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randomfoggytiger · 1 year ago

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The X-Files: Son of Egypt

First fic of all time (barring dabbles in my younger years off the internet that don't count.)

All credit goes to @television-overload's intriguing idea-- Samantha adopts and raises William Mulder-Scully (post here)-- with a Prince of Egypt-esque twist~.

Will Van de Kamp couldn’t remember how old he was (and couldn’t begin to take a guess now) or even what he'd said when his mother’s wistful, yearning look stopped him in the middle of a protest. “Your father said that to me, too,” she’d murmured, before quickly walking them away from the conversation. It was then he understood: Samantha Van de Kamp was his mother, Carl Andrew Van de Kamp was his brother, but the man he called “dad” was not his father.

~~~~~

He had just turned twenty-two when Will was finally allowed to join the raids.

Their base's Consortium quarters had been quiet, eagerly quiet as the Van de Kamp men represented their request. Will may have felt aged in his soul-- a cobweb weighed down with dust and filth and dead parts-- but he was young in their eyes; and against this fading generation, who had seen wars and brokered peace before their species was extinguished, Will had to prove he could handle the great risk, the heavy responsibility, the implied future work this one task would set him up for. That was easily done as he parroted back their secrets-- a young boy with a quick mind and a listening ear could learn a lot, particularly when firmly transplanted from his childhood farm into the middle of a Syndicate compound. And a boy who could turn that threat of exposure into a boon for his lords and masters was a gift to be cultivated and groomed. He was approved. In passing, a few half-remarks (“Perhaps he should have been left on the farm. To know so much of our inner workings and with so much history--”, “It was necessary. There was no other way to keep Mulder from--”) snagged at his mind, vaguely recognizing a few names and situations mentioned before; but his attention was caught by Van de Kamp’s reassuring grip and a few curious members striding over to weigh him in the balance for themselves. Later.

Later came sooner than expected.

The raid had been going smoothly. It wasn’t even a raid, Will discovered, but a routine drive-by meant to intimidate a specific helper or informant: a preening “you’re still in checkmate” boast. Elevated desperation reeked from their current victim, choking Will as thickly as Van de Kamp and Henderson’s ruthless satisfaction did. The interrogation ended badly: Henderson was knocked aside and Van de Kamp warned away from his charge by the muzzle of Henderson’s gun. Will Van de Kamp had his own weapon out and aimed at the man’s chest before he could become a hostage; but Will could not pull the trigger. The background noise faded out as both opponents faced each other, equal fear in their eyes. Then the man jerked the gun away, swiftly putting a bullet in his own skull.

Another half-remark haunted Will’s footsteps from the scene. “Can’t change a Mulder,” Henderson hissed under his breath, hand wrapped around his twisted fingers.

~~~~~

The Consortium appreciated the concept of genius but withdrew from his own. Bad blood on all sides, Will assumed; the dark, overcasting shadow of his late grandfather providing contrast to the spark of his intelligence. Eidetic memory was a negative in this den of bloated jackals, gluttoned as they were on easy power and declaring victories when they hadn't even fought wars (though against whom or what no one could point to.)

When Van de Kamp had told the family they were moving permanently on-base, everyone had assumed it was because Andrew had caught the Syndicate's attention. Cunning was prized by a group who had to lick their own wounds one too many times; and Will’s older brother had it in spades. It was ridiculously easy for him to spin anything to his advantage with everyone except Will-- the two brothers knew each other too well for those games to be ended between them in anything other than a fight, a good laugh, and another adventure. Andrew's harsher struggles trying to live up to his grandfather's legacy in the Consortium was harshly contrasted by Will's greater negligence in the name of freedom; and both brothers grew closer and further away as the group's requirements necessarily pushed and pulled at their relationship. There was love, Will knew; but suspicions this intense could only be dealt with alone.

“What’s eating at you? We all don’t take that first shot, it doesn’t mean--”

“Teach me to hack in, not get caught.”

Another tussle, another patch up, another bargain.

Will only gained fringes of information from slipping into those dangerous territories (most of the information having been kept offline since an incident in 1995, he gleaned); but two important pieces were worth the risk: former Special Agent Fox W. Mulder (recently exonerated) had continually entangled himself in Syndicate business while on a madcap search for his sister; and that sister was Samantha Mulder. Samantha Mulder, Samantha Van de Kamp.

He had to find those files.

~~~~~

It took longer than Will was willing to admit to recall where Van de Kamp stored his important documents, cds, and drives. Nocturnal adventures were not unusual for him, even with a mother who quaked with worry and a father who quietly guided him back to his room any time after 10 PM. With the tiniest flashlight he could find in one hand (being invisible was an essential skill to survive when surrounded by betrayals layered with suspicions) and a phone in the other, Will picked his way through the attic, recognizing various names or codes from his notes. Eyes growing strained in the darkness, he finally found a promising box: folder piles, papers filed together, pictures, notes… the X-Files. Or copies of them.

Will flipped around, brusquely set aside, and grabbed for stack after stack until he found his mother’s file. Although she was younger in this photo than any in the house, they still reassuringly shared the same nose (pinched at the bridge, widening out at the tip.) For a brief moment he wondered what his uncle’s nose looked like; but the word “Found” arrested his attention. Everything froze with him in shock, coming back to life only after he sputtered on a choked, belated gasp. Closed… found… 2000… died…starlight. Died.

He clutched as many files and cds as he could; then a box of them; then set everything aside, shaking, as he ruthlessly sorted between importance and paramount importance. Remaining undetected was the goal: it wouldn’t matter how much evidence he collected if he were caught.

~~~~~

Uncle Fox, Will discovered, was a fascinatingly transparent opponent to the Syndicate. He'd never hidden his motives or intentions, often defying the shaved-down FBI report regulations to get "the Truth" out-- conferences, interviews, even an odd media appearance (Cops was one of the notes he underlined.) The smaller, more humanizing details of his life were gathered through safer searches, having been expunged from the Consortium record for their unimportance. Special Agent Fox Mulder (Uncle Mulder) was always accompanied by his partner, Special Agent Dana Scully. And, fittingly he assumed, when Will saw them both for the first time it was together: his uncle’s wide smile and her serious frown captured on-site of one of their cases.

Former Special Agent Dana Scully was still being monitored by her enemies (likely a more indirect way to monitor her former partner): now a doctor at an Our Lady’s Sorrow hospital, her hair was longer and her face relatively unchanged, if the newest articles about her work were to be believed. It was a short leap from those articles to the sensationalism rags about her past, and an even shorter distance from that to tumbling into revelation after revelation: exoneration in 2008, fleeing the law with her partner in 2002… and adopting-out her son, also in 2002. William Mulder-Scully.

The thought flitted and was brushed aside; then slammed back with ringing clarity. Will scrambled for baby Mulder-Scully’s birthday and breathed a sigh: he was born in 2001. Five years too young to be himself, but a cousin nonetheless. He hoped wherever the boy was that it was far from where he was.

But “Closed… found… 2000… died.” wouldn’t leave his mind. Samantha Mulder was buried in North Carolina with a Teena Mulder; and, to Will’s shock, was briefly joined by Uncle Mulder himself for three months. The files he had on hand confirmed the public report, which left him shaken and reeling.

Closed… found.. 2000… died…. Resurrected?

And if closed, found, 2000, died, resurrected was a possibility, then there was an equal chance that born, adopted, given a new identity could be true as well.

A frantic, thorough, and looping search confirmed it: the Will Van De Kamp born to Samantha Van de Kamp existed only after William Mulder-Scully was adopted out. Thinking back, Will couldn’t personally prove his existence after his alleged birth in 1996. The life they lived had never allowed for natural curiosity or too many questions with silence so easily bought and paid for. Until now, he assumed “the work” was dangerous and fearfully weighty, something to be talked of obliquely or not at all. Now he wondered what sort of kingdom he and Andrew were being raised for.

~~~~~

Clones and hybrids and tortured children and harvested women and broken men.

That was their empire.

His mother, a tool of the Project. Carted out against her knowledge and against her will for her father’s (her creator's) means and goals, paraded before a brother she thought she had and married to a man that may or may not know she was inhuman. A string of children lost and born and dead before Andrew survived to carry on her creator's legacy. Complicit in the lie of Will's birth and parentage.

His brother, a tool of the Project. Elevated as its prince, honed to a weapon, and all-but-in-writing handed the keys of the Conspiracy. Immune before immunity was no longer required. Cunningly grasping for that power and for Will, unable to keep both but refusing to lax his grip all the same.

The Project: fruitless lies upon lies that saved no one, having merely benefitted from two opposing alien factions’ war and stalemate. Bullies left with too much aimless power and ashes at their feet.

Will knew he needed to leave. Soon. Immediately.

~~~~~

Andrew was furious Will was leaving without warning and almost without a goodbye. Their ensuing fight was left unresolved-- perhaps forever-- with the punctuating slam and screech of an angry driver venting his pain on the road. Will wondered if his family was doomed to be continually torn apart; and if Andrew would ever start or never stop looking for him.

His mother, Samantha, simply stared, silent tears marking the many years she'd chosen ignorance over truth. A soft then more desperate hug said everything for her; and she quietly slipped into the backroom, giving him time to grab what he needed and leave.

Van de Kamp barged in before Will left, breathless with pain. He, too, was silent; and he, too, allowed his son to leave.

Will knew all three wouldn’t betray him; but how much of that was motivated by love, loyalty, or a twisted sense of duty he couldn’t say.

~~~~~

Doctor Dana Scully was easy to locate but harder to follow, the Consortium’s search for him making it nearly impossible at first. Her frown was still serious and her hair was still long, but her spark was gone. He could only watch this new mother from afar, drifting in her wake-- hungry as she ate, parched as she drank, exhausted as she slept. He couldn’t approach her, the bereft ache in his last mother’s eyes always on his mind, foiling his best attempts to forget. Perhaps former Special Agent Dana Scully and he were not meant to be, or perhaps meeting her in person would turn her from a figment into flesh. Until he could be certain, he waited.

Former Special Agent Fox Mulder was nowhere to be found.

It was a week before Dana Scully led the way to her second home, a ramshackle abandoned house in the sticks. Will knew about this property, even came to scout it out once; but it looked dead from the road, and he’d hurried back to his previous task. By now, he should have learned that appearances are deceiving.

He left his car in the woods, slinking up the porch easily by crouching under the tall grass. The house was still dead-- no hum from the power, no creaking of the pipes, and no shuffling from the steps inside. Half remarks, easy to recognize from a lifetime of training, trickled outside; and Will inched closer to catch them.

Dana Scully’s voice-- harder to hear from where Will was positioned-- was softer than he’d imagined, especially when contrasted with the solemn expression that settled perpetually on her face. “...out here… this house… alone.”

“Well, you know me, Scully,” Special Agent Fox Mulder’s (Uncle Fox, Mulder, Father's) voice rang out, falsely cheerful. “You predicted how this’d go years ago.”

Will caught a mournful murmur.

“‘Catatonic schizophrenia’, I believe you called it.”

“Mulder.” He heard that loud and clear: no nonsense endearment. Amused and trying not to be.

“Though I think our story ended better than theirs. Though not by much.”

Although Dana Scully’s (Scully's) heels clicked close, Will could tell she was only drawing closer to Agent Mulder (Mulder.) There was a long, deep silence, a few deep reassuring breaths, and what sounded like affectionate ruffling.

“You’ll find your way back, Mulder. I believe that.”

Retreating from this intimate moment between two sad, broken people, Will felt fifteen years old for the first time in his false twenty-two.

~~~~~

Will didn’t leave Mulder’s house. He spent the next week or two losing track of time in the rhythm of Mulder’s world: quiet except for the wind moving through the trees, the grass, or slamming up against the lifeless windows. Food was easy to forget when he subsisted on various nonperishables; and the hours were whittled away plowing through various copies of unredacted files. Low profile didn’t seem to have existed in Mulder and Scully’s orbit, with more and more press and eyewitness accounts to corroborate or validate the various outlandish claims they’d both signed their names to.

It also gave him time to think. Losing his family was concrete and understandable even if it was gut-wrenching and grueling. But to have stripped him of his identity, of so large a factor as his age, was as baffling as it was appalling. Will had lived through each milestone, had graduated, had taken other secondary education classes and courses; and now he was left to second-guess everything he thought he knew. Tutelage tempered with lies under the Syndicate could mean anything: how effectively was he taught? Did he even graduate? Likely not, since a fifteen year old brain could not fit the knowledge required for a twenty-two year old collegiate. Had the Consortium fallen so far that they were sloughing off a piecemeal education on their next generation, not caring if they learned so much as they obeyed? If so, the whole structure would collapse within a generation; but then, what structure did they have left to uphold? The selfish men who bought and sold for power were dying out, and the next generation might be willing to take what they could from the scraps. But then why--

And underneath all of those thoughts was the one Will was trying to isolate from but kept finding over and over in the files, typed up plainly in Dana Scully’s neat sentences: “...if it’s only by knowing where he’s been that he can hope to understand where he’s going, then I fear Agent Mulder may lose his course; and the truths he’s seeking from his childhood will continue to evade him, driving him more dangerously forward in impossible pursuit.”

~~~~~

Mulder stepped out of the treeline, gun in hand.

Will realized, as he stared at this man chiseled by regrets and promises, that he had been disappointed in his father a week or more ago. He’d wanted to respect him, had even thought he loved him in a way; but had still withdrawn from the concreteness of his father's weakness, just as his father had. The Mulder standing before him was every inch the former Special Agent Fox Mulder he'd read about: danger in his stance, fire and fairness in his eyes. He’d never met Fox Mulder, but Will was glad to have him back.

Mulder stopped his string of succinct commands when his eyes fell on the files, breath catching as he looked erratically from one copy to the next before flying back up to Will’s face. There was fear in his eyes-- good fear, alive fear-- and his words caught a few times before he asked, “William?”

Fox Mulder, Mulder. Dana Scully, Scully. Will Van de Kamp, William Mulder-Scully. He could live with that.

There wasn't anything to say, so William did what Samantha Mulder had taught him, letting his smile say everything for him. Mulder's face split into the exact same, wide-open beam: he, too, had taught William in his absence. And William knew-- he just knew-- that Scully had passed on her ability to read the layers of emotions dancing across his father's neutral expression. And he could live with that, too.

William watched his father's smile slip as he swallowed back crashing emotions. "I tried looking for you, years ago. When you were a baby. And later, when...." Mulder paused, miserable in his failures.

There was only one thing left to say. "You did."

~~~~~

Acknowledgements: Thank you to @television-overload for coming up with the original idea and for naming Will's older brother. ;)))

Thank you to @ghostbustermelanieking and @o6666666 for creating short, beautiful AU fics that ultimately helped me flesh out the format for this one.

Thank you (in no particular order) @baronessblixen, @welsharcher, @agent-troi, @dd-is-my-guiltypleasure, @suitablyaggrieved, @pianogirlxf, @samucabd, @herdingcats12, @cecilysass, @amplifyme, @slippinmickeys, @enigmaticdrblockhead, @annablume, @spidey-is-tired, @two-microscopes, @spidey-is-tired, @mariaann, @chavisory, @medicaldoctordana, @ibringyouasong89, @cyb3rpeach, @mindibindi, @two-birds-alone-together, @invidiosa, @jessahmewren, @living-in-unreality, @mollybecameanengineer, @tossingmyglossymane, @demon-fetal-harvest, @settle-down-frohike, @storybycorey, @thescullyphile, @scullys-scalpel, @perpetually-weirdening, @teenie-xf, @captainsugarcane, @frogsmulder, @paperheartsarts, @unremarkablehouse, @cutemothman, @my-spookybunnies, @lindz-dude, @sonictacocat, @freckleslikestars, @kiivitaja, @today-in-fic and more for always being willing to engage with my work (and enjoying when I engage in yours.)

Thank you to every single one of the fic writers out there. Your work nudged me gently along to this point; and without your leaps I wouldn't be making these steps.

And thank you to each and everyone of my mutuals and lurkers-- keep on keepin' on~!

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

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officalroyalsofpierreland · 2 months ago

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A Controversial Interview

The Late Show with Rory Grant | That Evening

Rory Grant: A Former Prince, A seeker of freedom, and a grandfather. His new book, Freedom, is a number one Bestseller on Le Nouvel Observateur’s Les Meilleures Ventes and is selling out across Scotland. Please welcome to the Late Show, Mr. Louis Simparte!

Grant: Louis, Welcome to the Late Show! Louis: Thank you Rory. Glad to be here.

Grant: Your book, Liberté or Freedom, is doing quite well both here and in Francesim. It is a bestseller in Francesim and climbing the lists here in Scotland, how are you feeling about the response to your book? Louis: I am deeply touched by the reception "Liberté" has received. My book has been met with great success by the public, and seeing that my ideas resonate after so many years of exile... it comforts me. The lives of royal families are a mystery that many try to unravel. In this sense, my book offers an explanation to the most curious readers who wish to share my vision of the French Imperial family.

