken violet colour appeared from behind her eyelids. 

Although a witch didn’t exactly become the queen of her people due to their genes. That is to say, the position wasn’t inherited; it depended on the most important asset a sorceress could ever possess. 

Her affinity to magic. 

Whoever had the strongest, and hence was the most powerful spellcaster among them, was destined to be her clan’s leader. But that didn’t necessarily mean anyone could be queen either. 

That popular belief among pop culture that spread the idea that anyone could do magic if sufficiently trained was absolutely ridiculous. You were either born with the ability to do magic, or you weren’t. Period. 

Another popular misinformation humans seemed to be suckers for was the idea that magic came from ancient artefacts or spellcasting. In reality, magic came from within every witch; from their anima. Their own essence. In truth, magic was the ability to channel their essence and project it into the physical realm with the added help of their knowledge of the secrets of life. 

Because when it came to magic, there was nothing more powerful than knowing the secrets of the universe. If you knew the secret to something, you knew how to master that something. 

Based on those principles, witches chose their queen according to the strength of her anima, and although the throne wasn’t supposed to be passed down from mother to daughter, it was worth mentioning that they did have a Royal family of some sort:

The Mansons. 

The family she, Samantha “Sam” Manson, belonged to. 

And what was it that turned the Mansons into the closest thing her people had to a Royal family? Their violet eyes. 

Their eyes were a tell-tale sign of a superior kind of anima. Just like their irises, it would manifest itself into purple energy; the only kind of energy that could survive dark magic without being corrupted. Sam’s own energy manifested itself in the form of a sparkly, purple mist, confirming her potential as her clan’s greatest spellcaster. 

Sam spent the first years of her life cursing her luck. She didn’t want to be queen! She wanted to have friends, to play, to see the world from beyond the clan’s manor’s windows...She...she wanted...she wanted to live. 

For years she hated her amethyst gaze, a cruel reminder of a fate that had already been outlined for her the moment she was born and from which she could not escape. But then, her Grandma Ida, the Witch Queen before her, died when she was fourteen, and Sam learned to value her unique eye colour. 

It was the only thing she had to remember her grandmother by, after all. 

Since Ida never had a daughter, but a son who would eventually marry Pamela, a lesser witch, the clan had seemingly fallen into anarchy. Several witches tried battling each other for control, while the members of the Council deliberated in search for a better solution than mindless duels that could massacrate the coven’s numbers. 

And it was during that time that Sam finally embraced what for years had been her greatest curse. 

Taking a stand, she casted a paralysing spell in the manor’s Grand Hall, forcing everyone present to stay put and listen to her. With that simple move, she achieved two things. Firstly, she got her people’s undivided attention, and secondly, she reminded them just who possessed the strongest anima. 

Although Sam would never admit it, having so many unwavering gazes looking down on her disturbed her a little, but she forced herself to go on with her plan before she lost her nerve. Using that newfound courage, she reminded everyone that, not only was she Ida’s only granddaughter, but she also had violet eyes and, as they’d just witnessed, the anima to match. She brought up the countless hours she’d spent studying to become their coven’s next queen, and she fought tooth and nail until they recognised her as the heiress to the throne. 

When the Head of the Council had reminded her of her age, still being too young to rule, Sam made a deal with them. The Council would act as her regents until her 18th birthday, when she became of age and would ascend to the throne as her Grandma, who was considered one of the best queens they’d ever had, would have wanted. In exchange, the girl promised she would dedicate those years to study and train to become the leader her people deserved. 

After much deliberation, the Council accepted her offer. 

Just as Sam kept her part of the deal. 

The four years she dedicated to her duties as future queen shaped Sam’s view on her lifelong duty. She always wanted to change the world for the better, now she had the means to do so. As Queen of the Witches of Amity Park, she would focus her efforts on diplomacy between the rest of the covens spread throughout the globe and hers. She would personally deal with any trespasser or crook who dared threaten her witches’ safety. She would focus her energy on rebuilding the link with nature her people used to profit from. 

But above all else, now that they were wandering freely around Amity Park, her coven’s home, she would protect her people from those traitors. 

No witch would suffer because of them ever again.

That was three years ago. Now at twenty-one, Sam was proud to call herself the Witch Queen, a duty and a privilege she was honoured to shoulder. 

Lost in thought, she gently stroked DeMilo’s head. The venus fly trap had been her familiar since her Rite of Passage back from her 14th birthday; it was the last ceremony Grandma Ida was able to attend. Unfortunately, the memory of her rite was tainted by a rather...unpleasant event, making it almost impossible to reminisce without the feeling of nausea creeping up on her. 

After their Rite of Passage, witches got their familiars, signalling they were finally full-fledged members of their birthclan. But while most young sorceresses got cats, or ravens, or any other animal ーsome animals being more stereotypically “witchy” than othersー, Sam got DeMilo. As unusual as getting a plant as her familiar was, it didn’t matter. The girl’s natural affinity to nature made it incredibly easier to harvest the herbs and plants they needed for their spells. 

And DeMilo was ten times more interesting than any house cat, anyways. And a hundred times more hygienic than a drooling dog. 

“You’ve been staring at the mirror for almost an hour now.” A heavily accented voice broke her out from her stupor. “And then they say I’m vain.”

Turning around, the queen found her lady-in-waiting, Paulina Sanchez, leaning against the door of her quarters, her arms crossed. At her feet lay several toiletries and different kinds of make-up. 

Avoiding her gaze, flustered, Sam apologised, “I...I’m sorry. I was waiting for you to come back with what you needed and I guess I got lost in thought.”

“No kidding,” Paulina snickered as she made her way to her Queen’s side. With a wave of her hand, she beckoned the items currently resting on the floor to float towards her, a soft pink glow enveloping them. “Is there, like, anything on your mind? Anything we should worry about? Because, last time I checked, everything was going smoothly for us. Except for that one nutcase still trying to hunt us, but nobody is taking her seriously anyway.” She shrugged, not feeling concerned in the slightest. 

Sam frowned a little at her words. She knew of the so-called witchhunter, and although Paulina was right that nobody seemed to take her seriously, it wouldn’t be unwise to keep an eye on her. The last thing they needed was another massacre like the one from The Great Burning. “No, no. Nothing like that, don’t worry.” She dismissed the idea with a motion of her hand. “I was just thinking about the past, that’s all.”

Paulina replied with a noncommittal sound as she started brushing her Queen’s hair. Normally, Sam limited herself to be pampered exclusively if she had an important meeting with the Council or the other clan leaders to attend, such as Coven Night, her people’s most sacred ceremony. But there was another reason why she had called Paulina to dress her up for. 

“Is there anything going on that I should know about?” she asked her lady-in-waiting, her eyes never leaving her reflection on the mirror. 

The Latina’s gaze hardened, “Harriet is trying to get more witches on her plan to get rid of them, but, so far, everyone seems to be loyal to you and your orders.”

“As they should.”

Unbeknownst to anyone, the Queen’s two handmaidens, Paulina and Star, were also her most trustworthy informants. They had eyes and ears all over the manor, without even using any surveillance spell. The other witches tended to look down on them due to their Valley Girl attitude, which often made them look far less capable than they really were. Which was perfect for them and Sam, because that way any possible conspirators would lower their guard around them. 

If anyone sneezed in the manor, they would tell her. 

Paulina was about to ask about what course of action they should take, when a shrill voice broke the quiet atmosphere, immediately drawing the attention from everyone present in the large house. 

Sam hastily stood up from her chair just as Star burst the doors open, surprise etched to her skin. Making eye contact with her queen, she hurriedly arrived next to her, doubling over and panting from racing all the way there. 

Concerned, Sam put a hand on her shoulder as she ordered Paulina to bring her friend some water, but the blonde stopped her with a wave of her hand. “No,” she breathed, “this...this is...too important.”

“Star, what’s wrong?” The violet-eyed girl asked. 

Instead of an answer from her handmaiden, she received a neon green envelope closed by a wax seal. If the colour of the envelope weren’t unusual enough, the seal was shaped after a glaringly familiar logo:

A ghost shaped to include two initials; ‘DP’.

In cursive, the envelope said it was directed to the ‘Witch Queen of Amity Park.’ And an array of red, capital letters was pressed against its green surface, reading:

URGENT

Sam couldn’t hold back her astonishment, a hand barely covering her gasping mouth. Absent-mindedly, as if under a spell, she took several tentative steps back, until her back collided with her vanity. She could not believe her own eyes.

The Ghost King was personally addressing her. 

[scarlettaagni]

Kandore (Lancer)

Kandore is the current clan leader of the Half-Heart Clan. He was named for his proficiency with the combistick as his signature weapon, as well as general skill with pole-like weapons.

As a child in the Agoge, he failed many times at stealing under his teachers’ watch and thus was given lashes as punishments for his failures. However, he never cried, no matter how hard the teachers tried to get a plea for mercy out of him. He was rarely given special treatment despite being a son of the clan leader, rather, because he must prepare for a higher position in life, he must work to fulfill the higher expectations. Kandore was only spoiled with the privilege of affording Elites to be his personal tutors and teachers.

His father Kachare had many children before and after Kandore, but noticing the boy’s pragmatism, charisma, confidence, and ability to take command of situations, named Kandore his heir.

In his youth, a local Hunter dominated the local arena through multiple victorious deathmatches in a row. Up to task, Kandore challenged him after observing him from afar. Right before their match, he and Kandore had a traditional good-natured exchange. The undefeated champion put his fist against Kandore’s chest, a common pre-fight goodwill gesture, but proceeded to expand the combistick hidden in his hand, intending on skewering Kandore’s head at the very start of the match. Though this is how he had managed to become the undefeated champion, Kandore had enough foresight to dodge the blow, receiving only a gash up the left side of his head. Half-blinded from the blood gushing out of his wound, Kandore killed the champion, and decided to take the move for himself.

Though named heir, meaning he will inherit the position once Kachare dies, Kandore took it upon himself to speed up the process and challenged his aging father for it instead. He believed he was ready for the job as he was, that Kachare had already grown old and unfit for it, and he did not want to “waste time”. Engaging in a public deathmatch, Kandore fairly slew his own father with a stab through the chest and a cut across the belly, decapitating Kachare as is tradition and received the leadership at an unconventionally young age.

Kandore’s taking of the position was controversial among the Half-Heart Clan, due to the fight being completely fair, honorable, and with legal precedent, but also seen as wholly unnecessary because he was already publicly declared the heir. While it’s happened before, an heir wishing to claim the leadership from their parent is often seen as a sign of impulsivity or impatience, qualities not looked upon favorably. Aware it may not be a popular move or start to his command over the clan, he worked on relations and built a reputation on being a personable and forgiving, but strict when he must be, leader.

Most of the clan have never met him personally, or held more than five conversations with him. As a result, they don’t know that while polite, his niceties are for show, and his forgiveness comes with strings attached. Kandore shows mercy and gives privileges in order to both endear himself to people, but also to hold these favors hostage and threaten taking them away should the other party not play along, or do something he doesn’t like. Though, sometimes, on a whim, he’ll do a nice thing for someone without expecting anything back, usually when it’s at no cost to himself or the clan at large. This is rare as he considers wasting his time and resources as a cost to himself/the clan, but he occasionally thinks better on it.

Kandore is a skilled manipulator, and excellent at reading people. During interactions, Kandore is constantly multitasking by carrying the conversation, observing the other person’s reactions to what he says, and recalling previous knowledge about them. By experimenting with topics during conversation, he easily gleans their berserk buttons and soft spots to take advantage of and use should he feel the need to. He even conducts personal or ordered research on Half-Heart clan members to learn more about them, and even on Yautja from other clans should they be relevant. In all situations, Kandore continually formulates plans to find a way he will benefit from the outcome in some form, no matter what.

He traps his subjects within societal conventions, where he will code his polite words with underlying messages and implications. While he continues to either deliberately passive-aggressively dig at them, or simply say things with a tone that implies something, he will not make an obvious attack or insult. The other person is allowed to make dirty looks all they like, or respond with a tone of hatred, but the instant they voice their disdain for him aloud, no subtext, he will instantly counter with a scathing retort. Kandore has reduced grown men to tears with his sharp tongue in this way.

No one knows what makes Kandore tick, and no one has ever managed to hurt his feelings the way he hurts others’, or scrape his ego in a way he could not recover instantly from. He is seemingly untouchable and almost seems devoid of emotion in a way, only capable of smug amusement. Many conclude you can’t hurt his feelings because he doesn’t have any. In truth, he is just very in control of his emotions.

Often challenged for his position by strangers, as he had challenged Kachare, he uses that hidden combistick move to end the matches quickly. This too, is a controversial action among the clan. Kandore insists it is a valid strategy, as he considers the start of a fight to be when the challenge is issued, not when the first blow is dealt. Even if his opponents know of the infamous move and dodge it, Kandore’s skill and strength as his bite is enough to substantiate his bark, and he is consequently undefeated. Basically, he talks a lot of shit, thinks he’s hot shit, but he fights like it, too.

He inherited his father’s Ancient advisor, Zazin, who he came to understand as a bleeding heart. Respecting his wisdom, Kandore takes his advice seriously, though dismisses his more “soft” suggestions. Though they can both sense hostility or unspoken disagreement between themselves, they do work as a team to govern the Half-Heart Clan, and often stick by one another when questioned.

Kandore keeps his father’s skull in his quarters, to “keep himself humble”, but jokes that it doesn’t work. He talks to the skull, but no one knows what he says to it, or if he’s expecting anything to be said back. When criticized for killing his father, Kandore will coldly state Kachare died because he was already unworthy of the title, thus he had to give it up right then, a sentiment shared by most Yautja. But otherwise, people such as Zazin or Lo’bane note he seems subdued, crestfallen, unusually quiet and lacking a sharp tongue when his father or his father’s death is brought up. Despite this, any attempts to weaponize his father’s death against him fails.

When in situations he cannot control, Kandore tends to spiral via uncontrollable humor as a coping mechanism. Humor normally keeps him in charge by keeping others enraged or distracted, making them easier to manipulate and shows his ease and confidence. It shows that he has so much control of the situation/conversation, he can mess around and still stay on top of things.

When in a pleasant mood, he fidgets with his quills, rubbing a single lock between his fingers or twirling it around his pointer finger.

He does not hate the Odd Crests, only appearing so because he can be much more transparent with them. As a social pariah, the Odd Crests are openly treated with ridicule, contempt, and scrutiny, and as such, he can tease them how he likes. The Odd Crests have glaring sore points and insecurities, thus theoretically malleable, though wise to Kandore’s true nature, they often resist. However, he has shown them more mercy than any other clan leader would. Any other leader would have exiled them, or declared the entire family Bad Blood, but Kandore allows them to stay as they are and does not go out of his way to mess with them. As such, while they are privy to his true nature, they cannot afford to call him out or openly voice their disdain for him. He just likes to get a rise out of them whenever he talks to them.

When Halkrath’s sons died, Kandore and Zazin delivered the news to the Odd Crest household, as well as transporting him back home, and ordering further excavation to recover the sons’ bodies and belongings. The incident landed the Half-Hearts in trouble with some of the other clans, as the Half-Heart’s mistake could have cost the lives of Yautja from other clans that were nearby. Kandore and Zazin defended Halkrath, stating that while he will be named legally responsible for the Xenomorph infestation, it was acknowledged as a freak accident and was quickly dealt with by Half-Heart enforcers. Kandore allowed a personal several-decade embargo on using the incident to his advantage, though did not hide his disdain for/disappointment with Halkrath’s recklessness, besmirching his own family and embarrassing the clan once again.

Kandore is off-put by Luar-ke and Lo’bane, specifically Lo’bane, so he asked that whenever the Odd Crests see him, that only M’hsi or Vosandi attend, with Halkrath’s presence a must. It’s just a preference, and a soft suggestion, not an order. The only one better than Kandore at figuring out people’s deals is Lo’bane, who figures it out via observation and eavesdropping, not conversation. Lo’bane has Kandore’s number, and he deliberately avoids him. When once left alone with the 50 year old, Kandore ran out of the room in tears.

When M’hsi approached him and demanded an opportunity to restore her family’s honor, Kandore thought she intended on just restoring her father’s name on his behalf and planned on allowing her to do so. When she corrected him and stated she wanted to absolve the dishonor of every dishonored member of her family, and not just her father, Kandore was taken aback and found the idea completely ridiculous. Jokingly, he suggested, in a bad faith interpretation of her request, that she go on a Hunt for each disgraced member, do better than they had, complete her Blooding ritual, and then her family’s honor debt will be forgiven.

Shocked she actually accepted this challenge, he examined the outcomes of the situation and decided that if she died, then it’s one less Odd Crest to further disgrace the family (and thus his clan) and one less unworthy Hunter. If she was to succeed, then he can welcome back a courageous Hunter he is responsible for creating.

Despite her parents and Zazin’s pleas to reconsider, Kandore refused as M’hsi had already accepted, and she similarly refused to back down. Kandore went to work arranging the trip, hiring craftsmen to fashion M’hsi her custom armor and approving weapons for her to choose from. As is tradition, only those related to M’hsi were allowed to attend, thus Lo’bane was able to attend but kept home as per Kandore’s request (and as his parents decided it might be too upsetting to see her off). A guard was issued to supervise them as they normally do, but specifically to keep an eye on Halkrath.

Acting as if nothing was off, or upsetting, Kandore escorted M’hsi through rooms where he and Zazin assisted in suiting her up in her commissioned armor, watching her try out the preapproved weapons (to which Kandore expressed amusement at her choice), and bringing her before the scout ship. He managed to fit one more jab in by wishing her luck before she boarded the ship.

