#and has more or less inherited a dead-and-gone legacy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starshipsofstarlord · 4 years ago

Text

the age old divine

hela x hecate!reader x agatha harkness / masterlist

summary; the mass of murdered witches draws your attention, shooting down to earth to speculate the scene. two goddesses, and a outcast witch, need i say more? / warnings; death, smut, threesome, biting, blood, threatening, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, squirting

“dead, dead, dead.” the goddess of death herself spoke, as she traipsed through the loitering of witch carcasses. despite her words, her dark eyes showed anything but pity, rather what was bestowed upon her power endorsing pools was amusement. the scene was quite satisfying to her, it was a certainty that she would not be one to complain about the number of bodies.

“say it with a little less stride in your tone, these are my children. they were gifted magic by my hand, and now all that reprise has gone to waste.” you bit verbally at the daughter of odin, looking respectfully down upon the slaughtered. “only one of their own coven could have strung them to her heart so enthrallingly, we have to find the witch.”

“isn’t all this hocus pocus your jurisdiction? there is no we when it comes to reprimanding the order of this nature.” hela responded, brushing her hair back into its tarantula alike webbing. “hurry now, so we can carry on with our reckoning of the realms, earth is rather dirtying my feet with distaste for the humans that loiter pathetically on this planet.”

“oh hush, just because you are your daddy’s number one executioner does not mean that structured by your thoughts, that life is a waste. mortals may not be gifted with long life, nor the representation of elaborate thinking, however there is some beauty to their weak race.” a rustle in the bushes had you snapping your head to the side, focalising on the greenery as a nervous shake prompted the arms.

“there is no beauty to avid weakness.” hela noticed the listener’s location too, though she continued to speak as though it were a regular conversation at one of asgard’s infamous banquets. “nor hiding from those that reign higher in a seam of nature. come out little witch, and show us that digressed face of yours.”

“hela.” thoughtlessly elbowing the executioner, your thoughts drifted to her borderline mistake. the witch could attempt to escape after her whereabouts being called out, though perhaps you should have had more faith in the face of death, for a ragged haired, young woman approached from her hiding spot, seemingly worried for her own safety.

her eyes drifted over the various bodies that she had cast from life, and then they landed on you. instantly she recognised the description that your form visibly upheld, she had heard various tales and stories about you as a child, the mother of the witches.

“agatha harkness.” you knew her name, inside she panicked, it felt as though she were to be punished for her sins. but with one flick of your enchanted wrist, the evidence of her reprisal disappeared, her mother’s corpse turning into nothing more than a wisp drifting through the air. “i suppose it is you that had vanquished your family, may i, the sorceress over all, get an answer to why?”

agatha fumbled her shoulders for a second, as she thought of the best response that she could possibly bestow. she couldn’t say that she had seen the darkhold, nor disobeyed the ways of her coven, that would only make her appear as the villain. “well, are you going to tell me, or am i going to have to take a peak in that chaotic mind of yours?” your tone was harsh, as your demanding eyes bore into her.

from beside you, hela tutted, as she nonchalantly picked at her nails. “aren’t you the one always telling me to have patience?” out of all times, this was when the goddess had to intervene, it seemed as though she herself had no patience to sit there and allow you to carry on. after all, as she had spoken, this was your area, not hers.

“shut it.” the demand provoked the woman that lurched death upon her victims, she was fast to swoon forwards and cast her tough hand upon your jaw. her impending pupils glazed over, washing over with dominance, as her spare hand reached out, shaking her pointer finger at agatha, whom had tried to creep away from the debacle scene.

“not so fast little witch, i want to show you how weak and vulnerable your deity is in my hands. one snap and i could break this pretty neck of hers; and that would be such a shame.” hela hissed, sinking her teeth into your chin, hard enough to cause a puncture mark to render your flesh, with your crimson humanity lightly escaping from the small wound.

the goddess of death threw you upon the ground, as you turned and glared at the witch, who remained frozen at the play that was rolling out before her eyes. hela sunk onto her knees, grasping the crooks of your ankles to pull you closer, straddling you to permit no option of escape.

“i thought that you were smart enough not to talk back to me y/n, but it appears that i, like the ways of my forefathers, was wrong. did all those lessons i introduce you to amount to nothing?” her porcelain hands tore at your white robe, exposing your nudity to the crisp air, that sent ripples of bumps along your immortal skin. “i will bend and break you until you understand. i will rip everything away from you, until you see that your whimsical tricks are nothing in compared to what i am able to do.”

a whine escaped your lips, and agatha’s eyes widened. she shouldn’t be witnessing this, much less standing by as her legendary, tale told idol fumbled beneath a mass of dark seduction, braced to be as barren of clothing as you were the day that you had been birthed as a symbolic presence within the universe.

“get off of me, otherwise i shall inform the hellish mould of the devil’s crown how to defeat you; you and i both know that ragnarok will have you splitting in half like a fallen icicle.” the threat, albeit honest, was half empty, like a cauldron with the incorrect ingredients. hela could only smirk at the predicament that you had adjourned into the compass of.

her suspicious hand slithered down your body like an albino serpent, cradling the mound of your inherited artefact, rubbing her murderous thumb upon your rose, toying cantankerously with the petals, pricking at them like established thorns, drawing a spike in your breath. agatha rubbed her thighs together, trapping her full bottom lip between the jailhouse of her teeth, lightly gnawing upon her own flesh.

“get off of you, or get you off into a climactic example of true ecstasy, that is not accompanied by vengeful curses, nor midnight felines that bring the warning of arising karma?” she asked teasingly, shaking her deviant head as you thrusted your hip against her hand, rubbing the length of your treasure chest upon her thrilling palm.

“don’t be stereotypical hela, otherwise i will make sure you see some entrapment of your own fears; you and i both know that i am well equipped to take a guess at what they are.” hela prowled her top lip up in the stance of a silent snare, quickly disconcerting her attention away from you in your appeasing pose, as she beckoned the bushy haired witness over, grinning contently when the witch silently complied.

“i suppose you’ve never thought that the night would come where you would see your historical figure writhing under the affections of death. touch her, fulfil the one legacy that you bestow upon your enchanted selves, and serve her.” the woman cloaked in a skin of thin armour spoke, glaring frighteningly up at the witch, with a primal infrastructure edging the outside of her feral orbs.

“i, i, what do i do?” agatha wanted to be certain that the thoughts that ceremoniously rushed to her mind. if she were to worship your body with the passion that she had refrained from sharing with any of her coven, then she wanted to be certain that she knew the extents that she was allowed to perform to. a forbade groan sheathed like a revealed dagger from your mouth, as you located your neck in an alternate position so that you could look at your kin.

“eat my cunt harkness, now, before i decide to punish you for your treacherous sins.” within a minute, she scrambled upon the dirt, clawing her way so that she was met with an inspector’s sight. hela untangled herself from her masterful clothing, basking her body in nudity, as she climbed upon her face, sitting on it as you eagerly began to swipe your tongue through her folds, sucking earnestly at her clit.

agatha found that to be her moment, she craned her head down, swiping her fingers through your self accumulated slick, watching with a transparent gaze as your essence coated the pads of her skin. she delved her face closer, inhaling the immoral scent that radiated from your most intimate parts, tracing your lips with her explorative tongue. the witch hummed, as though she had succeeded at a spell, gasping herself as she felt your hand comb down and pull at her messy locks.

hela ground against your face, half suffocating you, just the way that she liked it. you moaned into her pulsating flesh, inserting your primitive tongue inside her, roaming around the dark caves that staved many secrets, feeling how each one perfectly moulded her soul, and made her into the dependant warrior that she was. it was unarguable, she was a difficult person to get along with, but you could feel the impact that her younger years had shaped her; she had been taught to be this version of death.

but ironically, there was much life in her as she made huffs that she often saved for the episodic scenery of the battlefield, huffing her perky chest out as she felt valhalla erupt in her abdomen, urging her to sink onto your tongue, and use you for her own advantage. agatha was admittedly not doing as bad of a job as you had inwardly predicted, she was eager to please, specifically more so, since it were you, hecate that she was intimately tending to.

you moaned up into hela, lurching your bottom half down and further unto agatha’s in inquisitive face, sending ripples of sound up through the raven haired woman’s sly body, stringing more leverage over her, in more ways than one. a shout bellowed from your chest, as you felt tendrils of aura surround the interior of your stomach, poking it to no end, sending you closer to the edge. witches, you’d show this one in particular.

harkness squealed as she felt a heat penetrate her entire being. she was a witch, you were a deity, that was perception enough that there was a range of power between the two of yours abilities. “hecate.” it was the name that her ancestors had taught her, and thus, the woman used it, trying to mush her not so innocent face back into your pussy in attempts to shut her own self up.

it felt as though the bifrost was soaring through her, sending her to another land; hela came onto your face, mumbling incoherent, presumably dominant, words to herself as you used your oral appendage to help clean her up. “by the dead, are you good at that.” it was far from the first time that she had told you that. agatha was on the route to her second orgasm, the bliss that you intuitively blessed her with had rendered her to a first.

she however continued to bring you to the overall whits of your sexual expression, introducing her fingers into your nest, watching euphorically as they entered you, and sunk delightfully through your folds, being swallowed into the spongey abyss. hela dismounted from your face, tracking over to position herself from behind agatha, turning up the ends of her skirt, throwing the supporting material over her ass, grabbing the cheeks as she pressed a bite into one globe.

the goddess sunk her face into the subsequent area that had been indulged in privacy for far too long, stroking up the ways of agatha’s slick cunt, nibbling upon her clit as the maleficent light you bestowed continued working inside of her. shaking your head, a finish line was installed as you raced towards it, surpassing the line as you pushed the simple witch’s face closer to your heat, coating her lips with your personal gold, forcing the pressure within her to explode.

her body shook as a violent flurry, which was surely anything natural, reckoned her body. juices spurted out behind her, coating hela’s torturous tongue as she pulled away, silently comparing her taste to your own. once more, in an instant, hela was robed once more, as she steadied your knees, pulling you up to your trembling feet. “now that is what i would call a divine intervention.” a smirk riddled your lips as you stood, your robe still torn, exposing the curve, and the entirety to your beautiful breasts; agatha felt as though she were in a trance.

you were so perfect, like all the tales had foretold. hela shook her head at your incensed pun, rolling her eyes at your consistent humour. “i liked this one, she was less bold than the others that we have previously visited.” noted the goddess of death, stepping back and dragging you back with her as a beam of light cascaded down through the sky, ripping the pair of you away from your current destination.

once it disappeared, the pair of you were gone; vanished. though evidence of your presence remained, agatha licked her lips, tasting you, as she simultaneously felt the affect that the pair of you had endured upon her between her dampened legs. it was a day that the stray witch would never forget, it was indeed, a memory that would surpass through her mind as she gained control, and thus more power.

401 notes · View notes

hunxi-after-hours · 4 years ago

Note

Do you have any thoughts on Qi Fengge? I would love to hear them if you do :D

OH MY GOD ANON I’m so sorry if you’ve sent this question before because I’ve literally been quietly hoarding that ask in my inbox for months now, thinking that I would answer it with the Shen Qiao fic I was working on (am still working on!! simply need... time. and spoons.) because BOY do I have feelings about the relationship between Shen Qiao and Qi Fengge

Qi Fengge is such a fascinating figure, because like Xiao Jingyu of 《琅琊榜》， like Ye Qingmei of 《庆余年》, he is someone who is absent from the world of the story, whose legacy still leaves lasting ripple effects in the lives of our protagonists, in the problems they grapple with

so we can never really know Qi Fengge from the inside; all we know of him is what others say about him, after he’s gone:

respect: obviously, as the undisputed greatest warrior in the jianghu at his time, he commands a great deal of respect

mercy: Yan Wushi actually tears into Qi Fengge in front of Shen Qiao for not killing Hu Lu Gu twenty years ago when he could have; Yan Wushi notes that it would have saved everyone--Shen Qiao in particular--a great deal of grief if Qi Fengge had been a little less kind, more cruelly pragmatic, a little more forward-thinking, a little less honorable

isolationist/neutrality: Shen Qiao inherited Xuandu Shan’s isolationist policies from his predecessors, and for the most part, Qi Fengge upheld Xuandu Shan’s lofty position and refusal to get involved with most jianghu/political affairs

nobility: that being said, Qi Fengge was moved by the plight of the jianghu when Hu Lu Gu came screaming into the central plains, and it was precisely this softness of heart and nobility of spirit that led him to duel Hu Lu Gu for the literal fate of the jianghu

and then there’s Tan Yuanchun. fucking Tan Yuanchun, man

because Tan Yuanchun is where our doubts come in--Tan Yuanchun’s entire evil motive is literally “because shizun didn’t pay enough attention to me,” which, to be frank, is at least 90% Tan Yuanchun’s problem, not Qi Fengge’s, but the whole business has me thinking about all of characters as 武道中人 practitioners of the martial way

I feel like it’s easy to lose sight of (that is, I often lose sight of) how important the martial arts/path/way of life is to our main characters, but it’s very much present in the characterization of our protagonists: Yan Wushi is single-mindedly obsessed with cultivating to greater heights, to breaking the ceiling set by Tao Hongjing (who is, if I may remind us all, the literal author of the Zhuyang Ce). In the betrayal sequence, Yan Wushi tells Shen Qiao about the great weakness of the Fengling Yuandian and says that, once anyone reaches the ninth level, even though going further will increase one’s risk of dying violently and painfully from qi deviation, no one who has gone that far could bear to stop, anyway

and Shen Qiao himself is fiercely devoted to his own way and cultivation; we could talk about his moments of enlightenment and martial progress throughout the book, or I can point specifically at the time he abandoned Xie Ling (who, by the way, is still wanted dead by most of the jianghu at this point) in a Chang’an teahouse because Shen Qiao simply had to go invent a new sword form at that very second and oh my god he is so sorry, here is money for the bill and the property damage Xie Ling caused--

and that’s not even getting into the number of characters who have died in pursuit of elevating their cultivation. the point is, everyone in the jianghu, to a certain extent, will give up their lives for their martial ways

where I’m trying to go with this is that Qi Fengge was the greatest warrior of his time, the pinnacle of martial achievement, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that he is a good teacher

not to say that I think that Qi Fengge is a bad teacher, but I feel like we should recognize that just because he is someone’s shifu/shizun doesn’t mean that he should automatically be saddled with dad responsibilities

(there’s probably a longer conversation to be had about the relative paternal function/paternal obligation of shifus/shizuns to their dizi/disciples in wuxia fiction but how about we don’t get into that for now because boy howdy that would get out of hand real quick)

like I said, I think Tan Yuanchun’s saltiness about Qi Fengge not paying enough attention to him is 90% Tan Yuanchun’s problem because 1) you gotta stop determining your self-worth by other people’s praise m’dude, 2) it’s not Qi Fengge’s job to be your dad, especially because a. you have a family (whereas Shen Qiao was literally picked up off the side of the road) and b. he is your shizun, not your dad, and 3) if you’re unhappy about something you should talk to someone about it, not, I dunno, stew in your resentment for a decade and a half and then plot the downfall of not one, but TWO of your shidis and lowkey plan on jeopardizing your entire sect to prove a goddamn point

like seriously, get a hobby or something

could Qi Fengge have been more attentive to Tan Yuanchun? absolutely. but also recall that Tan Yuanchun’s face-heel turn came out of nowhere even for Shen Qiao because Tan Yuanchun hid his resentment so well, and like, Shen Qiao literally asked his shixiong if he was okay with being skipped over for sect leadership and Tan Yuanchun said yes, you know, like a liar

anyway. back to Qi Fengge

something that I think is very understated and poignant and melancholy throughout the entirety of 《千秋》 is how much Shen Qiao misses his shizun. At the beginning of the book, we know that it’s been a few years (less than ten, more than three I’d wager) since Qi Fengge passed on--Xuandu Shan is not decked out in white, Shen Qiao is not in active mourning, and it’s old news to everyone except Yan Wushi, who’s only just come out of a ten-year seclusion

but throughout the book, Shen Qiao misses Qi Fengge in a quiet, understated manner that is still very present: often, in moments of life or death, he hears Qi Fengge’s voice, or flashes back to a conversation the two of them had (阿峤是最可爱的人). Shen Qiao continues to live--and nearly die--by the principles Qi Fengge passed on to him (阿峤，莫忘挂念苍生，以天下为己任，谨守道心). He carries Qi Fengge’s sword, which his dearest possession, and he cherishes it to the point that it may be the one thing he comes close to picking a fight with Yan Wushi over (aside from like, everything else about Yan Wushi).