Rory: The title is quite bold. Freedom. How did you land on such a powerful title? Louis: The title "Freedom" came to me naturally. It embodies not only my personal quest but also a philosophy I want to pass on. We must break free from the constraints imposed by our family while retaining the best it can offer if there is anything worth keeping. I have learned to love my Simparte heritage, in my own way. I want to show that I have always fought for my freedom, and that it is a daily struggle. Rory: You say that your fight for freedom is a daily struggle. And you've had quite the long life [Louis laughs] what was the hardest part to write about? Louis: Without a doubt, the most difficult part to write was the one where I talk about my break with family tradition. Reflecting on my choices and their consequences, particularly on my relationship with my father and my son Charles, was not easy. It's a wound that time strives to heal.

Rory: Given the strained relationship with your family, do you regret anything you put in the book? Louis: No. Every word reflects my life; I cannot regret it. That said, writing about my own family, knowing that it could hurt some of its members—or bring their wrath upon me—was a burden for a long time. But I believe that truth and freedom of expression are values that must surpass family values. Rory: You've never met your grandchildren, including Princess Hortense who is now the wife of our own Prince Oliver, what do you hope they can learn from you if they pick up the book? Louis: I hope they understand that the important thing is not to blindly follow the path laid out by their parents or ancestors but to find their own way. Being a Simparte also means freeing oneself from the weight of tradition to embrace one's convictions.

Rory: Would you like to meet them? After all, Princess Hortense now lives here. I'm wondering if they've invited you over to Highland House for tea or however you meet your estranged grandfather. Louis [chuckling]: I haven't received any invitation from them. I do understand that to them I am practically a stranger. But I do hope one day to meet them all. I love sports and sailing just like Napoleon V. Despite the family differences that separate us, they are my grandchildren, and I love them. I do not wish to enter "their way of life," but rather "into their lives." Like a relative with whom one shares nothing but love and respect for one another. I hope that family tensions can ease as soon as possible. Many think that my book is adding fuel to the fire, as they say. But it is precisely because I didn’t have the opportunity to speak within the Imperial family that I was compelled to express myself in a book. Rory: Given that this book is essentially a message in a bottle to your family, do you think you've told your side?

Louis Simparte: Yes, absolutely, that’s my stance. I embrace my subjectivity. It’s a story that doesn’t always align with the official version given by my family, but it’s mine—authentic and uncompromising. From childhood, I was raised as an heir to Napoleon, as a good Christian, being told that 'I was different from others.' The first break came when I decided to stop believing in God. The second came when I failed to obtain my baccalaureate. This was a great shame for my father, who wanted the Napoleons to be at the top of their class. I wasn’t interested in that. Given this, you can understand that our visions can only be opposed on many points. Rory: I can definitely relate. My father thought the best I'd do as a comic would be as a clown in the circus. Well look at me now Da! [cheers from the audience and some laughter as stereotypical clown music plays]

Rory: What’s next for you? Louis: I want to advocate for a different vision than that of "the emperor" Napoleon, and I will do this work within the French political and cultural spheres. Napoleon was not "programmed" by the aristocracy. Nothing could have predicted that he would rise. I like to present him differently, for example, Napoleon at Saint Helena. The Napoleon who plays with his witty remarks, a fickle Napoleon, or who cheats at cards. The mistake of my ancestor was that, in the end, he found no legitimacy in his power—other than dictatorship. This is far from the revolutionary or republican ideal. He could not find a synthesis between monarchist forces and republican forces because such a synthesis does not exist. He faced a contradiction that no one could resolve. Napoleon's true strength was his energy. He knew how to take risks, discard his prejudices, be realistic, and have a fresh perspective. That is Napoleon’s message! The foundation I wish to establish should contribute to this reflection. Rory: A message I think all leaders should take to heart these days. Louis's memoir, Freedom is available in French and English anywhere books are sold. When we come back, this man just won the boxing gold in the Warrior Games after giving his Pierreland opponent a hell of a knock out blow. Our interview with Staff Sargent Tyler Adams will be after these messages.

@empiredesimparte

#officalroyalsofpierreland #story #collab #empiredesimparte

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gefdreamsofthesea · 6 months ago

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Today's Cthulhu Awakens session:

Everyone needs a vacation.

They are heading to Georgia (the US state). It is peach season.

They check in at a hotel. Some time passes, and they meet Alice, who works for a family that lives on nearby Cumberland Island.

The estate is called Dungeness. I can't decide how to say it and end up saying it like "Dungeon-ess"

They hop on a ferry and are introduced to Patch, who makes small talk, telling them that the fishing used to be great but has declined in recent years.

They head through marshland and fog and dock at the estate. It is an old house but has clearly been maintained.

They meet Margaret Gasper, their hostess, and the staff at the manor: Michael, Alice, and Edmund.

They head inside, they look at a picture of Margaret's great x 4 grandfather, who fought for the Union (they gather this is kind of a "fuck you" to certain folks around here) and are offered refreshments. Mairéad has multiple drinks and fails her constitution roll. She is now fatigued (penalty to all checks). The book specifies a consequence that I don't like, so instead I rule that she suffers a -2 penalty.

I give Mairéad a choice 1) explore with the others and make a check every two hours to reduce her condition or 2) sleep it off for four hours (note: it is 10:30 AM, dinner is at 6:30)

She chooses to sleep (for the moment)

Dahlia explores the kitchen. She successfully intimidates one of the cooks there to let her snoop.

Sarah decides to explore the library.

Correction: Sarah decides to have sex with her wife in the library.

I get so annoyed my players worry that I am actually mad at them. I am not. I am disappointed.

I tell Sarah's player she may not have any chicken tendies or choccy milk and that she is a bad girl. Kinksters know this is the worst thing I could have possibly said. Disclaimer: I am not serious. Once again, I was not mad, just, shenanigans.

Sarah decides to do some actual research and rolls badly.

I consult secret DM things and Sarah notices Margaret in the library. Margaret leaves and Sarah notices a hidden nook. There are books on a theory that many humans today are descended from "monsters", she makes an alienation test and passes.

They encounter Winston the Maine Coon. He is a white cat. They pet him. "You pet the kitty--not like that." They also find a strange bust ("not like that").

She heads back out into the library proper and I allow for another perception test. She finds handwritten books about a certain Marsh family and determines that whoever wrote these is related to them. There is enough evidence here to get the FBI involved in an investigation of Dungeness.

(Side note: previously I remarked that Margaret has a Boston accent)

Someone's coming! Sarah is unsuccessful at concealing the books. Brooke (her wife) carefully ushers her out of the room. The staff member watches her the whole time.

Meanwhile, Mairéad investigates the trophy room. There is a gun cabinet.

Mairéad wants a gun.

She decides to throw something at the gun and picks up a (fake) skull. Failure. The skull bounces off the glass.

One of the staff rushes in and demands to know what's going on. Sarah runs in. Mairéad's player (unsure if serious) debates using a grenade to solve this problem. Sarah is attempting to diffuse the situation and usher Mairéad out (persuasion check: fail, opposed strength check: Sarah wins)

They are both kicked out of the house. Mairéad tries to go back inside through a window and is immediately caught again. Sarah waits for Brooke. Brooke does not appear.

Meanwhile, Dahlia decides to head upstairs. I inform her player that this will involve a challenge test (a series of checks with consequences for failure).

We call it for the night. I need to consult the book anyways as I can't remember doing a challenge test with this system.

Once again, I must stress that I was not mad at my players, just a little frustrated with their shenanigans. It's okay, they're on vacation.

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bokettochild · 1 year ago

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with my father's funeral today and your perchance to write excellent "Wars/Time/Sky going dad", felt like telling you about a rather fitting song for any of the Link-Dads (although im mostly focusing on Sky and Legend)

it's called "My Father's Eyes" by Eric Clapton. he wrote it as his whole life, he never met his father. one lyric from it "I feel like a bridge that was washed away. My foundations were made of clay" made me think of Legend and how although he had his uncle, you do have part of him longing to have had parents at some point. knowing they love you helps, but it's quite different when they're gone forever

trust me, i know

another fitting line was "As my soul, slides down to die, how did I lose him, what did i try? Bit by bit, I've realized. That he was here with me, I looked into my father's eyes." it reminded me of when Legend realizes that Sky is pretty much his dad now. even though he never had his father, he looked up and saw him in Sky

it's a great song, my dad loved it

I'm sorry I didn't get to this over the weekend when you sent it, but as soon as I could, i sat down and listened to the song.

I don't know why or how I came out writing what I did, but I hope it helps at least a little (I think you were asking for a story? Sorry if I read this wrong)

Anyways, my brain's been trapped by the last update, and the song made me listen to other similar ones and I got this

Midnight Skies

Legend won’t lie and say he doesn’t feel jealous when, the moment they arrive at Hyrule castle, Four runs and jumps into the arms of the first knight they see. Not that he’d freely admit to said jealousy though as it churns in his gut when the man swings their smallest hero around with a deep laugh before settling small feet again to the earth and ruffling already mused and messy blonde hair. Height aside, there’s enough resemblance; something in the eyes and the set of the jaw, that leaves no doubt as to the fact that the armored soldier is their smithy’s father.

And doesn’t that just sting.

He’s pretty sure he doesn’t let on anything over dinner, as not one but two men sit to their smithy’s side, father and grandfather all too eager to hear how their boy has been, egging stories out of the heroes and sharing some of their own. All while Four groans into the table and tries, desperately, to discredit all present and deny any and all accusations. Legend manages, somehow, to smile and laugh along, all while something dark twists inside his gut, hating the smithy for the way the other hero groans and complains about father and grandfather both.

As if he isn’t the luckiest one among them to have both.

Time’s father was a tree, or so the joke goes.

Twilight was raised by a whole village, the local blacksmith taking primary care of teaching him as he grew up, but even then, the relationship isn’t exactly father and son.

Warriors keeps any word of family held close to his chest, but the brief mentions in past imply that any father he knew was distant and typically drunk.

Wild doesn’t remember being a kid, much less having a family.

Wind was raised by his grandmother.

Hyrule’s father was gone before he was ever born.

Sky was an orphan raised in the academy by the elderly housekeeper and her husband.

And well, Legend had his uncle. For all of eight years before Ganon’s knights killed the man in a sewer beneath the castle. And even after the triforce brought him back, the man was... different.

It hurt.

Four’s father is warm. And when the smithy splits, four persons now rather than one, all are greeted by color and treated with fondness.

Uncle could never understand why he’d changed. Why the little boy who had wanted to run an orchard and live in the country would suddenly wake up crying most nights. Why warm hugs were fought off in panic. He’d been startled when Legend couldn’t stand to so much look at a dog, never mind pet one. There’d been endless confusion, and on some nights, he’d overheard Uncle talking with the Elder’s wife. She’d come up to check on them, on him specifically, but they’d both thought he was asleep. He wishes he had been. He'd never have heard Uncle admit he didn’t know how to handle him anymore. He'd never have heard the man call him a stranger.

Legend had set out the next day, claiming to visit Zelda.

A visit turned into a plea for anything to get him out, which itself turned to a mission to Holodrum to find Din.

Some days, he regrets having left.

The house was empty when he came home. He’s still not exactly sure what happened, and he couldn’t bear to ask, but he hopes, wherever he went, that Uncle’s life got easier without him.

Sometimes he wishes he’d fought back the screaming of his mind and just allowed strong arms to wrap around him one last time. Wishes he’d hid it better. Realistically, at nine years old, there was no way to hide the demons in his mind. Not while living in a little one room cottage. Not when Uncle stayed up late anyways, or late for Legend anyway. Now, nine o’clock hardly seems late at all, especially when sleep evades him so often, but back then, it’d seemed so very late indeed, especially in winter.

Sometimes, when Warriors takes out his pipe or someone cleans their sword, he can almost smell the heavy tobacco and sword grease scent the old knight always carried on him. Even now, sitting in Four’s house, the smell is everywhere. Grandpa Smith smells just like him, and doesn’t that just rub it all in deeper? Doesn’t watching the little touches, the hands on shoulders, the hair ruffles, the slaps of the back that nearly send the smithy flying, just make his heart scream and fists clench with the desperate urge to punch the smithy in his smiling face.

Four just had to have it all, didn’t he? And the smithy doesn’t even realize it.

Legend excuses himself as soon as dinner is over.

He doesn’t make a big deal about it, is careful to smile and duck out when the others are all talking. It’s just all too much to stand and watch, and it hurts a part of him that he thought he’d numbed ages ago. So, the moment he gets out, a breathe of relief escapes into the night air around him.

He’s fine.

No really, he is. He’s fine.

Gnarled fingers catch old wood. The roof over the forge isn’t low, but it’s lower than the one in the house, and with the slope of it, so common in add-ons, it’s easy to hoist himself up onto the thatching, to settle back against weathered straw and stare up at the skies.

The night is a cool one, but any breeze there is exists in only a whisper, and he manages to not shiver against it as he lays, tracing constellations and finding long familiar ones.

Well, until he remembers how Uncle had been the one who’d taught him how to find them, then it’s ruined.

He’s not mad, he really isn’t.

But it does hurt.

It hurts like finding his parent’s house. Like knowing they were alive for years, that they weren’t dead like everyone said, or at least not when they’d said it. They’d been out there; lost, but thinking of him, and if he’d only come sooner, set out instead of lingering, innocent and clueless at home with Uncle, he might have had a chance to meet them.

Legend pushes himself up, arms wrapping around his knees as he stares to the stoney path that leads to the forge door.

Did he have his mother’s eyes? Before the dark world’s transformations changed their color for good? Did he get the pretty crystal blue from her? His father? Zelda has the same color as he used to; which parent did she get it from? They’re almost each others’ reflections, past scars and pain, the streaks of silver in her hair and the creases beneath his eyes. Life hasn’t been kind to either of them, but they had each other.

He wishes they’d had more.

He hasn’t been around as much as he wishes, but they’ve sat up and talked about it once or twice. What were they like- Zelda once mused into his arms- their parents? Was their father tall? Was their mother pretty? Do they have his nose? Which one had slender hands? Which one did the two of them get their sharp ears from? Who was the strong one?

And when the sun had set lower, and it’d been too dark in the keep for them to see each other anymore: would they have loved them? Would they be proud? Would their parents have looked at what they’ve done with their lives and smile? Would they be sad?

He’d never said it, kept it close, but tonight, staring up at the sky, Legend wonders if they would have understood.

Or maybe they would have been like Uncle, and the fate that got its claws into their children would have made them turn away in despair as well.

His throat hurts.

“Legend?”

The voice is soft, but it makes him start all the same. He hadn’t heard the door open at all, but there’s a shadow on the path below, framed in the light from the open cottage door.

Quickly, he runs a sleeve over his face. He hasn’t cried in a long time, but he checks just to be sure. After all, you can never be too cautious around other people. Especially adults.

“Vet?” the voice repeats, a tick of concern in it.

For a moment he debates just waiting for them to go in again and give up. He’s tired of people, and he doesn’t want to deal with whomever it is. He thinks it’s Twilight, that or Warriors, because the voice isn’t rough enough for Time, and the shadow is too tall for anyone else.

But after the time on the road that they’ve had, after he’s scolded Wild and Hyrule both for wandering off so often, he doesn’t exactly have the right to let the others worry. Not when he’s scolded so much for them doing the same.

“Up here,” it’s more sigh than call, drawn out reluctantly as he hunches forwards a bit further, chin settling on his folded arms.

The shadow on the path shifts. There’s the sound of everyone in the house still laughing and talking, but it fades as the door falls shut, the light and thus the shadow below disappearing with the noise.

He breathes again. They went in. He’s alone again.

He kind of wishes he wasn’t.

“You alright?”

So, he isn’t? Legend straightens, looking down below the thatching and catching sight of sideswept bangs and dark eyes. Twilight’s stare is shadowed, by his hair, the light, and some emotion the veteran can’t name, but it’s intense. If he hadn’t been fixed by it so many times before, it would make Legend squirm. It doesn’t though. He’s had the rancher up his tail enough before to be used to his stare. Scolding him for bullying Sky (he’d just been frustrated, but who even cared really?) for snarking back, or teasing Time. Twilight’s stare was on him almost the whole time he got turned into a rabbit, and while it wasn’t nearly as stern, it held a similar weight. Now it’s more similar to the night after that horrid battle with the shadow. Twilight’s eyes aren’t harsh or accusing, but there’s something warm in them for the brief moment he can see them before the man disappears beneath the awning.

Callused hands catch the beam at the edge of the rood, and it’s only a moment or so before the rancher is swinging up in front of him, puffing and grinning crookedly as midnight blue eyes catch his own. “Up for some company?”

He shrugs, but motions to the roof around him, settling further into his slump.

Twilight’s smile fades into a frown in moments. “Something bothering you?”

He shakes his head.

Dark brows draw low as the rancher swings up fully, crawling across the roof before settling at his side, heavy eyes fixed on him all the while. “What’s eating you?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles into his arms, but even as he says it, he knows Twilight won’t believe him.