As clan leader, Kandore stayed on Yautja Prime to govern the clan and remotely observe M’hsi’s Hunts, while Zazin monitors M’hsi in the scout ship on Earth.

[itonje]

hey sexy stranger who is not me would you like to talk about therese

hello sexy stranger who is not me i WOULD like to talk about therese aka theresa but i changed her name a little bit cause it didnt sound like. idk french enough

anyways therese florien is louis florien (oc)'s younger sister and also the last monarch of the northern empire (actually when she became queen she was the last monarch of just the north because the south and the west had broken off by that point but we'll get to that).

in the main story, 20-30 years after all these events ill be telling later take place, samira and the rest of the continent know her as 'The Coward Queen/Tea-time Queen' because she only ruled for a couple days and immediately forsook the throne when the southern and ko'bi army approached the capital. currently, she resides in the florien ancestral home (summerhead) on the northern continent, and she's converted the castle into both a prayer place and a place where travelers and vagabonds and so on can stay for safety. and she's basically become like a priestess . long long long backstory under the cut

anyways . the first we know of her is that she's louis' younger sister, she's very religious, she's very timid, and she's very close to her father gareth...there are reasons for the last two that have to do with her late mother lorete. so like. louis is a sorcerer which lorete discovered when he was just a child (northern sorcerers are believed to be willingly practicing dark magic against their religion or whatever) and the florien family is already in some deep shit with the royal family (tldr floriens used to be the royal family, were deposed and murdered and so on and also gareth pissed off his cousin back when they were in their twenties or whatever, this will all be relevant later) and so lorete knew that her son would be taken away/the family wld be punished or whatever adn devoted all her attention towards her son and towards concealing his magic from everyone, including his father.

and when she gives birth to therese, her attention is still all lazer focused on louis, and gareth, who doesn't know why she's ignoring her in the first place basically raises his daughter alone up until lorete dies of an outbreak of plague or whatever when therese is four and then he's raising the eight year old louis AND therese alone. therese's timidity comes from both the paranoia her mother exuded when she was little, lorete's death, the fact that when she was young she saw a jousting accident involving her father in which a man died. her piousness comes from the fact that the only thing she really did when she was younger was pray and read while her father was out doing knightly duties (cough cough colonizing) and it provided an outlet for her to vent her emotions ab her upbringing

also, there's a conspiracy the floriens were involved in with a couple other families set up by gareth's grandmother to restore the florien family on the throne (re: louis would become king when the time came) so like even then everyone always gave her brother attention over her because they were convinced he would be king and she was just the second child they didn't care about. in this world like women are as eligible to inherit and own land just as much as men btw louis was just the eldest

anyways because of her very like. kind of stuck up religious nature, her fear, and because the floriens are already kind of pariahs her first friends are just louis' friends, charicle elaphin (the elaphins are a family close 2 the floriens) and the strange iloro girl whos in training to be a knight (kidlat, but her 'northern name' is claire), but they get along very well, making a little sort of friend group.

as the years get on, therese really keeps herself busy just by taking care of her, who's very infirm, and reading more theological stuff (like by her hero, her ancestor aveline florien who was a priestess and religious reformer) and even writing a bit of her own stuff. to the outside world though, her interiority is looked down upon and royal family supporters (ie, against the floriens) even spread rumors about her, like that she's a secret sorcerer or something (the florien family has always had accusations of sorcery flung against them, little do they know there is a witch in her family but it's her brother who's actually the sorcerer)

we mostly either see her thru the perspective of kidlat, who likes her but feels a bit alienated to her like how kidlat feels alienated by everything northern, or louis who is like. apathetic towards her like he feels some affection for her because they're siblings of course but he's not really close to her and he thinks her piousness is self righteous and finds her deep fear and timidity unpleasant to deal with...tho, his greatest resentment towards her comes from the fact that he's always felt his father has preferred her over him (he does btw. like louis isn't wrong lol)

anyways the royal family sets up a wedding for her because louis refuses to be married, and claims this is out of love for their cousins, but this is just really a ploy to royally piss off gareth by taking his other child away from his household (something they already did to louis), and therese is um. well she's very angry and upset about this, which louis (and no one else, except for her father ofc) doesn't realize until the day of her wedding when he's getting her ready. she doesn't want to leave her father and summerhead, she wants to devote her life to the Goddess instead of some random husband, and she, like the rest of the floriens incl louis feels very humiliated and cheated by the way she's being treated when she has the right to the throne, when she and co should be in charge....this surprises louis because. he didnt know other people had feelings. also at some point therese wants to ask charicle to marry her instead because he's very religious as well and he's gay so neither of them would have pressure to feel love for the other, but louis tells her to not do that by saying oh well he's half western you're a florien almost-princess which convinces her to not do that

anyways she does get married to this guy, and has a kid (eventually), but continues to constantly visit her own family and gareth dies of like. natural causes or whatever (also stress because of louis being a cunt asshole or whatever and therese leaving him and colonizer guilt and a bad leg infection and honestly the man had a lot going on tbh) which really really bums her out, louis also yells at her because again, poorly hidden resentment over his father's preferential treatment of her which makes her even more upset

also later on when the king is dying she tries to pray for him at his bedside but the queen, who again, does not like the floriens, gets mad, calls her a witch and devil or whatever whos killing him, tries to beat her etc, and finally therese has had it she's HAD it and her big joker breaking point moment is. throwing a shoe at the queen and calling her a 'very godless lady'

anyways later later after aeetes (yeah remember him) kills prince edouard, who was about to be crowned king, and the west, galvanized by the south breaking off and the death of the Sort of King, breaks off as well and starts waging war against the northern forces, the remaining northern lords are like. well shit. whos going to be in charge. maybe the floriens again? but..... louis has already ran off chasing after the deserter kidlat (and unbeknownst to everyone, has died in a tragic mysterious Axe Murder Accident) so the crown goes to...you guessed it....therese! anyways she's crowned, only of the north, which is the only nation the crown has juristiction over at this point, but when the southern and ko'bi forces annihilate the remainder of the loyal northern knights (many northern families have tried to start their own factions to try to reconquer the continent, even fighting each other..this is not working) and move up to take the throne a couple days afterward, her deep fear that she's always carried with her leads to her immediately forfeiting the crown and running away....

i wrote a little something from her perspective on her coronation, basically she believes that the goddess has put this in her hands for a reason, she believes and knows she's truly the heir to the great florien kings and queens, she's apathetic towards the (supposed) death of her brother because um. the way he treated her for all of her life, though she does feel a great emptiness now that he's gone, she wishes her mother and father were there to see her, but there's always that. undercurrent of anxiety and uncertainty she's always had. so you can kind of see what she eventually does coming from a mile away

[mischiefandspirits]

Doppelgänger (17/19)

Previously on Doppelgänger ~ Masterlist ~ Next time on Doppelgänger

Danny, Sam, and Tucker were just 14 when they took a look inside the portal Danny’s parents had built. From there, everything changed. They woke up with white hair, green skin, and powers they could learn to control. They were hybrids, halfas.

They were the hero Doppelgänger.

{Reign Storm, Part 3}

“It’s like shooting skeleton fish in a barrel,” Doppelgänger chuckled as they flew up to Valerie’s side, blasting one of the skeleton’s harrowing her as their own crowd rushed into the football stadium after them.

“They don’t put up much of a fight, but there’s a lot of them,” she argued. “You going to duplicate?”

“Already did. We've got our own crowds.”

“It’d be nice if you could make yourself a crowd in return.”

“Sorry, we’re still working on making more than three of us.”

“Hello, son.”

Doppelgänger gave a long, drawn-out groan as Plasmius flew up to the two despite still firing on the skeletons. The older ghost tried to speak when they’d finished, only for the ghost kid to start right back up.

“Are you quite done?” Plasmius asked over the groaning.

Valerie turned to fire at him, but he dodged to the side. He stopped with Doppelgänger between her and him.

The younger ghost stopped their groaning to say, “You know, a human shield only works if the shield’s both bigger than you and someone that the person you’re hiding from won’t shoot. We are neither of those.”

“You’re also not human,” Valerie pointed out.

“I think that’s debatable, but we’ll add it to the list,” they said and fired a blast at Plasmius.

“Calm down, son! I didn't come here to fight you! You have other things to worry about!”

“Okay, even if we were your kid -- which we aren’t because gross -- we’re nonbinary, so still not your son. So get lost. We have this under control!”

A blur of black barreled into them and rose up to reveal a knight in black armor atop a pegasus. The knight had Doppelgänger by the throat and pointed his sword at them. “You are the one who destroyed the King’s ring.”

“We’re not one, but we have destroyed a ring recently. Not sure if it was a king’s, though. Can we get a description?” Doppelgänger said before a swirl of comets wrapped around them and they disappeared.

Another swirl appeared behind the knight, leaving behind the ghost kid. They cheered and shot a blast that unseated the knight. “Yes, it worked. Still not as far as we’d meant to go, but we’ll take it.”

“If you would allow me to trai-” Plasmius started.

“Not interested. Now make yourself useful.” Doppelgänger pointed at the knight, who was pulling himself to his feet.

The knight’s eyes locked onto Valerie and narrowed. “You also carry the ring’s mark.”

She leveled her rifle at him, but a pair of blasts knocked him away before she could fire.

“Right on time,” Doppelgänger said as their two copies flew into the stadium. “Wait a second, is that the Fright Knight? Who? He’s the age-old spirit of Halloween.” The trio began to casually blast the knight back and forth across the field as they spoke together. “Legend has it that if his sword The Soul Shredder cuts through you, you get teleported to a dimension where you live out your worst fear. We read about him in the book we got for Halloween. Did the book have any way to defeat him? We think there was something about a pumpkin, but we can’t remember. We’ll go check.”

One of the ghost kids shot off, giving the knight a chance to finally dodge a blast. “Fools! All I wanted to do was retrieve those who destroyed the ring and return to Pariah's Keep, but now, you give me no choice.” He knelt and held up his sword, point down. “By the authority vested in me by my Lord and Liege…” The sword began to glow and he drove it into the ground, causing a wave of energy to roll outwards across the ground. “I claim this town now and forever under the banner of Lord Pariah, the King of All Ghosts!”

Energy shot up from the sword high into the air before rolling outwards to form a green dome across the city.

Both remaining Doppelgängers fired at the knight, but he ducked away. “The sword has sunk, your die now cast, The sword removed shall signal fast. Surrender your-”

He was cut off as a blast knocked him rolling across the ground.

“We hate rhymes. Did we find a pumpkin?”

The third Doppelgänger flew up with a smirk and pulled a fake jack-o'-lantern out of thin air.

“Found it in the boxes of old Halloween decorations like we said.”

They landed next to the sword and dropped the decoration at their feet.

“Gotta move fast. Cover us. Red, Plasmius, keep the skeleton’s back. We’ll handle tall, dark, and fashionable. Fashionable? Really? Yes, we love that aesthetic.”

Val nodded and pulled out her grenade launcher as the other two placed themselves between their third and the knight, but Plasmius’s attention was on the ghost kid.

“What are you planning?”

The ghost kid smirked and wrapped their hand around the sword’s grip.

“To cease the storm…”

“No,” the knight yelled, but the ghost kid’s copies kept him back.

“To end the fear…”

“Wait!” Plasmius yelled as the ghost kid began to draw the sword from the ground.

“The sword must sheathe…”

As soon as the blade left the ground, the energy feeding into the dome cut off and it began to crack. Instead of the sky being behind it, Valerie saw the endless green of the ghost zone.

“In pumpkin near!”

Doppelgänger sank the sword into the fake pumpkin and everything froze. Then the sky returned.

White and green light began to pour from the decoration as the dome shuddered then began to rise up and flow back into the sword in a reverse of how it had just formed.

“No, NO!” the knight shouted as a vortex formed above the sword and began to draw him in.

Valerie only had a second to feel victorious before the vortex began to pull at her as well. She lost her footing on her board, but the ghost kid flew in to help her. Two of them grabbed her and the last grabbed her board before they all flew to the bleachers and grabbed hold. Once she was sure she was safe, she looked over the field.

Plasmius had taken refuge on a goal post, but many of the skeletons were being sucked up. The knight was clawing at the ground, but soon lost his grip and disappeared into the swirling green. Once he was gone, the vortex slowed and dissipated while the pumpkin holding the sword -- now looking like an actual jack-o'-lantern, if purple with a green glow -- vanished in a flash.

“Well, that’s one down,” Doppelgänger said.

“You idiot! The sword was a signal!” Plasmius yelled, brushing himself off.

“Yeah, we heard. That’s why we got rid of it!”

“Not soon enough.”

The teens looked up to see a large ghost floating over them.

After a second, one of the ghost kids pointed at him.

“You know, we expected more from the King of All Ghosts. He’s just a guy. A tall guy, but still.”

Another nodded, looking disappointed.

“Yeah, what is this Odin wannabe nonsense? We thought we’d be facing some beautiful Lovecraftian horror. We feel ripped off.”

The third tilted their head.

“He’s not even that big. Like ten feet, maybe. The dragon made a more impressive sight, and she was literally just a fairytale princess. You’d think a king could do better.”

“Are you done ticking him off?” Valerie asked, watching Dark get angrier and angrier.

They shrugged. “We’re just saying. He doesn’t even have a crown.”

Then the one who’d tilted their head shot to the side, the one who’d nodded stepped in front of Valerie and raised a shield, and the one who’d pointed braced for impact as Dark sent a massive blast towards them.

The shield held, but the ghost kid was forced to a knee as they poured their strength into it and it shattered apart as soon as it wasn’t needed. Once it was down, Valerie could see that the one who’d taken the blast head-on had created a crater in the bleachers that they were pulling themself out of. Meanwhile, the one who’d avoided it was zipping around the field, keeping Dark’s attention. They fired upon the king while bobbing and weaving around the return fire.

It didn’t look like the attacks were doing much damage.

“That hurt,” they said as the one limped towards her and their kneeling copy turned to her. “You should get clear.”

“We should all fall back,” Plasmius said, appearing next to them.

“Even if we could, he’d destroy the town trying to chase us down. You can run if you want to,” they said then they shot towards the field.

One landed and held their hands out. Thick wires shot out of the ground and grabbed Dark’s legs, electrocuting him in the process. At the same time, the other ghost kid shot towards the fight. They engaged the king as the one that had been fighting him backed off. They reached to the side and plucked a pot holding a glowing spider-like plant out of nowhere. They chucked the plant at Dark’s head then re-engaged him as their copy pulled back to command the plant to wrap around the king’s eyes and neck.

“The boy has Chlorokinesis?” Plasmius said.

“You didn’t know that?” Valerie said, checking her rifle and calling her board to her.

“He’s never used it against me. He’s only even used the Technokinesis recently.”

“They’ve had both for as long as I’ve known them. They’ve tried to use it on me, but I’m usually too high for the plants and my gear’s protected against their control.”

“ENOUGH!”

The two looked up to see Dark snatch the plant-controlling ghost kid from the air and throw them. The other flying one tried to catch them, but they both ended up crashing to the ground. The third flew over to them as the king tore off the wires and burned away the plant.

“Our baby,” the ghost kid whined, one staring at the plant’s burning remains with fury.

“Surrender, children! You can't possibly win!”

“Surrender isn’t in our vocabulary. And we can’t possibly let you loose on our city.” The one that had been controlling the wires helped the one that had been thrown to their feet, letting them lean against them, as the other placed themself in front of the two. “Besides, we don't have to win. we just have to make sure that you lose.”

Dark scowled and shot a blast at them. The one in front summoned a shield, but it shattered almost immediately and the three took most of the blast.

Valerie leveled her rifle at Dark, but Plasmius yanked it away.

“Don’t be foolish, girl. He will kill you.”

“Like you care.

“Considering you’re my only help, I do. We need a plan.”

“Face it, children, it's over.”

Valerie turned back to the field to see Dark walking towards the trio as they slowly got up onto their knees.

“No,” they growled. “No!”

Shaking with pain, the trio looked up. 

Their goggles glowed with black energy and then three things happened at once.

The one on the left threw their head back and screamed. Black sonic waves tore through the field and slammed into the king.

The one in the middle doubled over, hands clawing at the ground as they keened. Thick black vines wove in and out of the ground in front of them until they could latch onto the king, wrapping around his arms and legs to tear deep gashes into his skin with their thorns.

The one on the right wrapped their arms around themselves and sobbed. Black tears flowed down their face and formed a void beneath them that stretched out underneath the king.

The vines held him still, the rings drained his power, and the void drew him in.

Dark thrashed against his bindings, but they held and he was soon consumed by the darkness.

The trio collapsed.

The field went silent, the vines shriveled into nothing, and the darkness faded.

Consciousness clearly fading, the trio latched hands and fell through the ground.

Oddly though, they didn’t seem to go intangible and Valerie swore she saw the faintest hint of a white-blue-purple light just before they completely disappeared.

Slowly, she turned to Plasmius to see him gaping at the now empty field. “Did you know they had that kind of power?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Danny stared out at the stars as Blobena nuzzled up against his cheek.

“My everything hurts,” Tucker croaked, the first sound any of them had made since Danny had dropped them into the Space Fold then promptly passed out. He’s not sure how long they’ve been in there now, but he’s been awake for at least an hour and he knew the others woke before him.

“Sh!” Sam moaned.

It was quiet for a few moments, then Sam asked, “Danny. Why are your blobs in here? More importantly, why is one trying to eat my hair?”

With a sigh, Danny turned to see Sam and the blob in question. “I think Blobson likes the taste of your shampoo. He did the same thing to me two weeks ago when you let me shower at your place after the fight with Garbage Manster.”

“Wait, you seriously named them all? And with blob puns?” Tucker said, pinwheeling slowly near Sam’s feet. “I thought that was just a joke you and Valerie were telling.”