And then there is the time-swap extra. And then there is the time-swap extra.

Meng Xishi decided to time-swap six-year-old a-Qiao with post-canon Shen Qiao for funsies in an extra, and executed it with the same amount of crackfic competence one might expect from such a ludicrous concept (overnight baby sect leader! Xuandu Shan in chaos! unbelievably adorable a-Qiao! Yan Wushi having a goddamn field day!), but then she jumps over to the adult Shen Qiao, sent some thirty years into his past

my god that scene gutted me--Shen Qiao, practically in tears at seeing his shizun again, the unexpected mercy of some cosmic accident. Shen Qiao doesn’t strike us as emotionally vulnerable throughout the book--he’s mature, steady, and quite worthy of the leadership position he holds and the reputation he gains back. So to see all of his competence and charisma and confidence crumble until he is just a-Qiao, the disciple who just really misses the shizun who had been a father to him, really came for me when I was least expecting it

and the Qi Fengge of that extra seems to live up to Shen Qiao’s memory of a benevolent teacher and model of the Daoist way; he takes the time-swap in stride, doesn’t ask Shen Qiao about the future (actually, Shen Qiao offers to tell him and Qi Fengge turns it down, holy shit), simply asks if Shen Qiao wants to go down to the town at the foot of the mountain and wander around together

look, I just got really emotional about Shen Qiao getting to talk to his shizun again, for the two of them to converse as equals and friends, as companions and family, as shizun and disciple, as heroes and legacies. there is a unique joy in taking pride in/for others, and that scene managed to hit it for both of them: both Qi Fengge, proud of how well Shen Qiao turned out, and Shen Qiao, proud of living up to the immense legacy that Qi Fengge bestowed upon him, both gift and debt, simultaneously blessing and burden

#no coherency only being gutted by Qi Fengge-Shen Qiao feelings and having to lie down #千秋 backlog #Shen Qiao #I really wish I'd had the foresight to organize my tags for this fandom better #because I'm in this for the long haul apparently #hunxi thinks about QQ

47 notes · View notes

professorspork · 4 years ago

Note

Hi. I reread your Floating Array post because of the continuation of it, and had a thought that was probably buried under completely agreeing with every point about Penny. You mentioned how Cinder is the only person ever to replace their weapon completely in RWBY, and i wanted to ask what you think Jaune is going to do with his sword. Every upgrade he's gotten so far was to the shield, and I'm actually thinking he might throw the remaining half of the blade away entirely, seeking to (cont)

(part 2) hyperfocus on his role as support during Volume 9, and even once he heals from that enough to acknowledge he DOES need some form of offence, he still won't go back to a sword.

WHAT A GREAT QUESTION

(and shout out to Jo’s post about Crocea Mors as murder weapon for giving me a place to start here)

First I’m just gonna be incredibly pedantic, I’m sorry, bear with me, but-- technically he has upgraded the sword before, insofar as he upgraded the sheath. Before their walk across Anima, he didn’t have the ability to make the big two-handed broadsword version, which the sheath megazords into the sword to make. But he’s also hardly used it in a while, to my recollection, because his style has changed so much since unlocking his Semblance. As you noted, so much of his growth as a person has been tied up in his learning to accept that he’s defense guy, not offense guy.

As to your actual question... I don’t have a solid theory one way or another as to how this is going to go, because I think it’s going to depend a great deal on a) how long the gang is in superhell and b) how much fighting they have to do while they’re down there.

Jaune’s obviously been deeply traumatized by what he’s had to do; I don’t think he has any interest in using the sword ever again, if he can help it. And right now, he can’t-- he’s carrying a hilt and about five inches worth of shard, and unless he wants to try and use it like a dagger, that’s useless to him. But I’m not sure if they’re going to be facing violent threats in the immediate future. If they do-- if Jaune must fight to keep RWBY safe-- I think he’ll force himself to make peace with the fact that he needs a blade of some kind, and that will affect his decision-making moving forward. But if they’re just processing/speaking to the dead/looking for a way to escape... he might decide to make some drastic changes.

Here’s a few ways I think it could go:

Option 1: Same As It Ever Was. If Jaune feels like he’s powerless to help his friends because he’s not armed, he may just get a new sword all over again when they return. I’m less enthused by this option, as I think what he’s gone through merits a Big Change, but also... weapons really rarely change on this show, plus there’s the family heirloom angle. It could be that he finally gets a sword he makes himself, instead of one he inherited, and that its new design reflects his growth.

Option 2: Some Steve Rogers Shit. Who needs a sword anyway, huh?! If Jaune has to do a lot of fighting on the island, it will have to be like this (unless he uses his sheath as a blade, like Blake will have to do until she finds the other half of Gambol Shroud). This, I think, would be most in line with the trajectory he was already on-- constantly upping his defensive capabilities. Before he killed Penny, I lowkey thought this would be where he landed eventually, but now that he’s had to use the sword, I wonder if this will be the kind of thing where he won’t be able to move past it until he’s used it again. And his current shield isn’t exactly aerodynamic, if he wanted to go full Steve Rogers and throw it. But then, you know who had a circular shield? Which brings me to my current favorite--

Option 3: Milo and Akouo Redux. This strikes me as very likely, especially if Jaune gets to spend significant time with Pyrrha again in the afterlife. It would be a step-forward, step-back for Jaune, growth-wise, which I think maps onto where he is. On the one hand, letting go of the family heirloom legacy and expectations, but on the other hand, still clinging to someone else to help define him instead of forging his own path. But to mold himself more in Pyrrha’s image wouldn’t have to be a purely unhealthy thing, I think, depending on how it’s pulled off. The thing about the sword being also a javelin and a rifle is that it gives ranged capability, which feels more in line with the support role Jaune’s grown into. Plus, carrying a spear after unlocking his Semblance when Cinder’s spear, clearly meant to evoke Milo as a cruel joke, nearly killed Weiss... yeah, that feels very full-circle to me.

Option 4: Gun! Probably not, as he’s never shown any interest in carrying one and is unlikely to start now, but I might as well say it’s an option. Weiss shoots people now! Why can’t he? This would be a huge departure for him, and imo show that he’s backsliding-- trying to be combat-effective no matter the cost, in a way that feels a little less personal than having to stab someone.

I’m eager to hear what other people think about this, though, because I think they could reasonably take this in about fifteen different directions.

#rwby #jaune arc #Anonymous

44 notes · View notes

mjvnivsbrvtvs · 3 years ago

Note

hi! so we have established at this point that you have A Lot Of thoughts about antony and brutus. but how does caesar (julius, not the little bitch octavian) play into that? bc like. my knowledge and impression of them is very limited and mainly constructed from watching hbo rome and idk. i think it'd be fun to throw caesar in the mix. love all the art and writing on your blog btw! have a nice day.

Hey, okay! So this used to be over 30 pages long (Machiavelli and Caligula got involved and that's when things got out of hand), but through the power of friendship and two late night writing dates fueled by coffee, I’ve cut it way down to under 10. Many thanks to the people who listened to me ramble about it at length, and also to a dear friend for helping me cut this down to under ten pages!

Also, thank you! I'm glad you enjoy the stuff I make! It makes me very happy to hear that!

And quickly, a Disclaimer: I’m not an academic, I’m not a classicist, I’m not a historian, and I spend a lot of time very stressed out that I’ve tricked people into thinking I’m someone who has any kind of merit in this area. It's probably best to treat this as an abstract character analysis!

On the other hand, I love talking about dead men, so, with enthusiasm, here we go!

For this, I’m going to cut Shakespeare and HBO Rome out of the framework and focus more on a historical spin.

Caesar is a combination of a manipulator and a catalyst. A Bad Omen. The remaining wound that’s poisoning Rome.

Cassius gets a lot of the blame for Brutus’ turn to assassination, but it overlooks that Brutus was already inclined towards political ambition, as were most men involved in the political landscape of the time.

Furthermore, although Sulla had actually raised the number of praetorships available from six to eight, there were still only two consulships available. There was always the chance that death or disgrace might remove some of the competition and hence ease the bottleneck. But, otherwise, it was at the top of the ladder that the competition was particularly fierce: whereas in previous years one in three praetors would have gone on to become consul, from the 80s BC onwards the chances were one in four. For the senators who had made it this far, it mattered that they should try to achieve their consulship in the earliest year allowed to them by law. To fail in this goal once was humiliating; to fail at the polls twice would be deemed a signal disgrace for a man like Brutus.

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

The way Caesar offered Brutus political power the way that he did, and Brutus accepting it, locked them into the assassination outcome.

Here is a man who’s built his entire image around honor and liberty and virtu, around being a staunch defender of morals and the republic

In these heated circumstances, Brutus composed a bitter tract On the Dictatorship of Pompey (De Dictatura Pompei), in which he staunchly opposed the idea of giving Pompey such a position of power. ‘It is better to rule no one than to be another man’s slave’, runs one of the only snippets of this composition to survive today: ‘for one can live honourably without power’, Brutus explained, ‘but to live as a slave is impossible’. In other words, Brutus believed it would be better for the Senate to have no imperial power at all than to have imperium and be subject to Pompey’s whim.

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

and you give him political advancement, but without the honor needed for this advancement to mean anything?

At the same time, however, Brutus had gained his position via extremely un-republican means: appointment by a dictator rather than election by the people. As the name of the famous career path, the cursus honorum, suggests, political office was perceived as an honour at Rome. But it was one which had to be bestowed by the populus Romanus in recognition of a man’s dignitas.69 In other words, a man’s ��worth’ or ‘standing’ was only really demonstrated by his prior services to the state and his moral qualities, and that was what was needed to gain public recognition. Brutus had got it wrong. As Cicero not too subtly reminded him in the treatise he dedicated to Brutus: ‘Honour is the reward for virtue in the considered opinion of the citizenry.’ But the man who gains power (imperium) by some other circumstance, or even against the will of the people, he continues, ‘has laid his hands only on the title of honour, but it is not real honour’.70

Brutus may have secured political office, then, but he had not done so honourably; nor had he acted in a manner that would earn him a reputation for virtue or everlasting fame.

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

Brutus in the image that he fashioned for himself was not compatible with the way Caesar was setting him up to be a political successor, and there was really never going to be any other outcome than the one that happened.

The Brutus of Shakespeare and Plutarch’s greatest tragedy was that he was pushed into something he wouldn’t have done otherwise. The Brutus of history’s greatest tragedy was accepting Caesar’s forgiveness after the Caesar-Pompey conflict, and then selling out for political ambition, because Caesar's forgiveness is not benevolent.

Rather than have his enemies killed, he offered them mercy or clemency -- clementia in Latin. As Caesar wrote to his advisors, “Let this be our new method of conquering -- to fortify ourselves by mercy and generosity.” Caesar pardoned most of his enemies and forbore confiscating their property. He even promoted some of them to high public office.

This policy won him praise from no less a figure than Marcus Tullius Cicero, who described him in a letter to Aulus Caecina as “mild and merciful by nature.” But Caecina knew a thing or two about dictators, since he’d had to publish a flattering book about Caesar in order to win his pardon after having opposed him in the civil war. Caecina and other beneficiaries of Caesar’s unusual clemency took it in a far more ambivalent way. To begin with, most of them were, like Caesar, Roman nobles. Theirs was a culture of honor and status; asking a peer for a pardon was a serious humiliation. So Caesar’s “very power of granting favors weighed heavily on free people,” as Florus, a historian and panegyrist of Rome, wrote about two centuries after the dictator’s death. One prominent noble, in fact, ostentatiously refused Caesar’s clemency. Marcius Porcius Cato, also known as Cato the Younger, was a determined opponent of populist politics and Caesar’s most bitter foe. They had clashed years earlier over Caesar’s desire to show mercy to the Catiline conspirators; Cato argued vigorously for capital punishment and convinced the Senate to execute them. Now he preferred death to Caesar’s pardon. “I am unwilling to be under obligations to the tyrant for his illegal acts,” Cato said; he told his son, "I, who have been brought up in freedom, with the right of free speech, cannot in my old age change and learn slavery instead.

-Barry Strauss, Caesar and the Dangers of Forgiveness

something else that's a fun adjacent to the topic that's fun to think about:

The link between ‘sparing’ and ‘handing over’ is common in the ancient world.763 Paul also uses παραδίδωμι again, denoting ‘hand over, give up a person’ (Bauer et al. 2000:762).764 The verb παραδίδωμι especially occurs in connection with war (Eschner 2010b:197; Gaventa 2011:272).765 However, in Romans 8:32, Paul uses παραδίδωμι to focus on a court image (Eschner 2010b:201).766 Christina Eschner (2010b:197) convincingly argues that Paul’s use of παραδίδωμι refers to the ‘Hingabeformulierungen’ as the combination of the personal object of the handing over of a person in the violence of another person, especially the handing over of a person to an enemy.767 Moreover, Eschner (2009:676) convincingly argues that Isaiah 53 is not the pre-tradition for Romans 8:32.

Annette Potgieter, Contested Body: Metaphors of dominion in Romans 5-8

Along with the internal conflict of Pompey, the murderer of Brutus’ father, and Caesar, the figurehead for everything that goes against what Brutus stands for, Brutus accepting Caesar’s forgiveness isn’t an act of benevolence, regardless of Caesar’s intentions.