The rancher’s hand lifts from the roof, hovering between them, uncertain.

Legend turns his stare back to the path below them. “’m just tired, rancher. ‘s fine.”

Heavy eyes scream disbelief more than words bother to utter.

Legend shifts, curling a bit tighter and setting his jaw, gaze fixing on the ground below. If he doesn’t look, Twilight’s pained stare can’t make him talk. If he doesn’t move, maybe Twilight too will give up and just walk away. It would make trying to sort his head out easier.

“Ledge, hey, talk to me.”

The rancher’s voice is so soft it physically hurts.

“You’ve been tense all evening, bunny-”

And that is just the breaking point because that’s Uncle’s pet name for him! He can’t help the way he turns, scowling, ready to hiss that Twilight cannot call him that, only to pause as predicted at the man’s heavy stare. Twilight looks all so familiarly pained, like he does when Wild’s struggling with his memories or Time’s being especially harsh. He’s never seen it directed at him though.

He's not sure what to do with it.

Dark hair sweeps forwards as the older man shifts, leaning against his own raised legs to mimic the veteran’s pose, stare heavy and seeking, but not expectant. “Did something happen?”

It takes a moment for him to remember to respond, but when he does he shakes his head quickly. Breaking eye contact helps, and he drops his gaze back to the path below, chin settling in the folds of his sleeves to stop him glancing back.

��Well somethings eating you.”

Not anything that’s the rancher’s business though.

“You’re not normally this quiet.”

That earns a look. A scowl that has Twilight chuckling, deep and throaty, shoulders shaking as the man turns glittering eyes back to the path.

Legend follows his gaze. There's nothing down there, but at least it’s something to look at. He needs that; if his mind doesn’t settle on something he just knows his thoughts will spiral out to places even he doesn’t recognize.

It’s quiet for a moment, only the deep sounds of Twilight’s breathing and the rustle of trees filling the air around them, and despite himself, Legend tunes himself to their sound, matching the rancher’s breath with his own until his heart slows a little in his chest and some of the knot that’s curled there loosens. It’s only then, as he matches the pace of the other, that Twilight breaks it to speak.

“Almost makes me miss home.”

“Ordon?” He’s not sure why he asked.

The rancher nods. “Yeah.” There’s another little chuckle, the shaking of the rancher’s head as he moves to lean back against his arms, eyes drifting upwards towards the sky. Legend tracks his stare, turned upwards to the Ancient Beast; the stars of its eyes twinkling extra bright against the expanse, as it stares down as though to meet it’s match. He huffs a little at the thought, silent, and turns back to stare at the path below them.

There’s a few stones missing on the left side, cracked and overgrown on the right.

It needs repair.

“I’ll bet Uli’s singing the baby to sleep right now,” the rancher muses, smile fond and lonesome. “Colin will have drifted off ages ago, and Rusl is probably still out in the forge, getting the last of the fall work done before the snow sets in.” The man hums, rolling his shoulders. “Goat kids’ll be nearly grown about now, ready for slaughter.”

Legend winces, and it earns another laugh from the man as sparkling eyes turn down to him again, grin still present but all too aware. “How about you? What will it be like at home for you?”

He debates answering, before at least deciding it’s not worth it to let Twi keep pushing. “The trees are probably ready for harvest. Orchard will be all full of fallen fruit right about now.”

“And?” the other man prods.

The veteran shrugs. “Fields are probably being cleared. I dunno, I’m not a farmer.”

“What is your family probably doing?”

Something sharp and bitter inside whispers ‘lying in graves’ but he keeps that to himself, instead answering “don’t have one.”

Again the soft smile fades, warm eyes all too pained, all too knowing, all too frustratingly warm as he sits and tries to ignore them. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s life.”

“So you have no one?”

Silence.

“Not even a friend somewhere, waiting for you to come home?”

He shrugs again, he’s not sure. Zelda is out there, but she knows he’s gone and won’t be expecting him back. Syrup and Irene might notice he’s gone, Gully will, but they won’t be waiting either. They all know he comes and goes like the autumn wind, there one moment and gone the next. It’s almost a saying back in Kakariko that if you see the hero you’d better catch him before he fades away, as there’s no telling where he is from day to day.

Seeing as there’s no place to linger for long, he doesn’t know what they expect.

Twilight twists around, gaze heavy and eyes sorrowful. “Is that what it is? Seeing Four at home?”

He huddles down a bit furtehr, as though the flinch off the blow the words deal.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” And it’s less question than it is sigh, the rancher turning back to the sky, pain still present in midnight blue, the stars dimming within. “When there’s no one at home waiting-”

“Do you have to rub it in?”

Twilight starts, flushes slightly and moves to rub at his neck. “Sorry.”

“It’s not the end of the world,” he mumbles into his sleeves, fingers gripping tight in dark folds. “’s just how things are. No point crying about it.”

“Makes things awful lonely though.”

As though Twilight needed to tell him.

Legend curls just a bit tighter into himself, eyes falling shut. It’s childish, but a part of him hopes that if he closes his eyes, Twilight will just go away and stop reminding him of it all. “Don’t you have a champion to be wrangling right about now?”

The thatch beneath them rustles, betraying some sort of movement from his companion, but this time he has the sense to keep his eyes shut as Twilight answers, has the sense to leave himself in the dark as to the look on the other man’s face, or what he’s doing. “Wild seemed pretty content to sit and listen to Time trying to out match Leon and Mister Smith.”

“And you weren’t content to stay with them?”

There’s a soft little hum and then “I wanted to be out here with you.”

What the actual-

“Why?”

“Because.” As though it’s the simplest thing in the world.

And it seems like to Twilight it must be, because when he lifts his face to stare at the man, bright eyes are turned up towards the sky, face peaceful and undisturbed, even as Legend stares in utter and complete confusion. He keeps staring too, waiting for Twilight to admit some real reason, or to look at him and laugh at him for believing the words, but the man doesn’t. Twilight just keeps watching the sky, gaze darting from one constellation to another until at last the man frowns, face creasing in confusion as he stares upwards.

Curious, Legend tries to follow his gaze. He has to edge a bit closer to the other man, but the flick of an ear is the only response to his motion, so that even when he's only a few inches away, there’s no complaint.

When he looks up, he sees the Holy Maiden cradling the moon in her arms.

“Four said there’s something round the moon,” it’s like Twi knows he’s looking too, although he knows there’s been nary a glance spared his way since last words were spoken. “but I can’t fathom what the heck it is.”

Legend huffs. “It’s the Holy Maiden.”

“The wha?” Twilight’s smile is almost infectuous.

He rolls his eyes, leaning a bit closer to trace the stars, showing the rancher how they mesh and weave into the image. “It’s Lolia, goddess of the Mirror World.” His hand falls, and it’s only then he realizes just how close he’s pressed himself to his brother’s side, Twilight’s gaze on him though stops him from shifting away, almost wary to move at all as the man watches. “She’s Hylia’s reflection.”

There’s a furrow in dark brows, but nothing said. Rather, an arm comes up around behind him, warm and solid against his back.

He's not sure what prompts him to continue, gaze trailing up to stare at the crescent cradled in star formed arms. “They say that when darkness first fell on the world, the people were afraid the world was ending, so Lolia crafted the moon to give them light and assurance, even on the longest and harshest of nights. They say she holds it up herself each night to give promise to her people, and whenever it’s light fades, she renews it so they’ll never be without.”

“Always just thought it was a big rock in the sky,” comes the answering hum.

Legend snorts.

The arm behind him shifts, lifting to settle around his shoulder and pull him closer as the rancher’s other hand points upwards, towards the Great Triangle. “What about that bunch over there.”

Laughter escapes him despite himself at the man’s incompetance. “You really were brough up human, huh?”

He’s expecting some scolding or huff, but Twilight just glances down, arching a brow expectantly.