“We had a lot of time in that cage, okay?”

“Danny, get this thing off my hair or I’m smashing it.”

The boy pouted, but reached over to scoop up the blob. He set him on his shoulder next to Bloberick.

“Now again, what are they doing here?”

“In my defense, I just meant to hide them in here for a second because my mom was coming down the stairs and I didn’t have time to get them all back through the portal. I’ve tried to get them to leave, but they won’t.”

“You keep my ghost plants in here!” she huffed, gesturing to the quartet of pots holding plants she’d gathered from the ghost zone.

“They don’t bother them, promise!”

“Speaking of which, how dare you throw Arachne at that jerk!”

“Our ecto-beams weren’t doing much! I thought the poison on her fronds would help!”

“We can get you a new one, Sam,” Tucker said. “It’s not like it was sentient like Audrey II.”

“We can get you a new phone, Tucker,” she shot back. “It’s not like it’s sentient like Audrey II.”

“She’s as good as!” Tucker gasped, pulling his phone out to clutch it to his chest. “Talk to me, baby.”

“Hello, Tuck-man. The time is 9:34 p.m.”

Danny snickered. “Tuck-man.”

“Shut it, Danny Blobton,” Tucker said, grabbing one of the blobs floating near him and tossing it at Danny.

If anything, the blob seemed to be pleased by the action, even as it squished against his forehead. It gave a singing buzz and nuzzled further against him.

“Great, now Blobnessa is never going to let go.”

“Dude, you’ve got issues.”

“Wait, did your phone say it was after nine at night?” Sam asked, turning to Tucker.

“Yeah, it said… Oh man, how long have we been gone for?”

“My parents are probably tearing the town apart looking for me,” Danny groaned.

“Not to mention your girlfriend. I’m sure my parents are already blaming you. Crud, I’m going to have to wear their stupid dresses for a week if they’re ever going to let me see you again,” Sam said, grabbing Danny’s arm and tugging him to her.

“I swear, if my parents try to take me on one of those tech-free relaxation getaways because of this, I’m moving into the fold. Blobs or not,” Tucker muttered, hooking his ankle around Sam’s.

Danny gently shooed and brushed all the blobs off himself then turned all three of them invisible and dropped them onto the football field.

Thankfully no one was around so they turned visible and climbed to their feet.

“We’re going to need alibis,” Sam said.

“Got cornered by some skeletons in an abandoned building?” Tucker offered. “Only came out when we were sure it was safe, but then didn’t recognize where we were and stumbled about until we found somewhere familiar.”

“Sounds good enough for me,” Danny yawned. “Can either of you transform?”

They shook their heads.

“Guess we’re walking.”

They only made it a block before the Fenton RV came roaring up and a hysterical Maddie Fenton tackled Danny to the ground.

[phantomphangphucker]

The Setting Of A Blue Green Sun - DannyMay Day 5: Sunset

A setting sun, or sunset, is a euphemism for death.

Summary: There were many different timelines for Daniel that ClockWork didn’t care for, but this one was one he needed to watch. And so he did, over and over again. Because the master of time spent so much time alone, and this timeline shows the catastrophic end result of being all alone.

Warning: angst, depression, loneliness, gore, blood, breaking bones, character death, hurt without comfort.

ClockWork sees all the paths life might and might not take, and this is one he feels particularly saddened by. The one where Daniel was alone and always would be. No one was there when he half-died, no one was there to accidentally see him transform, and no one was there to keep him grounded. Sure there was no evil future to be found, whether that was because he was disconnected or because there wasn’t any future at all. ClockWork would fist fight Dan himself over sitting by idle at this once possible reality for his charge.

ClockWork only watches it to remind him that he needs Daniel, more than Daniel needs him. To never ignore his friendship and mentorship to the halfa. So that this master of time will never be alone, because even he needs others company. And who better than a halfa who’s more of an embodiment of the sun and all the stars, than a single person. Grand friends for grander beings, though his Daniel was far too humble to call himself such. But things like them, in truth, needed something similar for a friend. Watching the screen only highlights this so, with how it makes it oh so clear that even this celestial child crumbles and falls, without a friendly face around.

Watching Daniel take hit after hit, limp in form and blank-faced. It’s almost as if no one’s even home, numb.

Watching all the papers label him as the strong and silent type, ClockWork knows it’s not strength; but rather that there’s no one to laugh at his jokes. So why bother telling them.

Just like how there’s no one to fuss over his wounds, so why fix them. How he rarely sees his family, so there was no one to lie to. How he spent so much more time as a ghost and seemed to consider himself nothing more, after all there was no one to remind him that he was human too. ClockWork can’t help but frown at the boys uncared for body, he didn’t have anyone to keep up appearances for. Clearly underweight, with bones jutting where they shouldn’t in clothing rarely washed and torn.

What’s worse is watching him actively push away any attempts to get near him, he doesn’t know that anyone could actually survive the collateral of being his friend or lover; so he doesn’t let anyone be either one.

Then there’s how it affects everyone else, The Red Huntress, so much more cruel and relentless. Having never known Daniels’ kindness or affection. This turned out so catastrophic for little Danielle, she was never saved. And Daniel didn’t even mourn, he just nodded, as if this was the only possible expected outcome for him, and left. He continued his ways with only a deepened frown to show of the loss.

The Fenton parents, though worried, feared pushing their son away even further; the fact that he’d flinch at their every touch or slightly raised voice didn’t help. He behaved like a paranoid animal knowing it was in a slaughterhouse, because to him his house was more of a death trap than a home. And while the skies were taking the place of home to him, his family grew strained. Jasmine, resentful and failing to get her brother to let her in, instead chose to help herself. Leaving for Yale as soon as it was possible for her, what solidified her decision was that it took Daniel three days to even text her. Because he hadn’t even noticed, not at home enough to pick up on the absence.

Then there was Vlad, who’s reaction ClockWork still struggled to understand. Where once he wanted Daniel and actively engaged with him, he now seemed put off and even disturbed by Daniel. Becoming even more aggressive in cloning rather than claiming, Daniel.

The negatives on the ghost zone where far too numeral. Without his wit and carefree nature, he never rubbed off well on other ghosts. In this time, none came to him for advice or friendly sparring. Only to threaten and harm, and they were much more eager to harm.

The halfas two friends where really the only ones to fair well. Though their friendship with Daniel became so thin it was near nonexistent, they were indeed safe and happy. Sometimes they missed their friend but they never faced any hardships. In a sense Daniel was right, anyone close to him would suffer.

With a sigh, ClockWork shakes his head sadly, even he knows that suffering isn’t something to be feared. Better to suffer and gain, than to never know it in the name of fleeting safety. And for every person spared from believed collateral damage, young Daniel was left to absorb the blow; alone.

And that’s exactly what he was doing right now, taking a hit from the ghost kings skeletons. Unlike in nearly every other timeline, he comes unaided. He’s got no suit and the ghosts see no reason to aid him, so he’s left to push through armies alone.

That’s one thing ClockWork will give this timelines Daniel, he’s a lot stronger in battle. He’s more skilled in his powers and physically more capable. But that’s what happens when there’s no one to help take the hits or play doctor. That’s what happens when you don’t have anything but free time to train, because there’s no one to keep you company; to distract you with trivial things.

ClockWork glances and smiles fondly at the chess board, the one that he’s played against his apprentice so many times on, ClockWork always felt lighter afterwards.

Distractions really are a life necessity, else you get obsessed with everything else. ClockWork can see the effect of that in Daniels’ heightened paranoia, in his intense mistrust, and in the blatantly excessive and sleep depriving patrolling. What started as a necessary duty became a compulsively unending routine. Having never been stalled by movie nights or friend drama.

Turning back to the screen, he watches the battered halfa stand to face the king. ClockWork understands the impressed expression Pariah barely hides, Daniel is always so much more powerful than he knows. And even ClockWork can clearly see the power blazing in him through the screen, as if every sun had collided in one body; with the sole purpose of bringing forth the brightest shining being imaginable.

But even still the child’s body twitched with exhaustion, limbs merely hung limp; not caring to put on the show of a fighting stance. It was clear he expected to get hurt, tossed around and thrashed, he just couldn’t bring himself to really care. He’d bare it like always and get up. ClockWork frowns, as he knows that won’t be the case.

He would cringe at the sight of his apprentice's leg getting snapped under the pressure of a column, if he hadn’t long since learned to perpetually school unintentional outward behaviours. Impressively though, as the fight goes on, he still finds himself in mild awe at such undeniable proof that Daniel was the stronger of the two. Even without any power-ups and after slogging through hordes, he beats down the king through sheer determination and might.

But his body is run ragged, and his mind has long since been in that state; as he wails his fist down on the, shocked but resigned, king. Ultimately destroying the king before collapsing to the ground himself, bleeding out his unique red green sunlight glowing blood; across the tiled flooring.

This is another show of just how much power is in such a tiny body, as ClockWork can plainly see the waves of ectoplasmic energy coming off of him, trying to latch on to any latent ectoplasm in the air, to keep its host alive. But unfortunately, this is Pariah’s keep. No ghosts linger here and even the zones energy avoids this place. Leaving nothing for the boy to cling to and feed off of.

ClockWork watches heavily as his young charge, his little apprentice; seems to understand the situation. Muttering into the tiles with a faint chuckle, “oh... well then. I guess... this is a fitting place to just die”. The young boy doesn’t even seem sad, nor happy or even surprised. Like everything else he just accepts it and takes the blow; completely alone.

And ClockWork can tell, from looking into young Daniel’s eyes through the screen. That the sun of light was setting inside him, in no uncertain terms, was this a battered hero’s sunset. The end of a protectors endlessly watching sunlight. As the little saviour, a brutalised blue green sun, finally fell from the skies to rest unseen forever more.

And the night air after his lights fall was nothing but cold, the cold of ice covering everything from a far too powerful and far too ravaged core of ice. Ice that had cracked and shattered too many times to count, that eventually couldn’t contain or support the brightest sun anymore; and had simply exploded outwards.

On all his watch throughs, ClockWork finds he can never not whisper-sing to the screen at this point. To the sight of the shredded hemorrhaging sun that never last long enough to ever met the master of time, partly hoping his soft words were heard:

“Please allow your mind to be pacified

Just rest and your pain will be blown away

Let your worries be placed aside

No one can hurt you now

But know all that you’ve accomplished

Let yourself take a bow

Please calm your heart

Just close your eyes, leave the battlefield behind

Let your heartache break apart

But grant you to know, you never had to fight your battles alone”

ClockWork switches off the screen as the sight of the partially dissolved corpse finally stills its leaking glow of blue green sunlight, though it still paints everything around it in a red and green Collide-a-scope of a half-life barely lived. Of a sun cast down when it should have risen to blaze, the strongest to ever be seen.

ClockWork turns to another image, the one of the most likely future. Not just likely but near certainly. One where he is needed as mentor no more, though he knows he’ll always play the role. As his now, not so small, halfa sits atop his throne. His laughter-filled blue green sunlight eyes looking out across ghosts and humans as well. As comforting blue green blazing sunlight of pure energy and power waves off him, to watch over the lands. Earth and zone alike, for he is both and he is not alone; and ClockWork swears he’ll never let him be.

And in that promise, so too will ClockWork himself never be alone. As his charge, a massive sun contained inside a tiny impossible body, had sworn the same thing. And he always kept his promises.

End.

[panelbypanelshow]

Why I’m Excited for “Crisis On Infinite Earths”

With the premier of the “Crisis On Infinite Earths” fast approaching, I recently began to reflect on why I’m so excited for it. Sure, I’m an avid Superman and DC comics fan and Crisis is an iconic story, but it’s more than that.

If you were to ask me “When did you know you were a Superman fan?” I would say, “Somewhere between 7 and 8 years old when my upstairs neighbor gave me his copy of The Death of Superman trade paperback.” Of course, at that age, I didn’t know what a “trade paperback” was. To me, it was a comic book; and like so many other children have done with their favorite comics, books, and toys, I carried it everywhere and read it to the point that I nearly had it memorized. I still have it. It’s beat to hell; but it’s bagged, boarded and stored in a safe place.

My copies of The Death of Superman TPBs. The one on the left I took everywhere with me when I was a boy. 

If you asked me when I became a serious Superman fan and collector I would tell you “My 14th birthday, February 2000.”

My Aunt Susan gave me the Superman Masterpiece Collection for my birthday that year. The set came with a reprinted copy of Superman #1 (printed to the exact specifications of the comic books of that era), a hardcover book chronicling Superman’s Golden Age, and a limited edition statue designed by Alex Ross, made available only with that set.

I still have that, too. It’s a little worn along the edges and corners, but otherwise in excellent shape. I keep it on top of my bookcase. It’s one of my favorite pieces of memorabilia.

Even then, as much as I enjoyed comic books, I only saw them as a form of escapism; another way to keep people entertained. With explosions, science fiction, action, adventure, and romance; it was the modern version of the Greek mythology stories I read as a boy. They were a great way to keep myself entertained but not much else.

That perception changed when shortly after I graduated high school in 2004. I had received, among many other gifts, Barnes and Noble gift cards at my graduation party; and when I redeemed them, there were only two books I had my eye on:

Crisis On Infinite Earths (1985) and Kingdom Come (1996)

Crisis on Infinite Earths brought a new perception to these fictional characters that I had never before considered. There was depth, drama, and serious world-ending – in this case universe-ending – stakes. Universes were literally obliterated from existence , beloved characters were killed off, and the DC Universe was never the same again.

George Perez even introduced a character, Pariah, whose sole purpose was to witness the destruction of every universe, particularly every Earth, with no way to warn or save anyone. I even remember my jaw dropping at the beginning of the story when Earth 3, the home of the Crime Syndicate of Amerika – evil alternate versions of the Justice League, kicked off the story by being destroyed.

Crisis on Infinite Earths saw the teaming up of characters of the same name from different Earths with similar, but still different, backstories and abilities. The Superman of Earth 2, for example, was the Golden Age Superman; who’s abilities are limited to that of early Superman stories, “faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.” While the Earth 1 Superman was the modern incarnation with all of the abilities we are familiar with today, namely flight.

What made Crisis so successful, however, wasn’t just that there were variations of the same characters fighting side-by-side to save the multiverse from being wiped from existence, but that no one is safe. One of the most iconic covers of all-time is Crisis on Infinite Earths #7.

Cover of Crisis On Infinite Earths #7. 

That basic design, a hero holding the body of a partner/friend/lover, has been used all throughout comic books; but Crisis on Infinite Earths #7 remains iconic not just because it features the world’s most powerful hero holding the dead body of his cousin, who’s abilities are nearly equal to his, reduced to a groveling mess, but because it was proof that absolutely no one was safe. By issue 7, everyone knew the stakes, and the heat was on.

What made Supergirl’s death so memorable and iconic, however, wasn’t just that she died in battle, but that she sacrificed herself, knowing what she was doing would kill her.

Following Crisis, DC rebooted the entire universe and in that reboot, they intended the Superman to be the last Kryptonian rather than the last son. So rather than letting Supergirl become another faceless casualty, she received a hero’s  farewell by protecting her cousin - the entire reason she was sent to Earth in the first place.

The death of Kara Zor-El.

The story didn’t slow down there, either, the following issue saw the death of Barry Allen, A.K.A. The Flash. While the cover isn’t nearly as iconic as the previous, Barry’s death is because it, again, involves self-sacrifice.

Cover of Crisis On Infinite Earths #8.

Throughout the story, Barry’s “ghost” would occasionally pop up, looking less and less ghastly each time; and that was finally explained in issue #8 when Barry ran to create a speed vortex that would draw power from the weapon designed to destroy Earth. The power became too much for his body to handle and he literally ran backwards in time until he disintegrated and became the very lightning bolt that gave him his abilities.

The Death of Barry Allen.

Crisis On Infinite Earths upped the ante in comic book storytelling. It showed that just because the characters aren’t real doesn’t mean they’re immortal and, more importantly, it shows that we can feel connected to them just like we get with a character in our favorite TV show. When I finished reading Crisis I began to take a deeper look at comic book characters and was able to identify what made each character great and different in their own way. Sure, Batman has the money, gadgets, and the car - but it doesn’t mean he won’t long for his parents anytime he sees Superman with Jonathan and Martha. There is much more to comic books than colorful costumes and wacky villains; and it was Crisis On Infinite Earths that helped me realize that.

After Crisis, I picked up Kingdom Come.

Wow.

Let me say that again.

Wow.

Putting aside the writing for now. The art alone is enough to sell the book. Alex Ross is a legend, and his art speaks for itself. I had only ever seen his work in single images, not in comic book panels and I was in awe with how well everything seamlessly flowed together. To this day, Alex Ross’ work in Kingdom Come is among my favorites and will always hold a very special place in my heart.

Now. The story.

Mark Waid could walk into a convention and my heart would stop.

He ranks among some of the very best comic book writers and when you read Kingdom Come, you’ll see why.

Like Crisis On Infinite Earths, Kingdom Come opened my eyes in comic book storytelling that I had never before considered; this time with politics. In my last YouTube video, I talked about how comic books have always been, in some way, political. As children we don’t notice it as much but when we grow, mature, and begin to notice how the world works, we finally become aware of topics we were blissfully unaware of as children. Politics in comic books is one of them.

With Kingdom Come the politics covers not only generational gaps between yesterday’s heroes and the story’s current heroes, but we also see the government get involved out of fear of the destruction the two groups of heroes could cause should they not resolve their differences. Within that narrative was the conflict occurring among the primary characters. Superman and Wonder Woman, while working together, did not see eye-to-eye, Batman wanted nothing to do with their efforts while (shockingly) assembling his own team in accordance with his own plan that involved Lex Luthor and other classic supervillains, and a brainwashed demigod as the wildcard.