On wards, Caesar owns Brutus. Caesar benefits from having Brutus as his own, he inherits Brutus’ reputation, he inherits a better PR image in the eyes of the Roman people. On wards, nothing Brutus does is without the ugly stain of Caesar. His career is no longer his own, his life is no longer fully his own, his legacy is no longer entirely his. Brutus becomes a man divided.

And it’s not like it was an internal struggle, it was an entire spectacle. Hypocrisy is theatrical. Call yourself a man of honor and then you sell out? The people of Rome will remember that, and they’re going to make sure you know it.

After this certain men at the elections proposed for consuls the tribunes previously mentioned, and they not only privately approached Marcus Brutus and such other persons as were proud-spirited and attempted to persuade them, but also tried to incite them to action publicly. 12 1 Making the most of his having the same name as the great Brutus who overthrew the Tarquins, they scattered broadcast many pamphlets, declaring that he was not truly that man's descendant; for the older Brutus had put to death both his sons, the only ones he had, when they were mere lads, and left no offspring whatever. 2 Nevertheless, the majority pretended to accept such a relationship, in order that Brutus, as a kinsman of that famous man, might be induced to perform deeds as great. They kept continually calling upon him, shouting out "Brutus, Brutus!" and adding further "We need a Brutus." 3 Finally on the statue of the early Brutus they wrote "Would that thou wert living!" and upon the tribunal of the living Brutus (for he was praetor at the time and this is the name given to the seat on which the praetor sits in judgment) "Brutus, thou sleepest," and "Thou art not Brutus."

Cassius Dio

Brutus knew. Cassius knew. Caesar knew. You can’t escape your legacy when you’re the one who stamped it on coins.

Caesar turned Brutus into the dagger that would cut, and Brutus himself isn’t free from this injury. It’s a mutual betrayal, a mutual dooming.

By this time Caesar found himself being attacked from every side, and as he glanced around to see if he could force a way through his attackers, he saw Brutus closing in upon him with his dagger drawn. At this he let go of Casca’s hand which he had seized, muffled up his head in his robe, and yielded up his body to his murderers’ blows. Then the conspirators flung themselves upon him with such a frenzy of violence, as they hacked away with their daggers, that they even wounded one another. Brutus received a stab in the hand as he tried to play his part in the slaughter, and every one of them was drenched in blood.

Plutarch

For Antony, Caesar is a bad sign.

Brutus and Antony are fucked over by the generation they were born in, etc etc the cannibalization of Rome on itself, the Third Servile War was the match to the gasoline already on the streets of Rome, the last generation of Romans etc etc etc. They are counterparts to each other, displaced representatives of a time already gone by the time they were alive.

Rome spends its years in a state of civil war after civil war, political upheaval, and death. Neither Brutus or Antony will ever really know stability, as instability is hallmark of the times. Both of them are at something of a disadvantage, although Brutus has what Antony does not, and what Brutus has is what let’s him create his own career. Until Caesar, Brutus is owned by no one.

This is not the case for Antony.

You can track Antony’s life by who he’s attached to. Very rarely is he ever truly a man unto himself, there is always someone nearby.

In his youth, it is said, Antony gave promise of a brilliant future, but then he became a close friend of Curio and this association seems to have fallen like a blight upon his career. Curio was a man who had become wholly enslaved to the demands of pleasure, and in order to make Antony more pliable to his will, he plunged him into a life of drinking bouts, love-affairs, and reckless spending. The consequence was that Antony quickly ran up debts of an enormous size for so young a man, the sum involved being two hundred and fifty talents. Curio provided security for the whole of this amount, but his father heard of it and forbade Antony his house. Antony then attached himself for a short while to Clodius, the most notorious of all the demagogues of his time for his lawlessness and loose-living, and took part in the campaigns of violence which at that time were throwing political affairs at Rome into chaos.

Plutarch

(although, in contrast to Brutus, we rarely lose sight of Antony. As a person, we can see him with a kind of clarity, if one looks a little bit past the Augustan propaganda. He is, at all times, human.)

Antony being figuratively or literally attached to a person starts early, and continues politically. While Brutus has enough privilege to brute force his way into politics despite Cicero’s lamentation of a promising life being thrown off course, Antony will instead follow a different career path that echoes in his personal life and defines his relationships.

Whereas some young men often attached or indebted themselves to a patron or a military leader at the beginning of their political lives,

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

3. During his stay in Greece he was invited by Gabinius, a man of consular rank, to accompany the Roman force which was about to sail for Syria. Antony declined to join him in a private capacity, but when he was offered the command of the cavalry he agreed to serve in the campaign.

Plutarch

To take it a step further, it even defines how he’s perceived today looking back: it’s never just Antony, it’s always Antony and---

It can be read as someone being taken advantage of, in places, survival in others, especially in Antony's early life. Other times, it appears like Antony himself is the one who manipulates things to his favor, casting aside people and realigning himself back to an advantage.

or when he saw an opportunity for faster advancement, he was willing to place the blame on a convenient scapegoat or to disregard previous loyalties, however important they had been. His desertion of Fulvia's memory in 40, and, much later, of Lepidus, Sextus Pompey, and Octavia, produced significant political gains. This characteristic, which Caesar discovered to his cost in 47, gives the sharp edge to Antony's personality which Syme's portrait lacks, especially when he attributes Antony's actions to a 'sentiment of loyalty' or describes him as a 'frank and chivalrous soldier'. In this context, one wonders what became of Fadia.19

Kathryn E Welch , Antony, Fulvia, and the Ghost of Clodius in 47 B.C.

Caesar inherits Antony, and like Brutus, locks him in for a doomed ending.

The way Caesar writes about Antony smacks of someone viewing another person as something more akin to a dog, and it carries over until it’s bitter conclusion.

Caesar benefits from Antony immensely. The people love Antony, the military loves Antony. He’s charming, he’s self aware, he’s good at what he does. Above all of that, he has political ambitions of a similar passion as Brutus.

Antony drew some political benefit from his genial personality. Even Cicero, who from at least 49 did not like him,15 was prepared to regard some of his earlier misdemeanours as harmless.16 Bluff good humour, moderate intelligence, at least a passing interest in literature, and an ability to be the life and soul of a social gathering all contributed to make him a charming companion and to bind many important people to him. He had a lieutenant's ability to follow orders and a willingness to listen to advice, even (one might say especially) from intelligent women.17 These attributes made Antony able to handle some situations very well."1

There was a more important side to his personality, however, which contributed to his political survival. Antony was ruthless in his quest for pre-eminence

Kathryn E Welch , Antony, Fulvia, and the Ghost of Clodius in 477 B.C.

None of this matters, because after all Antony does for Caesar

Plutarch's comment that Curio brought Antony into Caesar's camp is surely mistaken.59 Anthony had been serving as Caesar's officer from perhaps as early as 53, after his return from Syria.60 He is described as legatus in late 52,61 and was later well known as Caesar's quaestor.62 It is more likely that the reverse of the statement is true, that Antony assisted in bringing Curio over to Caesar. If this were so, then he performed a signal service for Caesar, for gaining Curio meant attaching Fulvia, who provided direct access to the Clodian clientela in the city. Such valuable political connections served to increase Antony's standing with Caesar, and to set him apart from other officers in his army.63

Kathryn E Welch , Antony, Fulvia, and the Ghost of Clodius in 477 B.C.

Caesar still, for whatever reasons, fucks over Antony spectacularly with the will. Loyalty is repaid with dismissal, and it will bury the Republic for good.

It’s not enough for Caesar to screw him over just once, it becomes generational and ugly. Caesar lives on through Octavian: it becomes Octavian’s brand, his motif, propaganda wielded like a knife. Octavian, thanks to Caesar, will bring Antony to his bitter conclusion

And for my "bitter" conclusion, I’ll sign off by saying that there are actual scholars on Antony who are more well versed than I am who can go into depth about the Caesar-Octavian-Antony dynamic (and how it played out with Caligula) better than I can, and scholarship on Brutus consists mostly of looking at an outline of a man and trying to guess what the inside was like.

At the end of the day, Caesar was the instigator, active manipulator, and catalyst for the final act of the Republic.

I hope that this was at least entertaining to read!

#i cut out A Lot and its thanks to the patience of Friends that i got it down to the length that it is #like i cannot stress enough that i worked machiavelli into this and started dissecting the whole #brutus-cassius conflict with the framework that it was orchestrated by caesar #typically tho i tend to treat caesar as a symbolic device. a representation of something Very Wrong #this is a tag for asks

12 notes · View notes

the-girl-in-the-box · 4 years ago

Text

Not Today III

A/N: Hello everyone! So, a little bit of foreshadowing has begun, and we have a brief insight into the relationship Aethelind has with Alfred! I really wanted to be sure to explore that relationship, since it will be so integral to the plot later on. So, a smaller chapter, focused on a smaller scene, but no less important to the plot! Next week, much of our cast will return for the feast. 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

---

The servants all knew to stay away when Aethelind and Alfred were having one of their disagreements. That, or they knew if it went on for too long, to go get their mother. The struggle with these two was found in the conflicting parts of their father they each embodied. And, truthfully, Alfred did want to help the Vikings who had turned up on his and Aethelind’s door. He just…

He knew what they were capable of. He knew the destruction brought to the shores of Wessex by these Northmen. They weren’t safe, and couldn’t be trusted. But at the same time, he remembered the kind eyes of his grandfather’s close friend, the curiosity in the eyes of that man’s son. He couldn’t quite make the two go together, sometimes, in his mind. Perhaps that was why his sister was now pleading with him to assist the Vikings. She had gotten it all straight.

But then, he realized the same men in her villa, Björn and Ubbe Ragnarsson, had killed both his grandfathers, and he suddenly couldn’t bring himself to see them the way she apparently did. He couldn’t understand her heart for them. They had betrayed their grandfather, Ecbert. How could she know they wouldn’t betray her, too?

He had voiced that question, and that, he knew, was the cause of her absolutely bewildered look. Clearly, he’d messed up in asking that. He could tell by her expression exactly what was going through her mind.

“You let fear control you too much,” she finally said, after a few moments of simply staring at him. Perhaps he hadn’t known exactly what, then. “Our father would be absolutely appalled at this. There shouldn’t even be any discussion. You and I both know he’d jump to assist them.”

"Our father destroyed their settlement, Aethelind,” he countered, and then her expression turned pointed, unimpressed. He’d known what she meant, and dodged it, not wanting to admit she was right.

“Our true father,” she said lowly. “Athelstan.”

Ah, yes, thought Alfred. The closest friend of Ragnar Lothbrok. And what good did that friendship do him?

“He was betrayed by the Vikings,” Alfred pointed out. “We know one of them killed him. Grandfather told us this before he was killed by them, too.”

“Grandfather was found dead in his bath, you don’t know the Vikings killed him,” Aethelind argued.

“I know they brought their Great Heathen Army here, and when we returned, Grandfather was dead. Don’t be naïve, Aethelind. He turned Ragnar Lothbrok over to Grandfather Aelle. The Heathens came, went to Northumbria, came here to Wessex, and both our grandfathers died while they were here. What else can be assumed by this?”

“They never came here on that trip.”

Alfred sighed. He should have known that would have been kept from her. The truth of these sorts of matters could be jarring, he knew that, and so he understood why she wouldn’t have been told- especially as she’d continued speaking of that boy, even as he helped lead the army that killed their grandfathers.

“They did,” he confessed. “It’s why we left, right before Grandfather Ecbert passed. He knew they would come, and sent us away for safety. They killed him in his bath, and that’s why we returned to find him gone.”

Alfred watched as she seemed to grow cold, distant from him. That was never good. She was angry. Her brows creased together, her eyes hardened, and she let out a slightly bitter laugh.

“And no one saw fit to tell me of this?” she questioned, voice low. “No one thought I should know that Vikings came and killed both our grandfathers? Why? Was I deemed to be too fond of one of them to be trusted with this information?” Even though her voice hadn’t changed overly much, wasn’t too hostile in nature, Alfred flinched. This was almost worse than when she yelled. “You didn’t even see fit to tell me this, Alfred?”

“You… were too close to both sides of the conflict,” he said, and from the way he spoke, it sounded to her as if he were trying to soothe her. The idea was like salt in the wound he’d just reopened. “And it was difficult news to bear anyway. I thought to protect you by never saying-”

“No, you betrayed me by never saying,” she interrupted. “All this talk of how the Northmen will betray me, and you already have. And what harm could have been done anyway? I already sympathized with the Northmen. The worst case already was the case. If anything, you might have won my sympathies back! Yet now all you have done is solidified my convictions.

“And if nothing else, I know our father would have helped them. Our father left Wessex to be with them in Kattegat. He loved Ragnar Lothbrok. Despite all their differences, even when it came to faith, our father was the one at his right hand, even until his death. If he were here, he would advise that we send aid at once. I, for one, wish to uphold his legacy. I wish to be friends to these people, even if you find it ill-advised.”

Alfred regarded her with a very interested expression. He knew, of course, that she was right, but the way she was talking… “You sound just like him,” he said. “At least, how Mother says he sounded. His love for the Vikings… It’s as if you have inherited it from him.”

His comment seemed to lighten things a bit, though the mood became heavier in other ways, and she smiled a little. “Perhaps you have too,” she suggested. “You simply need to see them in a better light.”

“A better light?” Alfred asked. “What other way is there to see them?”

“Spend some time with them,” she suggested. “And perhaps, speak with our mother about them, and about our father’s relationship with them. She’s told me much of how it used to be, how they helped our grandfather take Mercia. How he, in turn, gave them land here to settle on to farm. How they lived there peacefully. All stories have more than one side to them, Alfred. Perhaps you should learn theirs.”

“Is that what you’ve just done? Spent time learning their story?”

Aethelind nodded, and sighed, massaging the bridge of her nose. “It’s terrible. What’s happened to them… It’s nothing I would wish on anyone. Björn and Ubbe’s brothers have betrayed them- Hvitserk and Ivar. They took Kattegat from under Lagertha, who was apparently its rightful ruler. He murdered their other brother, Sigurd. And even more, Lagertha and Björn knew our father, very well. They loved him, and were loved by him. If you don’t want to help the others… can we at least agree to help them, Alfred? They are no ordinary Northmen. They were friends of our father’s.”

He sighed once more, his brows drawing together thoughtfully as he looked to the table. “Alright,” he eventually agreed. “Lagertha and Björn… I will agree to help, though I cannot say yet in what way. The others are your guests, and I will not take ask you to turn them away. In the meantime, while we work on a plan to offer them aid, I will order a feast to be held to welcome them tonight. Hopefully, this will ensure them of our good faith. And, in accordance with your request, I will… spend some more time with those who our father did not know- Ubbe and… what is the other’s name? The woman with him?”

"Torvi,” Aethelind supplied. “She’s his wife, yes. She seems to be very sweet so far. I wasn’t sure she trusted me overly much, when we first met, but multiple times throughout their explanation, she advised them to go more slowly, to give me time to process what I was learning. I like her.”