Legend rolls his eyes and gives in. “it’s the Great Triangle, the stars that point the way to Hyrule Castle. Once upon a time, they say the Triforce was formed up there.”

~~~~~~~~~

#lu legend #lu twilight #ketto writes #asks and answers #linked universe #linkeduniverse #cantankerouscanuck my beloved #best wishes with you friend #i hope you find healing

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bestworstcase · 1 year ago

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Well, it could've been another Jadis, how would I know?

(Also, yeah, last survivor of a dead world, I forget sometimes...)

hfgfhd entirely fair!

the thing abt jadis is—ough

now of course narnia is many things but textually interested in ethical nuance is not one of them—as a textual matter, jadis is purely evil, and it is not at all ambiguous that she is meant to be interpreted as such—however. sometimes being countertextual on purpose because you’re an evangelical apostate and TMN gave jadis a really interesting backstory is fun.

i will try to be brief.

charn—charn is the name of her city but lacking a name for her world i’m going to use it in reference to the planet as well—charn orbits an old and dying star.

Low down and near the horizon hung a great, red sun, far bigger than our sun. Digory felt at once that it was also older than ours: a sun near the end of its life, weary of looking down upon that world. To the left of the sun, and higher up, there was a single star, big and bright. Those were the only two things to be seen in the dark sky; they made a dismal group.

charn (the city) was once a vast, thriving, powerful city-state ruled by jadis’ family, but when she reflects on its history—when she recounts her memories of what it was—she tells the story of a horrifically violent state: these are the dungeons, there is the way to the principal torture chambers, in this banquet hall my great-grandfather slaughtered seven hundred disloyal nobles at a feast; she tells the children to look well on the magnificent view of her once-great home, and then she tells them i remember the cracking of whips and the cries of our slaves, i remember sacrifices in the temples, i remember when brutal war made the rivers run red.

and then, after a moment’s thought, she adds, and one woman blotted it out forever. i, jadis, the last queen.

and then, into the children’s horrified silence, she says this:

“It was my sister’s fault,” said the Queen. “She drove me to it. May the curse of all the Powers rest upon her forever! At any moment I was ready to make peace—yes and to spare her life too, if only she would yield me the throne. But she would not. Her pride has destroyed the whole world. Even after the war had begun, there was a solemn promise that neither side would use Magic. But when she broke her promise, what could I do? Fool! As if she did not know that I had more Magic than she! She even knew that I had the secret of the Deplorable Word. Did she think—she was always a weakling—that I would not use it?”

[…]

“That was the secret of secrets,” said the Queen Jadis. “It had long been known to the great kings of our race that there was a word which, if spoken with the proper ceremonies, would destroy all living things except the one who spoke it. But the ancient kings were weak and soft-hearted and bound themselves and all who should come after them with great oaths never even to seek after the knowledge of that word. But I learned it in a secret place and paid a terrible price to learn it. I did not use it until she forced me to it. I fought to overcome her by every other means. I poured out the blood of my armies like water—”

[…]

“The last great battle,” said the Queen, “raged for three days here in Charn itself. For three days I looked down upon it from this very spot. I did not use my power till the last of my soldiers had fallen, and the accursed woman, my sister, at the head of her rebels was halfway up those great stairs that lead up from the city to the terrace. Then I waited till we were so close that we could see one another’s faces. She flashed her horrible, wicked eyes upon me and said, ‘Victory.’ ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘Victory, but not yours.’ Then I spoke the Deplorable Word. A moment later I was the only living thing beneath the sun.”

“But the people?” gasped Digory.

“What people, boy?” asked the Queen.

“All the ordinary people,” said Polly, “who’d never done you any harm. And the women, and the children, and the animals.”

“Don’t you understand?” said the Queen (still speaking to Digory). “I was the Queen. They were all my people. What else were they there for but to do my will?”

“It was rather hard luck on them, all the same,” said he.

“I had forgotten that you are only a common boy. How should you understand reasons of State? You must learn, child, that what would be wrong for you or for any of the common people is not wrong in a great Queen such as I. The weight of the world is on our shoulders. We must be freed from all rules. Ours is a high and lonely destiny.”

AND THEN. a little bit later, digory asks her if the deplorable word is what made charn’s sun so strange and cold, and she tells him it has been so for hundreds of thousands of years.

“[…] Have you a different sort of sun in your world?”

“Yes, it’s smaller and yellower. And it gives a good deal more heat.”

The Queen gave a long drawn “A-a-ah!” And Digory saw on her face that same hungry and greedy look which he had lately seen on Uncle Andrew’s. “So,” she said, “yours is a younger world.”

She paused for a moment to look once more at the deserted city—and if she was sorry for all the evil she had done there, she certainly didn’t show it—and then said:

“Now, let us be going. It is cold here at the end of all the ages.”

ALRIGHT. SO

it, of course, goes without saying that jadis is not a nice person, or anything like a good one; evidently she was the crown heir to a regime of staggering cruelty and she rose to the occasion with devastating passion.

but: yours is a younger world. and it is cold here at the end of all ages.

now imagine this—imagine that you are the eldest scion of royalty in a dying world. the sun burns low and cold and the only other light in the unrelenting darkness of the sky is a single star, brilliant and terribly far away. you know, and everyone knows, that your world is doomed. the sun is dying. the sun has been dying for hundreds of thousands of years, each generation more despairing than the last, and the closest thing anyone has to hope is the preservation of an ancient memory of a time when the sky was filled with stars and the sun shone bright and warm.

your lineage is old and powerful and rich in magic and in the span of all the thousands of years of your dynastic rule you have accomplished nothing that matters: you have found no way of rekindling the stars or breathing new life into the sun, and no manner of escape. your great-grandfather slit the throats of seven hundred guests on suspicion that they had entertained rebellious thoughts. your home is a dungeon ringing with the screams of tortured prisoners. your city is blood running down the steps of temples to indifferent gods and slaves crying out for mercy that will never come. your whole world is death and pain.

all you have ever known is violence and power. and there is the smallest part of you, the faintest glimmer of instinct, that recognizes that this Should Not Be. you gaze back across countless generations of your family’s history and you find gazing back at you the hideous and unavoidable truth that something has gone profoundly, irreparably wrong; but all you have ever known is violence and power, and so greater violence, and greater power, are the only means you can imagine to undo centuries of wrong. you look back on your ancestors and think: they were weak and afraid. they refused to do what was needed. i will not be like them.

so you violate the sacred oaths of your forefathers and take the deplorable word into your mouth. you do not speak it (you do not want to speak it) but the mere knowledge is enough to damn you, invite the wrath of the gods and your kingdom. your sister leads your people in revolt and you cling to your power with everything you have because that is the only thing you know how to do, but you beg her for peace while the word that will end every life on this planet but your own remains silent under your tongue. you do not know how to yield any more than she, and your world rips itself apart around you.

think about

what it means

to speak a word that will extinguish every life in the world except your own. to feel the whole world die in an instant by your hand, except for you, because whether by curse or conscience you have no choice but to live in the emptiness you spoke into being. you are the last queen of a dead and dying world and you, alone, will endure until even the sun turns black.

in every way that matters you are already dead, but the mercy of a swift death is not for you; yours is to bear witness to the end of all ages. a high and lonely destiny indeed.

and then two children from another world—a younger world, a living world—come to (as you understand it, from what you piece together of their confused answers to your questions) rescue you from this fate.

you do not lie to them. you tell them what you are, of the violence that made you and the terrible things that you did. you tell them directly of your intention to conquer their world, and (because this is the only kindness you have ever known how to give) you reassure them that you will not harm them, nor wage war against the kingdom you imagine the boy’s magician uncle must possess. you do not understand why this should horrify them: it is how the world is and has always been. how could you imagine anything different?

and in their world you are nothing. the sun is warm and you cannot properly remember how you came to be here and you are so strange and so wrong in this place that your magic fails; because their world is not an ever-turning wheel of violence and power, and it is not a place where magic and blood matter above all else. it is a world where those ideas are subject to mockery, because it is a world run by the weak and the worthless. (you don’t know it, but you are seeing the answer that you missed so long ago, before you learnt the deplorable word, when you looked back upon your family’s legacy and found it wanting.)

could you have recognized that, given time? could this world without magic where the little people matter have taught you a better way to live? you’ll never know, because scarcely have you grasped that this world is profoundly different from your own than you are dragged out of it and into narnia at the very, very beginning.

and there you find the lion, singing of kindness and beauty and joy at the dawning of the world. you, jadis, the last queen of charn; you who bore witness to the bloody death throes of a cruel, brutal, hopeless world before you burnt it to the ground and waited alone in the ashes to die—you watch the lion sing a perfect new world out of nothing.

is it any wonder the only thing you feel is rage?

#AND THEN THE EMPEROR MAKES HER HIS HANGMAN

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peony-pearl · 2 years ago

Text

@sleepyghoststories @prodogg pls enjoy this part 2 X3

************************

Ursa was smoothing out Azula’s hair. Zuko was lowkey trembling.

Ozai still wasn’t there.

“There’s so many people,” Zuko murmured. He’d already seen the Fire Sages frantically preparing on the other side of the curtain.

This was no longer just a transfer of power. Azulon had sent word out quite effectively to everyone in the capitol that the announcement had become far more than just that. The sea of people that awaited the word of the Fire Lord was immense and uncountable.

Azula continued to stew in Ursa’s words from earlier. Ursa took little notice, or at least, if she did, she didn’t say anything.

Zuko then quickly snapped to attention. “Dad!” He said. Ursa jumped and Azula ran from her mother, blindly over to her approaching father.

Ozai absent-mindedly patted her back, not stopping to greet her as he walked.

Zuko was feeling brave. “Good morning, Da-”

“And what’s so good about it?!” Ozai hissed.

Zuko’s bravery diminished. Ursa pulled him close as Ozai and Azula walked off to another part of the waiting area backstage. Why was everything so stressful?

“I always thought that a blessing would be a happy time,” he said, looking up to his mother, his golden eyes full of tears. Ursa took pity on her boy as she knelt down to his level.

“It... It’s going to get better. I promise,” Ursa insisted. She was thankful Zuko never took the time to question her.

The Fire Sages bustled backstage to wait for the Fire Lord and the crown prince, as well as to get their first look at the new princess. They murmured amongst each other, nervous and excited. Such a blessing, an amazing thing that the spirits had finally deemed the future of the Fire Nation as the true deliverer of the world, and as the rightful, superior element.

A small commotion caught their attention, and Lo and Li were entering the backstage area, followed by Azulon, who, even in his ripe age of 95, was able to navigate himself just fine with the use of an ornate cane. Followed by him was Iroh, now wearing ceremonial robes. Still in his arms was the newborn blessing herself, swaddled tightly as she slept through the ordeal. Iroh’s care for the child was already palpable by anyone who looked at him as he regarded his daughter with caring, tender eyes.

Zuko almost felt the wind current from the Fire Sages rushing forward to look at the baby. They also had yet to witness Iroh’s condition, and within moments they were staring at the hole in his chest, confirming the oddity of the situation.

“Let us begin,” said the first Fire Sage as Iroh fixed his garb. The family stepped out from behind the curtain, facing the mass of people in the crowd.

Azulon stepped to the forefront, and was met with the bows of his people.

“Nearly two months ago, my family was struck with a great loss! As my son, Iroh, claimed Ba Sing Se, his only child, Lu Ten, second in line for the throne, was taken from us! A noble, diligent, and loyal prince; his death is a tragedy that has been felt rippling far beyond the palace!

“This morning I was prepared to make a most heartbreaking decision!”

Ozai fought to not show his emotions too much.

“With Lu Ten’s untimely demise, I was ready to name our own Prince Ozai as next in line for the throne, so to be inherited by one of his children.

“And yet, by a miracle, by a decision far beyond myself... Iroh returned home this morning a father again! Not by the blood of a mortal womb, but crafted by the spirits themselves, using Iroh’s own blood alone!“

Murmurs in the crowd began to lift into earshot as Zuko listened to his grandfather’s speech. Several Fire Sages walked towards Iroh, each of them holding something. As Azulon continued, one placed an ornate headdress upon Iroh’s head.

“My son, who gave his time and strength and body and only son to conquer Ba Sing Se and claim the Earth Kingdom! My son, who returned home with a broken heart can now begin to mend it, as the Spirits have taken his pain, and have created from it our future Fire Lord, and a new little blessing to grant him a second chance at fatherhood!”

Another Fire Sage placed a ceremonial tapestry over Iroh’s shoulders.

“It is my privilege and duty to announce not only an impending royal, but a being amongst the ranks of Agni in our midst! To guide and lead the world to a true paradise of the Fire Nation! To herald this true new start! Not to finish what Sozin began, but to continue his vision and reign with glory unlike anything we’ve seen!

“With the blessings of the spirits, with the sacrifice of my grandson, and the honor and burden placed upon my firstborn to raise this child, I am thrilled to announce the new second in line for the throne, and the eventual leader of a new world!

“Her holiness, Fire Princess Zion!”

With one final touch as a Fire Sage finished anointing Zion’s face with ceremonial makeup, Iroh lifted his daughter into the air as the crowd went wild. It was unlike anything Zuko had ever seen. Azula watched with her own wide eyes, still embittered by her interaction with her mother earlier, and by watching Azulon shower praise on this baby who had nothing but her existence to offer, and yet Azula and Zuko were there, healthy and powerful. Well, at least Azula was powerful.

Ursa stole a glance towards Ozai. He stared out to the crowd, not entirely focusing as he tried to maintain his composure. She could tell that returning home after all of this was going to be... eventful.

Iroh lowered Zion back into the safety of his arms, and Azulon smiled at the two. He dipped his hands into the makeup that had been dabbed onto Zion, and he decorated Iroh’s face with great care and pride, painting a series of shimmering symbols onto his beloved son’s face, with a final touch of a flame amongst Iroh’s receding hairline.

Azulon then looked out to the crowds, the happiest they’d ever seen him.

“I decree this, my granddaughter’s birthday, to be observed as a holy day! This following week shall be ripe with celebrations! I want to see joy through the Fire Nation at this momentous occasion!”

With a further cheer from the crowd, the day, and following week, commenced as ordered. The streets were full of food and fun; streamers and ornate kites floated in the air. Lanterns were lit and music was heard all throughout the Fire Nation. Artists created tapestries, paintings, and songs for Crown Prince and General Iroh and his Little Blessing.

Meanwhile Azulon’s second son didn’t leave his chambers until there was nothing left of the celebrations.

#atla #atla au #Azulon #Iroh #atla oc #Zion #Zuko #Azula #Ozai #my writing

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yutopia-eleftheria · 2 months ago

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Bill Edward Headcanons

One of the best Glow-Ups in history ! My man ♥

Full Name : Bill Henry Edward

Nickname(s) : Billie/Billy

Age : 38 (during the events of Another Code Two Memories)

40 (during the events of Another Code R : A Journey Into Lost Memories)

Species/Race : Earthling

Human (formerly)

Place of Birth : United States

Birthday : December 31st (born in 1966)

Zodiac Sign : Capricorn

Gender : Born Male ; Gender Neutral

Sexuality : Polyamorous Androgynosexual

Nationality : American / French and English (from his father)

Residence : United States (formerly)

Blood Edward Island, United States

MBTI : ENFJ

Occupation : M.J. Labs Scientist (formerly)

J.C. Valley Scientist

Element of Harmony Bearer (Element of Legacy)

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Appearance :

Eyes : Greyish Royal Blue (left eye became lighter after being "linked" with Ryan Gray)

Hair : Light/Platinum Blonde

Skin : Caucasian

Height : 6'4" (193cm)

Weight : 185lbs (84kg)

Special Traits : Slights eyebags

Sutured scar on the right side of their face, from the cheek to above the eye (after the fall)

Missing right arm ; reminiscent of their Grandfather Henry (had to be cut off because of massive infection due to the fall)

Multiple scars, wounds and contusions (after the fall)

Differents types of aches from time to time (after the fall)

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Family and Relatives :

Parents : Frannie Edward {Mother} (deceased)

Unnamed Father (presumably deceased)

Siblings : None

Others : Henry Edward {Grandfather} (deceased)

Marie Edward {Grandmother} (deceased)

Thomas Edward {Great Uncle} (deceased)

Jane Edward {Great Aunt} (deceased)

Daniel Edward {Uncle/First Cousin Once Removed} (deceased)

Léonard Edward {Great Grandfather} (deceased)

Sally Edward {Great Grandmother} (deceased)

Lawrence Edward {Ancestor} (deceased)

Helen Edward {Ancestor} (deceased)

Richard Robbins {Brother-in-Law}

Ashley Mizuki Robbins {Niece-in-Law}

Significant Other(s) : Ryan Gray

Jessica Robbins

Best Friends : Sofia Callaghan (saved a 14 years old Sofia from being r*ped by someone when they were 23 years old, and fought them, leaving both men with bruises and blood on their shirts ; therefore a trusting relationship was created between them (Note : Momma Frannie was at first terrified but quickly became proud of her son for risking their lives to protect someone ♥)

Gets Alongs Well With : Matthew Crusoé (sees them as a "Cool Uncle")

Gina Barnes (They found her funny)

Tommy Harrisson, Elizabeth Alfred and Janet Rice (often accepts to help them train up in their songs and loves to listen to this young generation).

Captain Cliff Fox (the dude often came back to see how they handle the mansion as it is now Bill's belonging. You know, INHERITANCE).

Bob Fox (loves his recipes ever since Richard introduced them to their restaurant).

Doesn't Get Along Well With : Rex Alfred ('cuz they killed Sayoko, but they both tried their best to have a better relationship as Rex knows how great they are in their job (knows from Richard when they were working at M.J. Labs together. Because YES, as a sign of redemption, Bill works at J.C. Valley alongside the other (same for Sofia and Ryan who were hired again for the same reasons as Bill).).).

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Bill was born in 1966 in an unknown city from North America. They were raised by their mother Frannie far away from Blood Edward Island as she considers it a cursed place since many members of her family had died there. However, Bill was supposed to be born at the beginning of the year 1967, but they end up being born the very last day of 1966.

Despite his descend into depression and madness, Frannie still gave Bill her father's name as a second name because he was an amazing father nonetheless before World War II. Therefore their full name is Bill Henry Edward.

Their father supposedly abandoned them at a very young age, presumably because he wanted to have a girl. When Bill identified themselves as Gender Neutral, they went to see their father, but he rejected his child once more. Bill seemingly never saw their father ever again after that.