Most of all, the story portrayed a war and how the biggest victims aren’t those fighting in it, but those they claim to be fighting for; the unintended casualties. Sure, we feel for the casualties of the war, but it wasn’t until an enraged Superman nearly brought the roof down on the government who did what they did not out of malice, but fear.

Superman nearly loses control in Kingdom Come #4. 

Kingdom Come is easily one of the most powerful stories I have ever read and remains in my top 3 favorite stories. It’s one that I would recommend to anyone, even if they aren’t a comic book fan. Hell, the first Superman shirt I ever bought for myself was Kingdom Come.

I need to get a new one.

Then there’s Brandon Routh.

Routh (rhymes with “south”) was cast to play Superman in 2006’s Superman Returns. While the movie itself was a bit of a disappointment and divisive amongst fans, Routh’s performance as the Man of Steel was not.

Brandon Routh as Superman in 2006’s Superman Returns. 

I was 18 and in my first semester of college when the news of Routh’s casting hit. I was excited. Excited that he was an unknown actor. Excited that he was young and that a franchise could be built around him, excited that he grew up a Superman fan, excited that – like me – he grew up in a part of the country where Superman’s values are ingrained in everyday life. I was truly excited, even if other Superman fans weren’t.

Brandon Routh received, in my opinion, an unfair amount of criticism when he was cast, when pictures of him in the suit were released, when trailers were released, when the movie was released, and even to this day. Honestly, I feel fans and critics weren’t willing to give him a fair chance because he wasn’t Christopher Reeve and was compared to Reeve before the first picture of him in the suit was released. I was one of those fans who tirelessly defended him on the internet. I was insulted by fans, my family was insulted, called names, I was even accused of not being a “real Superman fan” because I was giving the movie my support. I was young, though, and didn’t realize then how pointless it was to argue over the internet; so I kept at it.

I was so excited for the movie I ordered my ticket for opening day the day tickets went on sale. I set out the Superman shirt I wanted to wear to the movie, drove an hour and a half from Limon, CO to Denver to see it, and arrived early to make sure I got a good seat. I had waited my entire life to see Superman on the silver screen and nothing was going to stop me from making it the best experience possible.

I’ll be honest. I enjoyed the movie. I was a bit underwhelmed because I had hoped for more action sequences and felt the story could have been stronger; but that didn’t stop me from walking out of the theater with a smile on my face, seeing it a second time, or looking forward to what the sequel had in store. Hell, at the time Superman Returns came out, I was an aspiring actor and I DREAMED of being cast as John Corben, also known as Metallo, in the Superman Returns sequel and going blow-to-blow with Routh’s Superman.

Ultimately, I think the premise had more to do with my excitement than anything else. I loved – LOVED ­– the idea of Superman being gone for 5 years and returning to a different world; especially with everything the world had been dealing with between 2000-2006.

From Superman Returns. The date of the article is March 3, 2000. 

What if we had Superman on 9/11? What would have been different? How many lives would have saved? Would he have stopped the second plane from hitting the south tower? Would he have prevented it altogether? There was so much that could have been done with that premise that, I feel, was left on the table.

To this day, I believe that instead of being a continuation of the Christopher Reeve films (a decision I supported at the time) I think Superman Returns should have featured a young Superman who fled back to Krypton when he heard the rumor it might still be there. Jason should have been Lois and Richard’s child, Martha should have died while Superman was away, Lex Luthor or Cadmus Labs (both?) should have been trying to clone their own Superman that would turn into Bizarro, Superman should have spent less time pining over his lost love with Lois, and I have always, and firmly, believed there should have been a scene of Clark sitting alone in the Daily Planet film room, glasses in hand and tears in his eyes, watching footage of the September 11th terrorist attacks. Those elements would not only have given Superman Returns a stronger story, it would have made him much more relatable to the casual moviegoer and still would have provided plenty of action for fans.

Despite all of that. I still enjoyed the movie. I enjoyed it so much that when it was available for pre-order on Amazon, I bought the Two-Disc Special Edition.

I still have it.

 When Routh made an appearance at Rose City Comic Con in 2018, I made damn sure I met him.

He signed my copy of the Superman Returns comic book adaptation and I’m still geeking out about it.

Of everything I enjoyed in Superman Returns, the plane sequence, the bank robbery, Kevin Spacey’s Lex Luthor, Superman flying around saving the city; if I had to pick one thing that I enjoyed the most in the film, it would be Routh himself. While his portrayal of Clark Kent was clearly inspired by Christopher Reeve, his Superman is where he shined. He stood tall, walked and spoke with confidence, and could intimidate someone by his presence alone – until he smiled that warm Superman smile and said something that would calm even the most nervous person like he did with an upset Lois Lane on the roof of the Daily Planet.

“Will I see you around?”

“I’m always around.” 

Because Superman Returns didn’t fare as well in the box office as the studio had hoped, the sequel never happened and that was the end of Routh’s tenure as Superman. I was disappointed, but I understood. It’s a business. Making money comes first and Superman Returns, while profitable, didn’t make nearly enough.

Time marches on and we got more comic book adaptations. Smallville continued for another 5 seasons, ending its run after season 10 and inspiring a spin-off series about the Green Arrow, inspired by Justin Hartley’s popularity of the character in Smallville. Arrow, set apart from the Smallville series, came out swinging and quickly rose in popularity. Then in season 2, came future superheroes as recurring characters: Barry Allen, played by Grant Gustin, and Ray Palmer, played by Brandon Routh.

I was SO excited to see Routh back in the comic book medium. The only thing that would have made me happier was if they brought him back to play Superman; but alas, I knew it didn’t fit with Arrow’s reality.

Routh’s performance as Ray Palmer was different than I expected. Ray always came off as a serious character in the stories I read, not as the “Aw shucks” kind of person Routh portrays him as. It made sense, though. Stephen Amell’s Oliver Queen had enough serious to go around for everyone; there needed to be a lighthearted superhero to balance that – like Superman is to Batman.

It worked too! Routh became popular on the show and before too long, was starring alongside other actors who portrayed those lesser known heroes in Legends of Tomorrow. As the Arrowverse continued to up the ante and bring in other shows and characters, so did the expectations; and like the comics the shows are based on, annual crossovers became a thing.

They started small with the first 2 being two-parters with The Flash and Arrow, then expanded across all four shows for Invasion! and Crisis on Earth X, dropped to a 3-parter with Elseworlds while also setting up the Batwoman series, to an epic five-part series based on one of the most iconic stories of all time that showed me how serious comic book storytelling could be.

Then there’s Brandon Routh.

Not only is he returning to play Superman, he’s playing the Kingdom Come Superman! 

I can’t take it anymore. Seriously.

The first actor I ever saw play Superman in theaters – the first Superman actor I have ever met in person, is playing the version of Superman that helped me realize the kind of message that comic books can tell, in an adaptation of an iconic story that showed how serious a comic book can get. Both of those stories, Kingdom Come and Crisis On Infinite Earths, made me into a comic book fan. Not just a Superman fan, but a comic book fan.

Now I have another comic book that I need to get signed by Routh the next time he visits the Pacific Northwest:

It’s gonna happen – and I’ll be sure to get a picture with him while wearing a Kingdom Come Superman shirt.

Fans can always remember what made them fans of their fandom. Crisis on Infinite Earths and Kingdom Come is that for me. Add the casting of Brandon Routh as Superman in Superman Returns shortly after reading those two iconic stories, and It was a done deal for me.

Seeing all of these impactful moments that helped mold my fandom being rolled together like this is, to say the least, emotional. Never in my life did I expect to see any type of live action adaptation of Kingdom Come or Crisis On Infinite Earths; and I certainly never imagined I’d see Brandon Routh play Superman again. It really is a fanboy’s dream come true.

The only thing that could make it better, for me anyway, would be if Routh’s final line as Superman is his best line as Superman:

“I’m always around.”

[poorquentyn]

Remember Your Name, Part 3: When That Other Man Had Come This Way

Series so far here

“That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exists anymore.”

At the end of In the Mood for Love, the film’s protagonist visits the ruins of Angkor Wat. He’d earlier mused to a friend about how back in the day, if you had a secret burning inside that you couldn’t bring yourself to share, you dug a shallow hole into a tree and whispered your secret into it, filling the hole with mud afterwards to keep the truth at bay.

But when our hero decides to try and leave behind the story of forsaken love we saw unfold over the course of the movie, he does not seek out a living thing that can survive and change and grow. He instead unburdens himself to a ruin: a monument to the ravages wrought and distances forged by time. In the sequel 2046, he disappears into the rose-colored fog within, surrounded by his ghosts on parade. Try as he might, he could not seal them away forever.

I have come this way before. It was a dangerous thought, and he regretted it at once.

“No,” he said, “no, that was some other man, that was before you knew your name.” His name was Reek. He had to remember that. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with leek. When that other man had come this way, an army had followed close behind him, the great host of the north riding to war beneath the grey-and-white banners of House Stark. Reek rode alone, clutching a peace banner on a pinewood staff. When that other man had come this way, he had been mounted on a courser, swift and spirited. Reek rode a broken-down stot, all skin and bone and ribs, and he rode her slowly for fear he might fall off. The other man had been a good rider, but Reek was uneasy on horseback. It had been so long. He was no rider. He was not even a man. He was Lord Ramsay’s creature, lower than a dog, a worm in human skin. “You will pretend to be a prince,” Lord Ramsay told him last night, as Reek was soaking in a tub of scalding water, “but we know the truth. You’re Reek. You’ll always be Reek, no matter how sweet you smell. Your nose may lie to you. Remember your name. Remember who you are.”

“Reek,” he said. “Your Reek.”

The Drunkard’s Tower leaned as if it were about to collapse, just as it had for half a thousand years. The Children’s Tower thrust into the sky as straight as a spear, but its shattered top was open to the wind and rain. The Gatehouse Tower, squat and wide, was the largest of the three, slimy with moss, a gnarled tree growing sideways from the stones of its north side, fragments of broken wall still standing to the east and west. The Karstarks took the Drunkard’s Tower and the Umbers the Children’s Tower, he recalled. Robb claimed the Gatehouse Tower for his own. If he closed his eyes, he could see the banners in his mind’s eye, snapping bravely in a brisk north wind. All gone now, all fallen.

Memory and identity are inextricable. Who you were informs who you are, and who you are invariably filters your perspective on who you were. The weight of backstory has always been one of ASOIAF’s central claims to profundity. R+L=J, the story’s central revelation and the beating heart of the fandom, is also the burdensome duty that defined our fakeout protagonist Eddard Stark. What makes Ned’s life so meaningful is that he put it all on the line not to keep the secret that his purported bastard Jon is in fact his sister Lyanna’s son by Rhaegar Targaryen, but in the name of the values that keeping that secret instilled in him.

Time was perilously short. The king would return from his hunt soon, and honor would require Ned to go to him with all he had learned. Vayon Poole had arranged for Sansa and Arya to sail on the Wind Witch out of Braavos, three days hence. They would be back at Winterfell before the harvest. Ned could no longer use his concern for their safety to excuse his delay.

Yet last night he had dreamt of Rhaegar's children. Lord Tywin had laid the bodies beneath the Iron Throne, wrapped in the crimson cloaks of his house guard. That was clever of him; the blood did not show so badly against the red cloth. The little princess had been barefoot, still dressed in her bed gown, and the boy…the boy…                 

Ned could not let that happen again. The realm could not withstand a second mad king, another dance of blood and vengeance. He must find some way to save the children.

Jaime floats in heat and memory in the Harrenhal bathtubs, the truth finally swimming to the surface; Barbrey stares deep into a dead man’s face, the pleasure and pain of it eternally intermingled; Robert himself admits that all he wants most is to leave behind the crown it was all ostensibly for. They all sing the same sad song, the one Reek sings as he rides fearfully into Theon Greyjoy’s past at Moat Cailin: I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell. They followed the red comet, over the edge. Their songs broke, and broke them in their fall.

Following on Theon briefly coming unstuck in time in his first ADWD chapter, Reek II builds on that disorientation by externalizing it onto his environment. The chapter is thick with memory and riddled with decay, all swathes of mist that give way to fountains of blood, because that’s what the inside of Theon Greyjoy’s head looks like. That opening chapter in the Dreadfort gave us a blood-curdling glimpse of the crucible in which Theon became Reek before forcing him out of it; now, the story goes widescreen, taking in how the North has changed along with our POV since last he stepped out into it.

The hall was dark stone, high ceilinged and drafty, full of drifting smoke, its stone walls spotted by huge patches of pale lichen. A peat fire burned low in a hearth blackened by the hotter blazes of years past. A massive table of carved stone filled the chamber, as it had for centuries. There was where I sat, the last time I was here, he remembered. Robb was at the head of the table, with the Greatjon to his right and Roose Bolton on his left. The Glovers sat next to Helman Tallhart. Karstark and his sons were across from them.

The reference to time’s fire in which we burn (“blackened by the hotter blazes of years past”), the epochal weight of the table filling the chamber “as it had for centuries,” the evocation of the ghosts that haunt Theon--all of it grounds the business of the plot in memory and time, and thus in what’s happened to our POV. 

Theon smiled. Reek cannot. Theon had friends. Reek is a pariah. Theon came to Moat Cailin with an army. Now, that army is dead and gone, except for those who turned on the rest...just as he did. Moat Cailin has been made a ruin all over again, defeat and despair folded into it like Lannister crimson into Stark steel, a testament like Tristifer’s tomb to a shattered kingdom. Theon helped shatter it, and now he stumbles back shattered to help melt down what’s left. He is Moat Cailin, more or less, the broken towers a misty mirror for our broken man, the splintered teeth of his smile writ large. The fog that cloaks the fortress reflects how he’s been forced to compartmentalize his past, which is now screaming its way to the surface. There are ghosts in Moat Cailin, and he is one of them.

(image by warsandpoliticsoficeandfire.wordpress.com)

This sense of desolation and loss is mirrored in the chapter’s purpose in the larger plot. The standoff between the Boltons and the Ironborn over the Moat (and by extension, the North as a whole) is little more than a feast for crows. Both sides went for the direwolf’s throat with no higher cause than plunder and the pleasure of it; all they’re fighting over is who did it more successfully. The Ironborn here were left to rot by their Lord Captain when he went chasing his brother’s crown...

“Victarion commanded us to hold, he did. I heard him with my own ears. Hold here till I return, he told Kenning.”

“Aye,” said the one-armed man. “That’s what he said. The kingsmoot called, but he swore that he’d be back, with a driftwood crown upon his head and a thousand men behind him.”

“My uncle is never coming back,” Reek told them. “The kingsmoot crowned his brother Euron, and the Crow’s Eye has other wars to fight. You think my uncle values you? He doesn’t. You are the ones he left behind to die. He scraped you off the same way he scrapes mud off his boots when he wades ashore.”

Those words struck home. He could see it in their eyes, in the way they looked at one another or frowned above their cups. They all feared they’d been abandoned, but it took me to turn fear into certainty. These were not the kin of famous captains nor the blood of the great Houses of the Iron Islands. These were the sons of thralls and salt wives.

...and the Dreadfort men can’t lay any credible claim to be acting as defenders of the North from the reaving invaders, given the Northern blood they’ve both happily spilled throughout. (Those who hunt people for sport shouldn’t throw stones, and all that.) Ramsay in this chapter is merely mopping up after and reaping the benefits of the hard-earned victory won by Howland Reed and his guerilla fighters, and even that he’s not doing himself, but forcing a helpless tortured prisoner to do for him. The Bastard’s unspeakably hideous treatment of the Ironborn after they surrender to him in good faith is the punchline to a very dark joke, poisoned icing on bitter cake. And of course, it’s all in the service of welcoming an army soaked in the blood of the men and women with whom they sat down to dinner, as allies, as friends, as guests at a wedding.

Three days later, the vanguard of Roose Bolton’s host threaded its way through the ruins and past the row of grisly sentinels—four hundred mounted Freys clad in blue and grey, their spearpoints glittering whenever the sun broke through the clouds. Two of old Lord Walder’s sons led the van. One was brawny, with a massive jut of jaw and arms thick with muscle. The other had hungry eyes close-set above a pointed nose, a thin brown beard that did not quite conceal the weak chin beneath it, a bald head. Hosteen and Aenys. He remembered them from before he knew his name. Hosteen was a bull, slow to anger but implacable once roused, and by repute the fiercest fighter of Lord Walder’s get. Aenys was older, crueler, and more clever—a commander, not a swordsman. Both were seasoned soldiers.

The northmen followed hard behind the van, their tattered banners streaming in the wind. Reek watched them pass. Most were afoot, and there were so few of them. He remembered the great host that marched south with Young Wolf, beneath the direwolf of Winterfell. Twenty thousand swords and spears had gone off to war with Robb, or near enough to make no matter, but only two in ten were coming back, and most of those were Dreadfort men.

Even as Reek struggles to keep Theon at bay (thinking of his life before the Dreadfort dungeons as the time “before he knew his name”), making contact with the people with whom Theon rode to war is stirring something inside him, and that’s reflected in the big picture of what it means for this army to arrive in the North. Grey Wind’s forlorn eyes from the House of the Undying are watching, and judging, and waiting. Wolves prowl and howl through the opening chapters of ADWD’s Northern half, singing the song of their fall, and of Jojen’s solemn promise: “the wolves will come again.” The ghosts of the Red Wedding follow this army to Winterfell, and hang heavy on the Ramsay-Jeyne wedding and everything that follows, crying out for redress. The gods have been insulted, and will have their due. Thankfully, there’s a man going ‘round taking names, and he decides who to free and who to blame...