Alfred nodded a little, and smiled. “Ubbe and Torvi, then. I will try to know them better, to please you, dear sister.”

Aethelind smiled at her brother, and nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “I will be trying to know them all well, especially in the event we must work more closely with them toward anything. It is imperative that they be able to trust us, not only that we be able to trust them. If we’re to accomplish anything, we must trust each other. We must become with them how our father was with theirs.”

Alfred chuckled softly, an amused smile on his face. “You are very passionate,” he commented affectionately. “They are blessed to have you on their side. I might have turned them away, otherwise. And yet, here you are, arguing for their good. I wonder what else you may try to talk me into, the longer they’re here?”

“Nothing too drastic, I shouldn’t imagine,” she teased. “Though, I’m not sure… Björn may be unmarried.”

Alfred nearly choked, his eyes widening exponentially. “That will not be happening. I am saying no to that right now. You will not be the wife of Björn Ironside. No.”

Aethelind giggled at how easily Alfred had fallen for her joke, a wide grin splitting her face, and he sighed. He should known better by now than to take such a comment seriously. As all their family were rather serious, he couldn’t be sure where she’d gotten such a penchant for mischief. But, it was amusing, and it broke the common monotony of daily life around the castle. He couldn’t be too upset about that, could he?

“One of these days I’ll learn to stop falling for your little tricks,” he told her, and she only laughed more.

“Oh, where would be the fun in that?” she asked. “No, if there’s something I can always rely on you for, Alfred, it’s falling for my ‘little tricks’. And, for coming around to the right way of thinking about things.”

“Or, more accurately, for supporting you. Even in the strangest of your endeavors- of which I’m sure this is one. Helping Vikings reclaim their village. Grandfather Aelle must be turning in his grave, right now.”

The smirk Aethelind wore made Alfred realize that didn’t upset her in the slightest, as did the comment she made.

“I don’t quite see the harm in that.”

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius, @wilhelmyna, @katfett, @fangirl-nonsense, @zuzus-sun, @heavenly1927

If you want to be added to the taglist, feel free to reach out either by commenting, reblogging, DMing me, or sending an ask, and I’ll be more than happy to add you!

#ivar the boneless #ivar x oc #vikings #vikings history #history channel vikings #not today #chapter three #ivar's heathen army #ivar fanfic #ivar ragnarsson #alex hogh andersen #ivar x ofc #ivar x original female character #ivar x christian!oc

21 notes · View notes

twoidiotwriters1 · 4 years ago

Text

Written In The Stars CXLI (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: That’s right PoA gifs are making a comeback -Danny

Words: 3,121

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Chapter Three: A Brief Talk.

Mel was packing up the stuff she'd taken to the mission when someone knocked on the front door.

She heard Erick said he'd get it a second later. Mel put everything in her bag and hung it over her shoulder, rushing out of her room. Dumbledore stared at them with a smile.

"I must say you worked faster than expected."

"We did our best — Oh!" Erick went to the living room and grabbed his bag, drawing out the men's wands. "These are from the death eaters — maybe you'll be able to track them down?"

"I could, if Ollivander hadn't gone missing," Dumbledore said sadly. Mel didn't ask about it, she wasn't ready for any more bad news. "Anything I should know?"

"Yeah," Mel approached. "I'm upset."

Dumbledore gazed at her quietly.

"I said I'd tell you everything and I will, but you must wait a bit longer. We'll visit Harry's house tonight, and pay a visit to Slughorn."

"You said we couldn't talk to him."

"This time will be different. This time I'll go with you."

"How wonderful," Mel said sarcastically.

"I'll get my stuff," Erick gave her a look that was meant to stop her rudeness.

"Very well," Dumbledore nodded, "do close the door on your way out, Mr Flint."

She followed him out in silence, her uncle approached the entrance of the Dursley's house and knocked on it.

"Were you in danger?"

"No."

"Then you know I didn't lie."

"You didn't tell us everything," She replied. "You keep withholding information and I'm not some disposable thing you can use as you please —"

"That was never my intention," Dumbledore interrupted. "By the end of the year you'll know all, and you'll understand why I've acted this way."

Mel seriously doubted that but she'd been proven wrong before, she was willing to hear his side of the story.

Mr Dursley complained all the way to the door, he opened it abruptly, freezing at the sight.

"Good evening. You must be Mr Dursley. I daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for him?"

Harry rushed down the stairs and stopped at a considerable distance from his uncle. He looked torn between amusement and panic, holding a pair of trainers in one hand and a telescope in the other.

The young witch eyed Mr Dursley up and down and held back a smirk. He was wearing a reddish dressing-gown. The last time she'd been standing this close to the man he'd looked gigantic, now he was barely able to reach her nose.

"Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that we were coming," Dumbledore said happily. "However, let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times. It is a long time since my last visit, I must say, your agapanthus are flourishing. What do you think, Mel?"

"Oh, it's been years," Her voice trembled with contained laughter. "The house looks exactly as I remember, though. Is your chimney still the same after the Weasleys burst through it?"

Harry snorted at this, and this caught the old man's attention.

"Ah, good evening Harry... Excellent, excellent."

"I don't mean to be rude —" Mr Dursley spoke.

"— yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often. Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, and this must be Petunia— Albus Dumbledore, we have corresponded, of course. And this must be your son, Dudley?"

Mel looked at the boy, it had been almost two years since she'd last seen him: He was muscly big, with the body of a trained wrestler. She didn't like that he'd be able to kill a child with his bare hands and call it a sport.

"Shall we assume that you have invited us into your sitting room?

Dumbledore crossed the hall and she followed, Harry jumped the last steps and approached them.

"Aren't — aren't we leaving?" He inquired.

"Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to discuss first. And I would prefer not to do so in the open. We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer."

"You will, will you?" The Dursleys were all glaring at them.

"Yes, I shall."

He drew his wand so rapidly that Harry barely saw it; with a casual flick, the sofa zoomed forward and knocked the knees out from under all three of the Dursleys so that they collapsed upon it in a heap. Another flick of the wand and the sofa zoomed back to its original position.

"We may as well be comfortable."

"Sir," Harry started anxiously. "What happened to your — ?"

"Later, Harry. Please sit down."

The boy looked at her searching for an answer, but she had none. It was her first time seeing Dumbledore's injury as well. She walked up to the armchair and stood next to where her uncle had seated. Harry sat in front of them.

"I would assume that you were going to offer me refreshment, but the evidence so far suggests that that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness."

A third twitch of the wand, and a dusty bottle and five glasses appeared in midair. The bottle tipped and poured a generous measure of honey-coloured liquid into each of the glasses, which then floated to each person in the room.

"Madam Rosmerta's finest oak-matured mead," said Dumbledore.

Mel took her glass and inhaled the sweet scent before drinking it, hiding her grin. She was starting to feel less annoyed now that Dumbledore was torturing the Dursleys with his displays of magic.

"Well, a difficulty has arisen which I hope you will be able to solve for us. By us, I mean the Order of the Phoenix. But first of all, I must tell you, kids, that Sirius's will was discovered a week ago."

"Oh. Right..." Harry muttered.

"This is, in the main, fairly straightforward. You add a reasonable amount of gold to your account at Gringotts, and you inherit a few of Sirius's personal possessions. Emily knows this of course, but Sirius left the other half of his gold to you and your brother, Mel. As well as the rest of his belongings, which you'll be able to use once you're of age."

It was obvious Leon was going to inherit stuff from Sirius, the man was eager to provide for his new family, he wanted to be there, make sure his son would never be left to his luck.

"The slightly problematic part of the legacy —"

"His godfather's dead?" Mr Dursley interrupted. "He's dead? His godfather?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore without further explanation. "Our problem is that Sirius also left you number twelve, Grimmauld Place. To the three of you."

"He's been left a house?" Mr Dursley questioned.

"He's not done talking," Mel snapped, Mr Dursley turned purple at her statement.

"You can keep using it as headquarters," said Harry. "I don't care. You can have it, I don't really want it."

"Me neither," Mel accepted. "I don't need it, nor I think my brother will want to use it once he's old enough."

"Brother?" Mrs Dursley asked in bewilderment.

"That is generous," said Dumbledore. "We have, however, vacated the building temporarily."

"Why?"

"Well, Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct line, to the next male with the name of 'Black.' Your brother should be the one to take it, but we can't be sure if the rules apply since Emily and Sirius decided to use her last name. While Sirius' will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has been set upon the place to ensure that it cannot be owned by anyone other than a pureblood."

"I bet there has," Harry lamented.

"Quite. And if such an enchantment exists, then the ownership of the house is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius's living relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange."

Harry stood up in distress.

"No..."

"Well, obviously we would prefer that she didn't get it either. The situation is fraught with complications. We do not know whether the enchantments we ourselves have placed upon it, for example, making it Unplottable, will hold now that ownership has passed from Sirius's hands. It might be that Bellatrix will arrive on the doorstep at any moment. Naturally, we had to move out until such time as we have clarified the position."

"But how are you going to find out if we're allowed to own it?"

"Fortunately, there is a simple test."

"Will you get these ruddy things off us?" Mr Dursley yelled.

Harry looked around; all three of the Dursleys were cowering with their arms over their heads as their glasses bounced up and down on their skulls, their contents flying everywhere.

"Oh, I'm so sorry... But it would have been better manners to drink it, you know."

Mel left her glass on the coffee table and waited.

"You see," Dumbledore continued, "if you have indeed inherited the house, you have also inherited..."

There was a loud crack, and a house-elf appeared, with a snout for a nose, giant bat's ears, and enormous bloodshot eyes, crouching on the Dursleys' shag carpet and covered in grimy rags. Aunt Petunia let out a hair-raising shriek; nothing this filthy had entered her house in living memory.

"Kreacher," said Dumbledore.

"Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't! Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won't go to the brats and the Black bastard! Kreacher won't, won't, won't —"

"As you can see," said Dumbledore over the yelling, "Kreacher is showing a certain reluctance to pass into your ownership."

"I don't care," said Harry with repulsion. "I don't want him."

"Won't, won't, won't, won't —"

"You would prefer him to pass into the ownership of Bellatrix Lestrange? Bearing in mind that he has lived at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix for the past year?"

"Won't, won't, won't, won't —"

"No," Mel replied, "we need him far from them."

"Give him an order," said Dumbledore. "If he has passed into your ownership, he will have to obey. If not, then we shall have to think of some other means of keeping him from his rightful mistress."

"Won't, won't, won't, WON'T !"

"Kreacher, shut up!" Harry demanded.

It looked for a moment as though Kreacher was going to choke. He grabbed his throat, his mouth still working furiously, his eyes bulging. After a few seconds of frantic gulping, he threw himself face forward onto the carpet (Aunt Petunia whimpered) and beat the floor with his hands and feet, giving himself over to a violent, but entirely silent, tantrum.

"Well, that simplifies matters," said Dumbledore brightly. "It seems that Sirius knew what he was doing. You three are the rightful owners of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher."

"Wonderful, I own a haunted mansion," Mel sat heavily on the armrest of Dumbledore's chair.

"Do we have to keep him with us?" Harry asked.

"Not if you don't want to. If I might make a suggestion, you could send him to Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In that way, the other house-elves could keep an eye on him."

"Yeah," said Harry, "yeah, let's do that. Er — Kreacher — I want you to go to Hogwarts and work in the kitchens there with the other house-elves."

"You're not allowed to leave your duties unless we ask you otherwise," Mel added.

Kreacher, who was now lying flat on his back with his arms and legs in the air, gave Harry one upside-down look of deepest loathing and, with another loud crack, vanished.

"Good. There is also the matter of the hippogriff, Buckbeak. Hagrid has been looking after him since Sirius died, but Buckbeak is yours now, so if you would prefer to make different arrangements —"

"No," said both of them, then Harry added, "He can stay with Hagrid. I think Buckbeak would prefer that."

"Hagrid will be delighted. He was thrilled to see Buckbeak again. Incidentally, we have decided, in the interests of Buckbeak's safety, to rechristen him 'Witherwings' for the time being, though I doubt that the Ministry would ever guess he is the hippogriff they once sentenced to death. Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?"

"Erm..." Harry blushed.

"Doubtful that I would turn up?" Dumbledore smiled.

"I'll just go and — er — finish off," said Harry, picking up his telescope and trainers.

"I'll help," Mel said.

It was the first time she'd ever been in his room. The only time she'd managed to look around was when they rescued him on the Ford Anglia. It was evident this was the only place in the house Harry was allowed to exist freely: A bit messy from running around and packing everything in a hurry, but she didn't mind it at all.

"Cozy," She teased.

"Shut it," He replied, hastily picking up his stuff. "I should've known... of course he wouldn't leave me..."

"You had your reasons to doubt," She shrugged, then added. "We both do..."

Harry stopped and looked at her, but she wasn't in the mood to talk. Mel helped him pack and soon enough everything was in place, she grabbed Hedwig's cage and smiled at the creature.

"Hi there..." She looked back at him. "I'll never forget the look on your uncle's face when we arrived, he looked so frightened!"

"I'm glad I don't have to stay," He picked up his stuff and guided her out. "Because he would murder me if I did..."

Mel snorted, following him to the hall. However, Dumbledore hadn't moved.

"Professor?" Harry spoke. "I'm ready now."

"Good. Just one last thing, then... As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in a year's time —"

"No," said Mrs Dursley.

"I'm sorry?" said Dumbledore.

"No, he doesn't. He's a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn't turn eighteen until the year after next."

"Ah," He smiled, "but in the Wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen."

"Preposterous," mumbled Vernon.

"Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has returned to this country. The Wizarding community is currently in a state of open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day when I left him upon your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining about his parents' murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him as though he were your own."

Dumbledore's air changed, and although it wasn't obvious, he was once again emanating power, now more than ever he looked like a man no one should try to upset.

"You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. I'm thankful Emily agreed to move in next door all those years ago and relieved a bit of Harry's misery. The best that can be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you."

"Us — mistreat Dudders? What d'you — ?"

"The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful protection while he can still call this house 'home.' However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the protection continues until that time."

Mel would've loved to add a few insults of her own, but she knew there was no use, they would never learn, would never feel guilty for treating Harry the way they did and to be honest, Dumbledore was right, Mel and her mother were his real family.

"Well... time for us to be off," said Dumbledore, standing up. "Until we meet again."

Mel looked at them one last time without saying anything, something in her felt different, there was a bittersweet emotion that kept her from enjoying herself, and at the same time stopped her from snapping.

"Bye," said Harry shortly.

"We do not want to be encumbered by these just now," Dumbledore said, pulling out his wand and pointing it towards the boy's trunk and owl. "I shall send them to the Burrow to await us there. However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak... just in case. And now, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure."

Erick was waiting patiently against the front of her mother's car. His backpack was hanging from one shoulder, and when he saw them he quickly approached.

"All good?"

"Yes, we just wanted to chat a moment before leaving."

"Chat?" Erick raised a brow, he knew the Dursleys weren't friendly people.