They may have not shown it that much, but they loved their mother deeply. Having lost her left them a huge scar on their heart. One of the main reasons why Ryan managed to get them more easily, and manipulate them into murdering Sayoko (their mixed feeling of love and hate towards Sayoko was obviously a great help too).

When they were 18, they wanted to do a gap year abroad, so they go to England (Galar), which is where their father comes from. When their mother died, they went back to the United States, which means they stayed for about 10 years in England.

Someone from England may be related to Bill. Who knows ? (well me I guess...)

Bill always had a crush on Sayoko, and it is highly suspected that they used to sleep together before Sayoko will fall in love with Richard and married him. They loved Sayoko so much that when they pretend to be Richard Robbins, Ashley's father, they got into the game and really believed they were her father for a moment. (Honestly though, they look more like her father than her ACTUAL father OMG !)

Why do I keep on making that xD

The combination of their mother's death and being rejected by Sayoko was the perfect opportunity for Ryan to manipulate them into murdering Sayoko. That wasn't before Bill told Ryan the truth about his past (Judd being his father and erasing his painful memories of his mother, being a test subject, etc...)

Bill trusted the young Ryan and never really considers Ryan as an ennemy and never felt hatred towards him. The main reason is because they never knew Ryan manipulated them before (probably because they were so young back then).

They didn't actually die after falling off in Blood Edward Island, but their body was badly injured. And more importantly, their right arm was pierced by sharp reefs, leaving them in horrible pain and stuck down there.

They will eventually be found by Ryan who was wondering why they didn't came back from the island. He would look everywhere only to find Bill at the bottom of the cliff, unconscious and bleeding out. Their body were in severe hypothermia and they stayed in a coma for around 2 years (the gap between Another Code Two Memories (Trace Memory) and Another Code R : A Journey Into Lost Memories).

Ryan was regretful of his actions towards Bill as he realized he used them as a tool when he was actually in love with him. He didn't realized it before because he couldn't feel any emotions after his father's experiments on him when back when he was a child. He stayed by Bill's side when they were in a coma, praying for them to keep fighting and coming back to him. Ryan wanted to atone for his sins towards the only one that was bold enough to tell him the truth about his past.

However, as Ryan has stated to Ashley back in the small island at Lake Juliet, Ryan will disappear when the water will naturally purify soon enough. Bill, who was barely recovering and did not wanted Ryan to disappear right as they were becoming a couple, decided to find a way to make Ryan stay no matter what. They will eventually find a way to actually make Ryan immortal, but not without having to "rewrite" everything so Ryan could stay forever with them. This "rewritting" ended up linking the two together until the very end, which may never happen as they therefore are both immortals now (at least for aging. Let's make it clear though : they will look "older", but not that much older. And they can still die for multiple reasons). This link with seemingly "liquid memory" made Bill's left turn more bluish. Thankfully though, his "veins" did not turn blue, as they were starting to become when "rewritting" everything.

Ryan will be there for Bill's rehabilitation. They needed a long time to be able to walk again properly and even do any moves at first (the combination of falling and hypothermia is definitely a hard-to-handle situation and a really painful healing process, isn't it ?). However, to be able to move freely, Bill now had to wear orthosis/splints in their legs, otherwise the pain will strike back and it could even paralyze them. Bill and Ryan will eventually end up together and will live together at Blood Edward Island. They will slowly but surely rebuilt the mansion as it was back in the days.

Before the doctors had to remove Bill's right arm, they were sometimes recoiling after they touched some of the furnitures with the golden bird designs, as if they were electrocuted on their arm. It is most likely linked to their grandfather Henry who lost his right arm in World War II.

Jessica will eventually join them, despite Bill having knocked her unconscious and havind drugged her back in the events of Blood Edward Island. She had a crush on Bill ever since they worked together at MJ Labs after all... Perhaps Stockolm Syndrome ?

This is thanks to Jessica that Bill will eventually get along again with Richard. But they will absolutely love to tease Richard from time to time. They will also get along better with Ashley as, deep down, they loved her almost like a daughter.

They are actually a good singer, a great dancer and an amazing cook. They learned all of these from their mother Frannie. They are also playing various music instruments, one of them being their mother's signature instrument : the piano. They are also pretty good at drawing and writing, but mostly drawing. They inherited this talent for their grandfather Henry who was a painter, and from their great uncle Thomas, who was a writer.

After the events of Another Code R : A Journey Into Lost Memories, Bill, alongside Ashley, Jessica and Ryan, will be gifted an Element of Harmony each : Strength, Empathy, Mercy and Alchemy respectively. Bill's Element is a Golden and a Silver Bird (referencing the Edwards' legacy) and is located in his right shoulder when he wears it. As the Element of Strength, this Element gave them a specific arm replacing their lost one, with electricity running through it (another reference), being Golden. Their armor is mostly Golden, Silver and Red.

Before Jessica joined them, Bill and Ryan had a daughter named Harmonia Edward Fitzgerald. She is Bill's precious baby jewel.

When Jessica will join them, they will all together had triplet children, with 2 sons named Crimson Gray Edward and Ayden Edward ("Ay" meaning "Moon" in Turkish, a reference to Sayoko giving "Mizuki" for a second name to Ashley, also meaning "Moon", but in Japanese. Let's not forget that they regret killing Sayoko and still loved her after all), as well as a daughter named Licilla Edward Robbins. Ayden is the older triplet, Crimson in the middle, and Licilla is the youngest.

#another code #another code two memories #trace memory #another code recollection #another code headcanons #headcanon #headcanons #bill edward #blood edward island

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keldae · 2 years ago

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So one of my latest ADHD hyperfixations has been genealogy. I'm waiting on the results of my DNA sample (should have the results March 31st or so!), and while I'm waiting, I've been poking around with my family tree. Mum has been a genealogy nut for YEARS, like she's traced her side of the family back to Ireland and Ukraine, but I know almost nothing about Dad's side. So I reached out to my great-aunt and uncle, on Mum's suggestion.

We met for dinner last night, and my uncle brought a few documents with him to trace the origins of my surname. I now officially know that it was my 3x great-grandparents who came over from Scotland, and settled in New York State for a few years before that great-great-great-grandmother moved up to Ontario as a widower, and stayed there. And my uncle could confirm that my great-grandfather on this side served in WWI, and lied about his age to enlist (he was 15 when he signed up, and the truth didn't come out until he was wounded in the trenches). Apparently my great-grandmother on that side was Welsh, but I'll have to wait for confirmation details on that (a few German names in the family tree too)! (When my DNA results come in, they'll likely just confirm that my genes all come from Western Europe, strong emphasis on the British Isles. My more-distant ancestors probably fought the English regularly!)

It's fascinating, being able to trace back my roots like this and follow the footsteps of some of my ancestors! They're not just names on a page belonging to people who died in the 1800s -- they're my distant family. It's a little eerie. I know their names, and when they were born, and when they died, but I don't know what they looked like, or what they loved to do as a hobby, or what they were afraid of. Did my great-great grandmother have my chin? Do my eyes come from another ancestor? Given that Mum's parents couldn't sing if their lives depended on it, I'm assuming my ability to sing not-terribly came from Dad's side. Did my love of writing and storytelling come from Mum or Dad's side? How about my tea addiction? Or my artistic abilities?

I'll likely never known the answers to some of those questions. But it makes for fascinating thinking about. And I hope my ancestors are proud of me.

#kel irl #kel rambles #genealogy #family trees #ancestry

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lamelinam · 3 years ago

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The maid and the Cat, Ren and Akira: some musings

What gloomy love brightened the half-lives of the Sohmas’ most Cursed ones?

I often wonder what the relationship between the former Cat and his attendant would have looked like, twisted and sad as it must have been. Precious little is shown about those two, and only through Kazuma’s pov. We know she took care of and pitied the Cat, to the point that she even slept with him and bore his child. This is not unlike Kureno’s relationship with Akito. She might have treated him with the same kindness and devotion, distant, perhaps harmful, yet selfless.

Selfless? I think another way to extrapolate on the story of Kazuma’s grandparents is with Ren and Akira’s relationship.

Many great meta writers have already pointed out that those who fill in the positions at the extremes of the Sohma hierarchy, the Cat and God, or in this case the Cat and the idolized, deified family head, are foils to each other and are the ones that are dehumanized and isolated the most.

But now I think that you can also compare the way the previous Cat and Akira both chose ("chose" being a relative term in the case of the Cat) a romantic partner.

(Akira wasn’t God, but as the family head, he was worshipped just like Akito. His sickness also contributed to making him stand apart. Not only was he kept inside the compound because of his frailty, the hold that death had on him blessed him with this ephemeral, divine aura. “Was it the sorrow that befell him at such a young age that gave him that otherworldly beauty?»)

Both Kazuma’s grandfather and Akito’s father were doomed, Akira to die an early death, Kazuma’s grandfather to live the life of a living dead. Both were buried alive in the Sohma estate, either at the outskirts or at the center of it.

Both reached out to their progeny. (But Kazuma rejected the offered cake, and will endeavour to atone and honour his grandfather’s memory. Akito clung to every memento she had of her father and will need to learn to let go of him.)

And both the previous Cat and Akira found some measure of comfort in the affections and arms of their female caretakers, Sohma servants who saw their loneliness and expressed their compassion, though not in a particularly healthy way: Kazuma’s grandmother acting out of pity, Ren out of obsessive love.

It’s interesting to me how their respective position was reflected in their partners’ feelings : the imprisoned, despised Cat, Kazuma’s grandmother looked down on. The respected, otherworldly beautiful Akira was adored by Ren.

Kazuma sums up his grandparents’ relationship thusly:

Those correspond to the main "duties" that a wife is traditionally supposed to provide her husband.

The day-to-day caring.

Childbearing.

Attending their husband’s deathbed.

Obviously Ren wished she could have skipped the second one and be there for the last one. (I headcanon that she had prepared her last words years in advance, finding small pleasures and comfort, on the back of the wave of despair anticipating Akira’s death, in rehearsing the declarations of passionate love she would address to the dying man.)

The Cat’s companion attended her partner’s deathbed, seemingly very composed, even cold, as seen in Kazuma’s memories, while Ren, deprived of her husband’s last moments, that she felt were “stolen” from her by Akito (in reality by the maids :@), was mad with grief.

"The only one who can save him"

Those parallels make me wonder whether or not the Cat’s companion might not have developed a saviour complex, like Ren, both believing that they were the only one able to save this lonely, condemned person they were taking care of, and relishing it.

“I love you” vs "I pity you"

On Ren’s side though, it seems that she believes she truly saw Akira, as the person hiding behind that otherworldly aura, filled with sadness and fearful of death. Seeing that Akira agrees with her ("Ren noticed I was lonely"), fought against the Sohma leaders and regretted on his deathbed that he and Ren couldn’t reconcile, I believe this is not a delusion of hers. Her love was genuine and passionate, and she and Akira were happy. Unfortunately, that happiness didn’t survive her pregnancy, for she was also jealous and obsessed.

Kazuma supposes that his grandmother believed that she was doing something good. I wonder at her expression. It is shadowed, enigmatic. Is it a smirk or not, is she sad or not? i wonder whether she was selfless in her pity, like Kureno, or selfish like Kagura, perhaps feeling better by «sacrificing» herself in associating with the Cat for the sake of a miserable soul.

(Whatever you can say or imagine about her, Kazuma doesn’t seem to suffer from the stigma of being the Cat’s grandson, nor does he bear any trace of an abusive upbringing - in fact, he was among those doing the abusing - or even the echoes of the previous generation’s, so my guess is that she was an okay mother and grandmother... which would have made Kazuma’s disappointment and hurt at her words all the sharper... Like Tohru thinking of the zodiacs members she finds so kind and adorable secretly looking down on someone else she realizes she cares about more than she thought.)

There is no way to know how the Cat reacted to a pity-love. But considering Kureno and Akito’s relationship, this might also have been but a superficial balm, and potentially just as hurtful. Then it depends on the interpretation. Kureno’s pity cocooned Akito and kept her from moving forward, but the Cat was condemned anyway to an eternity of imprisonment. Moving forward was forbidden to him. And if his self-worth was already completely destroyed as his role and his treatment are meant to do, he might have just felt grateful towards the attendant. There’s no way to say for sure whether he would have been hurt or not by the truth, and I don’t know which option is the saddest!

... but I know what could be sadder. Because is the maid entirely to blame? We know that in Fruits Basket, love requires a measure of selfishness. The one cursed with the Cat has no self, no existence, no wants and no future, and they accept this fate. They believe they deserve it. (Which is why the Cat's Room doesn't need bars in the manga, nor locks. Rin was under lock and keys because either Akito didn't completely trust her to keep her word or she didn't want someone to discover her.)

It would be very difficult for someone to fall in love with a person who has renounced to everything, perhaps including love. Because who's to say that the Cat loved the maid too?

Recognition vs indifference

How depressingly fitting that we don't even learn the Cat's name, while Akira’s is remembered by all and echoes back and forth in the later part of the story.

Ren marrying the Sohma family head was such a big political deal it provoked a family schism. The Cat’s story with the maid gets completely ignored. It is probably known, just not "officially recognized", says Kazuma. Like everything related to the Cat, it was relegated to the back of the minds, in the dusty closet of the things that are uncomfortable to think about but that you tolerate if it doesn’t upend your little world-view. Ugh, some maid is being inappropriate with that monster! Well, as long as she doesn’t free the loathsome creature, who cares. (And she wouldn’t, because she’s no Tohru.)

In contrast, the maids of the main family thought that Ren was stealing Akira from their grasp. Ren didn’t seem to care for the family, and in a way, her love allowed Akira to also escape from them, "snatched away" by "that woman”, for the old attendant. Unlike the Cat’s attendant, Ren felt like a threat to the Sohma strict hierarchical system. (Fortunately, God will be born to bring back the right order of things, phew! Certainly she he will accomplish what Akira-san was momentarily too misguided to do and rid us of that woman!)

Inheritance.

Both women's profession of their true feelings deeply marked their progeny and the way they view relationship, whether personal or not, romantic or filial.

While her mother affirmed that "a woman only needs one man", Akito leaned on the love of the zodiacs ; Kazuma viewed and loved Kyo as a human and dreaded that his son would find himself in the same situation as his grandfather but also with the same kind of companionship. (His reaction to Kagura speaks of a long-held anxiety). But Ren's hatred for Akito coloured the way Akito interpreted her words, while Kazuma’s grandmother’s declaration shook Kazuma, his personal relationship with his grandmother notwithstanding.

This comparison isn't about good or evil, neither to judge those characters. Furuba isn’t about that. Obviously, they are not blameless. But it is very difficult to say whether or not Kazuma’s grandmother was wrong to act out of pity if it provided a bit of comfort to a prisoner. And is it surprising that Ren developed this saviour’s complex when it seems she was the only one willing to breach Akira’s isolation bubble?

Anyway, Takaya-sensei is really good at making foils. Either because she does it on purpose or because her characters are so deeply intertwined with the themes of the series the parallels appear on their own. But in this case, I don’t think it’s for nothing that the chapters recounting Ren and the Cat’s attendant stories follow each other (chapters 114 and 115).

Of course, this meta is less an analysis and more suppositions and conjectures (frankly, I wonder if I might not as well have written a fanfic). From the little we see, the Cat’s companion and Ren work as distorted yin-yang mirrors, their differences highlighting the similarities of their situations, from the ugly effects of the inner workings of the Sohma cult to the messed up inner workings of the heart. Genuine but obsessed, jealous love... Pity, perhaps self-serving, in the guise of martyred love.... One thing I can say for sure is that these two both gave me chills in their own way.

#ren sohma #cat's companion #the cat spirit #zodiacs #fruits basket #fruits basket manga #fruits basket season 3 #fruits basket meta #love vs pity #meta #akito sohma #akira sohma #kazuma sohma

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op-sys-chaos · 2 months ago

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As someone who loves the idea of “sassy badass grandpa butler Alfred Pennyworth” but who also knows he’s a problematic enabler, let me add my two cents.

Some of my first exposure to Alfred was comics like Red Robin 2009. Where you can see Alfred praise Tim for throwing hands with Damian (mostly because Damian was being an asshole and kinda deserved it iirc). What you don’t see in that comic is that the source of that argument, which was Damian getting Robin, came from Alfred. This thread is in fact the first time I learned that Alfred was behind that. (I haven’t read the Dick!Batman Damian!Robin run outside of maybe a single comic or two.)

But what’s interesting is even then, even when Alfred’s being sassy and all “good for you for sticking up for yourself, master Tim,” he’s still encouraging the siblings to fight. He’s enabling Tim and Damian’s whole fucked up dynamic instead of saying “hey, you two should sit down and talk it out and get your shit together.” Damian constantly tries to kill Tim and all Alfred says is “well done, you stood up for yourself and fought the child who keeps trying to kill you.”

Alfred is a massive enabler. He stands aside and lets shit happen.

Alfred wasn’t happy about participating in the 16th birthday thing iirc. But he did it anyway. Because he doesn’t say no to Bruce, no matter how wrong he is.

He did at one point quit during Tim’s 90s Robin run because he was mad at Bruce, and he went to go support Tim instead. Idk exactly what Bruce did bc it didn’t occur in the comics I was reading, it likely happened in a Batman comic and I was reading the Robin run. But Alfred does have a limit to what he’ll support. And I think him leaving and supporting Tim (who was also kinda pissed at Bruce for being an asshole) helped solidify the “Alfred loves his grandkids and supports them” stance for those who read it. It certainly helped me form my opinion of “sassy badass grandfather butler” because that was what he did in that run.

Basically, I’m conflicted. I love fics where Alfred is awesome. I love awesome Alfred. But also, I can definitely admit that he’s problematic. I already knew he was a massive enabler of Bruce’s bullshit. But I don’t think he’s so problematic that you can’t see him in a good light. And I don’t see the harm in painting him as a good grandparent in fics, because it’s fanfiction. Just like how Pit Madness is the only reason Jason was ever mad in the first place in some fics, if people want Good Alfred they can have him. Both make reconciliation fics easier, and we in the DC fandom do love our found families.