...but discussion of His Grace King Stannis Baratheon, the Wrath of God, will have to wait for later chapters, as will Wyman Manderly’s culinary interpretation of divine judgment.

For the purposes of Theon’s arc, the Ironborn at Moat Cailin serve as the mirror from which he’s trying so desperately to look away. I said last time that what Reek fears most right now, even more than Ramsay, is being Theon. That name carries so much shame and pain with it that he prefers to be “your Reek,” fearing not only the external consequences of defiance (more torture and maiming), but also the internal consequences of identifying as his old self. All Theon wanted to do in ACOK was take control of his life, and now that’s the last thing he wants, because of what he did with that power once he had it. He returns to Moat Cailin flying a white flag of peace, but it may as well be one of surrender.

“I am Ironborn,” Reek answered, lying. The boy he’d been before had been Ironborn, true enough, but Reek had come into this world in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. “Look at my face. I am Lord Balon’s son. Your prince.” He would have said the name, but somehow the words caught in his throat. Reek, I’m Reek, it rhymes with squeak.

“Ralf Kenning is dead,” he said. “Who commands here?”

The drinkers stared at him blankly. One laughed. Another spat. Finally one of the Codds said, “Who asks?”

“Lord Balon’s son.” Reek, my name is Reek, it rhymes with cheek.

One of the Codds pushed to his feet. A big man, but pop-eyed and wide of mouth, with dead white flesh. He looked as if his father had sired him on a fish, but he still wore a longsword. “Dagon Codd yields to no man.”

No, please, you have to listen. The thought of what Ramsay would do to him if he crept back to camp without the garrison’s surrender was almost enough to make him piss his breeches. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with leak.

What gives this chapter its charge is that our POV is being forced by the man who shattered his old identity to resume that identity. It’s Theon playing Reek playing Theon, and he’s being made to remember his name in order to sway the people who represent his old life, because they’d never surrender to Reek. He knows that, because he used to be like them...or he wanted to be, anyway. When Theon first became a POV, his mind was aflame with song, lashing his in-between identity to the values and visions of the Old Way:

Once I would have kept her as a salt wife in truth, he thought to himself as he slid his fingers through her tangled hair. Once. When we still kept the Old Way, lived by the axe instead of the pick, taking what we would, be it wealth, women, or glory. In those days, the Ironborn did not work mines; that was labor for the captives brought back from the hostings, and so too the sorry business of farming and tending goats and sheep. War was an ironman's proper trade. The Drowned God had made them to reave and rape, to carve out kingdoms and write their names in fire and blood and song.

Aegon the Dragon had destroyed the Old Way when he burned Black Harren, gave Harren's kingdom back to the weakling rivermen, and reduced the Iron Islands to an insignificant backwater of a much greater realm. Yet the old red tales were still told around driftwood fires and smoky hearths all across the islands, even behind the high stone halls of Pyke. Theon's father numbered among his titles the style of Lord Reaper, and the Greyjoy words boasted that We Do Not Sow.

It had been to bring back the Old Way more than for the empty vanity of a crown that Lord Balon had staged his great rebellion. Robert Baratheon had written a bloody end to that hope, with the help of his friend Eddard Stark, but both men were dead now. Mere boys ruled in their stead, and the realm that Aegon the Conqueror had forged was smashed and sundered. This is the season, Theon thought as the captain's daughter slid her lips up and down the length of him, the season, the year, the day, and I am the man.

This chapter, Theon I ACOK, slots right in between Davos I (the one with Lightbringer) and Daenerys I (the one in the Red Waste), both of them positively soaked with messianic imagery and focused on weighty questions of power, prophecy, and the price you pay. But in Theon’s chapter, the launching pad for the most stubbornly secular storyline in ACOK, the messianic mindset is stripped of its finery and exposed as pitiful self-delusion. This is who you are, Chosen One, all the more clearly with neither dragons nor shadowbinders at your back: a mirror-drunk fool dreaming of atrocities while your dick gets sucked.

Three books later, that self-image has been racked and flayed and castrated before being spat back out at us as Reek. He thinks of himself as having been born beneath the Dreadfort, molded like clay from Theon’s blood and pain; are you my mother, Ramsay? He keeps retreating to his new name in his thoughts, a mantra to keep the fear away. The identity of which he dreamed is now the nightmare he cannot shake. And what better way for the author to reflect that than by bringing him up against the death of his dream, the most unshakable images of the rot eating away at the Old Way?

Reek passed the rotted carcass of a horse, an arrow jutting from its neck. A long white snake slithered into its empty eye socket at his approach. Behind the horse he spied the rider, or what remained of him. The crows had stripped the flesh from the man’s face, and a feral dog had burrowed beneath his mail to get at his entrails. Farther on, another corpse had sunk so deep into the muck that only his face and fingers showed.

Closer to the towers, corpses littered the ground on every side. Blood-blooms had sprouted from their gaping wounds, pale flowers with petals plump and moist as a woman’s lips.

Ralf Kenning lay shivering beneath a mountain of furs. His arms were stacked beside him—sword and axe, mail hauberk, iron warhelm. His shield bore the storm god’s cloudy hand, lightning crackling from his fingers down to a raging sea, but the paint was discolored and peeling, the wood beneath starting to rot.

Ralf was rotting too. Beneath the furs he was naked and feverish, his pale puffy flesh covered with weeping sores and scabs. His head was misshapen, one cheek grotesquely swollen, his neck so engorged with blood that it threatened to swallow his face. The arm on that same side was big as a log and crawling with white worms. No one had bathed him or shaved him for many days, from the look of him. One eye wept pus, and his beard was crusty with dried vomit.

“What happened to him?” asked Reek.

“He was on the parapets and some bog devil loosed an arrow at him. It was only a graze, but…they poison their shafts, smear the points with shit and worse things. We poured boiling wine into the wound, but it made no difference.”

This is how the Old Way has always died, with broken towers and the stench of corpses, from Aegon melting Harrenhal to Robert smashing Pyke. Every time it falls, the seeds are sown for its next rise; the ideology’s exposed festering folly is folded into a Lost Cause mythos that weaponizes resentment and ennobles suffering. The last time it fell, part of the price paid was Theon’s identity, and his desperate drive to reclaim it by reviving the Old Way is what led him here. He’s unrecognizable to the very world in which he hoped to finally recognize himself.

The garrison will never know me. Some might recall the boy he’d been before he learned his name, but Reek would be a stranger to them. It had been a long while since he last looked into a glass, but he knew how old he must appear. His hair had turned white; much of it had fallen out, and what was left was stiff and dry as straw. The dungeons had left him weak as an old woman and so thin a strong wind could knock him down.

And his hands…Ramsay had given him gloves, fine gloves of black leather, soft and supple, stuffed with wool to conceal his missing fingers, but if anyone looked closely, he would see that three of his fingers did not bend.

That fall from grace, the violent collapse of his projected identity, is reflected back at him by the sorry state of the Ironborn garrison. They came here as an army, together, one people; they knew who they were. And now...?

Someone seized him and dragged him inside, and he heard the door crash shut behind him. He was pulled to his feet and shoved against a wall. Then a knife was at his throat, a bearded face so close to his that he could count the man’s nose hairs. “Who are you? What’s your purpose here? Quick now, or I’ll do you the same as him.” The guard jerked his head toward a body rotting on the floor beside the door, its flesh green and crawling with maggots.

“I am ironborn,” Reek answered, lying. The boy he’d been before had been ironborn, true enough, but Reek had come into this world in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. “Look at my face. I am Lord Balon’s son. Your prince.” He would have said the name, but somehow the words caught in his throat. Reek, I’m Reek, it rhymes with squeak. He had to forget that for a little while, though. No man would ever yield to a creature such as Reek, no matter how desperate his situation. He must pretend to be a prince again.

His captor stared at his face, squinting, his mouth twisted in suspicion. His teeth were brown, and his breath stank of ale and onion. “Lord Balon’s sons were killed.”

“My brothers. Not me. Lord Ramsay took me captive after Winterfell. He’s sent me here to treat with you. Do you command here?”

“Me?” The man lowered his knife and took a step backwards, almost stumbling over the corpse. “Not me, m’lord.” His mail was rusted, his leathers rotting. On the back of one hand an open sore wept blood. “Ralf Kenning has the command. The captain said. I’m on the door, is all.”

“And who is this?” Reek gave the corpse a kick.

The guard stared at the dead man as if seeing him for the first time. “Him…he drank the water. I had to cut his throat for him, to stop his screaming. Bad belly. You can’t drink the water. That’s why we got the ale.” The guard rubbed his face, his eyes red and inflamed. “We used to drag the dead down into the cellars. All the vaults are flooded down there. No one wants to take the trouble now, so we just leave them where they fall.”

“The cellar is a better place for them. Give them to the water. To the Drowned God.”

The man laughed. “No gods down there, m’lord. Only rats and water snakes. White things, thick as your leg. Sometimes they slither up the steps and bite you in your sleep.”

Reek remembered the dungeons underneath the Dreadfort, the rat squirming between his teeth, the taste of warm blood on his lips. If I fail, Ramsay will send me back to that, but first he’ll flay the skin from another finger. “How many of the garrison are left?”

“Some,” said the ironman. “I don’t know. Fewer than we was before. Some in the Drunkard’s Tower too, I think. Not the Children’s Tower. Dagon Codd went over there a few days back. Only two men left alive, he said, and they was eating on the dead ones. He killed them both, if you can believe that.”

Moat Cailin has fallen, Reek realized then, only no one has seen fit to tell them.

And now they are lost, turning on each other, their god forgotten. Cannibalism rears its head again and again in ADWD, as the taboo wilts in the face of winter and war. Theon came here with the knights of summer; Reek returns to find the living dead. Two different armies, two different peoples, as one in his mind now. After all, he’s been trying to bridge this particular gap for most of his life. The abyss awaited both armies to occupy the Moat, as it awaited Theon. Never forget Kubrick’s parting shot in Barry Lyndon:

In ACOK, Theon tried to shed the Northern self exemplified by that shining army at the Moat like dead skin, giving himself over to the image of the Ironborn self in his head. Now Reek returns to Moat Calin to play that image, only to sacrifice it as he was as a child, sacrificed like the men at Moat Cailin to the Old Way...

“Kill him,” Reek told the guard. “His wits are gone. He’s full of blood and worms.”

The man gaped at him. “The captain put him in command.”

“You’d put a dying horse down.”

“What horse? I never had no horse.”

I did. The memory came back in a rush. Smiler’s screams had sounded almost human. His mane afire, he had reared up on his hind legs, blind with pain, lashing out with his hooves. No, no. Not mine, he was not mine, Reek never had a horse. “I will kill him for you.” Reek snatched up Ralf Kenning’s sword where it leaned against his shield. He still had fingers enough to clasp the hilt. When he laid the edge of the blade against the swollen throat of the creature on the straw, the skin split open in a gout of black blood and yellow pus. Kenning jerked violently, then lay still.

...and then again as an adult, this time to the Bastard of Bolton.

Reek swung down from his saddle and took a knee. “My lord, Moat Cailin is yours. Here are its last defenders.”

“So few. I had hoped for more. They were such stubborn foes.” Lord Ramsay’s pale eyes shone. “You must be starved. Damon, Alyn, see to them. Wine and ale, and all the food that they can eat. Skinner, show their wounded to our maesters.”

“Aye, my lord.”

A few of the Ironborn muttered thanks before they shambled off toward the cookfires in the center of the camp. One of the Codds even tried to kiss Lord Ramsay’s ring, but the hounds drove him back before he could get close, and Alison took a chunk of his ear. Even as the blood streamed down his neck, the man bobbed and bowed and praised his lordship’s mercy.

When the last of them were gone, Ramsay Bolton turned his smile on Reek. He clasped him by the back of the head, pulled his face close, kissed him on his cheek, and whispered, “My old friend Reek. Did they really take you for their prince? What bloody fools, these ironmen. The gods are laughing.”

“All they want is to go home, my lord.”

“And what do you want, my sweet Reek?” Ramsay murmured, as softly as a lover. His breath smelled of mulled wine and cloves, so sweet. “Such valiant service deserves a reward. I cannot give you back your fingers or your toes, but surely there is something you would have of me. Shall I free you instead? Release you from my service? Do you want to go with them, return to your bleak isles in the cold grey sea, be a prince again? Or would you sooner stay my leal serving man?”

A cold knife scraped along his spine. Be careful, he told himself, be very, very careful. He did not like his lordship’s smile, the way his eyes were shining, the spittle glistening at the corner of his mouth. He had seen such signs before. You are no prince. You’re Reek, just Reek, it rhymes with freak. Give him the answer that he wants.

“My lord,” he said, “my place is here, with you. I’m your Reek. I only want to serve you. All I ask …a skin of wine, that would be reward enough for me…red wine, the strongest that you have, all the wine a man can drink…”

Lord Ramsay laughed. “You’re not a man, Reek. You’re just my creature. You’ll have your wine, though. Walder, see to it. And fear not, I won’t return you to the dungeons, you have my word as a Bolton. We’ll make a dog of you instead. Meat every day, and I’ll even leave you teeth enough to eat it. You can sleep beside my girls. Ben, do you have a collar for him?”

“I’ll have one made, m’lord,” said old Ben Bones.

The old man did better than that. That night, besides the collar, there was a ragged blanket too, and half a chicken. Reek had to fight the dogs for the meat, but it was the best meal he’d had since Winterfell.

And the wine…the wine was dark and sour, but strong. Squatting amongst the hounds, Reek drank until his head swam, retched, wiped his mouth, and drank some more. Afterward he lay back and closed his eyes. When he woke a dog was licking vomit from his beard, and dark clouds were scuttling across the face of a sickle moon. Somewhere in the night, men were screaming. He shoved the dog aside, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

The next morning Lord Ramsay dispatched three riders down the causeway to take word to his lord father that the way was clear. The flayed man of House Bolton was hoisted above the Gatehouse Tower, where Reek had hauled down the golden kraken of Pyke. Along the rotting-plank road, wooden stakes were driven deep into the boggy ground; there the corpses festered, red and dripping. Sixty-three, he knew, there are sixty-three of them. One was short half an arm. Another had a parchment shoved between its teeth, its wax seal still unbroken.

“So few. I had hoped for more.” The soul shudders. And oh, how casually “somewhere in the night, men were screaming” strolls into the middle of a paragraph, and Reek rolls back over to sleep...

To be clear, I’m not holding Theon responsible for what happens to his sixty-three fellow Ironborn left at the Moat. He’s in no position to refuse Ramsay, as GRRM makes clear in his inner monologue throughout the chapter. But Ramsay is deliberately putting his prisoner through a gauntlet of the self. He has our POV act as Prince Theon son of King Balon, forces him through a cruel mummer’s farce of “choosing” to stay at Ramsay’s side as Reek, and then viciously annihilates the people who represent Theon’s connection to that old identity. It has exactly the effect Ramsay wants: “He pulled down the kraken banner with his own two hands, fumbling some because of his missing fingers but thankful for the fingers that Lord Ramsay had allowed him to keep.” This is what it means to have been Theon and to now be Reek.

This pattern will repeat itself over the course of Theon’s next two chapters, as Roose and Barbrey conspire to have him give Jeyne away to Ramsay publicly, as Theon, and so help cement Bolton control of Winterfell. At every step, Theon's identity is weaponized and turned against him. He flinches from his past, drinks to annihilate his present, and can barely conceive of a future. He is unmoored, drifting through external and internal fog, and he has once again unlocked the North on behalf of heinous authority figures he desperately wants to please. Indeed, Ramsay has wrought a fearsome image of himself in Theon’s mind, a devil equally at home tempting and punishing, and that dynamic is recreated at Moat Cailin:

One of the Codds even tried to kiss Lord Ramsay’s ring, but the hounds drove him back before he could get close, and Alison took a chunk of his ear. Even as the blood streamed down his neck, the man bobbed and bowed and praised his lordship’s mercy.

On that note, one persistent critique of both AFFC and ADWD is that the violence stopped meaning anything--the author started leaning on brutality for brutality’s sake, because he bought into his own rep and/or was out of ideas. I think it’s a valid complaint when it comes to, say, Biter eating Brienne’s face. But on the flipside, the horrific violence in Theon’s storyline is consistently linked to intertwined themes of memory and identity in a manner that I find resonant. Look no further than the man who accepts Ramsay’s offer, and why:

It was the one-armed man who’d flung the axe. As he rose to his feet he had another in his hand. “Who else wants to die?” he asked the other drinkers. “Speak up, I’ll see you do.” Thin red streams were spreading out across the stone from the pool of blood where Dagon Codd’s head had come to rest. “Me, I mean to live, and that don’t mean staying here to rot.”

The one-armed man walked at the head of the procession, limping heavily. His name, he said, was Adrack Humble, and he had a rock wife and three salt wives back on Great Wyk. “Three of the four had big bellies when we sailed,” he boasted, “and Humbles run to twins. First thing I’ll need to do when I get back is count up my new sons. Might be I’ll even name one after you, m’lord.”

Aye, name him Reek, he thought, and when he’s bad you can cut his toes off and give him rats to eat. He turned his head and spat, and wondered if Ralf Kenning hadn’t been the lucky one.

“All they want is to go home, my lord.” And so does Theon, but he has no home to go back to.

Now, of course, Adrack Humble’s dream of counting up his sons is hardly a utopian vision--he kidnapped and enslaved most of their mothers. But the world to which he belongs is the world to which Theon wanted to belong, believing in it so badly he put his life on the line for it...and it failed him, just as it always ultimately fails your average [H]umble man of the Iron Islands. As such, Reek now thinks that the man who rotted without getting his hopes up was the lucky one. This is how he talked when the Young Wolf’s army marched south...