"We'll explain later. C'mon, time to go."

"We're not taking the car?"

"No," said Dumbledore. "It'll be faster if we use magic. Keep your wand at the ready."

"But I thought we're not allowed to use magic outside school, sir?" Harry asked.

"If there is an attack," said Dumbledore, "I give you and Mel permission to use any counter jinx or curse that might occur to you. However, I do not think you need worry about being attacked tonight."

"Why not, sir?"

"You are with me... This will do."

He stopped at the end of the street.

"You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test," he said.

"No," said Harry. "I thought you had to be seventeen?"

"You do," said Dumbledore. "So you will need to hold on to my arm very tightly. My left, if you don't mind — as you have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at the moment."

Erick looked down briefly at his hand and paled.

"Professor, I passed my apparition test last month, I can take Mel so you don't tire yourself out."

The idea of Dumbledore 'tiring himself out' was laughable, but Mel didn't want Erick to feel stupid, and it appeared that Dumbledore was of the same mind.

"Very well, Mr Flint, if it's not much trouble..."

"It's not."

"You know where to go."

Erick offered his arm to her.

"Ready?"

"Like we have a choice," She groaned, firmly holding onto him.

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @wlwmaximoff @reverse-hxlland @hamiltonwc @omiwashere @t-rexs-world @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @21bruhs @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @dielgonacoffee @thelastpyle @cedricisnotdead

#twoidiots writing #hp fanfic #Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter xoc #WITT fic

15 notes · View notes

tomeandflickcorner · 4 years ago

Text

Falcon and Winter Soldier Episode 1- My Thoughts

Under the cut due to potential spoilers:

Sam’s plotline:

So, despite Steve’s obvious endorsement of him as his successor, Sam is feeling unworthy to take up the mantle of the new Captain America. So he donates the shield to the Smithsonian, where it is placed on exhibit. But he’s still apparently doing work for the military/air force as Falcon in stopping terrorist hijackings and the like (which leads to a pretty amazing areal action sequence.) I’m guessing the stupid Accords were put through the shredder after the events of Infinity War/Endgame? At least I hope so, because that was a mess and a half. Also, he’s now got a friend and ally, Joaquin, who is working to stop some other terrorist group called the Flag Smashers that apparently thought Thanos had the right idea, and that things were better during the five years where all those people were dusted. But Joaquin’s attempt at putting a stop to this group’s attempt at a bank heist(?) ends pretty badly, as the guy who I guess orchestrated the bank heist is apparently super strong and effortlessly kicked Joaquin’s butt. My first thought was that this guy was one of the other Winter Soldiers, as we know Bucky wasn’t the only person Hydra turned into a brainwashed pawn. But I then read something abut how they were all essentially unceremoniously killed off. If that’s true, I don’t remember that particular detail, but it’s been a while since I watched the movies. So I’m hoping they eventually explain who this tough guy is. Did the Flag Smashers manage to get their hands on their own version of the super serum, or is there another explanation? Looking forward to seeing how this will develop, as I imagine the Flag Smashers will be the main Big Bad in this series.

Meanwhile, Sam’s got some normal civilian drama to deal with, as we meet his sister and two nephews. (Can’t remember if it was stated, but was Sarah Sam’s younger sister? If so, that must be awkward since Sarah might be older than Sam now. It’s heavily implied she and the two nephews remained while Sam was among those lost in the Snap. They have a family-inherited fishing business that Sarah has been trying to keep afloat (no pun intended), and Sam was supposed to be assisting with it, but he’s been gone for the past five years (through no fault of his own). Now, the family fishing business is having some financial issues, and they could even lose the house if they can’t make ends meet. Sam has an idea on how to save the business and the house by starting up a boat charter business on the side. But they have to get a loan from the bank in order to make it happen. And even though the banker is clearly a fan of Sam (or rather his Falcon identity), he can’t give them the loan they need, because.... some explanation involving how Sam didn’t have any form of income for the past five years. Which, again, wasn’t his fault because he literally didn’t exist during those five years. Not like that matters to the bank, though, as there were a lot of people who were wiped out of existence and then came back, so the banks have their hands full with those cases. Here, we get some social commentary on how difficult it is for Black-owned businesses to get an advantage. Rather bold of the MCU series to go there. I’m impressed. There’s also even more social commentary on how military veterans can get the shaft. Because that’s exactly what Sam is. He served in the air force for a time. And he still has some government contracts and whatnot. Plus, he was one of the Avengers and literally helped save the world on more than one occasion. But despite all that, the government doesn’t properly compensate him financially. Meaning he gets all these people thanking him for being a hero, and even posing with him for selfies. But that’s pretty much all the thanks he gets. When he needs help getting back to everyday civilian stuff, he’s more or less on his own. Again, rather bold of the MCU to address that.

And of course, we get the final scene, where it’s revealed that the American government has decided to select a new Captain America. Of course, you get the feeling that they just selected him to be a mascot for the public to rally around rather than an actual hero (which is kinda what they were using Steve for in the beginning.) Even so, I do agree with people who see this as rather scummy. Because when Sam turned over the Shield to the Smithsonian, they told him that he was doing the right thing. And now they just take the Shield and hand it over to some random White guy? Even if you ignore the whole racial aspect, it still is practically spitting on Steve’s legacy, considering Sam was his chosen successor, not this guy. Of course, this new guy is apparently John Walker, who did appear in the comics as someone who briefly held the mantle of Captain America. But it’s too soon to tell how closely the MCU John Walker will resemble his comic book counterpart. That being said, I fully expect the series to lead up to Sam realizing he does deserve to be the next Captain America and take back the title.

Bucky’s Plotline:

Interestingly, even though Bucky and Sam share equal billing with this show, Bucky’s plotline was more of a side note in this first episode. Not that it wasn’t important to his characterization, of course. Since the events of Endgame, he’s received a full pardon from the government for the things he’d done as Hydra’s brainwashed assassin and is now trying to adjust to living the life of an ordinary man. He’s even going to therapy! Which is a really good thing, as goodness knows he needs it. But I don’t much care for his therapist. She seems like a pretty crappy therapist, to be honest. Personally, I think Bucky should find a different one, but I think it was mentioned this therapy was mandated as part of his government-issued pardon. So maybe he doesn't get a say in who his therapist is. Anyway, Bucky is still haunted by the things he was forced to do as the Winter Soldier. And he’s trying to make amends for the things he did during that time. Because even though none of that was his fault, he still remembers everything and feels guilty because of it. In this episode, we see him forging a friendship with this old man. At first, I was slightly confused on who this old man was. I briefly wondered if this was supposed to be one of the other Howling Commandos who Steve and Bucky fought alongside in WW2. But as the episode progresses, it’s revealed that the old man was the father of a young man Bucky killed as the Winter Soldier. And Bucky has been trying to figure out how he can make amends to the father, who is clearly haunted by the loss of his son. Man, that is really dark. Not to mention messed up. How does one make up for something like this? Especially since the dead son wasn’t even the Hydra-appointed target. He had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. (And yes, the fact that the dead son and grieving father are Asian makes it slightly more uncomfortable due to the recent events down in Georgia. Though I don’t think we can blame the show creators for that. They could hardly go back and refilm everything with different actors in those roles. Not without pushing the show back who knows how long.) Anyway, I’m curious to see how Bucky continues on from here, and if he can find the peace of mind he deserves. Oh, also, he does go on this impromptu date with a woman who works at a sushi restaurant. That was rather cute, but also a bit awkward since Bucky is still a bit closed off, for understandable reasons. And this woman clearly doesn’t know who he is and how much he went through. She doesn’t even know about his metal arm. Still, props to Bucky for trying to adjust and move forward. (And I literally laughed out loud when he tried to stop the beckoning cat statue from moving). On a side note, the flashback/nightmare he experiences about the night he killed the old man’s son was both chilling and well done. Especially with the inclusion of the Winter Soldier theme that is playing throughout the scene. The fact that you also can hear it when Bucky is listening to the old man talking about his son was a really great touch. Anyway, I just really want to see Bucky get the hug he deserves.

#falcon and winter soldier #falcon and winter solider series

7 notes · View notes

cherryfi · 5 years ago

Text

Blame it on the Bokbunja

Requested: Anon asks: haii!!! could you please make ateez san agent au? the concept is up to youuu thank youu

Plot: The mission objective was simple - take Choi San down by any means necessary. What you didn't expect was how it was to get him alone. You also didn't expect him to be this endearing.

A/N: I got so much inspiration for this wow, I didn’t expect it to be so long, I hope you like it anon! I hope the rest of you like it too aha!

TW: Alcohol drinking, drugging, mentions of violence

Word count: 9462

The mission’s objective was short and simple: Eliminate Choi San– make his empire crumble from the top, down. It would be like cutting the head off a snake, the body wouldn’t be able to sustain itself.

What was not simple, however, would be to actually make that happen.

Choi San was not only one of the most dangerous men in the city, He controlled at least half of the country’s black market and most of its organised crime could be traced back to his syndicate, Ateez. San had inherited this legacy from his father, Jisung, who had ruled the mafia with an iron fist.

Choi Jisung had been an orphan who grew up on the streets and who, together with seven other ‘friends’ built themselves one of the most heavily controlled and untouchable gangs the country had seen. He was highly intelligent and had an impeccable eye for detail. Nothing got past him and no one was able to double-cross him without ending up dead.

Contrary to how he ran his gang, Jisung’s family was his sanctuary and he always pandered to their every need – they wanted for nothing. This could be seen by the countless evidence photos showing family holidays; where he doted on his wife and only son, San.

According to the evidence file, San had been trained from birth to take over the leadership position from his father. And along with the syndicate’s seven other sons they were taught the skills necessary for running a ruthless and successful gang.

Taking over the ‘family’, unfortunately, came earlier than was anticipated for a 16-year-old San when his parents were murdered by a group of upstarts hoping to take over their territory. Jisung had been betrayed by one of his soldiers (Lee Sungjoo, who was paid off for information about Jisung’s whereabouts), who was quickly ‘done away with’ by the other men in the syndeo.

The Lee family were offered a rare show of kindness by San and Sungjoo’s son, Taeyong, remained a close friend. Taeyong went on to run an equally dangerous gang NCT, although both groups deferred to each other.

San’s first order of business upon receiving his crown was to obliterate the would-be rivals, making sure that any other competition knew that he would not take kindly to any threat towards his territory or family. His reputation had quickly been set and in no time, he was known across the country as being even more ruthless than his father had been.

Whether it was his training from a young age, the need to prove to his doubters that he was as good as his father, or being fuelled by pure revenge – no one could tell but, what they did know, was that Choi San was not a man to be messed with.

And even so – he was fiercely untouchable. Despite being able to hold his own in hand-to-hand combat and knowing his weaponry, San was never alone. The other members, having been friends since childhood were all protective of each other.

So, how were you supposed to take a man like that down?

It wasn’t going to be an easy feat and that’s why they’d called you in. You were a top operative but, you were only ever behind the scenes. Part of the ‘clean-up’ crew, your job was to go in after the field operatives had done their jobs and tie up any loose ends but, every field assassin that had been sent in after San had ended up dead.

It was time for a new strategy, and they hoped that sending in a fresh face with all new ideas and a whole different skill set would be what they needed. There was also a hope that it would flush out the mole that was sending San their mission information. After all, there was no way that he could foil all their plans without inside help.

How you fit into that, you weren’t sure. Technically, clean-up was less qualified than field crew, you were all combat trained, but clean-up didn’t use it as often nor did they go undercover as often but; somehow, they expected it to work.

It wasn’t working.

You’d gone over every possible point of entry into Ateez and none were viable – you’d eventually end up dead or discovered in all of them. They’d all been tried by other operatives and had failed.

Not that the corporation cared. They were putting pressure on you to succeed.

Thankfully, after 2 months of trying to find your way in, an opportunity dropped itself in your lap – as if by magic. And who were you to turn down a good opportunity?

What does a mafioso do when he’s not being a mafioso? He runs a ‘legitimate’ business.

And San was the silent owner of an exclusive bar: ‘The Noir Lounge’.

The Noir lounge was a swanky speak-easy that was a member’s only bar. People only knew about it ‘by word of mouth’ and so, it’s customers and clientele were often very important and high-class, according to the case file even the city mayor and a few city officials were members.

Although it was a bar, the lounge also had a selection of private rooms and a sex club. So, it was important that members remained unknown to the general public. Some of these men and women were married, after all.

It surprised you that they’d be advertising a position for a new bartender but, you weren’t about to let it pass you by.

You applied.

The application process was unique, it constituted of an extensive background check and multiple interviews but, that was to be expected.

None of those interviews had been with San.

It was a Wednesday morning when you got the call.

“Hello Ms Y/L/N? Your application to join the staff at the Noir lounge has been successful. Congratulations. Your start is immediate and so we will expect to see you tonight at 7pm before the bar opens to collect your uniform and go over housekeeping. Please bring with you comfortable, black, smart shoes. You’ve been sent an email with the address. I look forward to meeting you tonight. Enjoy the rest of your day.” That was it. The voice on the other end was soft-spoken but deep and masculine. He also didn’t give you his name.

He was highly professional and curt – giving you no opportunity to respond, you barely got out a ‘hi’ before he spoke.

But that didn’t matter because you got the job. A chill ran down your back both from excitement and terror.

Now it began. You would have to fit into the bar like any other employee – naïve to what was going on behind the scenes but, also interesting enough that you would somehow be allowed to enter the inner circle .

From the outside, the bar looked like any industrial building and you would never be able to suspect that it was teeming with activity underneath. If you didn’t have intel telling you where it was you would’ve gotten lost.

You arrived at 6:45 – 15 minutes before you were required to be there and buzzed on the door 3 times slowly, just as you’d been told to do. It opened and you were wordlessly led down into the lounge.

It was beautiful and crafted in a style that you would’ve expected of Choi San, classy, expensive but, simple.

“Ah Y/N. You’re early which is a good sign. I’m Park Seonghwa, I spoke to you on the phone, it’s good to finally meet you. I’ll be your manager while you’re working with us.” You took his outstretched hand and shook it firmly, smiling.

“Hi Mr Park, Thanks for the opportunity, I look forward to working here.” Of course, you knew who Park Seonghwa was.

On the surface he appeared to normal. Seonghwa was tall, handsome and friendly. It would be easy to fall for him but, he wasn’t a man to trifled with. Seonghwa was Ateez’s resident doctor, if any of the members of the syndicate were injured, they went to him to be fixed up but, that was only the half of it. If there was a poison, best believe that Seonghwa had experimented with it and he was often called in when Ateez needed someone silently ‘taken care off’.

“Ha, that sounds so formal, just call me Seonghwa. We’ll be spending enough time together working that I’ll get to know all about you. We’ll be best friends, just you watch. It’s better that we start off casually.”

‘I’ll get to know all about you.’- I certainly hope not.

You smile shyly – “Okay.”