Side note, I don’t think the whole “allowed the negative narrative about Jason to spread post-death” argument is particularly relevant. Yeah, you’re not wrong, but literally everyone was saying it. Tim was saying it and the other Titans, Jason’s friends iirc, were saying it too. And it’s not the kind of thing Tim would ever say if that comic was written today! It was a product of the time. Readers hated Jason Todd so the writers talked shit about him and made him look bad. And so, the characters did too. That’s less “Alfred allowing a shitty thing to happen” and more “the writers had EVERYONE doing a shitty thing.” The whole hero community was pulling that crap iirc. So I don’t think that’s a point against Alfred since the whole hero community was pulling that.

Another side note, canon is very subjective when it comes to DC. There’s so much content that you’ll never be able to read it all. I’d never even so much as heard of Julia, because I hadn’t read comics that mention her.

So if you’ve only read Good Alfred comics you’ll assume he’s a great guy. And if you’re like me and you’ve read some of each, with Good Alfred first, then you’ll have the image of “generally good guy who can be a problematic enabler.” But if you’ve only seen Enabler/Asshole Alfred, or that’s what you saw first, that’ll be your image of him. Whatever your interpretation is, that’s the correct one. There is no “right” way to see canon. Even two people who’ve read the exact same comics in the exact same order will come to different conclusions. So read and write what you want. :)

One trope that i find weird is that during batfam reconciliation fics, the batfam members use alfred as like the big red button to bring jason back, but i feel like that wouldn't actually work. at all.

Jason would HATE alfred after everything he did after he died. Canonically, it was alfred that made the "a good soldier" memorial case, bruce wanted it down but alfred insisted he keep it up, he was the one that gave tim the Robin suit THAT JASON DIED IN, and drove him to save batman and nightwing with NO training at all. He also helped keep up all the "jason was always doomed for a life of crime, and he was an angry child that got himself killed" narrative that was spun after DitF. Alfred pennyworth is batman's biggest enabler, and has stood by while bruce did all his bullshit, such as the whole UtRH arc, and RHatO #25, where he said that it was inevitable that jason would go back on the whole no killing agreement.

Alfred may care for all of Bruce's children, but his only grandchild is damian, as shown when he made him robin behind tim's back( the whole "dick made damian robin" thing is just to add to tim angst. Dick was infact against that whole shitshow). If it doesn't benefit bruce, his pseudo son/employer and landlord, he wouldn't give a fuck.

It's basically impossible to write a reconciliation fic at all without completely rewriting characters, especially jason and alfred. Jason believes that batman's mission is flawed and useless since he doesn't permanently stop crime, so he'd never fully give up killing, the whole reason there's a rift between him and bruce, and alfred isn't this doting grandfather that always sides with his grandchildren and bakes cookies and makes tea.

Also, one major thing the fandom forgets is that alfred is canonically a shitty father to julia, his bio daughter. He abandoned his own daughter for the waynes, he'd never prioritise bruce's children over him.

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letaliabane · 4 years ago

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The Light Within - (CARE FOR SERIES)

Pair: Thorin Oakenshield x Healer!Reader (a pretty short one too lol)

Genre: Another majorly angsty LONGGGGGGGG chapter (I am so sorry) with little smidges of fluff again if you squint but barelyyyy any (I’m sorry! I promise it gets better!)

Warning: Very angstyy gore, violence, mentions of rape (no rape), death of character

A/N: With Y/N now far from Thorin, will he be able to regain his senses and stop the orcs from their takeover of his Kingdom? Will these lovers be divided by death? Or will something else prevent them from having their chance?

PREVIOUS (Through The Darkness)

I winced as Gandalf pressed a cold cloth to my neck, the skin now swollen, bruised from Thorin’s violent tossing. The very thought of the dwarf caused tears to rise, a small sob caught in my throat.

Since Gandalf had shepherded me and Bilbo away from the ramparts, Thorin had called on his kin from the Iron Hills, his cousin Dáin, Gandalf had told me specifically. The King turning his back on the battlefield had been the last I had seen of him before being ushered into Thranduil’s tent that had been left unattended.

I looked up at Gandalf, my tears running freely down my cheeks.

‘Oh my dear.’ He said, wiping them away with the curve of his thumb gently. ‘I am so sorry. Your commitment to breaking Thorin out of his stupor, but that sickness runs deep in his family. That dark magic that was set on his grandfather now clutches his heart. And I believe the only one who will be able to break him free now is himself.’

I pushed away the hair that had fallen in front of my face, now covered in muck and dirt from our escape from the battle briefly.

‘That dwarf ... that isn’t Thorin Oakenshield, that’s someone I’ve never seen before. And I know I shouldn’t worry now, and yet it still hurts so much.’

Gandalf’s deep chuckle made me look up, a small smile on his face.

‘That is because you love him, my dear.’

I looked up at him in shock, words faltering as his fingertips grazed the braid that was now revealed my shoulder, the silver bead holding it together glinting in the light of the lantern sitting overhead. I couldn’t help the shaky sigh that left my lips.

‘That I-I do. I do love him Gandalf! I can’t deny it anymore ...’

Gandalf smiled, taking my hands into his. ‘I knew you would find your way to one another. I knew it from the moment you both bickered when you first met. I knew it when you shared that precious moment within the walls of Beorn’s walls.’

I couldn’t stop the chuckle that fell from my lips, even as the tears glided down my cheeks. ‘I never thought you to be an eavesdropper Gandalf!’

He scoffed.

‘I am no such thing my dear! When one wants secrecy, they must do it where no one shall overhear!’

The smile faded as soon as it appeared, shaking my head, ‘Gandalf I can’t give up on him. I can’t leave him behind.’

Gandalf sighed, eyes momentarily flicking to the entrance of the tent where Bilbo stood on watch, screams and shouts of war rising and growing louder by the second. He placed a hand on my cheek gently.

‘Then don’t my dear, stay and hope that that dwarf comes to his senses. And if doesn’t we will find some way to bring him back.’ I nodded with a small smile, squeezing his hand as he got to his feet with a groan. ‘But first we must fight to live another day. Are you ready?’

Glancing down towards my sword, I gripped it, also getting to my feet.

‘More than ever.’

A cry left my lips as I thrust my sword into the neck of an orc that had fallen to his knees before me, screeching wildly as I withdrew, blood spraying across ground as it collapsed.

Gasping for air, I wiped away the ichor against my pants that stained my hand, leaning against the bridge as I looked over the bloodied field where the chaos raged on between all creatures, armour shining brightly against the harsh sunlight.

The Orcs had descended upon the battle of the elves, humans and the dwarves, taking us all by surprise, their numbers far greater and far more powerful than all three parties combined.

The kingdoms would be ripped apart if they weren’t stopped, and the company that hid within the mountain of Erebor would all but be overthrown.

I turned as Bilbo stood beside me, covered in blood and muck, both of us standing in silence as we watched on. He took my hand in his, voice merely a whisper. ‘Y/N, do you think we will live to see another day?’

I looked to him at this, my eyes wide and glistening before turning away. The very thought of a new day rising after one such as this seemed unlikely, and it frightened me to even hold onto such hopes. Not when all I wanted hid within the mountain, the obsession of gold to strong for him-

Suddenly a deep rumble echoed across the plains, making me turn back towards the battlefield. There, standing upon the great dwarf statue of Erebor, was Bomber, blowing into a large horn.

The makeshift rampart was ripped apart, a magnificent golden bell ringing through the silence that had fallen upon the battlefield, all eyes watching.

Before a familiar Khuzdul battle cry came forth.

I couldn’t stop the loud gasp that had left my lips as Thorin emerged into the sunlight. Cloak and crown gone, instead a sword in hand, running onwards into the fight with the company at his side.

I smiled through the blur of tears as the dwarves began to fight against the orcs alongside the elves and Dain’s army. I looked towards Gandalf with, after so long, a large smile, tears streaming down my face.

‘They’re fighting back-Gandalf, their fighting back.’

He looked over us towards the mountain, his face instantly turning from a scowl to a small smile full of hope, almost like a child, ‘They’re rallying their king! There may be hope for us yet.’

However, that small bit of hope was stamped out when a raven flew over head, landing before me only moments later. I unclasped the note from around it’s foot, hurriedly unrolling it.

‘Gandalf.’

He turned at my firm tone, making his way towards me along with Bilbo.

‘Legolas sends word that Azog has another army attacking!’

‘From where? Where my dear?’

A chill ran down my spine as I read the messy elven handwriting, looking up towards the wizard. ‘From the North, right towards Ravenhill.’

Gandalf huffed, eyes wide in horror before looking towards the hilltop where the dwarves had headed for. ‘We must warn Fili, Kili and the others. If we don’t they’ll be in great danger once they enter the depths of Ravenhill. Bilbo, you know what to do.’

Bilbo nodded and set off immediately, disappearing into the crowd. But as I went to follow, Gandalf grabbed my shoulder, shaking his head.

‘Not you my dear! You’ll take another route, and more importantly to Thorin. If it’s anyone he needs at his side right now, it’s you’

I nod at this before following him, fighting alongside him through the oncoming hoards of orcs before he led me to a group of eagles cawed as they fought of those who dared to attack, throwing them over the ramparts.

Gandalf, leading me over to the largest of the group, gave me a boost up onto the great creature. ‘Keep your head down and your heart full of courage. Get to Thorin and warn him of the oncoming dangers that are coming but be careful. I don’t want to lose my one good apprentice.’

I stared down at the wizard with a smile, shaking my head.

‘Oh Gandalf, didn’t you know that getting into trouble is what I’m famous for?’

With one last smile towards me along with a nod, Gandalf raised his staff towards the eagle that let out a shriek before lifting off in flight, the rushing of wind welcoming me into its arms as I clung to the eagle’s beautiful feathers.

As we rose above the clouds, I could only pray that we would make it to the hill, and hope we were not too late.

The ride to Ravenhill was a lot more dangerous than I had anticipated, on our descent the frost becoming like sharp glass against my skin, the eagles shrieking as they forced themselves through the storm.

Through the fray of white, I sighted the peaks of the blackened ruins of Ravenhill, a ripped flag flailing in the winds violently, the howl of the wind echoing across the hilltop.

I gripped my sword tightly, tightening my group as the eagle flew down towards the towers, giving me time to slip down before it took off to join its pack, continuing to circle above.

Without a moments hesitation, I ran across the the length of the tower, careful of the mounds of snow that covered the path before reaching the crumbled window only to gasp in horror. Looking out over the frozen lake, I instantly recognised the dwarf that staggered across the ice, a towering one armed Orc trailing after him with a chained brick weapon, swinging it towards him.

Thorin, now holding the beautifully elven crafted sword Orchrist, shining in the light of the rising sun, standing his ground against the pale Orc who roared.

I ran down the first set of stairs I came across, down torn corridors and passages, before I slid across the frozen lake towards the duel. With Azog’s back turned to me, I easily found an open, slipping my sword across his side, slicing through the pale skin.

I scurried backwards as the ugly beast reared its head towards me, along with his brick and chain, just catching the ice where I had just moments before stood upon.

‘Y/N?!’ I glanced towards Thorin, and couldn’t stop the brief smile that broke across my face only to shriek as a brick came hauling at me, barely missing me this time. ‘Foolish girl! Leave now!’

‘I’m not leaving you! Not again!’ I screamed, dodging Azog’s sworded up, once again slashing him across the same wounded side, making him shriek, his black blood spilling out across the ice.

I ran to Thorin, the dwarf catching me in his arms as I slipped. I gripped him tightly, regaining my breath as I looked up at him.

‘W-We have to leave! Ano-Another army is set to attack from the North!’

His eyes widened in horror. ‘What?!’

‘Please, we must leave now before it’s too late-’

I gasped at the abrupt shrill high call of the Orc horn I had knew far too well, both of us turning to see the sight of a dark shadowed mass marching over the hill. Shaking my head, Thorin grasped my hand tightly as Azog dragged himself to his feet, growling.

But through all the pain he felt, the monster still smirked, swinging the chained brick high above his head before slinging it towards us, both parting instantly to avoid it.

We circled him, almost working as one as the Orc looked between us, snarling, thrashing his weapon around, all to be in vain, only to become lodged into the thick layer of ice.

It was only when Azog’s gaze became altered over our shoulders I couldn’t help but take a glance, only to shriek as a group of much larger, magnificent and proud as they flew straight towards the oncoming army. And I couldn’t help but chuckle at the small figure of Radogast that sat comfortable upon one of the eagle.

However, it was a moment that had distracted me for far too long, a unexpected sharp pain ran up my side, a scream leaving my lips as Azog swung his sworded arm across me, sending me to my knees. I bit down on my lip hard, trying to crawl away as the towering behemoth laughed aloud.

But as he raised the sworded appendage above my head, he was stopped by Thorin as it came down, who thrust his whole body weight against Orchrist, sending Azog backwards.

Dropping his sword and with all his might, Thorin threw the bricked chain back towards the Defiler, the creature tipping backwards and disappearing fast beneath the water.

It was once the silence fell over us I let out a loud sigh, tears of earnest falling. I whimpered as arms wrapped around me carefully, bringing me to my feet. I smiled up at Thorin, even as he scowled, shaking his head.

‘You foolish woman! Yo-You came back! After everything that happened-After everything I did you came back!’

I laughed softly, pressing a hand to his cheek, heart soaring as he leant into my cheek, nuzzling against my palm. ‘That wasn’t you. I knew you would come back to me, I just had to be there when you needed me.’

Tears glazed his eyes as the first real smile I had seen in months, drawing me close to press a kiss against my forehead. I leant my head against his chest, a tired but joyous smile upon my lips.

It was over, the war was over.

I peaked my eyes open, only to gasp in horror at the sight of Azog beneath our feet, that same dangerous smile painted across his features.

A scream wrenched itself from Thorin, his grip painfully tight on my waist. Looking down in horror to see the familiar blade that belonged to Azog’s arm. Only to be thrown from the warm embrace as the shriek and crackle of ice, landing on the hard frozen lake.

I looked up in time as Azog leapt up out of the ice, sending Thorin to the ground, barely pulling out his sword to stop the jagged metal from piercing his chest, arms shaking uncontrollably, barely able to hold his own against the towering Orc.

I shakily got to my feet, gripping my sword before running at him, screaming as I drove my sword deep into Azog’s chest, a guttural, bloodied gasp leaving his lips before I pulled him off of Thorin. With him staring up at me, I swung my sword down, once more pushing deep into the already gaping wound in his chest.

And as the light faltered in his eyes, I spat. ‘Burn in hell, filth.’

Without sparing a moment, I dropped to Thorin’s side, my hands clasping his face.

‘Thorin can you hear me? Are you okay?’

‘Y-Y/N ...’

I smiled as he gripped my hand, only for it to fade at the scarlet that covered his hand. Looking down I noticed the wound in his chest, the tunic he wore beneath his coat soaked in blood.

‘Oh lord Mahal-’ I whistled as loud as I could, looking up into the skies where the eagles continued to circle, their dark shadows passing amongst the cloud. Suddenly, I coughed violently, leaning away from Thorin, wiping at my mouth, only to find blood.

‘No no no-’

Again I whistled, body shaking as I looked around. A hand pressed against my cheek, gasping as Thorin looked up at me, a gentle smile on his lips.

‘It-it’s alright my dear one, it’s alright-’

I shook my head, pressing a firm kiss to his hand. ‘No no no Thorin. You are going to live! You will not die this day, you’ve just gotta stay awake for me, alright?’

‘I feel so sleepy ...’

I held back a sob, squeezing his hand. ‘I know, Thorin, I know but you have to keep your eyes open! Help is coming! Y-You made me promise you that we would try-that we would try a hand at us! You’ve gotta stay awake-’

However as the words left my lips, his eyelids slid closed, the grip faltering on my cheek as tiredness over took his entire body.

‘Thorin don’t you dare close your eyes!’ I cried, gripping his cheek while the other hand pressed down on his wound, trying to stem the blood that flowed over my fingertips. I looked around once again, screaming into the smoke that rose over the frozen peaks of the waterfall.

‘SOMEBODY HELP US! PLEASE SOMEBODY?!’

I screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

Even when my voice became hoarse, I still screamed at the top of my lungs.

Even as blood spilt down my clothes, I still cried out weakly.

And even as the shadows crept across my vision as I lay beside my unconcious lover, and the blurred outline of a figure came into view, I whimpered.

‘H-Help us ...’

I groaned as I opened my eyes, blinded by the piercing light that entered through the overhead windows. Slowly I sat up, gasping in pain that filled my side, and then I remembered.

The war, Azog. And Thorin.

I rushed to get out of bed, shakily getting to my feet only to fall foward towards the stone floor. However I didn’t make impact, held up by Kili.

‘What are you doing Y/N?! I’ve known you for being an early riser but you must stay in bed! Oin has commanded it!’

I gripped his arm as he helped me sit back on the soft mattress, sighing at the pounding in my head. Once blurring in my vision had faded, I really took in the scene around me to realise we were within the halls of Erebor.

Dwarves and dwarrodams with medical pouches walked through the aisles, standing beside other injured soldiers, a calmness settled over the entire room that we hadn’t felt for months. I looked back up towards him with a small smile.

‘It’s over isn’t it?’

He was hugging me before I could even register it, a small hiccup of pain leaving me before I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close. I ran a hand through his hair, chuckling-or a sobbing-I couldn’t even tell.

‘Oh thank Mahal you’re alright!’

‘The others are too.’ I couldn’t help but relax against him at his words, pulling away to look at him up and down, inspecting him carefully.

‘And you are not hurt?’

‘A few bruises and cuts, every soldier must to be able to tell the tales of war!’

I smiled, but once again thought back to the dwarf I had gone on that desperate mission to save. I gripped Kili’s hand painfully. ‘And Thorin? Is he-’

‘Alive and healing thanks to you.’

I sighed, this time an even greater weight lifting from me. Tears of relief rose in my eyes, looking up at the young dwarf who smiled down at me.

‘May I-’

‘Of course you can. Just don’t tell Oin I’m going against his orders taking away from your time of resting!’

Once dressed in my clothes, which I found had been washed and dried, felt clean against my skin, Kili led me to Thorin’s chambers. More like carried me, taking on most of my body weight to avoid leaning on my right side. I couldn’t help but smile at other dwarves and dwarrodams we passed, earning many in return.

We all had fought for this victory, and free of the Orc’s reign of darkness. Now we could finally smile without the fear of dying on the morrow.

We reached an ornate corridor, adorned with gold and jewels across the walls from roof to the marble floors, and at the very end I could see two guards guarding a large oak door, much different to the room Thorin had taken when ill under the dragon sickness.

There were two other dwarves standing before the entrance, chatting amongst themselves, turning to us as we arrived. With the door slightly ajar, I squinted, looking past the shoulders of the dwarves to see a Thorin, cleaned, bandaged, and peacefully resting,

‘We are here to visit the King-’

The door was shut with a slam, Kili cut off by the one who looked the oldest, his pointed nose raised to us and voice firm. ‘No one is to enter these chambers besides the King’s healer or advisors!’

The Prince scoffed. ‘Do you know who you’re talking to? I am King Thorin’s nephew, I am his kin and I order you to allow us in to see the King!’

‘I know who you are laddie, and I certainly know who this woman is.’

Why did it seem that everyone knew me before I knew them?

I looked toward the dwarf with a raised eyebrow. ‘And who do you think I am?’

He smirked. ‘Word of you reached Ered Luin long before the company of Thorin Oakenshield even reached the cusp of our homeland. Must’ve been a good offer you made our King to join such a company-’

‘I offered my skills-’

‘And much more I think.’