"But such a battle!" said Theon Greyjoy eagerly. "My lady, the realm has not seen such a victory since the Field of Fire. I vow, the Lannisters lost ten men for every one of ours that fell. We've taken close to a hundred knights captive, and a dozen lords bannermen. Lord Westerling, Lord Banefort, Ser Garth Greenfield, Lord Estren, Ser Tytos Brax, Mallor the Dornishman … and three Lannisters besides Jaime, Lord Tywin's own nephews, two of his sister's sons and one of his dead brother's…"    

Theon Greyjoy was seated on a bench in Riverrun's Great Hall, enjoying a horn of ale and regaling her father's garrison with an account of the slaughter in the Whispering Wood. "Some tried to flee, but we'd pinched the valley shut at both ends, and we rode out of the darkness with sword and lance. The Lannisters must have thought the Others themselves were on them when that wolf of Robb's got in among them. I saw him tear one man's arm from his shoulder, and their horses went mad at the scent of him. I couldn't tell you how many men were thrown—"    

...but his story is always interrupted, his comrades died at dinner, and now he dreams only of blood. We rode to war with songs on our lips, but by the time the last notes faded and left us alone with the silence, we were utterly transformed. When Theon eagerly embraces his wine and his half-chicken and his collar, trusting them to silence the screams, all I can think of is this:

“And the man breaks.

“He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them...but he should pity them as well.”

Two chapters prior to Reek II, half a world away, the Shy Maid sailed through another mournful ruin, and when Tyrion stared into the Sorrows, they stared back.

The grey moss grew thickly here, covering the fallen stones in great mounds and bearding all the towers. Black vines crept in and out of windows, through doors and over archways, up the sides of high stone walls. The fog concealed three-quarters of the palace, but what they glimpsed was more than enough for Tyrion to know that this island fastness had been ten times the size of the Red Keep once and a hundred times more beautiful. He knew where he was. “The Palace of Love,” he said softly.

“That was the Rhoynar name,” said Haldon Halfmaester, “but for a thousand years this has been the Palace of Sorrow.”

The ruin was sad enough, but knowing what it had been made it even sadder. There was laughter here once, Tyrion thought. There were gardens bright with flowers and fountains sparkling golden in the sun. These steps once rang to the sound of lovers’ footsteps, and beneath that broken dome marriages beyond count were sealed with a kiss. His thoughts turned to Tysha, who had so briefly been his lady wife. It was Jaime, he thought, despairing. He was my own blood, my big strong brother. When I was small he brought me toys, barrel hoops and blocks and a carved wooden lion. He gave me my first pony and taught me how to ride him. When he said that he had bought you for me, I never doubted him. Why would I? He was Jaime, and you were just some girl who’d played a part. I had feared it from the start, from the moment you first smiled at me and let me touch your hand. My own father could not love me. Why would you if not for gold?

Through the long grey fingers of the fog, he heard again the deep shuddering thrum of a bowstring snapping taut, the grunt Lord Tywin made as the quarrel took him beneath the belly, the slap of cheeks on stone as he sat back down to die.

And therein lies a theme that runs through ASOIAF but for me finds its richest expressions in A Dance with Dragons: you can’t go home again.

Quentyn did not want to die at all. I want to go back to Yronwood and kiss both of your sisters, marry Gwyneth Yronwood, watch her flower into beauty, have a child by her. I want to ride in tourneys, hawk and hunt, visit with my mother in Norvos, read some of those books my father sends me. I want Cletus and Will and Maester Kedry to be alive again.

Home is haunted, by the love you lost and the family you failed.

The door to the roof of the tower was stuck so fast that it was plain no one had opened it in years. He had to put his shoulder to it to force it open. But when Jon Connington stepped out onto the high battlements, the view was just as intoxicating as he remembered: the crag with its wind-carved rocks and jagged spires, the sea below growling and worrying at the foot of the castle like some restless beast, endless leagues of sky and cloud, the wood with its autumnal colors. “Your father’s lands are beautiful,” Prince Rhaegar had said, standing right where Jon was standing now. And the boy he’d been had replied, “One day they will all be mine.” As if that could impress a prince who was heir to the entire realm, from the Arbor to the Wall.

Griffin’s Roost had been his, eventually, if only for a few short years. From here, Jon Connington had ruled broad lands extending many leagues to the west, north, and south, just as his father and his father’s father had before him. But his father and his father’s father had never lost their lands. He had.

Home is a border wall, a chain digging and twisting.

“Do you have brothers?” Asha asked her keeper.

“Sisters,” Alysane Mormont replied, gruff as ever. “Five, we were. All girls. Lyanna is back on Bear Island. Lyra and Jory are with our mother. Dacey was murdered.”

“The Red Wedding.”

“Aye.” Alysane stared at Asha for a moment. “I have a son. He’s only two. My daughter’s nine.”

“You started young.”

“Too young. But better that than wait too late.”

A stab at me, Asha thought, but let it be. “You are wed.”

“No. My children were fathered by a bear.” Alysane smiled. Her teeth were crooked, but there was something ingratiating about that smile. “Mormont women are skinchangers. We turn into bears and find mates in the woods. Everyone knows.”

Asha smiled back. “Mormont women are all fighters too.”

The other woman’s smile faded. “What we are is what you made us. On Bear Island every child learns to fear krakens rising from the sea.”

The Old Way. Asha turned away, chains clinking faintly.

Home is leagues and years away, and yet so close you can almost touch it.

Bran closed his eyes and slipped free of his skin. Into the roots, he thought. Into the weirwood. Become the tree. For an instant he could see the cavern in its black mantle, could hear the river rushing by below.

Then all at once he was back home again.

Lord Eddard Stark sat upon a rock beside the deep black pool in the godswood, the pale roots of the heart tree twisting around him like an old man’s gnarled arms. The greatsword Ice lay across Lord Eddard’s lap, and he was cleaning the blade with an oilcloth.

“Winterfell,” Bran whispered.

“I have my own ghosts, Bran. A brother that I loved, a brother that I hated, a woman I desired. Through the trees, I see them still, but no word of mine has ever reached them. The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it.”

You have no home. You never will.

Water splashed against the soles of her feet. She was walking in the stream. How long had she been doing that? The soft brown mud felt good between her toes and helped to soothe her blisters. In the stream or out of it, I must keep walking. Water flows downhill. The stream will take me to the river, and the river will take me home.

Except it wouldn’t, not truly.

You’ll give up everything just to get home, please, please...

Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night’s Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…

...but it’s gone.

“I have no wish to die, I promise you. I have …” His voice trailed off into uncertainty. What do I have? A life to live? Work to do? Children to raise, lands to rule, a woman to love?

Home is a time, not a place, and there were so few times that Theon was at home. One of them was here, not so long ago, though it feels like it was. For a brief shining second as the banners caught the breeze, with roaring Umbers and fierce Karstarks, with a powerful army around him, with his brother in all but blood marching to avenge his (their?) father, he knew who he was.

And now, he can’t even remember his name.

How could who I was mean anything if it can be taken away from me like this? I was a Greyjoy among Starks, and then a Stark among Greyjoys; I was Theon and had to become Reek, I am Reek and have to become Theon. Forgive me, he calls through time to the smiling man he used to know, I was not strong enough. But Theon can’t hear Reek and never will.

...and yet.

A light rain had begun to piss down out of the slate-grey sky by the time Lord Ramsay’s camp appeared in front of them. A sentry watched them pass in silence. The air was full of drifting smoke from the cookfires drowning in the rain. A column of riders came wheeling up behind them, led by a lordling with a horsehead on his shield. One of Lord Ryswell’s sons, Reek knew. Roger, or maybe Rickard. He could not tell the two of them apart. “Is this all of them?” the rider asked from atop a chestnut stallion.

“All who weren’t dead, my lord.”

“I thought there would be more. We came at them three times, and three times they threw us back.”

We are Ironborn, he thought, with a sudden flash of pride, and for half a heartbeat he was a prince again, Lord Balon’s son, the blood of Pyke.

We are Ironborn. We are Ironborn. The point isn’t that being Ironborn is, in itself, some great moral progression for Theon. The point is that he just thought of himself as one of them, as Theon, in spite of Ramsay arranging everything that happens in Reek II to convince him that he is not. He has, just for a second, found himself.

This spark grows in strength when Roose Bolton and his army arrives to escort his bastard’s bride home. As I said last time, the identity shell-games extend beyond Theon himself; his arc in ADWD only works as well as it does because it resonates with what’s happening in the plot. The North went south united, but returns divided. Roose doesn’t exactly have “a peaceful land, a quiet people” on his hands, and bringing the hated Freys north will only further provoke Stark loyalists (as we’ll see in later chapters). Moreover, his army had to pass through the Neck, controlled by one of said Stark loyalists, Howland Reed. As such, it’s not safe these days to be Roose Bolton...so he outsourced the job.

Collared and chained and back in rags again, Reek followed with the other dogs at Lord Ramsay’s heels when his lordship strode forth to greet his father. When the rider in the dark armor removed his helm, however, the face beneath was not one that Reek knew. Ramsay’s smile curdled at the sight, and anger flashed across his face. “What is this, some mockery?”

“Just caution,” whispered Roose Bolton, as he emerged from behind the curtains of the enclosed wagon.

This is a terrific way to reintroduce a villain. We haven’t seen Roose since he shed all pretense and revealed himself, a snake with new skin, at the Red Wedding. What could be more fitting than for him to wrong-foot us along with Ramsay upon re-entry? We lean forward to see him, only to hear his soft voice behind us...

Reek pretending to be Theon paved the way for the man pretending to be Roose and the girl pretending to be Arya. It’s a mockery, a mummer’s farce, a hall of mirrors. By weaving the central question of Theon’s story--who am I?--into the characters and plot points surrounding him, GRRM elevates that story. It’s the classic existentialist quest: the eternal hunt of the elusive Real. The question of whether Theon will remember his name fits like a puzzle piece with the question of whether the North will remember its name. And the North remembers.

But Theon, try as he might, is not a Stark...and neither is Ramsay’s bride-to-be.

(image by Elia Fernandez)

Jeyne Poole is not Arya Stark, and everyone knows it. Her presence is a marker of Bolton success: the key to Winterfell, a gift from their Lannister patrons, a declaration that the old has been humbled before and folded into the new. Yet more than anything else, it is the lack of anyone willing to call the Dreadfort men on their fraud that points to their rising fortunes at this moment. This is precisely why Davos’ defiant stand against the Freys in the Merman’s Court (in the chapter immediately prior to this one, worth noting?) hits home so hard. The man who stuck his neck out for the truth will not suffer these noxious lies about what happened to the Northerners who went south, and it’s all the more admirable because he (seemingly) stands alone.

And after a chapter of his identity being used against him, rewarded with a collar for handing his people over to a butcher, telling himself again and again that he is Reek, not Theon but Reek...our POV finally drops the disguise.

The girl was slim, and taller than he remembered, but that was only to be expected. Girls grow fast at that age. Her dress was grey wool bordered with white satin; over it she wore an ermine cloak clasped with a silver wolf’s head. Dark brown hair fell halfway down her back. And her eyes…

That is not Lord Eddard’s daughter.

Arya had her father’s eyes, the grey eyes of the Starks. A girl her age might let her hair grow long, add inches to her height, see her chest fill out, but she could not change the color of her eyes. That’s Sansa’s little friend, the steward’s girl. Jeyne, that was her name. Jeyne Poole.

“Lord Ramsay.” The girl dipped down before him. That was wrong as well. The real Arya Stark would have spat into his face. “I pray that I will make you a good wife and give you strong sons to follow after you.”

“That you will,” promised Ramsay, “and soon.”

It’s only internal. There’s nothing moral about it yet. He’s yet to relate her fortunes to his own. But by allowing Reek to play Theon, Ramsay has unknowingly reintroduced his captive’s pre-captivity identity into his bloodstream like an antivirus, and Jeyne’s arrival crystallizes what this means for our POV. If she’s not Arya, then he’s not Reek.

The past is present. The mud you pack into that hole in the ruined wall won’t keep your ghosts at bay. But (to borrow from Barristan) mud can nourish the seeds from which you will grow, your past the fertilizer for your rebirth.

At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell's chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I'm not dead either.    

[singingwordwright]

Gorgeous cover art courtesy of @beyondthehunt Originally betaed by @roseglass with some final (eventual) copy-editing by @bonibaru

A Separate Peace (sequel to One Easy Answer) a Malec AU by @maleccrazedauthor

(Also on AO3)

Chapters: 2/28 Word Count: 104,900 Rating: Mature Premise: Arranged Marriage AU, Canon Divergent starting at Ep 1x12

(Please See Chapter List for Notes and Summary)

“Isabelle!” Izzy glanced up from strapping on her thigh holster to see her mother striding across the Ops center toward her. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of leather and oily cleaning polish that always surrounded the weapons racks, and braced herself. So far, Maryse’s stay at the Institute had been relatively frictionless, and for Alec’s sake, and right now she wanted to keep it that way.

Also, her mom seemed a little less…hell on wheels…these days, and that was worth a bit of encouragement.

“You’re going out on a call?” Maryse asked coming to a stop. Like Izzy, she’d changed out of the gown she’d worn to Alec’s wedding and now wore black leggings under a long black sweater, and shoes with a sensible heel. Since Alec had demanded their mother help with patrols while staying at the Institute, Maryse had been dressing more casually than Izzy could ever remember.

“We just got a report of a rogue vampire den that has snatched a few mundanes off the street,” Izzy explained while Maryse grabbed a holster and a bow off the rack. She kept her tone light and an easy smile fixed firmly on her face; there was no way she could let her mom know just how treacherous missions involving vampires were for her right now. Not until she found a way to come clean about the yin fen. “Everyone else is out on patrol, even with the few reinforcements you strong-armed the Clave into lending us so we could attend Alec’s wedding. I offered to go so Lydia could stay here working dispatch. I thought I might call Raphael Santiago—he’s been cracking down on the rogue dens in his territory since he and Magnus turned Camille Belcourt over to the Clave—but we’d have to get there fast. Dawn isn’t far off. If you’d like to come instead we can use sunrise to our advantage.”

“I would.” Maryse armed herself with brisk efficiency, inspecting the bow she’d chosen and slinging a quiver of runed arrows over her shoulder. “I’ve spent the last two decades mired in politics and administrative duties. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed field work.”

Izzy eyed the bow. “I thought you preferred a broadsword.”

“I’m not as young and fit as I used to be.” Maryse sighed. “I’ve neglected my training in favor of my political aspirations. But my aim is still solid.”

“Does this mean you have no plans to return to Idris right away?” Izzy asked cautiously as they set out from the Institute.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” Maryse said with a grimace. “The Clave is—frankly, Isabelle, I’m worried about the political landscape right now. They’re focused less on controlling and preventing demon incursions into our realm and more on policing the Downworld population. They’re practically obsessed with the unrest since Valentine’s massacre.”

Izzy frowned. “Seems like they were heading in that direction even before the massacre. I know Clave R&D has been coming up with some things that are in outright violation of the Accords. When he was running the Institute, Aldertree tortured Raphael with concentrated UV rays. And don’t get me started on those tracking chips the Inquisitor wanted us to use during that rash of murders Kaelie committed. What do you think pushed Alec into finally calling the summit and proposing the Brooklyn Shadow-world Council.”

“That’s the tip of the iceberg,” Maryse said. “Too many years have passed since the Circle uprising. History is being rewritten. It’s becoming…romanticized…in certain factions, and Valentine painted as a misunderstood would-be savior instead of a genocidal maniac.”

“Are there really that many who think that way?”

“More than I’d like. And plenty of others who like to imagine themselves moderates that are slowly moving in that direction. They’ll condemn Valentine with one breath and approve a harsher stance on Downworld affairs with the next.”

“You’ve always disliked Downworlders,” Izzy blurted before she remembered her resolution to try to get through this visit without any quarrels. “I would have thought you’d be in favor of the Clave taking a hard line with them.”

“Unfortunately, you’re not mistaken. When I left Idris even just last week, I had no real objections to what the Clave has been focusing on. But since I’ve been here for Alec’s wedding—well, I’ve had to confront a lot of my positions on things.” She winced at Izzy’s startled glance.

“Because of Alec’s marriage?”

“That’s only the start of it.” Maryse took a deep breath and pushed her shoulders back. “On a strictly political note, there are no doubt many people wondering if I plan to denounce his marriage when I get back to Idris. But that would undermine Alec’s career and his efforts to stabilize relations between the Clave and the Downworld here in New York, as well as undermining the unified front we Lightwoods have always presented in the Clave. Even when our positions on issues differ, that unity has protected us; it kept your father and I from facing far more severe consequences after the Circle uprising. Without it, we lose credibility. We’re reduced to an unprincipled clan of over-ambitious backstabbers.”

“That didn’t stop you from turning against Jace,” Izzy snapped, then clamped her lips together, cursing the resentment that had her so ready to pick a fight when Maryse seemed to be making a sincere effort to connect.

Maryse drew a shuddering breath. “You’re right. It didn’t. I thought I was protecting the rest of my children, but I was deeply, deeply wrong. And I’m sorry for that. You and Alec proved you understood the core principles of being a Lightwood much better than I did.”

Izzy stared at her mother’s pensive profile. For as long as she could remember, Maryse was always doing. Bustling about, issuing orders, telling them all the way in which they were wrong, all the time. She didn’t know how to respond to this quieter, introspective Maryse.

“And what about if you put politics aside?” she asked finally.

“Politics aside, I could never do that to Alec. I love him too much to betray him like that. And I love the nobility of spirit his efforts here demonstrate. He’s trying to make things better, even at the risk of great personal cost to himself.”