“Seonghwa, stop flirting with the staff, even if they are gorgeous.” You almost let yourself swoon but remember who you’re talking to -Kim Hongjoong.

Seonghwa was low-key in his work and despite his extensive knowledge of poisons – he rarely got his hands dirty. Hongjoong, on the other hand, was covered in it.

Hongjoong was the ‘answers man’. You’d been disgusted almost to the point of physical sickness when you’d seen his case file. Hongjoong was the king of sadists and incredibly thorough. When Ateez needed answers and had particularly difficult adversaries, they sent them to Hongjoong. The things that man could do with a scouring pad and some hydrogen peroxide were terrifying and he took great pride in that.

But here he was, smiling at you with an almost innocent curiosity, no sign of the sick bastard that he really was.

“I’m Hongjoong. We just had a meeting here so the rest should be filing out soon and then you can open the bar. There’s another bartender working with you tonight but, it won’t be too busy. It’s never too busy on a Wednesday.” He smiled and shook your hand.

I wonder how many lives those hands have taken.

You try not to shudder at the thought.

Hongjoong was right – things were slow that night, which was good because it gave you he opportunity to get used to mixing complicated drinks and taking orders.

Your patrons ranged from well-known politicians to celebrities to other mafia members that were known to your organisation. But no San.

As a matter of fact, over the next 2 months, the only member you saw was Seonghwa and he was often distant.

The promise of casual conversations and time spent together was quickly forgotten and Seonghwa was business as usual. You only saw him at opening and closing time – he was always in a private room at the back of the club – probably with the other members but, they had their own bartender and so, you never saw any of them.

This didn’t bode well for you. It had been 4 months since you’d been given this mission and you were no closer to completion, the bosses weren’t happy to hear this.

Your work phone rang; and it sent a shudder down your spine – you knew you were in for it now.

“Status report?” Well hello to you too…

“No change. The target is yet to be seen. I’ve acquired new work but, no further advancements have been made.” You could hear the disapproving noises from the other line.

“This is unfavourable, we would have expected some status update from you other than a bartending job Y/N. Are you sure you’re the right person for this job?” Now, you were angry, first they leave you to take care of this alone and then they question your methods.

It was true that you were stumped as to your next move but, they didn’t know that. They had no place to criticise you, given how many operatives they’d already lost.

“Am I the right person? You tell me. Given the fact that I was threatened with forced resignation if I didn’t take this job, I can assure you that I wasn’t the one that made the decision to be here. The target is dangerous. I need to play the slow game. Rome wasn’t built in a day and given the amount of lives that have been lost trying to destroy them, I’d expect a little more support.” The line goes silent.

“We’ll call you for another status report in 3 months we expect progress.” And just like that, the line was dead. If you didn’t tread carefully – you would be too.

It was another month before anything happened. It was like you’d completed some probation period because suddenly, you were being told that you would be a personal bartender.

“Y/N. Just the girl I wanted to see.” Seonghwa’s wide smile greeted from the other side of the bar where you stood, restocking it. You turned to look at him.

“Hey Seonghwa, what’s up?” You returned the friendly smile.

“I have a new position for you. We’re having a separate event in one of the other private lounges and I figured you could use the experience of being a private bartender. It’s a little different to being behind the general bar; it’s more intimate and the people you’ll be serving will expect a lot more of you but, no pressure. I’ll be there if you need some guidance.” He leans on the table, his sleeves rolled up and you catch a little glimpse of a tattoo.

“Can I ask what the special event is?” You really have no clue what it could be.

“A birthday, that’s all I’ll tell you now. Don’t look so scared, you’ll be fine.” He reaches across the bar and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

You’re scared for another reason. The realisation hits you like a bucket of ice water as your mind runs through all their files.

It was San’s birthday.

You were finally going to meet San and for some reason, it felt too soon.

They were different to how you’d expected them to be, their case files and photos had not prepared you for how normal they appeared. They were friendly and jovial.

Even Jongho, who was known to be quite cold was actually friendly, if not a little awkward.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Your thoughts became completely scattered as you came face to face with your target.

He smirked at you and laughed a little your shock, his dimples on full display.

“Uh, sorry, I was spaced-out. What can I get you?” Play dumb Y/N – you’re not supposed to know this man.

“Yeah, I could tell, it’s not busy in here so I guess you’ve got a lot of time on your hands. I’ll have a French 75.” You balk. A what?!

“Let me guess, you’ve never made one of those? It’s not a regular one to get ordered despite it being a classic. Get a champagne flute.” You do as order and automatically go to put a cube of ice.

“No, no ice. It’s served straight-up. Pour 2oz Champagne, ½ oz of lemon juice, 1 oz gin – the Santamania is the best for this one and normally it’s 2 dashes sugar syrup but, I’ve got a sweet-tooth so give me 4. Rim the glass with some sugar and you’ve got yourself a classic.” He finishes with a wink and you follow his direction, Finishing it off with a lemon slice.

You slide it across to him on a napkin and wait expectantly.

San is not the kind of man you want to disappoint.

I hope I make a good impression.

“That’s a good 75. You know it’s supposedly named after a WW1 gun. It was the Howitzer 75mm, the French and Americans used it all throughout the war. Apparently, the cocktail’s got a kick just like the gun. By the way, if it’s in a slim glass, like the flute, never put ice with it. Ruins the experience. A flute glass is used when you want to keep the texture of the drink, you want it to keep the bubbles. That’s part of the experience.” His eyes glint boyishly; and you smile as he explains more information about the cocktails.

In another life you might have found yourself falling for a man like him, he was oddly cute.

“You know, it’s not ordered regularly but, it’s a classic cocktail, perfect for bringing in the new year or celebrating another one. I’m San by the way.” He smiles for real this time, dimples on full blast, and you can’t help but, smile back. He shakes your hand.

Damn, he was charming.

“I didn’t think I’d meet a cocktail nerd.” He barks out a laugh.

“You have to be when you run a bar.” You put on your most shocked face.

“You own this place?” He nods.

“It was mean wasn’t it? Not telling you that I’m the owner but, Seonghwa talks about you so much, I had to see what was so special about you.”

“Well, did you find what you were looking for?” You answer him, a little flirty, hoping that that would open him up to you.

He only laughs.

“I’m not sure yet but, we’ll see.”

Your next status report goes a lot better.

“Update Y/N.”

“I’m almost part of the inner circle. A rival gang offered me money to rat on them and I told my manager so, they had no excuse but to tell me what was going on. The members have been conducting business around me now so, it’s a sign of good things to come.” The line is silent again but, you’re not in fear of the response. They wanted progress, they got it.

“And what about the target?” You sigh.

“I can’t get him alone. None of the members will leave him alone, he’s always surrounded.” It was true be it Hongjoong, or Wooyoung, San was always with someone. If San was around, you could easily find Wooyoung somewhere nearby.

Besides the only times you’d been within killing distance of San was during the meetings, where you would serve drinks. You served drinks ,and they talked.

“What’s your next plan of action?” You sigh again.

“The only thing I haven’t tried: overt flirting.”

“Okay but be careful.” The line went dead again.

You had to put your plan into action.

The only time you got to see San on his own was during select night when he would randomly enter the bar. He’d spend the whole by your bar, just taking in the scenery and occasionally talking to the patrons but, rarely did he speak to you.

To top it all off, Wooyoung or Mingi were always in earshot of you.

How am I going to pull this off?

Your mission’s completion was so close you could taste it. All you had to do now was make San want to get you alone and you’d have him but, you had to tread lightly. It was around this point in the mission that a lot of operatives had lost their lives – they got cocky or crumbled under the pressure of the corporation’s demands.

You wouldn��t end up like that.

Your chance came 2 months later.

“She was cute.” It was a Friday night, but it was at the start of service, so the bar was still quiet. A few of the bar’s members had already arrived; tired and weary from their work weeks (or from the debts they owed to San).

Like the city mayor. He was in the bar and had been downing straight vodka for the last half hour but, you knew why.

He’d just walked out of a meeting with San and Hongjoong. Hongjoong had a wild grin on his face and San was fuming. The mayor’s re-election had been an odd one. Odd because nobody expected him to win so, when he clinched it, eyebrows were raised but, no one said anything.

San had bought him the election and now he owed San.

You almost felt bad for him but, he deserved it and now wasn’t the time anyway – San was finally alone.

Well, he was, a pretty girl in a blue, velvet dress swayed up to him, taking the bar stool next to him. He made eye-contact with you and you quickly busied yourself; shining glasses. He paid her no mind.

He didn’t even respond to her flirtations. She eventually huffed and walked off.

“Yeah, she was. See that guy over there? That’s Son Hyun-woo. You don’t need to know about who he is but, that girl, is a gift from him. He’s trying to keep me sweet Y/N. I’m not interested. I’m not an easy man to buy.” His stare is intense, and you find yourself struggling to look away.

He breaks out into a slow smile.

“What time are you working tomorrow Y/N?” You don’t really know where he’s going with this.

“I’m in at 7 – same time as always.” You shrug, keeping your tone light and San looks around thoughtfully.

“You’re a good bartender but, I want you to learn some of the more unique drinks. Come in at 5. Don’t worry it’ll be paid. I’m giving you a one on one cocktail class.” He flashes his dimples at you, and you agree.

Time to put your plan in action.

You head into the bar at 5 to find San already there.

“Y/N! You ready for your masterclass?” He clasps his hands together and rolls up his sleeves, you sit across from him – curious about the array of glasses and alcohols.

One thing was clear – San didn’t respond well to obvious flirtations so; your plan would need tweaking. Maybe you could charm him with your intelligence?

“Get behind here Y/N. You can’t make drinks from that side.”

“Alright. I’m here.” He smiles at you again.

“The first one we’re going to make is a clover club. This one predates the prohibition era in America. It was popular in Philadelphia; where it was created. It’s a classy, aromatic drink; reportedly drunk by literary experts and high-class men. That’s why it’s served in a cocktail or martini glass – so you can take in the aroma before you sip it.” You watch him expertly mix the drink.

“ ½ oz Gin, ¾ oz lemon juice, ¼ oz raspberry syrup or grenadine and one egg white. We make it thick by shaking the ingredients up in a shaker with ice but, serve it dry. Rim the glass with sugar and some frozen raspberries. Go on try it.” He nods encouragingly and you take a sip, he pours himself a glass as well and you look at him curiously.

“What? Shouldn’t I be able to savour the fruits of my labour?” You roll your eyes and he winks at you.

He’s right – you smell the gin and the raspberry syrup. It’s sweet and tart and surprisingly its thickness doesn’t take away from its enjoyability.

He takes you through other cocktails, making you try each one: La Paloma, the Penicillin, The Martinez, the Corpse reviver – you try them all and eventually you’re a little tipsy. He seems completely unaffected by the alcohol.

Bad move.

San looks at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I made this one myself. Have you ever heard of Bokbunja?” You shake your head, no, and try to steady yourself; giggling when San stands close to you from behind, whispering in your ear.

“It’s a wine that we make from Korean Blackberries. It’s made in the same way as wine but, it has a higher alcohol content. Its acidity makes it perfect for seafood.” You sigh when he wraps his arms around your waist, his breath fans across your ear and jaw. It smells like the last cocktail.

“It’s also perfect with fresh mint, I like to add it with sour mix and elderflower as well. You know why it’s so popular in Korea? Apparently, it’s an aphrodisiac. I don’t know about that but, I know it makes you quite hot under the collar. If you plan on getting fucked later in the night – Bokbunja is the way to go. Now that I think about it, maybe it is an aphrodisiac. Try it and tell me.” San’s lips ghost across the shell of your ear and he pulls away to guide your hands.

You haven’t even sipped it yet and you’re already hot under the collar.

“Take a sip. Do you like that Y/N? Does it make you feel hot?” You moan quietly.

You finally come to your senses when you feel his lips on your neck.

This wasn’t part of the plan – you were supposed to seduce him not the other way around.

“San, I don’t think this is a good idea but, thank you for the lesson.” You pull away from him and he only laughs. You put your hands on his chest. His grey, silk shirt feels good under your palms.

He obviously has expensive taste.

“Maybe you’re right but, you can’t say you don’t want it, want me.” He’s right and suddenly, you don’t think you can carry out the rest of your mission. If you keep feeling this way, you might end up compromised.

You almost fell under his spell and if you didn’t get a grip soon, you’d fail your mission.

Failure wasn’t an option.

But San didn’t make it easy.

Somehow, he’d only gotten worse. Before, you couldn’t get him alone but now? You couldn’t keep him away. Every time you came to work San was there.

He was sweet, he was kind, he was flirtatious.

And those damn dimples.

“Status report, Y/N.” God, where do I begin?

“In the last month, things have advanced a lot. San, I mean the target and I have spent more time together.” There is a pleased sound on the other line.

“This is good. You should complete your mission soon then I assume?” You cringe.

“There is a slight problem – the target has been pushing his sexual advances heavily. I fear I won’t be able to complete my mission without giving in to them.” There’s a huff on the line and you sigh.

“Do you know what ‘by any means necessary’ means, Y/N? We gave you a mission to complete. If that means giving into the target, then do it. Don’t be shy now – these things are often necessary and expected of our field operatives. Make yourself pretty, visit a spa if you must. But, your mission must be completed within the next 2 days or we’re pulling the plug on it and you.”

“2 days?! How am I supposed to do this in 2 days?” You’re beside yourself in anger and bewilderment.

“By any means necessary, Y/N.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“We don’t make threats, it’s a warning. Y/N if he wants you then it should be easy to strike him off. We expect you to deliver in 2 days – we will be in touch.” The line goes dead as your heart drops to your feet.

You have no choice, but to do as told.

As usual, your shift doesn’t start until 7 so, you spend your day at the spa.

You get everything, from a full body wax to a shiatzu, to a manicure – all on the corporation’s dime but, none of the treatments are enough to ease your nerves.

You’d expect that after a day of hot stone massages and saunas, you’d expect all your kinks and sore muscles to be worked out but, instead you feel like a taut rubber band; ready to snap.

It’s now or never.

You wear a new set of lingerie under your uniform for later that night. It’s lacy and rubs against your skin airily and a little rough; the colour complements your skin perfectly. It should make you feel sexy but, you feel filthy instead.

You feel like a whore.

Your hands shake as you place the gun under your clothes and it’s never felt heavier. When you get to work you put it in your bag and in your locker instead, the feeling of the metal on your body making you sick.

As if the universe wants to play a sick joke on you, all the members are unexpectedly at the bar. They’re finishing up on their meeting as you step in and they all greet you once you step behind the bar.

“How are you Y/N? You’re looking a little green.” Jongho studies you but, drops it quickly when you tell him that you’re just not feeling well.

As a matter of fact – all the members were studying you, aware that you weren’t your usual self but, San told them all to step off.

“You’re so used to people acting suspicious that you’ll give this poor girl the 3rd degree? She’s just a little unwell, right Y/N? I think something’s going around, the other bartender called in sick today.” You can only nod, scared that your voice will betray you.