I stared down the second dwarf, cringing inwardly at the ugly smile he sent my way as he looked me up and down, a stare I wasn’t unfamiliar with.

I pushed off of Kili, now nose to nose with him. ‘Watch your tongue-’

‘And you will watch yours missy. You are nothing than a common woman with no title, no family, and nothing to give to this King, or this kingdom. And if word gets out that the King has fallen for a human? Oof, you better run further than the hills. You wouldn’t last a day-’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘No, it’s merely a warning! Because you will be ruined either way, whether you are dead, or defiled beyond reprieve.’

My gut churned at his words, an anger I hadn’t felt in a very long time burning inside me, the memories of my time as a prisoner at the hands of the orcs sweeping through my mind. Everything they had done to me, the way they tied me down, ripped my clothes off, and did nothing but violate me.

Kili, who hadn’t noticed my state, stepped forward in a rage. ‘How dare you speak of her in such a way! You are nothing but cowards! She saved the King’s life-’

‘Then that is her job done innit? Hurry along and find someone else to travel along with, maybe you’ll find some new purpose for yourself, become someone else’s bitch-’

I didn’t remain to hear the rest of the cruel dwarf’s words. Breathing uneven, tears streaming down my face, I ran through the halls, letting the calls of my name that rang out behind me fall deaf upon me.

It felt like everything was spinning, blurred as I fell against a wall, catching my breath, the taste of iron on my tongue. I gripped the marble beneath my nails, as if it would ground myself to reality, distract me from the images of the laughing orcs who had held me down, to dissolve the ugly smiles and laughter that erupted from them once they were finished.

‘Y/N? You silly woman, why are you out of bed? You should be resting! Your wound is bleeding again!’

My eyes shot open at the sight of Gandalf, standing tall over me. Almost instantly, the sternness in his features creased into worry, taking my face into his hands carefully, wiping away the tears.

‘Breathe my dear, breathe.’

I gasped, inhaling as much air as I could, gripping the wizards arms as sobs left me. With the shaking not ceasing, I looked back up towards Gandalf, tears still trekking down my face.

‘Please take me away from here Gandalf-’

‘Why? What has happened?’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t stay here, I-I can’t be here when Thorin wakes up. Please! Take me away from here!’

NEXT (The Aftemath - Coming soon)

A/N: I am so sorry this chapter took so long but here we are! Will it get better? We shall see! I’m sorry!! *runs away*

If your needy for more, read the original CARE FOR series or check out the Masterlist

CARE FOR TAG LIST: @alyhull , @bellastellaluna , @sdavid09 , @aidanturnersass , @letsbeinspiredby , @hiddenmangaka , @female-hux , @elia-the-bibliophile , @fangirlbitch02 @nickangel13 @thatteluguchick

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theoddsideofme · 2 years ago

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I've lost some family recently and it got me back into digging into my ancestry. I found that my mom's grandparents both came from around Prague, she has both of their Ellis island papers.

On my dad's side my girlfriend traced it all the way back to 1650 england. But on my paternal grandfathers side they fought in almost every war, including confederacy, and one was on a revolutionary war British POW ship.

I want to get it all hard copied and bound one of these days.

It’s quite fascinating to learn about family history. Are you using ancestry.com? I wish I had the time to work on mine more. Your family has gone back pretty far! I am the designated keeper of all the family history and photos but I’m quite unorganized with it. Don’t dig too deep though! I’ve uncovered stuff I really did not want to know about. Like my great great great grandfather deserting his children and wife to go to the gold mines in California and end up gambling his winnings and then going to Arkansa and started a new family and decided to finally come home at 72 years old. On my dads side my grandmom, dad, and sister were mentally and physically abused by my Sicilian grandfather who locked them in the basement often and made them do crazy ass shit. She finally couldn’t take it anymore, left a suicide note, took the kids and ran directly into a billboard in her car. She died and so did another child who she was pregnant with. My aunt lived in the hospital for a year in critical condition, and my dad lived. My grandmoms father someone very big and lived in a penthouse in Philly that I can’t say who, covered the incident up and the suicide. Anyways it was a drug out dark story. Oh and My aunt actually got to choose the color of the Delaware memorial bridge when she was little. Which is still the same horrid color, I believe. I’ve also got a teddy bear that was given to me that Frank Sinatra gave to my dad at a dinner at the penthouse. Who the fuck knows if it’s all true though. But I’ve confirmed a lot so far. So watch how deep you dig! Ha! I’m so sorry for your loss and I hope you uncover some really great finds!

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

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the nie sect is known for strong, angry sect leaders and strong, angry women; nie mingjue is just the first to be both. she refuses to let this burden fall on her little brother, who is far too young for it (he's barely old enough to understand that their father is dead, and still sucks his thumb at night)--she can swing a saber like the best of them, and, well... it's not like there are many nie elders to object anyway

also on ao3

The stories said that Nie Mingjue’s mother was a goddess.

They said she descended down from the mountains, crisp as a winter breeze and tall as a temple statute; they said Lao Nie fell in love with her the first moment he saw her and married her the next; they said that the heavens were jealous of their love and summoned her to return –

It was a little nicer than saying that Nie Mingjue’s mother was a rogue cultivator that lingered in Qinghe just long enough for a marriage ceremony and a baby before remembering that she preferred living alone.

Still, as Nie Mingjue grew up – and she did grow up, up and up and up – people started passing around the old story more and more. Lao Nie rolled his eyes but didn’t stop the rumors, which Nie Mingjue interpreted to mean that he thought they were useful somehow, though she never quite figured out the reasoning there. What difference did it make if she were the child of a goddess or a mortal woman?

Either way, she was still a girl.

Oh, Qinghe was famous for its indifference to such things: in Qinghe they don’t care if you’re a man or woman, the story went, as long as you can swing a saber, and it was even mostly true. No one would raise an eyebrow if you shared your bed with a man one night and a woman the next, no one cared if you said you were one for a week and the other for a month…

Still, for all of Qinghe’s indifference, the Nie sect had never had a female sect leader.

At least, not officially – there were a number of sect leader’s wives who were terrifying enough to have deserved the title – and officially was what mattered, in this case. The sect leader was the fulcrum on which the sect turned, the core of their fearsome cultivation: if water ran downhill, then evil flowed up, and the sect leader’s saber spirit was always by far the fiercest in the sect.

That was why Nie Mingjue’s ancestors died so much more quickly than her cousins – why she had plenty of great-uncles and great-aunts, and a family consisting of only her father, herself, and her younger brother.

“Do you not want me to be sect leader?” she asked her father once, because he had deliberately gone out and gotten himself a new wife to have a child with, showing great relief when it turned out to be a boy. “Is it something I’ve done, or haven’t done?”

“It’s not that,” her father had said at once, with such surety that her fears of inadequacy had been relieved. “It’s only – there are sacrifices that must be made, if the sect leader is a woman. A saber spirit powerful enough to support the sect cannot be allowed to escape.”

She hadn’t understood it at the time, being too young, but then she got a little older and started bleeding, and an old auntie came and told her why the bleeding mattered.

The sect leader’s saber was too strong, too fierce, too alive: full of resentful energy, almost like a ghost, hateful and vicious, and their bond with their master was too close. Normal swords could be used by anyone; only the powerful refused any hand but their masters – the powerful, and the Nie sabers.

A sect leader who was a woman could never have a child, lest that child’s soul be stolen away in the womb and replaced with something else.

“So I won’t have children,” Nie Mingjue said, when her father died before his time. “Easy enough.”

There were elders enough in her sect, those that had been lucky enough not to be part of the main clan line and to escape the burden of being sect leader; they looked at each other with concern.

Nie Mingjue wasn’t about to let them put the title of sect leader on Huaisang, then only a child of seven, not when there was her father to avenge, and so she reached up behind her back and brought Baxia down on the table in front of them, cleaving the old wooden table in half.

“I have the bloodline, and my saber’s strong enough to bear the strain,” she said while they stared: that table had survived more than a few of her father and grandfather’s strikes, only to yield to hers as if it were nothing. “If you want to protest, challenge me now.”

In the end, they didn’t.

And so she became sect leader.

The sacrifice of any future children turned out to be the easy part.

Jin Guangshan stared at her breasts whenever she sat across from him, and tried to stumble into her to take advantage of the fact that the top of his head only reached her chin; she made sure never to accept any invitation to ever be alone with him, especially when he was drunk. His wife glared at her as if it were her fault that her chest and hips had grown proportionate with the rest of her, giving her curves that were relatively rare among her countrymen.

Jiang Fengmian might have been all right, she supposed, if his wife hadn’t hated her nearly as much: Madame Yu had been childhood friends with Madame Jin, Nie Mingjue vaguely recalled, but she suspected the real reason was the Jiang sect’s inclination to keep women away from politics no matter how high their cultivation.

“How are you supposed to ‘attempt the impossible’ if you refuse to let half of your population even try?” she asked Jiang Fengmian once, and he just shook his head and tried to pat her head (she glared death at him until he retracted the offending limb before it could be chopped off), and said she wouldn’t understand, that Qinghe was too idiosyncratic, too indiscriminate, that other places were different.

(His daughter gave Nie Mingjue a flower after that meeting, blushing red to her ears, and followed it up with a bowl of soup, and to this day Nie Mingjue still didn’t know if it was because of what she’d said or if everyone in Yunmeng was just as indiscriminate as Qinghe and they just didn’t admit it to themselves.)

Even the ever-polite Lan sect wasn’t friendly.

The irritating part was that she was sure they would have gotten on well if she had been born a man, or at least presented as one, as she would have if she’d been a misaligned reincarnation; alas, she wasn’t, she was a woman, and the Lan sect rules dictated that men and women could not grow too close or intimate. Lan Qiren guarded his nephews against her as if they were treasures, and it took quite a while before she finally met Lan Xichen face to face.

“Wow,” he said, blinking at her. “They weren’t kidding when they said you were a goddess.”

“No, that’s my mother,” Nie Mingjue said automatically.

Lan Xichen smiled, his eyes turning into crescents. “No,” he said. “I’m sure I meant what I said.”

Nie Mingjue felt something jump in her chest, which had never happened before. But she had fought long and hard to be taken seriously as a sect leader despite her youth and her gender, and she wasn’t willing to give that up by falling, like every other female cultivator her age, for the man ranked first on the list of most attractive young masters.

(Nie Mingjue was ranked seventh. She’s not even sure how she got on the list, but apparently there were plenty of female cultivators who were happy to vote for her no matter her gender.)

Besides, even if her heart did beat a little faster whenever Lan Xichen smiled at her, and even if he indicated through some hints that he might be inclined to feel the same, it didn’t matter. She knew, even if he didn’t, that she wouldn’t bear children in this life – she loved Baxia dearly, she did, but her willful, vicious saber would make a terrible child – and she couldn’t impose that on anyone else.

Anyway, she’d figured out pretty quickly that Lan Xichen’s younger brother was a cutsleeve – whatever Lan Qiren might think, pornography was a perfectly reasonable gift for a teenager, especially given how successful Nie Huaisang’s side business was – and that meant Lan Xichen had to be the one to have descendants.

Nie Mingjue had heard all the stories about what happens when a man marries one woman who can’t give him children and another who can, and she wasn’t interested in that.

So they were friends.

She wasn’t sure if it got easier or harder when she met Meng Yao, who was small and delicate and scheming in a way that she found ridiculously endearing.

He wasn’t expecting her to be a woman, she thought: he’d set himself up on a mountain path, buckets of water at his side and a pitiful expression on his face as he chewed on hard bread without even taking a sip of the water right beside him to wet his throat, and when she’d stopped right in front of him to ask him about it he’d looked up at her and his eyes had gotten to be half the size of his face.

Nie Mingjue might’ve fallen for the gambit if it wasn’t for the way she could almost see the way he was rapidly reevaluating his entire strategy in real time – it almost made her nostalgic about listening to her cousins teach each other the warning signs of a white lotus seductress selling misery and purity.

Still, in the end it didn’t really matter if he was deliberately exaggerating his misery to sell it to her – the responsibility for good behavior was on the bully, not the victim, so she went and scolded the people inside the cave.

Afterwards, she took him out to walk with her.

“I’d already spoken with some people about you; it seems like you’ve established your merits in the battlefield and off,” she told him. “You don’t also need to be pitiful to get my attention.”

Meng Yao smiled self-depreciatingly. “I find that men have a soft spot for people they think need them.”

“Well, I’m not a man, am I?” she pointed out in return. She thought about it for a moment, then decided, as always, to be blunt. “I might spend most of my time now with men, but I spent my childhood with women; a woman’s tricks don’t work that well on me. What is it that you want?”

He looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“Do you want to be my deputy? I’m willing, since you seem competent enough,” she said. “But if your goal is to get back into your father’s good graces by reporting on me, don’t bother. He has spies enough for that – he doesn’t need a son to do it.”

“Perhaps I just want to show him what I’m capable of,” Meng Yao said.

Nie Mingjue laughed. “At my side? If you’d like to try, I’m not going to stop you, but I’ll tell you now that the merits that Jin Guangshan values may not be to your taste.”

She made him her deputy, and he lived up to her expectations – he was efficient, capable, competent. He was good at understanding people, which she wasn’t, and he could figure out within moments what any given person wanted. Just as importantly, he lived up to the principles she prized, valuing the lives of the common folk as well as Nie cultivators; he did what she asked of him, and he did it well.

It would be a shame to lose him, she thought, but she still brought him with her to a wartime meeting with the Jin sect.

Afterwards, she made her excuses to leave early, as she always did, and when Meng Yao showed up later that evening to drop off the usual round of spies’ reports, Nie Mingjue could smell blood from where his nails had pierced his palms.

“He asked you if you were fucking me,” she said, accepting the papers. It wasn’t a guess. “You can tell him that you are, if you think it would help your standing with him.”

Meng Yao seemed repulsed by her suggestion, which amused her.

“Don’t you mind that half the camp thinks I got my position by climbing into your bed?” he asked her, a wrinkle in his brow suggesting that the question mattered to him. “Most of them can’t decide if I’m your boy-toy or merely stupid enough not to notice that I’m deliberately seducing you for my own ends, but either way the implication is highly unflattering. Don’t you care?”

“…not really?” Nie Mingjue said. “I’ve been sect leader since I was fifteen and more than half the sect leaders that currently report to me have been treating me like I’m a walking collection of fuckable female body parts since then; they get extremely irritable any time I open my mouth and remind them I’m not. Keeping a boy-toy is positively tame compared to the rest of it…you must have heard the one that says that I’m a frigid bitch that can only be satisfied by fucking my saber? That one’s a perennial.”

Meng Yao’s expression suggested he had, in fact, heard that one.

“My father always told me that the more people talk behind your back, the harder you have to work to leave them with nothing to say,” Nie Mingjue continued. “But I’ve found that they’ll find something to say, and if there isn’t anything, they’ll make something up. There’s no way to stop gossip.”

Meng Yao was frowning. “That seems unduly pessimistic. Not to borrow our enemies’ words, but if you shine like a sun in the heavens –”

“I’m the sect leader of one of the Great Sects,” Nie Mingjue said. “I’m a war hero. I have a reputation as a upright and righteous person. And yet between me and Wen Ruohan, who’s to say whose name is dragged through the mud more? They curse at him as the man who ordered the rape of their wives in one breath and talk eagerly about how much they’d like to rape me the next…Meng Yao, don’t take insult when I say this, but you could be as wise as a sage, as powerful as a landslide, as beneficent as a buddha and they’d still ask each other behind their sleeves what you learned from being a whore’s son.”

His expression was rather ugly – nothing at all like his usual calm smile.

“I usually get over it by associating myself with better people,” she added. “Have you met Lan Xichen yet?”

It turned out he had, and that they were rather fond of each other, too. Very fond, to judge by Meng Yao’s starry-eyed expression, and wouldn’t it be just her luck if the two men she was attracted to – and which she’d refused on the basis of not wanting to cut off their family lines – ended up pairing up together, which would also cut off their family lines?

Of course, Meng Yao was off limits for other reasons as well…

One day she overheard them talking about Meng Yao possibly leaving, probably intentionally on Meng Yao’s part, and she walked inside rolling her eyes already. “If you want to go, go,” she said. “I’ll write you a recommendation letter, for whatever it’s worth – he’s got a thick enough face that it might not do you any good, but he’s already noticed you, so hopefully that’ll be something.”

“Sect Leader Nie –”

“I didn’t promote you out of a sense of gratitude,” she said impatiently. “You’ve always wanted to get back to him, for whatever reason; I’m not going to hold you back.”

He smiled at that, and Lan Xichen smiled with him.

Really, there were limits to the sort of things you could expect a person to resist, even with willpower like hers.

“Have you decided that you will go?” she asked Meng Yao. “Is it your final decision? Let me know now.”

“It is.”

“Good,” she said. “You’re fired as my deputy. Also, I’d like to take the two of you to bed, if you’re similarly inclined.”

They gaped at her.

“What?” she said, crossing her arms. “He’s not my deputy anymore, there’s nothing immoral about it. Besides, nobody will get any stupid ideas about marriage if there’s three of us involved. It is only if you’re interested, though; I won’t be offended if you say no –”

Lan Xichen was kissing her before she even finished the sentence, so she assumed the answer was not, in fact, no, and Meng Yao’s reaction was equally enthusiastic – though perhaps equally wasn’t the right word, given how both she and Meng Yao ended up tied up in Lan Xichen’s forehead ribbon before the night was done.

“I knew it was a kink,” Meng Yao said, inspecting it with an expression of satisfaction, as if he hadn’t just demonstrated a fair share of his own. “Something so prominently displayed, Xichen-gege, for shame…”

Lan Xichen didn’t show so much as a hint of shame about it. “We’ll have to do this again,” he said. “I’m not even a fourth of the way down my list.”

“There’s a list?” Nie Mingjue asked, stretching out her legs to see how they felt after all that tossing around. “Tell me this is written down somewhere – no, tell me your uncle found it.”

Lan Xichen shuddered. “Thank you, da-jie. I didn’t need that mental image – it’d be like the time you gave Wangji pornography, only worse.”

Meng Yao decided the best way to muffle his laughter was in Nie Mingjue’s shoulder. With his teeth.

Nie Mingjue gave him a half-hearted shove. “Get off,” she grumbled. “I need to go drink some medicine to prevent contraception before we encounter disaster – this wasn’t planned, you know. I was intending on dying a virgin.”

“Da-jie, for you to die a virgin, that would mean – uh – that would – you were…? Mingjue!”

Nie Mingjue gave them both a glare. “Don’t tell me you two listened to those stupid rumors. I don’t take just anyone to my bed.”

“And you decided on two of us?” Meng Yao said, blinking at her. “Da-jie is very ambitious.”