“You know his marrying Magnus isn’t just about the treaty, right?”

Maryse nodded, bowing her head. “I got that impression, yes.”

Frustration bubbled to the surface again before Izzy could stop it. “Here’s what I don’t get, Mom. How can you—why do you hate Downworlders so much you need to have reasons not to denounce your son’s marriage? Isn’t the fact that Alec is happy enough?”

“I’ve been asking myself that question for days, Isabelle. Which is why I said Alec’s marriage is only the start.”

“And what’s the answer?”

“I don’t know.” Maryse looked down at the sidewalk for a long moment. “I don’t know when or why my antipathy toward Downworlders was born. A great deal of it is simply...cultural prejudice, I’m sure. I certainly can’t remember my family ever speaking of Downworlders very fondly. Mostly, though, I think it started with my brother.”

Izzy frowned. “But he married a mundane, not a Downworlder.”

“Yes, and the fact that he chose to be deruned and leave his family and his life as a Shadowhunter behind and live as a mundane created enough of a scandal to make me a pariah by the time I reached the Shadowhunter academy. But then a popular, charismatic boy brought me into his circle of friends and gave me a place where I felt like I belonged.” She gave Izzy a bleak smile. “That was the secret to Valentine’s appeal, you see. He found the lonely and outcast children, the ones who were fearful or disaffected, and he gave them the acceptance they all secretly longed for. We were so caught up in him that we never realized how slowly and insidiously he was poisoning our minds. His thinking became more and more twisted, and ours with it. Eventually there was nothing he could have said that we wouldn’t have agreed with.”

“But you grew up,” Izzy protested. “Once you were old enough to know better, you still stood with him.”

“We did. All but a few of us. Like Lucian. And when those few met unfortunate fates we quelled our discomfort and rationalized it to ourselves.” She fell silent for a long moment, and Izzy waited, matching her stride for stride as Maryse sorted through her thoughts. “You know, it’s very difficult to examine that sort of history without being self-serving. You naturally want to portray yourself in a better light, make excuses for what you did. But nothing can excuse what I did then, the things I said. The harm those beliefs drove me to perpetuate.” She cleared her throat, blinking rapidly. “Wherever they came from, I made them mine for too long. I even tried at times to pass them on to my children, though thankfully I appear to have failed on that score. I suppose in the end, I’m just trying to figure out how much of it started with how I truly felt and how much of it I parroted from the people around me until I convinced myself it was how I felt.”

“Does it really matter, if you’re sincerely trying to do better now?” Izzy asked softly. They slipped smoothly past the foot traffic on the sidewalk, used to passing through the night unnoticed.

“I just don’t want to be a hypocrite about it.” Maryse gave her a rueful smile. “Whatever else I’ve done, inconsistency has never been one of my sins. I can’t claim a sudden change of heart just because my son has married a Downworlder. Or because I met a little warlock girl who has moved me. Or because I find myself missing friends I alienated back then.”

A few leftover raindrops from the brief storm a couple hours ago blew off an awning as they walked beneath it, splattering her hair. Izzy pulled the collar of her dark jacket up, humming thoughtfully in the grey pre-dawn. “I don’t think having a few specific reasons to reassess your worldview makes you a hypocrite, Mom. Not if it’s a real change. It just makes you someone capable of understanding they were wrong and trying to be better. Everyone starts somewhere.” Maryse nodded slowly, but didn’t seem inclined to reply.

The silence stretched on, until Izzy ventured, “Is it Jocelyn you miss? I would have thought the two of you would clash. Not that I really got to know her before she died, but she seemed like she liked having her own way as much as you do.”

Maryse smiled softly. “We weren’t close. I was actually better friends with Lucian, but I rejected him just like everyone else when he was bitten. And I hated him and Jocelyn both when they ‘betrayed’ the Circle, until I finally came to understand that they were right and I was the one who had been… so very wrong. Then I wished I could take it back, but it was too late.”

“Maybe not. This council Alec is trying to form, it could heal some of those wounds. If we could leverage the Lightwood influence, get our allies within the Clave behind it, that could take some of the heat off Alec until we can prove that this business with Aldertree is all a set-up.”

“To be honest, I’m not certain the allies we Lightwoods have surrounded ourselves with would be in favor of Alec’s efforts with the Downworld here. Some of them aren’t at all pleased with us over Alec’s marriage.” Izzy stopped mid-stride, staring at her mother, and Maryse’s habitually frank gaze darted uncomfortably to the side. “Because of our history with the Circle, your father and I have had to be careful to remain moderate, but the voices that supported us after the Circle was defeated have been hinting that it’s time for us to delicately reaffirm our position on the Downworld.”

“But you’re not going to, right?” Izzy demanded sharply.

“I don’t think I can bring myself to. Not now. I couldn’t do that to Alec, or to you. Your father though—he’s not immune to their…influence.” Her mouth tightened, her chin coming up. “He’d be subtle about it, of course. Again, we Lightwoods always present a united front. He wouldn’t publicly denounce Alec, but he’d make a display of affirming his love and support for his misguided son while demurring Alec’s unfortunate choices. He’s a politician through and through. He prefers the path of least resistance, and he goes where expedience demands.”

The damp breeze flung Izzy’s hair across her face and she pushed it back impatiently. “It’s her, isn’t it? She’s the one influencing Dad.”

Maryse’s eyes widened. “You knew?”

“He was being too damn furtive, checking his text messages constantly while trying to pretend he wasn’t. So I stole his phone.” Izzy scowled. “Also, he’s started wearing cologne.”

“Oh, the cologne.” Maryse sneered and began walking again, her strides fast and angry. “He hasn’t worn that since we were on our honeymoon.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” She had to trot to catch up with her mother. “It wasn’t my secret. I thought it might be better for everyone if I just stayed out of it. And eventually it became obvious you already knew.”

Maryse swiped her fingers under her eyes. “You should never have been in the position to have to make that sort of decision. It just makes me all the more furious with your father that you had to have your loyalties divided like that.”

“Leave him.” She caught her mother’s arm, forcing her to stop. “Leave him, Mom. He’s betrayed us all. First with the affair, and now he’s considering undermining all the work Alec’s been doing here? All Dad’s talk about honor and deeds, it’s a sham. He’s a sham. You can return to the Institute. Max can finish his training with us.”

Two more tears escaped Maryse’s eyes, but she reached out and cupped Izzy’s face and for the first time in years, Izzy felt the love of her mother as something more than an abstract concept, or something to envy her friends for.

“If I do that, who will be the voice in Idris championing Alec’s efforts here?” Maryse asked, her voice hitching. But she was smiling. “You and Alec, and Jace also, you’re all so brave. You’re finding your own way, making your own roads. And I need to be there within the Clave, removing the obstacles they’re going to try to put in your path.”

Izzy let her mother draw her into a tight hug, carefully weaving past the quiver and bow to hug her back. It was a long moment of just letting herself soak up the nearness of her mother, all the affection she never imagined her mother would show, before Maryse drew back and gave her a shaky smile.

“Thank you, Isabelle,” she said, settling the strap of her quiver in place again before they resumed their walk. “I think I will leave Max with you, at least. I would prefer he be away from all the bickering. As for your father, don’t judge his political maneuvering too harshly. Like all of us, even if we can’t agree with what he’s doing, he is still doing what he believes will protect the family.”

“By subtly throwing Alec under the bus?”

“He loves you and your brothers, and he wants to see you all thrive and be successful,” Maryse said with absolute conviction. “Never doubt that. But even Consul Malachi is voicing less tolerant opinions on Downworlders. If I know Robert, he thinks that if the Clave shifts too far in that direction, the fact that he appears to have been aligned with them all along may shield Alec, and possibly even Magnus. No one would want to risk alienating the Lightwoods and our allies by targeting our son-in-law.”

Izzy frowned. “But he’d be opposing you.”

“It’s not the first time your father and I have discreetly positioned ourselves as respectfully dissenting voices on opposing sides of an issue, united even when we disagree. Then, whichever way the political climate shifts, the family still has allies.” Her face tightened briefly. “The stakes just haven’t typically been quite this… personal.”

Izzy grimaced. “I hate politics. Give me a decaying cadaver any day of the week.” Maryse laughed. Actually laughed. Izzy wasn’t certain when she’d last heard that sound. She wanted to sit there and bask in it as the sun rose, to find a coffee shop and just chat with Maryse while this golden moment was still upon them and they could talk together this way.

She wanted to tell Maryse everything that had happened these past few months. Even tell her about the yin fen.

Instead, she pointed an alley, on the other side of which would be the boarded-over boutique they were seeking. “This is the den.”

Maryse nodded, and they slipped down the alley, alert for any vampire activity outside the lair. Just as they reached the front of the shop, they heard a scream from within. She and Maryse jolted into motion.

“They’ll be in the basement or a windowless back room,” Izzy said, speaking rapidly. “Another ten minutes the sun will be up far enough that they won’t be able to run, but if they’ve still got mundanes in there, they might not have that long.”

Maryse agreed with a grim nod. “I’ll go up the fire escape and break the windows of the apartment so they can’t flee to those rooms. With any luck, I can use the stairs leading down to the shop as a high ground to shoot from.”

“I’ll take out the front windows and try to drive them into your line of sight.” Close quarters with multiple targets wasn’t an ideal place for her electrum whip. She left it on her wrist and drew her seraph blade instead.

A moment later, a crash from the fire escape announced Maryse’s assault on the first of the upper windows. With a roundhouse kick, Izzy punched through the glass and half-rotten plywood covering what had once been a merchandise display. She widened the hole with her blade and carefully wriggled past the remaining shards in time to see a vampire disappearing down the stairs.

Frightened wails echoed from beyond the open door the vampire had fled to. Mannequins and old merchandise displays were strewn around the room, forming a jumbled mess she had to pick her way through to reach the basement stairs. At the top, she called, “Night Children! On the authority of the Clave, you are commanded to surrender yourselves and any mundanes you have on the premises for investigation into possible violations of the Accords. Any effort to resist will be met with lethal—”

A blur of motion was her only warning as one of the vampires came flying up the stairs toward her. Izzy’s blade took him through the chest, but he was followed by two more, both of them female. izzy backed away a step, trying to lead them toward the shattered front window where daylight was slowly creeping in. They broke off their attack, retreating to draw her toward the stairs and the safe darkness of the basement, which forced her to advance to re-engage them. One way or the other, they needed to be dealt with before she could get to the mundanes they below.

Her blade took the second vampire across the chest—a non-lethal slash, but enough to send the woman recoiling in pain. In her peripheral vision, door of the utility closet beside the stairs opened. She kicked the third vampire down the stairs and whirled to face the new threat.

The new vampire wore a blood-stained police uniform that was still sharply pressed. He smirked and tsked. “Forgot to check your corners, Shadowhunter.”

From a shadow she had assumed to be just a decrepit mannequin, another vampire emerged as the one Izzy had wounded got back on her feet. The undead cop lunged for her and Izzy bolted for the window again. The arms of the wounded vampire snapped around her, halting her escape. A wave of perfume too fresh for the vampire to have been turned more than a day or two ago hit her senses, and then fangs sank into her neck.

Razor-edged bliss flooded her veins. More satisfying than the best possible orgasm, sweeter than the grace of the angels, safer even than the love of her family. She forgot why she had been fighting, forgot there even existed a concept of danger. The inevitable death that awaited her at the end of this road was irrelevant. Nothing mattered but surrendering to that pleasure.

A sharp pain in her wrist—the other vampire, the cop. Another surge of venom-borne rapture swept through her. The seraph blade fell from slack fingers. She hung limp in the arms of the vampire holding her, drowning in the scent of cloying perfume.

“Isabelle!”

She heard her mother’s alarmed voice call her name from a hundred miles away, but couldn’t find any reason to respond. Pain pierced the ecstasy as the vampire who was feeding at her wrist staggered back with an arrow in his chest, his fangs creating a gash as they were ripped from her flesh. The one holding her let her fall as it turned to confront…

…someone. Whoever was there stopping them. It should matter, but it didn’t.

Izzy sank to the floor, only vaguely aware of the sound of combat around her. Crashes and roars and the muted explosion of vampires being reduced to ashes. Slowly her scattered senses began to achieve coherency, but she still couldn’t move, except to drag herself toward the window without any understanding of why she was moving in that direction.

“Izzy!” That was Jace’s voice…what was Jace doing here? She thought she could hear Clary as well, but it was Jace kneeling beside her, his fingers at her throat.

“…When we got back to the Institute, Lydia…sent Izzy out to investigate a report of a den…Jace…see if she needed backup…” Clary’s voice wavered in and out, but Izzy managed to open her eyes to see Jace’s worried face hovering above her.

“You okay?” he asked, sweeping her hair back. Things were making more sense by the second, fear starting to override the high of the vampire venom. Her senses were alive with it, but she had to hide that. She couldn’t let on just how wonderful she felt. Not here, not now, not with her mother standing right there…

“I’m…I’m fine,” she murmured. Jace’s hand wrapped around her shredded wrist. “I’m okay.”

Jace looked like he wanted to argue, but Izzy flicked a look at Maryse and then back at him, pleading with her eyes, and he closed his mouth with a grimace. “Little too much vampire venom,” he said casually. He and Clary exchanged glances and Clary pressed her lips together. “We’ll get her back to the Institute, keep an eye on her for an adverse reaction. Let’s check the basement.”

Maryse began to descend from her vantage point halfway up the stairs, nodding tersely. “Look at this room. It’s set up like an obstacle course. And two vampires were laying in wait for me upstairs.”

Jace frowned, relinquishing Izzy into her hands. “They knew you were coming. How?”

“I’d like to know that myself. I’ll take care of Isabelle. See if any mundanes are still alive downstairs.”

Maryse kept pressure on Izzy’s wrist and activated her iratze rune while Jace and Clary disappeared into the basement. A moment later, they returned, faces stony.

“There weren’t any mundanes down there,” Clary announced.

Izzy shook her head, fighting against the hum of pleasure still lighting up all her nerve endings to try to keep her thoughts focused. “The report Lydia received said there were mundanes on the premises. We heard screams…”

“A ruse,” Maryse said, hissing in anger. “Someone lured us here to kill us.”

“They were new vamps, though,” Izzy argued. “The cop’s uniform was still crisp. The blood stains on his collar were fresh. One of the women still smelled like perfume; she couldn’t have been turned more than a few hours ago.”

“One of the vampires was wearing a gi,” Clary said. “And the female I killed was seriously ripped.”

“I don’t like this,” Jace muttered. “Without someone to guide them—usually an older vamp—new vampires are feral. They operate on instinct; they don’t plan like this. Someone went to the trouble of turning vampires who were all strong and/or trained to fight, and kept them in check long enough for you to walk into a carefully-laid trap. They reported the den while the Institute would be mostly empty, most of our people out on patrol or other calls.”

“If I hadn’t joined her, Isabelle would have been all alone here.” Maryse’s voice hitched and she cleared her throat.

Jace nodded, scowling. “Question is, did whoever made the report know that it would be Izzy? Or were they just after any random Shadowhunter who answered the call?”

On to Chapter 3!

Please, if you’ve enjoyed this fanfic, consider buying some of my books, or buying me a cup of coffee!

[kingofthewilderwest]

Hey! It's me. So..How would Valka react if she knew about Hiccup's mistreatment, and how would she think of Stoick or Berk? Or maybe say to him? Thanks! :)

Hey there! It’s great to chat!

Related analyses: 

If Valka stayed on Berk to raise Hiccup with Stoick

If Valka met fifteen-year-old Hiccup during the events of HTTYD

I’ll admit I’m not 100% sure what you mean about Hiccup being mistreated. I know there are some individuals in the past who have called Stoick abusive, which I think is a great misreading of the events and people in the first movie. How to Train Your Dragon is about a flawed father and a flawed son, but Stoick is not a father who is mistreating his son. He’s legitimately trying to help Hiccup, but like all parents, gets frustrated if his son is causing havoc, and gets confused when Hiccup’s motives seem to change (he goes from chasing dragons in dangerous fights to claiming he doesn’t want to go to Dragon Training, for instance). The entire point of the story is to be a touching father-son story where two family members come to understand one another and mend their relationship. Frankly, if the story were about an abusive father, I would have red flags everywhere about the fact that Hiccup and Stoick reconcile. But Hiccup and Stoick reconciling is one of the best and most touching things... because they always have within them a desire to love and help one another.

You could also mean Hiccup being mistreated in the sense that he is treated ill by his peers in Dragon Training. We could also talk about the idea that Hiccup by and large is not revered by the tribe. Hiccup is in many ways a social pariah when we first meet him because he is so “different.” Since I think that is more appropriate to talk about, I’ll discuss that, and hope that’s what you meant. Sorry if I got it wrong!

I feel like Valka would be dismayed and her heart would hurt if she knew that Hiccup wasn’t well-regarded by the tribe. Seeing him struggle to fit in would already be hard for a mother who does care about her baby (and we know she does love him, even if she made the wrong choice to leave him behind). But on top of the woes of seeing Hiccup struggle, she also has to contend with her own memories. She would know how painful it is to be left out and disregarded by the whole tribe because that’s what she lived, too. Valka would see so much of herself in Hiccup, and it would pain her that it also results in Hiccup being a bit of a social outcast, someone who isn’t respected by the tribe, and someone who gets more than his fair share of taunts by his peers.