“You know what’s good for that gin and tonic. Here drink up.” He makes you a single with ice and you down it quickly, trying to cover how much your hands shake.

Can you really kill Choi San?

The answer is no, no you can’t.

Your shift goes by uneventfully and you leave work, disappointed.

The ball of tension in your stomach has grown tighter and you’re thankful for your day off but, it’s also your deadline day.

You only had one day to finish your job and you’d failed – you were screwed.

Yeosang calls you in the morning.

“Y/N? This is Yeosang, San would like to see you at his home this morning, it’s to discuss your job. A car will be by your home in 20 minutes.” You nearly collapsed; San wanted you to visit him?

“Yes, thank you. I’ll be ready.” You said your goodbyes and Yeosang hung up.

Were you getting fired?

You didn’t have time to ruminate on it – you quickly got ready for this impromptu meeting placing a small blade in your shoe.

It wasn’t what you would have planned but, you had to improvise.

The car journey was deathly silent. Wooyoung picked you up and after a short hello, he didn’t say anything else.

He knows. He has to know.

Wooyoung kept stealing glances at you in his rear-view mirror but, wouldn’t say anything, his expression was blank. There must have been a reason why he’d been the one to pick you up, given how close he was to San.

“We’re here Y/N. Just head up to the front door, the butler’s waiting for you.” Wooyoung turns to you and holds your stare for longer than expected. It makes you squirm under his gaze, while he searches your eyes. Your body’s tense with anxiety.

After a moment of you sitting frozen, he laughs shortly.

“They’re waiting for you inside Y/N.” You get out quickly, taking your bag with you.

You’d decided to pack a gun in the end as well, hopeful that you’d be able to end it all quickly, it felt heavy in your bag.

There was a lot more to Choi San than you’d read in his case file. Behind all the bloodshed and cruelty of his world, was a charming man that just wanted to live a normal life.

Could you really blame him for how he ended up, given that this was the only life he’d ever known?

You shake your head at the thought. A criminal was a criminal, regardless of how they got there.

You had a mission to complete, you steeled yourself as you walked up to the front door. Wooyoung drove away once you were at the top of the stairs.

San’s home was completely different to the bar. Where the Noir Lounge was cool and chic with its black interior and classy upholstery, San’s house was light and airy: it felt like a home. Even from the outside, the large, gated state-home looked inviting.

With its lush gardens and gravel driveway, even the wall surrounding the home was unintimidating. You could imagine San entertaining friends and gusts in his home or relaxing in his front room. You could almost imagine yourself right there beside him.

As you walked to the front door, it opened.

They really are waiting for me.

“Miss Y/N, Mr Choi is waiting for you in the dining room. I will bring you to him now. My name is Jiwon, I’m the personal butler for this home and I hope you’ll be enjoying your stay with us.” He guides you through the door, walking you across the marble floor after asking you to remove your shoes and giving you a pair of house slippers.

Jiwon is efficient and he moves fast. As soon as your slippers are on, he guides you to the dining room giving you little time to get look at the house (or recover your knife) but, what you took in was gorgeous. The doorway led to a large staircase on your right but, Jiwon led you down back, and as promised into the dining room.

It was beautiful.

You breathe deeply to ease your panic. It doesn’t work.

The dining room was an extension of the kitchen but made completely of glass, the sun rays shone into it and you could see another lush garden outside. In the centre stood a large mahogany dining table big enough to sit at least 20 people. But for now, it only sat one.

San.

“Mr Choi, your guest is here.” He turned to look at you, a dazzling smile on his lips, his eyes practically disappearing. Your heart sped up just looking at him.

He was dressed casually today, in joggers and a t shirt but, that didn’t take away from how beautiful he was.

“Thank you Jiwon. Y/N. Come have a seat by me. Let’s talk.” He pats the seat next to him and you take it, a shaky breath leaving your body. You were going to be alone with him.

Silently, you hoped that Jiwon wouldn’t leave.

“I will be by shortly, with today’s brunch, we have a selection of light foods, such as smoked salmon and cream-cheese bruschetta and some Scandinavian pastries for you to try miss Y/N as well some palette cleansers.” Jiwon smiles at you directly and you return it. In the little time you’ve seen him, you liked him.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“The chef is incredible Y/N, you won’t be disappointed. Thank you Jiwon, I’m giving you the rest of the day off so please, go and enjoy yourself.” You panic a little.

You’re definitely going to be alone with Choi San. Your training kicks into overdrive as you try to casually look for all possible escape routes in case things went south.

It was now or never – you’d never have another opportunity to finish your mission.

“Now Y/N. I’m really sorry to call you here on your day off but, don’t worry, you’ll be paid. I wanted to discuss how things are going with your work. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

A proposition? Your ears perked up. What kind of proposition could he have for you and what did it have to do with the job you already had? Whatever it was, you were sure that it wouldn’t bode well for you. You’d have to put your mission on hold even further, much to your own chagrin and worse - you’d have to report it back to your superiors. Would they give you the benefit of the doubt? You could only hope that you’d be able to convince them that this new job would be a good opportunity to not only take Ateez down but, to take down their associates as well. As long as you spun this roadblock into an opportunity, you’d be able to come out of this on the other side but, whether or not it was unscathed was left to be seen. Up to this point, you hadn’t actually gotten involved in the seedy underbelly of the ateez syndicate - after all you were just a bartender and aside from San’s constant flirtations and being privy to some of the more intimate details of their work, you hadn’t really been involved in dealings. Hell, the members aside from Seonghwa and occasionally Hongjoong hadn’t had more than light conversation with you. This would be a perfect opportunity.

Your musings were quickly interrupted when Jiwon came back in, followed by the rest of the staff. There were 2 other staff members, one of whom you assumed was the chef: given his uniform. “Brunch is served. We have a selection of charcuterie and sandwiches as well as the palette cleansers, as promised. I recommend the gooseberries over the hazelnut coffee for this particular selection but, I’ve put both here as I know how you enjoy your caffeine, San. Please also enjoy, the selection of cakes.” The chef bows to signal his end and San dismisses the staff with a quick smile.

“ I’m sure that Jiwon’s told you, you have the weekend off. I’ll clear the table myself. Don’t worry. Enjoy the rest of your weekend. I’ll see you all Monday morning. ”

Now you’re really scared.

The whole weekend? This must have been big. You watch them file out of the room, a sense of heavy dread filling you as they go. “Now that I have you all to myself; let’s talk business.” He rubs his hands together, smirking at you.

“As you know, you’ve been working with me for a little while and I’m impressed with your work. But, I’m also quite fond of you Y/N; which makes me privy to a little bias, don’t you think?” He smiles a little and pours himself a cup of coffee. You watch the liquid fill the glass mug, too scared to meet his eyes. The liquid swirls disturbed by the movement and you watch as it settles.

San blows on the mug and takes a tentative sip. “I, uh guess.” you say dumbly. San Laughs. “That was rhetorical Y/N. Please eat something. I want you relaxed. You’re as stiff as a board.” You try to laugh it off when he reaches out to touch your shoulder, but the sound is weak and pathetic.

“Sorry, I’m just not used to brunch dates.” You could kill yourself. You cringe as soon as the words leave your mouth. Dear Lord, please let the ground open up and swallow me whole! Date?! Why did you say that Y/N?

“Is this a date Y/N?” He’s back to teasing you again, his tone mischievous and you know there’s no way he’s going to back down now.

You swallow your pride. “I uh, I didn’t mean to say it like that.” You cringe and turn your attention to the Danish pastries, trying to distract yourself. “Because I would like that very much. Actually, you beat me to the punch. That’s what I wanted to talk about.” You look at him in shock. You lean forward curiously and San places a bottle of bokbunja on the table in between you.

You glance between it and him, a little perplexed.

“You remember what happened when you and I had this drink don’t you? And since then, we’ve been dancing around each other, playing a very dangerous game. I don’t like games Y/N, I like honesty. And honestly, I want you and I’m no psychic but, I know you want me too.” He leans into you and rests his hand under your chin: his thumb resting on your lips.

You don’t pull away, instead your lips part instinctively. Your eyes are still downcast, looking at the pastry in your hands. “Look at me, when I’m talking to you Y/N. Let me see those beautiful eyes. You can’t hide from me anymore.” You look up at him through your lashes, his eyes are intense. They’re ablaze with passion and fondness.

He pulls away from you and your breath stutters. He was right. You wanted him but, a mission was a mission. It needed to be fulfilled.

Yet, somehow, you’re starting to think that it’s not all that important anymore.

“Now, as much as I want you, I also know how dangerous it is to mix business and pleasure. So, I have a decision for you to make. Would you like to be mine?” You gasp.

He remains unfazed and carries on. Your eyes bug out.

“If you say no that’s okay. We’ll carry on as normal and you won’t have to bother about any awkwardness between us, I’m a professional man after all. But, if you say yes, you’ll have to quit. I won’t be able to keep my hands off you at work once I’ve had a taste of you and I won’t want to. I also won’t be able to hold my tongue if one of those disgusting men flirt with you, I can barely restrain myself as it is. If only you knew how vile they were. But I promise I’ll help you find work somewhere else if you’d like. I also promise to cherish you for everything you’re worth, I’ll take such good care of you.” Your heart swells at his words. The look of seriousness in his eyes has you breathless.

“San can I, can I think about this?” Your eyes gaze at him, pleading for him to understand how hard that decision was to make.

Even harder, given that you’re supposed assassinate him, right Y/N? This wasn’t fair. Life just wasn’t fair.

Why couldn’t he be like every other high-stakes criminal? A pig who wanted nothing more than to fatten themselves up off the back of everyone else’s work. Why couldn’t he be 2 dimensional? Black and white? Just pure evil? Why was Choi San so god damned loveable?

His casefile spoke of a deeply troubled and highly dangerous man who had no issue with disposing of anyone. People were pawns to be used and boy was he good at using them. But the man before you was nothing like that. He was fiercely loyal and passionate. Driven, hardworking, and kind.

San was everything you’d ever wanted in a man and then some and it was your job to kill him. You’d been compromised. There was no way that you’d be able to do harm to him now but, there was also no way that you could go into corporate HQ empty handed.

Your mission statement had been clear: failure meant being burned. Which meant definite death for you. If you could stall San, it would give you the chance to run. You’d disappear into the wind probably somewhere where they couldn’t find you. You’d leave him a warning and disappear for good.

Yeah, you could do that… Except- San’s eyes darkened. His face set in determination “No. No Y/N , you don’t get time to think about it. This is a onetime offer. I’m not going to let you keep running from this." He held your wrists in his hands shaking them lightly; prompting you to look directly into his eyes.

"I’m putting everything that I am out there, I’m offering you my heart Y/N. I don’t think I can sit around and wait while you decide whether or not I’m worth it.” This was new. San looked so vulnerable as he held your hands in his.

You couldn’t bring yourself to tell him no. Screw your mission - somehow, you’d make it work.

Eventually, you’d have to tell him that you were a plant but, that could wait.

“Okay San, I quit. I’m all yours.” Your voice comes out in a hoarse whisper. But he hears you. San pulls you forward, wrapping his arms around you and trapping you with a kiss. You taste the hint of coffee left in his lips and the sugar from your pastry: sweet and bitter, just like the situation you were in now.

Your lips move against each other slowly, San takes his time with you, running his hands over your body; caressing every inch that his hands touch.

When San pulls back, he looks like a dream. His dimpled smile stretches across his face, eyes almost disappearing, his hair tousled from you running your hands through it. His lips are spit-slicked and swollen and the prettiest shade of cherry red.

You feel like a teenager experiencing their first kiss all over again, except this time it’s not disappointing. You’re giddy and you can feel your face heating up.

“I’m really happy that you’re here with me Y/N. We should celebrate. How about a drink?” He holds up the bottle of Bokbunja and shakes it.

“Yeah, let’s celebrate.” You sigh, the gravity of your decision finally settling in on you. There was no way you were going to be able to get through this. If you ran now, the corporation would find you and if they didn’t you were certain that San would.

“Let me get us some wine glasses.” He pats your thigh and gets up, taking the bottle of wine with him. Being alone with your thoughts for that short time was driving you crazy.

How were you going to get out of the situation you’d put yourself in? You’d been trained for almost every possible situation but, there was no training for what to do when you fell for your target.

You’re pulled out of your stupor when San returns with the 2 glasses of wine, placing 1 in front of you.

You try to smile convincingly but, it felt more like a grimace but, you still try to play your role. “What should we toast to?”

San thinks for a moment.

“We should toast to something cheesy like, ‘new beginnings’ or to ‘us’.” He laughs at how cheesy it sounds and your heart swells at his sudden shyness

“Okay, to us it is. To us.” You both raise your glasses together, clinking them and then you drink.

You chug the wine, hoping that a little liquid courage would help you relax.

“Woah slow down there Y/N.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, it’s a really nice wine.” You smile sheepishly and rapidly blink – your vision going a little hazy. You try to hide how nervous you are as you pour another glass for yourself.

San pulls his chair back from the table and sits across from you. You try to reach out for him, but your arm feels heavy.

San just watches you, his expression distant.

“I’m glad you liked the wine, I added something a little different to yours though. Can you feel it Y/N? Seonghwa said you would, he said it was fast acting. It really looks like it’s working. I’ll have to thank him.” You look at him quizzically and try to shake off the brain fog, but you can’t. Your mind is hazier than ever.

You didn’t drink that much, what did Seonghwa have to do with the wine?

It clicks in your mind and you watch as San’s sombre expression. Your mind runs back to your fact files. Seonghwa was a chemicals expert. He played around with poisons.

You try to convey your alarm, but your head and eyes are too heavy.

“whaid you doo tme?” Inside your head, you’re panicking but, outside you can’t move, you’re slowly losing consciousness.

“I didn’t do anything to you Y/N. You did this to yourself.” You try to fight back as San picks you up bridal style but, your body isn’t working with you. Mounting panic gives way to artificial indifference and your vision narrows down to a pinhead. Everything goes black.

You came to, slowly. The first thing you noticed was that you were sprawled out on your back and that your arms were aching. Trying to stretch them out, you realise with a start that they’re bound to bed posts. Your body slips on black satin sheets as you try to sit up. “Keep calm Y/N, keep calm.” The panic is setting in, freezing your body and you know if you let it take you over that logic will leave.

“Yeah Y/N, stay calm. I’m sure this will all blow over.” In taking stock of your current, bound state, you didn’t even realise that San was watching you. He regards you silently but, coldly. His eyes holding none of the previous love and softness.

You’ve been had. You realised it too late. And now you’re going to die. But you don’t want to die.

Your breath comes in short puffs, quickly increasing and your head is beginning to spin. The feeling of pins and needles travels across your fingertips. Tears start to prick at your eyes.

San quickly gets up from his seat in the middle of the room and sits next to you on the bed. “Calm down Y/N, I need you to breathe slowly. Especially because I need you to be coherent for what I’m going to say." You try to do as your told and flinch when San reaches towards your face and wipes away your tears.