“Not as much as you,” she said, rolling her eyes and pushing away their grasping hands. “What’s your real plan, anyway? You know Jin Guangshan won’t accept you as a son just because you show up and volunteer.”

“I don’t need to be his son, I just need to wear his colors,” Meng Yao said. “It’ll make for a better story when I defect to the Wen sect – as a spy, don’t look at me like that. You know I’d be good at it. And if I get close enough to Wen Ruohan, I can kill him. I’ll give you his head as a present, da-jie.”

“Unfair, A-Yao! I can’t compete with that,” Lan Xichen complained. “You have to let me help.”

‘Help’ turned out to be Lan Xichen allowing himself to be captured and Meng Yao stabbing Wen Ruohan in the back when he was about to start torturing the First Jade of Lan – Nie Mingjue had a headache and a strong desire to kill them both.

Even if they did bring her Wen Ruohan’s head.

“Stop looking so pleased with yourselves,” she scolded them – both Lan Xichen and Meng Yao, now officially Jin Guangyao (thanks to a bit of pointed haggling over which clan got what war merits and how that applied to the division of the spoils of war), looked positively smug. “What if you’d died?”

“But we didn’t,” Lan Xichen pointed out. “And now we’re here to claim our reward from our goddess.”

“Did I promise you a reward?”

Two sets of puppy dog eyes…and they did help her avenge her father.

“Fine. What do you want? If I can give it to you, it’s yours.”

They looked at each other, and Nie Mingjue immediately started to worry: they’d had time to think about it. That was dangerous.

“We want to marry you,” Lan Xichen said.

“Both of us,” Jin Guangyao said. “To avoid any jealousy.”

“That’s…not how that works,” Nie Mingjue said blankly. Men married multiple wives, not women multiple men: they had words for women who did that, none of them complimentary. Or legal, for that matter. “And anyway, I’ve already told you, I can’t have children. Huaisang’s my heir, and he always will be – you deserve to continue your family lines. Both of you.”

They exchanged looks again.

“That’s fine by me,” Jin Guangyao said. “Jin Zixuan’s the heir anyway.”

“I have plenty of cousins,” Lan Xichen said. “Can we go to bed now? I was injured in the line of duty –” He had a scraped knee and exactly three bruises, she’d counted. “– and I need some care and attention.”

“And an agreement of marriage from da-jie,” Jin Guangyao said, because he had a lawyer’s eye for such things.

This was almost certain to cause some sort of political disaster.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t settle for sworn brothers or something?” she tried.

They wouldn’t.

(The stories said that the leader of the Nie sect was a goddess – a war goddess, a goddess of the blade, sharp as the saber she carried and tall as a temple statute; they said that her two lovers fell in love with her the first moment they saw her and fought a war that upturned the entire cultivation world just to win the right to claim her hand; they said that they served as her right and left hands, and that when the three of them were together, the venerated triad, they could never be defeated.)

#mdzs #nie mingjue #lan xichen #meng yao #jin guangyao #my fic #my fics #da-jie #Anonymous

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the-girl-in-the-box · 3 years ago

Text

Not Today XXXV

A/N: And after another delay brought to you by me being in classes again... I bring a very exciting chapter! I’ve been super excited for this one ever since I began the Russian arc, so now that it’s here I think that’s very cool!! That said, I hope you enjoy, and I will present it without further ado! Skål!

Summary: When Ivar takes the throne of Kattegat, Lagertha flees to Wessex along with Björn, Ubbe, Torvi, and the Bishop Heahmund. There, they seek the aid of King Alfred. This aid comes in the form of his sister, Aethelind, who agrees to travel to Kattegat and try to reason Ivar, who she spent some time with during their youth, when her grandfather King Ecbert hosted Ragnar Lothbrok in their castle. Now, she is the only hope for Lagertha and her supporters to retake Kattegat from Ivar the Boneless.

Masterlist

Asta had been unable to stop pacing all day. Ivar was used to battle, she knew this, had seen him fight and defend and attack with her own eyes, but that hadn’t taken away any of her anxiety as she’d watched him leave with Oleg. The decision, ultimately, was that she should stay with Katia and Igor, just in case they needed defense while Oleg and Ivar were away. But that didn’t make her feel any better about being left behind.

She wondered if this wasn’t, at one point, how her family had felt watching her leave Wessex. Had her family, and Lagertha, Torvi, Björn, and Ubbe felt this way watching her go? Knowing she was going to Ivar, who they could not trust, and Hvitserk who they hoped they could? Had even Hvitserk felt this way, watching her leave Kattegat with Ivar, uncertain entirely of the future she would have with him? If it was, she felt suddenly that she owed them a great apology. Of course, not all she had said goodbye to still lived for her to even apologize to them, but that was part of the fear.

What if something happened there in Kiev, while he was away, and she was not there when he returned? What if he did not return? There were no bad feelings when he left, quite the opposite inf act, but that didn’t mean there was nothing left to be resolved.

Now, standing beside Katia and looking out over Kiev, Asta swallowed. “I don’t like this,” she confessed, glancing briefly over at the woman. “I have faith in Ivar, I’m sure he’ll come home, but…” She paused, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I’ve lost people to battle, but I can’t stand to think of losing him now. Not like this…”

Katia smiled at her, and reached over to put a hand over hers, before focusing her eyes back out over the city as well. “You love him,” she said. “Of course you cannot stand to think of losing him.” Asta’s eyes turned to Katia, then, watching her. She chuckled halfheartedly.

“You say that like it’s so easy,” she replied. “I’ve risked all I think I can for a person, for him. I’ve lost so much, so many people, and I find that now, being unable to be at his side, to know I can protect him if something happens…”

“You think you would make a difference?” Katia asked her.

“I could have with Freydis.”

It wasn’t healthy, necessarily, to blame herself for what she couldn’t have been there for, to hold herself responsible for what had happened when she was away- she and Katia both knew that- but that didn’t change anything. Asta believed if she had gone instead, or had gone sooner, she could have saved her. It was a common thought she had, even after she and Ivar had finally been reconciled about this, that if she had just …

Silence fell over the two women as they stood there, each of them waiting for something hopefully good. After another long while of hearing nothing, of no news, Katia asked, “Did Ivar… say anything to you? Before he left?”

“I wish you could come.”

Asta chuckled, a bitter sound, as she rolled her eyes. “You could let me come,” she argued. “This isn’t a matter of if I can or can’t, it’s a matter of what you want me to do. Oleg hasn’t forbidden it!”

“Of course he has not forbidden it. You challenge him, his authority, and he wants to be rid of you. If you go, I do not think you will return,” he said.

“And why do you think I wouldn’t be alright?” she questioned him sharply. “If he tried anything-”

“If he tried anything, and you fought back, neither outcome is good,” he said. “If you survive, we are going to be in a very precarious situation. If he survives, I will have lost you.”

Asta scoffed. “What, and he won’t try something if I’m alone here? Who do you expect to have my back here, hm? Katia? Igor? You’re the one who has my back, Ivar.”

“You seem to think I like this,” he said, rolling his head back a bit. “Who will have my back out there? Not you, because you will be here. We will have to have our own backs this time.”

The irony was, of course, that they’d never fought together before. Even at the Siege of Kattegat, she had stayed with Freydis. The one time across those battles she hadn’t been with her, she had been killed. She left her home, and her family all died except for Alfred, and Lagertha had died as well. She knew what Ivar was truly asking of her was protection for Igor, but it didn’t make her any less unsettled about being unable to protect him.

“Then promise me you will,” she said seriously. Ivar looked at her with a lifted brow, clearly not fully understanding her meaning. “Promise me you will have your own back, and that you’ll come back to me.”

At this, Ivar’s expression softened, and he brought a hand up to her face. “I will come back to you, Asta,” he swore. “But promise me you will be here when I return, hmm?”

Asta smiled and leaned into his touch. “I will,” she promised.

It was no surprise to either of them when Ivar kissed her, nor was it when her hands moved to frame his face between them, holding him close for the last time before he left with Oleg. And Ivar, in return, held onto Asta, wanting to keep her close before he had to leave her there with Katia and Igor.

“I’ll see you soon,” he mumbled against her lips, holding her jaw in his hand. For such a feared man, a warrior known and respected throughout much of the world, he had a gentle touch, Asta noticed. He was a dream, one she doubted she’d ever wake up from at this point. She didn’t want to.

“He only promised to return to me,” she said. “And I promised to be here when he returned.”

“Do you trust him?” Katia asked. Asta nodded without hesitation. “Then trust he will come home to you.

Asta let out a soft sigh, turning back to the Princess. “Thank you, Katia,” she said. “You’re right. I just wish it were as easy as you make it sound.”

Katia laughed lightly, and put her hand on Asta’s arm. “They will be home before we know it,” she said. “And you will have done your job of protecting Igor and myself.”

“From a threat that never came,” Asta pointed out.

“Or so we hope.”

No threat ever did come, and before long, the scouting parties were returning, coming home from their journey down toward Kattegat and Vestfold in Norway and finding their way back to Kiev. It was hard for Asta not to run out to the gates to greet them, wanting desperately to be reunited with Ivar.

The gates opened, and she and Katia stood together, Igor between them, at the door of the palace. Of course, Asta only made it until she saw Ivar, at which point she stepped forward, and decided she’d rather meet him halfway than wait until he reached her. When they finally did meet, Asta wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders, burying her face in his neck and holding him like a lifeline, feeling more secure than ever as his arm secured around her waist.

“I told you I would come back to you,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Did you not believe me?”

“Of course I believed you,” she said. “But it doesn’t take away from the relief I feel at having you home.”

Ivar smiled softly and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, moving his arm so it wrapped around her shoulders, and he could hold the back of her head against himself with his hand. “I am here now, Asta,” he whispered. “All is well.” He lit up, remembering something he knew would please her very much, and said, “Ah, before I forget. I have also brought you a gift.”

“A gift?” she questioned, looking up at him curiously. “What gift?”

There was a sound of someone clearing their throat, and Asta looked around Ivar toward the source of the sound, only to find a very familiar face standing there.

“Should I give you two some time and come back later?” he asked with a teasing smirk.”

“Hvitserk!”

Hvitserk grinned at her, and stepped forward just in time to catch the Shieldmaiden as she threw herself at him, her arms wrapping around his neck and holding him tightly. “Hello, Princess,” he greeted, and she pulled back to look up at him with a small roll of her eyes.

“You know that’s not who I am anymore,” she said, earning a chuckle from Hvitserk.

“I do,” he agreed.

Looking up at him now, Asta’s brows creased, and concern suddenly embedded in her features. “Hvitserk,” she said. “Hvitserk, are you sick?”

His eyes were bloodshot, his hair stringy and barely pulled out his face, skin pale as though he’d barely seen sun in the time since she and Ivar had left Kattegat. She was reminded rather uncomfortably of the strange sight of this she’d caught back when he had been training her, and she had finally defeated him in a fight. That strange moment, then, had been a vision, as much as she’d never expected that to be the explanation. A vision just like the one which had allowed her to defeat Björn Ironside. It had come true. Hvitserk was just as sick as she’d seen that he would be.

“You could say that,” he answered with an almost avoidant chuckle.

Asta sighed, and gave a small shake of her head. “You look dead,” she said, and this earned a far fuller laugh from the man in question.

“I feel it,” he said.

“Then we should get you inside, and warm you up,” Asta suggested. “I’m sure we have much to share with each other, as long as it’s been.”

The three of them walked inside, and soon found a small lounge where they could be alone. Of course, they had run into Igor, and been unable to tell the boy no. So, he was now sitting with them, as Hvitserk had a warm drink, Ivar sat beside him, and Asta tended the fire. Hvitserk had begun to recount how he’d ended up wandering through the woods half dead, but when he mentioned the paranoia that Ivar was going to come and find him, along with the increase of alcohol consumption, Ivar finally interrupted.

“Our brother has poisoned your mind, convincing you that I was your enemy,” he said. “I am not your enemy.”

Hvitserk didn’t respond, instead simply putting a nut of some kind in his mouth, and watching Ivar as he ate it. Asta looked between him, Ivar, and Igor, who was also snacking on a bowl of nuts, before looking back to Ivar, as he put a hand on Hvitserk’s shoulder.

“Get well, get strong,” he told his brother. “We shall unleash our forces against our brothers. They will bear witness to our triumph, hmm?”

Asta nearly chuckled and rolled her eyes. Of course, Ivar’s response to the treatment Hvitserk had received was to threaten those who had treated him that way. It made sense for him, hence her amusement, but she didn’t show it. Not with this being the context. Hvitserk did chuckle, at least a little, though, and so she allowed herself a small smile as Ivar patted Hvitserk’s shoulder, and pulled his hand back. He stood, and started for the door, Igor following him. However, Asta didn’t move. She still intended to speak with Hvitserk.

This came as no surprise to Ivar, but what Hvitserk did next certainly did. He sat up a bit, and spoke. “I killed her, Ivar.”

A sick feeling of dread began to settle in Asta’s stomach, feeling nearly certain as to who Hvitserk was referencing. Ivar, however, did not know who he spoke of, and so turned back with a rather confused expression on his face, brows drawn and eyes questioning.

“It was me,” Hvitserk said. “Not you. Me. I killed her, and now she’s dead.”

A weighted moment passed between them, before Ivar asked, “Who?”

“You know who,” Hvitserk answered. “Lagertha.”

More words were exchanged, but Asta found herself not quite paying attention as her suspicions were confirmed. Her eyes slipped shut, and her brows creased as that ache in her chest returned. It disturbed her to see how nearly pleased with himself Hvitserk was at Lagertha’s murder, at the murder Asta herself had felt. Her eyes didn’t open again until the door was shutting, signalling Ivar’s and Igor’s departures, and leaving her alone with a still chuckling Hvitserk. She took a deep breath.

“You must be proud,” Asta said, looking up at Hvitserk. “Lagertha was a famous shieldmaiden, known all over the world. To be the one who killed her…”

Hvitserk chuckled and shook his head. “That is not why I laugh, Princess,” he said, and straightened a bit in his seat, patting the space beside him. Asta stood, and crossed the room to sit there.

“Then why?” she asked. Her voice had softened, and she took his hand in her own. “Hvitserk, I felt her death. It woke me in the night, coming to me in the middle of a horrible dream, and I couldn’t even bring myself to tell Ivar, though he could tell something was wrong.”

A grin spread across his lips. “Ivar didn’t do it, in the end. All his talk of his promise to kill Lagertha, and he didn’t do it. I did.”

He didn’t expect the sad look in her eyes, nor the pained smile she offered him. “Hvitserk,” she said. “What happened to you? The last time I saw you… You didn’t want to beat Ivar to anything, you wanted to stop him. What changed?”

“What had I ever done before this?” Hvitserk asked her. “Huh? Before killing Lagertha? I helped Ivar take Kattegat, I helped Björn take it back. But what did I ever do?” He paused, and chuckled softly. “I killed Lagertha.”

He watched her take a breath, and swallow, her eyes returning to the fire once more. “How did it happen?” she questioned. “I know- knew - her. She’d have died well. So how’d it happen?”

Hvitserk shifted, unable to keep his eyes on her when she looked back at him, and so now glancing toward the fire. But he could feel her eyes on him, and as he sat there, something in him seemed to shift. He swallowed. “I didn’t even mean to do it,” he confessed. “I was drunk, had taken some mushrooms, and… I thought-” A pause. “You cannot tell Ivar what I am going to tell you.”

Asta’s brows creased, and she found Hvitserk finally looking back at her. She nodded, indicating whatever he told her would stay between them. He let out a relieved breath, and continued.

“I thought she was him,” he said. “Ivar. She was already wounded when I found her in the streets, crawling toward the Great Hall, and…” He took in a shuddering breath. “Aethelind, I killed her. I stabbed her, again and again and again, until I saw her clearly, and the worst thing… She told me it was okay.”

Asta watched with a sharp pain in her chest as he fell apart there, a choked sob leaving his throat. He collapsed in on himself and she immediately moved to wrap her arms around his shoulders, pulling him tightly against her. “Hvitserk…” she breathed out, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“I didn’t want to kill her, and then Ubbe and Björn…”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, darling. I’m so sorry. I never would have expected that from them. But you’re here now with Ivar and myself, and we’re here for you. We love you, Hvitserk. Even if Ivar isn’t the best at showing it.”

That was all it took for Hvitserk to reach out and cling to her, holding Asta as if she were his last tether to this world, and she held him tightly, as if she intended to keep him right there where he was safe. And, truthfully, he doubted he’d felt so safe in a long time. Not that, of course, he really felt like he deserved it, but he also felt like she wouldn’t hear it if he tried to bring that up. He instead decided on gratitude.

“Thank you, Aethelind,” he said, and she chuckled softly.

“Oh, yes,” she began. “My name… hasn’t really been Aethelind for a long time, now. It actually feels weird to be called that again.”

Hvitserk sat up far quicker than she would have expected, looking at her with wide eyes. “You are no longer Aethelind?” he asked her in shock. “Then who are you?”

“I’m Asta now,” she answered. “Officially, Queen Asta the Prophet. But I really just tend to go by Asta.”

Hvitserk blinked a little at the title. “ Queen Asta?” he questioned. “Who- when did you-?”

“Ivar,” she said. He looked like he could have passed out.

“ You have married Ivar?! ” he managed to get out. Asta chuckled a little.

“Yes and no?” she answered vaguely. “Actually, you should know our story. We’ve claimed that I’m his wife ever since we arrived here, pretty much. Oleg, you’ll meet him, mistook me for such and for my own safety, we never clarified. The story goes that I was a wanderer, led to Kattegat by the gods, and Ivar and Freydis took me in. He and I fell for each other, and Freyids and I became very close. So, out of her love for us, and wanting us to be happy, she suggested we marry, and he took me for his second wife. He and I escaped together after the Siege of Kattegat, and the rest is history.”

Hvitserk blinked a few more times after that. He remembered teasing her before she left, trying to decipher what had sent her with Ivar, if there was something more to her desire to ensure he wasn’t alone, than simply a good heart. But this was all rather… well, why would this ‘Oleg’ have believed them to be married in the first place? Were they acting like they were when they arrived? All of those questions circulated in his mind, but the truth was, he figured one answer would probably shed some light on them.

“So, what really is happening between you and Ivar?” he asked. “You’re not really married I take it, so…?”

She gave a small sigh, smiling sadly. “Doesn’t mean we don’t wish to be,” she confessed. Hvitserk’s eyes widened. That definitely explained a lot.

“Then why aren’t you?” he questioned. “I mean, if you both want it, right? Why not…?”

“Because if I ever see my brother again, there’s no way this would go over well. Not to mention we’ve already been saying we’re married. How are we to explain cropping up wanting to get married when we supposedly are already?” Hvitserk nodded, as if she presented very valid arguments.

“So… what are you two doing about it?” he asked.

Asta shrugged. “Just… living as though it’s true, for as long as we can.”

And these words brought another revelation to Hvitserk. They didn’t think they had forever. Asta and Ivar believed they were running on borrowed time. That was concerning as well, and he found himself wondering just what was going on, that Ivar had told him none of this, and Asta seemed so hesitant to just do what she wanted with Ivar. It all left a rather dreadful, sinking feeling in his gut, and he suddenly felt far less certain of his fate in Rus than he had before.

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