I think Valka would also be disappointed in Stoick. I think she would completely expect Stoick to act that way, but she still wouldn’t approve. According to Valka, people don’t change - Stoick included. So her past experiences with Stoick being stubborn about the war against dragons means she wouldn’t be surprised that he’s acting this way around a son like Hiccup, who doesn’t seem capable of fighting dragons. But she would have hoped that Stoick would be able to support Hiccup more. She wouldn’t like how Stoick and Hiccup’s relationship is tense and uneasy... she knows this would just make Hiccup feel worse in his teenaged struggles to find acceptance.

Seeing the tribe treat Hiccup poorly and seeing Stoick make his fair share of mistakes parenting might cause guilt in Valka. She’d feel the guilt deep within her gut. She’d think about how she abandoned her son to live a life like this where there’s no ally to encourage him to be himself, even if it means not being a dragon fighting Viking. She’d think about how she might have been able to help smooth family relations or give her son someone sympathetic to his struggles. 

But I also feel that, if she were just watching this from afar, she would also feel torn. She’d have that sense of guilt strike her, yes, absolutely. It’d be extremely uncomfortable. But she has also spent decades convincing herself that leaving Hiccup behind was the right thing to do. She spent decades convincing herself that she wasn’t a worthy parent - that she would mess things up - that life on Berk would be horrible - that it was better for Hiccup to never meet her. With that sort of self-esteem rocked inside her head, she would feel torn about what she sees teenaged Hiccup experience. After she feels guilt, she would immediately have her insecurities tell her, “But you couldn’t do anything about it. You wouldn’t make him feel better if you were there. Maybe you’d make it worse. You couldn’t do anything about his situation.” And she would still leave.

If Valka talked to Hiccup during these times, or if she raised him and never left Berk, I imagine that she would be someone who would try to help Hiccup through these problems in a more sympathetic way than Stoick’s grumpy awkwardness. I don’t know that she would tell Hiccup her past struggles. Maybe not at this age. But she would, I imagine, try to comfort Hiccup and tell him he’s not inferior for not being a dragon fighting Viking. That he’s still important. That the people who think less of him don’t understand him or respect the abilities he does have. If she knew him well enough to know what his strengths are, she would bring them up. She’d bring up his intelligence. His inventiveness. His unique, out-of-the-box mind. 

I don’t think that Valka would lie to Hiccup, though. I don’t think she’d encourage him by saying, “They’ll understand and love you one day,” after a bad day of taunting. She doesn’t believe people would change. Telling Hiccup a lie like that might lead to further consequences down the road. So I don’t think she’d encourage him that way.

[thedeviantsrp-blog]

Congrats Maranda! We are so excited to have you apply as another character! Your application was great and so detailed and we cannot wait to see your FC of Riz Ahemd as Demetri Rahim come to life on the dash! You know what to do: please follow the checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! And don’t forget to submit an AU description if you want him to be included in our next leg of the AU event!

OOC Information

Name: Maranda

Age: 20

Preferred Pronouns: She/Her

Timezone: EST

Any Triggers: RFP

Level of Activity: I’m still at about a 7 out of 10. But now things have mellowed out for the time, I can be active most evenings for a few hours unless something has come up. But even then I’m going to be on for a while each day.

Anything Else?: Would it be okay if I were to use Riz Ahmed as his face claim instead of the suggested ones?

IC Information

Character’s Given Codename: Astir Real Name: Demetri Rahim Faceclaim: Riz Ahmed, Matthew Daddario, Ansel Elgort,Nico Tortorella Age: 30 Hometown: London, England, United Kingdom Previous Occupation: Trauma Surgeon   Ability: Telekinesis

Description: 

Since he was young, Demetri dreamed of a life better than the one he had. Growing up in the slums of London, he was grateful for all he’d been given. His father, a brilliant man, worked three jobs to keep the lights on and food on the table. His mother did odd jobs, unable to get a career because back in her home country she was not allowed to finish school. In this new life, his parents fought to give them everything they could want. To give them the opportunity they had never had. The oldest of the three, Demetri seemed to grow up fast. Helping his mother the best he could even from a young age. He may have never understood what was going–not fully, but he wanted to help. As he grew, he took on more to help out–watching his younger siblings, keeping the house tidy, making dinner, etc. He knew his parents  hated that he’d taken this world upon his shoulders, but he never minded it.

Demetri a model student in class. He ached to learn as much as he could, spending hours in the library reading and studying. He would leave with a backpack full of books in hopes of learning all he could of what they studied and then some.He was willing to do whatever he could to save himself and this seemed to be the best way out. Sadly, his behavior outside of school was not quite as promising. He hung out with social pariahs– kids down on their luck and taught to fight for what they have. Kids like himself who grew up in the slums and forced to live a life they never wanted. But unlike Demetri they had become a casualties of the slums. They would be caught out late, picking fights with each other, underage drinking, and petty theft was often a past time. Demetri loved the thrill of it even if he was only a bystander–at least to the thievery. He kept his hands mostly clean, but often bruised. His mother cursed him for his fighting, but it never phased him.  He lived for the thrill and if no one, but him got hurt where was the harm? His father never said a word about it. He claimed it his son’s way of breaking free from having to grow up so fast and to get girls–he wasn’t wrong. By the time he was sixteen he had joined one of the local gyms and had taken up boxing–mostly to ease his mother’s worry. Still it didn’t stop him from sneaking out and causing a disruption when he could get the lads together. When he could find the time between the life he lived, the one he helped move along at him, and the one he witnessed with his friends–he would draw. His note books would be bubbling over with drawing that were carefully planned in a passionate drive to create. And by the time he was seventeen–he’d taken to the side of buildings as canvases when the couldn’t afford the money for a new book–borrowing his neighbor’s spray paint to leave his mark on the city and continuing his streak as a public menace.

As the weight of reality began to set in, he found himself falling away from the life he’d created on the streets and focusing more on what awaited him. Demetri graduated with high honors and planned to drive head first into university as quickly as they’d allow. He was the first in his family to go to college, the first to make something of his life and lead the way for future generations. Most of his friends hadn’t graduated–and one never lived to see it. Demetri never learned of the death of his best friend until he was packing his things over the summer. He’d known he’d gone to visit his brother in Ireland, but didn’t know he never made it there. His mother promised it was to protect him, save him from the pain. She knew this pain would keep him from leaving and she couldn’t allow that. But even with as clear of a head as he had–he couldn’t forgive her for that, not yet.

He carried the pain with him as he went to university–part of him wondering what had he’d done if he’d know. He tried not to dwell;  what mattered was what he did next. Knowing that is what his best friend would’ve wanted for him. He always encouraged him to not let anything stop him, this is how he’d honor him. Helping someone had been engraved in his bones so it almost seemed natural for him to go into the medical field. He didn’t want to be the one to find the cure for cancer or work in a simple office–no, he wanted to work with the cases that were often more than met the eye and would give him the chance to help those most couldn’t. Which is what drove him to what to become a surgeon.  It was far harder than the shows made it look, for four years he study tirelessly when he wasn’t bouncing between classes, labs, and his part time job. He was run thin most of the time, running on coffee and cheap food–it wasn’t the life he wanted, but it would get him there. And when the opportunity for him to go to grad school in America–he jumped at the chance. In the land of Freedom and new dreams, he would make his stand.

It was painful to leave the only home he’d ever known behind, swearing to write every chance he got and would call when possible–he somehow survived the long goodbyes at the airport. His new life at Harvard Medical School awaited him. Finally, he was free and life never looked brighter. But the land of milk and honey had gone sour. While he never experienced any trouble at school, the world waiting outside was a much different place. People would stare at him with a glare in their eye, muffled words would fall before he could catch them as strangers “bumped” into him, and other times people were far more blunt with their words. In a country founded up on the ideas of freedom from all that ailed you–he was nothing more to them than an immigrant. A word that stood for hope meant terror to those around him.  It was a new world, but the fight inside of him was greater than ever. He was better than their ignorance and stronger than the hate.

The next four years were far from easy, but he never gave up and after being in the country for five years–Demetri become an American citizen and moved to New York to begin his residency. He made his new home in Brooklyn, a small overpriced studio apartment, the neighbourhood reminding him of the home he left behind. It pushed him harder to make this all work out. When he wasn’t at the hospital, Demetri would fill his time with the friends he’d made at the hospital. He would fall in and out of relationships with girls who never seemed to want more than someone waste a night on, and when he found the time–he’d pick up a book to read or his paints and create. He fell into this flow and found happiness in it. A long term girlfriend, a cat named Chewie, three guys who he would risk his life for, and the long phone calls home to his family. Things seemed to be going right for once and shaping up to be his own American dream.

A year later, he’d finished up his residency and taken the open position as a trauma surgeon at the hospital. But three months into his dream–it’d become a nightmare. The explosion rattled the city, the ER over flowed with people and he spent what felt like days working to help those injured. He knew it would never be simple, but he never signed up for this. When he finally was able to catch a moment to himself, he’d sat in his office. His mind swimming with thoughts. He let his body relax for the first time–he felt weightless. But the moment crashed when his phone rang–and so did he. He opened his eyes to himself floating in his office chair–the whole room, every piece of furniture was floating as if it were tossed out to sea. But as the panic set in–he crashed to the ground along with everything else.  In that moment he knew, the nightmare had only just begun.

Ethos:

Demetri is of a very caring nature. He is very selfless, but that seems to often hurt him instead. He will put others needs before his own. He doesn’t take very good care of himself. He will often forget to eat or sleep, but he does all he can to make sure the ones around him are taken care of and in good health. He doesn’t realize he’s taken such a toll upon himself until it is too late.  Demetri has always been very ambitious. He will stop at nothing, do whatever had can to succeed not matter the cost. Even he as his limitations though. When he fails, he doesn’t take it well and often will take it out on others. He will push people away and often start arguments he can’t win to feel he regain some kind of control in these situations. Instead, he often breaks relationships and shuts himself away for a time.  He has been called a control freak in the past. It is something he’s working, but when the whole world feels as if it’s waiting for him to fail–he can’t always keep a clear head about himself.

[thomasgmcelwain]

Genesis 49

Genesis 49

1 And Jacob called his sons and said

"Gather together round my bed,

That I may tell you what shall come

On you in the last days in sum:

2 "Gather together now and hear,

You sons of Jacob, do not fear,

And listen to Israel your father.

3 "Reuben, you are my firstborn, rather,

My might and starting of my strength,

The excellence and also length

Of dignity and of my power.

4 Unstable as the water's hour,

You'll not excel, because you went

Up to your father's bed, defiling,

He went up to my couch, reviling.

Like Cain, the great hope of his mother Eve,

Reuben, the first son was a cause to grieve.

He always started well, but then he failed

Because when clouds came up he often quailed.

His mother's hope and father's pride, he set

His sights on what things were nearby to get,

Instead of weighing wish upon the heart

And finding love the better part of art.

Like water, he ran downhill and beside

He let desire remain to fire his pride.

I too like water seek the lowest place,

But place instead desire upon the trace

Of Your burnt offering on the slaughter's floor.

I find, Beloved, that water's stable shore.

5 "Now Simeon and Levi are

Brothers, vessels of cruelty

Are in their dwelling place by far.

6 Let not my soul enter freely

Into their council, let not my

Honour be joined to assembly,

For in their anger they slew one,

A man, and in their self-will done

They hamstrung an ox by the by.

7 Cursed be their anger, it is fierce,

And their wrath, for it's cruel to pierce!

I will divide them in Jacob

And scatter them in Israel's hub.

Your law, Beloved, is sweet to tooth and maw,

But there's a better way than divine law.

Without the law Dinah and Shechem saw

The bliss of heaven and paradise to gain,

But Simeon and Levi chose the rain,

Because they thought that justice was not vain.

But all is vain without the loving touch,

And even Shechem could have said as much.

Save me and this poor world, Beloved, from law

That's in the angry hand and cutting claw.

Let right lead into love, and not the might,

And scatter wrath from nothing in Your sight.

There's no commanding love is thought true still,

But that's all that one can command, not will.

8 "Judah, you are he whom your brothers

Shall praise, your hand on neck of others,

Your father's children shall bow down

Before you and before your crown.

9 And Judah is a lion's whelp,

From the prey, my son, without help

You have gone up. He bows down, lies

Down as a lion, and as tries

A lion, who shall rouse him up?

10 The sceptre shall not in his cup

Depart from Judah, nor lawgiver

From between his feet, nor deliver

Until he comes to whom belongs,

And to him shall obedience

Of all the people before sense.

Some say the one to come is some Messiah

Not yet appeared but who'll be both pariah

To wicked ones, and Saviour of the true.

Some say the one to come has come already

Named Jesus or Muhammad or some Freddy.

I doubt not that the three great forms of posing

As faithful to Your law will find a closing

To their debate and quarrel when there comes

The prophesied Dajjal and Anti-christ.

Until then all may fight for silver sums

And soak themselves in whiskey and get iced.

The one who unites all with derring-do

Will not be sent, Beloved, I know from You,

Who have Your own state and law for the few.

11 Binding his donkey to the vine,

And his donkey's colt to the fine

Vine, he washed his garments in wine,

And his clothes in the blood of grapes.

12 His eye darker than wine escapes,

And his teeth whiter than the milk,

That flows out shining on the silk.

The fourth son then touched the reality:

Reuben was simply law and failed to be,

While love and true awareness of the two

Was spent on Levi and his brother's due.

A lion and a donkey represent

Judah, the two best beasts where Judah went.

The sceptre is Judah's alone until

The one desired shall come to take his fill.

Let everyone guess who the prophesied

May be, but knowledge only takes the ride.

A cryptic Bacchus with milk, grape and wine

Comes riding on the donkey doing fine,

Clothing drenched with the purple blood of grapes,

And peacocks calling to the dancing apes.

13 "Zebulon shall live by the haven

Of the sea, He shall be a haven

For ships, bordered by Sidon graven.

14 "Issachar, a strong donkey, lies

Down between two burdens, and cries

15 That rest is good as he can see

And that the land is fair to me,

He bowed his shoulder down to bear,

Became a band of slaves to care.

16 "But Dan shall judge his people right

As one of Israel's tribes in sight.

17 And Dan shall be a serpent by

The way, a viper for ally,

That bites the horse's heels so that

Its rider falls from where he sat.

18 I've waited for salvation, YHWH!

19 "Gad, troops shall tramp upon his few,

At last he'll triumph in his due.

20 "Bread from Asher is rich and sweet,

He'll bring dainties to royal feet.

21 "And Naphtali's a deer let loose,

With fine words culminating truce.

Beloved, this Jacob knows to flatter sons,

He has them decked in famous names by tons.

The one's a donkey while the other's claim

To fame like viper’s striking at the chain

Of every passing steed put on parade.

With such reminders these sons are unmade.

A deer seems better to be pictured by,

A deer with fine words makes me rather shy.

The deer I've known are quiet in their way

Despite the snort and rare stunt for their say.

For all the flying ships of Zebulon

I still vote for the coming seventh son

Who follows rest with justice in a ride,

A carousel that leaps and bucks beside.

22 "Joseph's a fruitful bough to tell,

A fruitful bough beside a well,

His branches run over the wall.

23 The archers bitterly gave call

And grieved him, shot and hated him.

24 His bow stayed strong and was not dim,

His arms in hand grew stronger still

By Jacob's Mighty God's own will.

(From there's the shepherd, and the stone

Of Israel who's his sent alone),

25 By the God of your father who

Will help you, by Almighty who

Will bless you with the blessings of

The heaven above, the heaven above

And blessings of the deep that rests

Beneath, and blessings of the breasts

And of the womb. 26 The blessings of

Your father have excelled above

The blessings of my fathers to

The highest bound of everlasting

Hills. They shall be on the forecasting

Head of Joseph, and on the crown

Of the head of him who with frown

Was separated from his brothers,

Lived in Egypt without the others.

27 "Benjamin is a ravenous

Wolf, in the morning without fuss

He shall devour the prey, and at

Night too divide the spoil of that."

Beloved, both Israel's shepherd and her rock

You come to Joseph and here You take stock.

This is the son that's truly blessed to be

With heaven and earth, and with the mighty sea.

His grief and patience is at last rewarded,

Though most who suffer such can ill afford it.

His brother is a wolf and spoiling prey

While Joseph wears the crown and holds the sway.

I too look to the hills, the everlasting,

And like good Joseph also cease my fasting.

Alone in Egypt I have learned a thing

As well, and that's not to rely on wing

Of brotherhood, but stand upon the wall,

The only soul at last to hear the call.

28 All these the twelve tribes of Israel,

And this is what their father's spiel

Spoke to them. And he blessed them, he

Blessed each one and accordingly.

29 He charged them and said to them then,

"I'm to be gathered to my folk,

Bury me with my fathers, men

In the cave that's from Ephron's yoke,

The field of Ephron the Hittite,

30 "In the cave at Machpelah's site,

Which is before Mamre, a place

In Canaan's land, which in his pace

Abraham bought with Ephron's field,

Ephron the Hittite, bought and sealed,

Possession for a burial place.

31"There they buried Abraham and

Sarah his wife, there, by command,

They buried Isaac and his wife

Rebekah, and at end of life,

I buried Leah after strife.

32 "The field and the cave that is there

Were purchased from the Hittites fair."

33 And when Jacob finished commanding

His sons, he drew his feet from standing

Up in the bed and breathed his last,

Was gathered to his folk aghast.

All men die daily, my Beloved, though not

With sons about their sofa to be taught,

Though not with feet drawn on the braided bier

Embroidered in gold threads, shrouded in sere

Silk canopies. All men die daily, breath

To breath invites the living soul to death.

I exhale and life leaves my inner cave

Abandoned and dark, but You come to save

And with Your divine kiss breathe in again

The breath of life that animates all men.

I share that kiss of life with all things that

Breathe on the clay, both beast and those that chat.

Breathe still on me the sacred name of YHWH,

Beloved, until my soul comes back to You.