"I don’t like games Y/N but, that doesn’t mean that I’m not good at playing them. I always win. You’ve been playing a slow game with me and I’m really not happy about it.” He leans in close and you try to back away from him, but the sheets aren’t on your side, you’re still groggy.

“I know who you work for. I’ve always known.” Your heart rate picks up at that. You’d had a feeling that he would’ve found out but, not that he had always known.

“Now, before you go getting yourself into a panic. I’m not going to kill you. No, you could be of some use to me. I’m going to ask you some questions honey and if I think you’re lying, I might have to send you to Hongjoong and we both know what will happen if I do. But, if you’re good and you tell me the truth, I might just let you off the hook.” San’s hand grips your inner thigh and then he pulls back; getting up from beside you and pulling his chair to the end of the bed.

You can only watch him, your mind running through all the possible ways you could get away from him. Your mind comes up short.

“The corporation put another hit out on me, yeah? It doesn’t surprise me but, what does is why they would send a lower level spy so, why you? And remember princess honesty is the only thing that will keep you safe.” He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms and looks at you expectantly.

“They couldn’t figure out why every assassin they sent was getting killed so they figured you must have insider info on who they were sending. Lower level means less clearance so they sent me in because it would be hush hush. Less people to get permission from, meant less people involved, lower chance of failure.” He nods and furrows his brows.

“So, was the aim to still kill me?” “Yes.” You’re surprised to see the flash of hurt pass by his features but, it surprises you even more that it affected you so much.

Killing someone was one thing, telling them was another.

“When.” He watches you carefully, daring you to lie to him. “My deadline was today.” He sighs, nodding.

“What stopped you?" You can’t answer him. Because I fell in love, was such a cliché response and it would’ve sounded 2 dimensional given the situation you were in now.

San was clearly hurt so most likely wouldn’t believe anything that sappy but, it was true.

Even after being mildly poisoned and tied up your feelings didn’t waiver and even before this, you’d been planning on how to leave him unscathed.

"You’re taking too long Y/N, don’t li-” “I fell in love with you.” You blurt it out before you can second guess it. He looks at with a blank expression, his lips pressed tightly together.

He doesn’t believe you.

“You wanted honesty so here it is. I started doubting my ability to carry out the mission as soon as you guys started letting me into your inner circle. I didn’t get that close to your business, but I got close to you guys; I have so much in common with Yunho and Jongho showed me all his tech stuff and I had lunch with Hongjoong and his mum. His mother, San. The closer I got to all of you the more I didn’t want to carry this out. I was meant to do it yesterday but, I just couldn’t. I can’t hurt you. ” A fresh wave of tears flow from your eyes.

San gets up, wordlessly and walks away, shocking you. It’s over.

“Don’t look so panicked.” He sits by you, tissues in in hand and wipes your tears. “I’m not going anywhere but, I don’t think you want tears drying on your face.” He’s smiles at you tenderly.

“Untie me San.” The smile drops off his face.

“Why would I do that? Thank you for your honesty but, that doesn’t let you off the hook just yet. Do you have any idea who, exactly, you’re working for Y/N? Because I do. Your boss has been living on my dime for years, he was even on my father’s books.”

“For what exactly?” You’re shocked but, not exactly sure what this has to do with you.

“Let’s just say that your boss has a few extra-curricular activities that would put a damper on his career goals. He wants to run for government one day and there’s no way he can do it if the info I have on him gets out.” The cogs are turning in your head, hearing what he’s saying.

“You’re telling me, that Kim Jinyoung, the same Kim Jinyoung who’s been strait-laced his whole career, who’s been responsible for removing some of the worst careered criminals off the streets, who has a doting wife and 4 kids; is in the back pocket of your gang? That’s not possible San and I’m not playing your game. Just hurry up and kill me.” Oof, you don’t know where that came from, probably the frustration of being tied up and realising that you’ve been had the entire time.

But think about it, Y/N, if San can be good despite what his casefile says then, Jinyoung has every possibility of being vile.

San gets up and reaches for a manila file in the bedside table.

“I thought you’d say that. I normally have these files stored away but, I bought this one just for you. Let me show you what he’s been up to. Here’s one of him doing cocaine. Here’s one of him drinking with Taeyong at one of Taeyong’s parties; I’m sure you know who Taeyong is. And, this one’s my favourite: him being spanked by a girl at Mingi’s strip club. So, tell me again that I’m lying.” You’re left speechless, unsure of what to say and having no clue where to even begin.

San pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs again. You only look at him in bewilderment.

“Look, I’m not going to kill you Y/N. If I’d planned on doing it, I would have killed you already.” He pulls the key from his trousers and undoes the cuffs around your wrists. You rub them gingerly and flex your fingers – trying to get the feeling back into them.

He unties your feet as well and sits back in his chair.

“I’m also not letting you leave. I’ve had a mole in the corporation for a while, I’ve known this was coming. But I wasn’t expecting to get feelings for you. The plan was to play with you and Jinyoung, make him think he’d finally gotten the one-up on me and once he’d gotten comfortable or you thought you were close enough, I was going to send you to him in pieces.” Your body runs cold and you start to shake.

San had planned on mutilating you?

“Well what stopped you?” You want to look defiant; you want to appear strong but, the question comes out in pathetic whisper.

“You were only doing your job. As were all of the assassins. They were given choices. Stay or die. 4 stayed and they work for Ateez now and 1 was disposed of. You’re the only one I’ve fallen for and trust me when I say that I love you. My proposition still stands Y/N, although in a different way. I want you by my side but, obviously that means quitting your job – your real job. If not, I’ll let you go; I can’t hurt you and I won’t let anyone else, not even your boss.” He rubs your cheek with his thumb lovingly.

You lean forward, closing the distance and kiss him slowly.

When you pull back, his cheeks are dusted with pink but, he still looks unsure.

“Choi San, I quit.”

#ateez imagines #ateez #choi san #choi san imagines #choi san scenarios #ateez san imagines #ateez mafia au #kpop mafia au #ateez scenarios #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios

360 notes · View notes

greatshell-rider · 3 years ago

Text

SKELETAL ESCAPADES: CHAPTER FIVE

[Chapter Index] [Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter]

Atomic returned a day later. By then Tibia had CS2 mostly patched up, its skeleton rebuilt from the bones of other chipmunks that only functioned sometimes under CS2’s single soul at best, and it was even awake—mostly—when the banescale walked into the den with snow from that night’s blizzard melting off her scales. She was breathing heavily, steam curling off her body, and her gaze had gone straight to CS2 lying in its cubby. Her wings had slumped then, but the relief evaporated as Tibia and Lamp pounced on her and demanded answers to their many, many questions.

Sleep was a new thing for CS2 as a necro-animation, experienced when it slipped into a sort of halfway-place between the living world and the Dark, a grayness. Tibia said it slept to try and recover from the heavy damage inflicted upon both its skeleton and its soul—how a soul could be hurt by getting stepped on, CS2 didn’t know and decided it didn’t care. Apparently it had been hurt and no matter how many pieces of it were replaced by Tibia’s clever claws, it needed rest. Which was fine to CS2. It preferred sleep over consciousness, it had found. It had spent most of its day sleeping, slipping into it whenever its bones began to hurt from incompleteness, but now, now it forced itself to stay fully awake. To listen. And watch.

“We thought you were dead!” Tibia yelled.

“Maybe not dead,” Lamp amended. “Maybe hurt in the forest, but—”

“I had to dispose of the body,” Atomic said, and both the fae and the guardian shut up.

“. . . So you won,” Lamp said at last, uncertainly.

“I did.” Atomic walked over to the wall and peered up, but wasn’t tall enough to reach eye-level with CS2’s perch. “I didn’t know where you went, I’m sorry,” she murmured to it. Her porcupine spines flexed in agitation. “I don’t think I’m the one who did it, but I never noticed . . . Are you alright? CS2?”

She looked askance at Tibia, who quickly jumped in, “CS2’s still there, just. Can’t really talk anymore. N-not even through our thoughts. It can still hear you, though, I think. I’m trying to repair it.”

Atomic stared up at the necro-animation. When she got no response—it was taking every bit of magic it could still retain to concentrate on staying awake, much less twitch a claw—she let out an irritated exhale. Her breath smelled of smoke.

She stepped back from the wall and let her tail lash. “I’m glad you two are safe,” she said to Tibia and Lamp, gazing traveling over the bandage around the guardian’s neck and his wing bound up in a mud-and-stick cast against his side. “I swear this will not happen again,” she growled. “You stay here, with the eggs, and I’ll hunt down every last one of those bast—”

“You,” Tibia said. “Are not. Going. Anywhere.”

Icy silence stilled the scene.

Atomic lowered her head. “These are my own affairs,” she began.

“We just got you back!” Lamp objected. “We thought you were dead!”

“Or seriously injured, at least,” Tibia acknowledged. “You think you can just immediately take off the moment you arrive?”

“You’re not facing this alone,” Lamp informed her.

Atomic bristled. “This is all my fault, it’s my problem to deal with. It’s—it’s banescale affairs,” she sputtered. “My family, the old clan, it’s nothing you two should be a part of.”

Lamp smacked his mud cast with his tail and didn’t notice Tibia’s irritated glance. “I’m certainly a part of it, now.”

“We all are,” Tibia affirmed.

That made Atomic glance at CS2, and it recognized the guilt that flashed through her eyes. Tibia looked at it the same way, though for a different reason.

But she forced her gaze away. “You can’t stop me,” she said firmly. “You’re in no condition to do so. So this is goodbye, as agreed by our deal—”

Lamp made a retching sound and Tibia started yelling again. Atomic yelled back. CS2’s attention started to slip and it almost faded into the gray until Atomic actually began stomping toward the entrance tunnel, ignoring Tibia and Lamp’s arguments.

“I’ll bring you two food every other day,” she said over her shoulder. “Don’t follow.”

“You really never listen, do you,” Tibia said at last, bitterly. “Not to your friends. Not even if it could get them hurt.”

Atomic stopped. “Neither will you,” she replied, just barely above a whisper. “I can’t let this sit still.”

“Then tell us why.” Lamp’s voice cracked on the last word, sounding close to tears. “You mentioned your family. Was that banescale a relative?”

Atomic said nothing.

“We’ll listen,” Tibia said. “And then you can go. Leave, forever, whatever you want. But tell us first, Atomic. Why can’t this sit? Why—” she clenched one of Lamp’s claws in her own— “why did they attack my mate?”

Again, Atomic’s gaze flicked to CS2. It didn’t do anything, but all the fight seeped out of the banescale. She walked reluctantly back into the den and stopped at her nest. She stared at it, tail lashing, then turned away and began to pace instead.

“I’ve never told anyone this,” she growled, avoiding gazes. “My mother . . . she never needed to swear me to secrecy. Whenever she told me about our family clan, I already knew. We thought we’d left that old life behind, but there was always a chance it’d come back to us anyway, and I’ve always worried. I never thought it would actually happen, but that worry has always been there. And now it has happened, and I don’t—” she stopped, apparently realizing she’d started rambling past what she meant to say, and CS2 thought she might bolt, run out and never come back.

She didn’t. She stood with every muscle tensed in the middle of the den, talons clenching the earth, porcupine spines stiff. “I don’t. Know what to do.” The confession seemed to take something from her, leaving her almost sagging. “I know what I’m supposed to do,” she said quietly, “and I even know what I want, but I don’t know if I can make it happen.” She looked up, meeting Tibia and Lamp’s gazes tiredly, the exhaustion and soreness from the past two days finally showing in her body and voice. Her voice roughened. “Not alone.”

“It’s a good thing you’re not, then,” Lamp said firmly.

“Tell us,” Tibia told her. “Tell us everything you can.”

“We will listen.”

Atomic looked away sharply. “I know,” she said gruffly, porcupine spines twitching. “I’m grateful for it.” Her jaw opened and shut, as if chewing on more words, then she forced herself to sit in the nest and took a deep breath. And began.

She wasn’t a good storyteller. She would often get frustrated at herself, or when Tibia interrupted with a question, but Lamp kept her at it. CS2’s focus wandered, and it did slip into sleep for a bit, simply unable to keep its exhausted mind present in its bones. But by the end it figured it had gotten the gist of it all.

A inheritance-based banescale clan in the Ashfall Waste with a legacy almost as old as their deity.

The chieftain’s mate cast out for having a nest with another dragon outside the clan.

Atomic born in the Windswept Plateau and growing up always traveling just as her mother and her, until her mother passed away and then it was just Atomic alone.

Then the run-in with the pack of mirrors. And Tibia and Lamp.

CS2 knew the rest. Now this.

“My mother’s mate must be dead,” Atomic said quietly. “So the chieftain’s position is open to all his heirs. Which includes me. Whoever’s striving to take the throne must be seeking out all other competition to put down.” She tapped one of her talons impatiently and her eyes traveled all over the den restlessly. “Recruit, pay off, kill, whatever. I’m a loose end. With my mother dead, no one knows who I’ve grown up to be, what my ambitions are.”

“So the heir came here to kill you?” Lamp asked, eyes huge.

She shook her head. “That wasn’t the heir, whoever they are,” she scoffed. “They wouldn’t lower themself to come after me personally. I’ll have to come to them.”

“What?”

She looked at them, puzzled by their surprise. “To state my official position.” And at their confused stares, added, “No one can take the throne until it’s confirmed it’s theirs alone. All disputes have to be settled before succession.”

Lamp shook his head in disbelief and Tibia asked, “You know all that, without having lived there?”

“My mother taught me everything an heir should know when I was young,” Atomic said wryly. “I think she meant to vie for the throne once I came of age, challenge her mate and set me in my ‘rightful’ place.”

“And that failed?”

She shrugged. “Never tried. Years passed and she just . . . stopped talking about it. Was content with our current life. They were good days. I was happy and she . . .” she trailed off.

Lamp shook his head again. “You have to go back, though? Now that the . . . messenger is . . . gone, isn’t that a clear enough response? If you don’t show up, they’ll know you don’t care.” He nodded, liking his own logic.

“They’ll take that death as a sign that I do mean to contend for the throne,” Atomic growled. “An act of war, practically. The fact that it was only an initial encounter without my knowing succession is happening is the only thing keeping it from being my official intention already.”

Lamp winced. “And you can’t just, send a scroll back?”

“That would be seen as cowardice at best, or an attempt at subterfuge at worst, permitting them to attack me openly. Considering I’ve already killed one of theirs, it’s likely it would immediately fall into the latter category.”

“This wasn’t an open attack, huh,” Tibia murmured. “Though they broke Lamp’s wing?”

“Showing they’re serious, posturing.”

Lamp grimaced. “Posturing.”

Atomic’s eyes narrowed. “That’s why I have to go. If I ignore them, their threats will get more serious. Blatant. If I don’t prove I don’t want the throne, they won’t just come after me, they’ll try and wipe out all the support I have. Meaning you.” She looked at the eggs and both parents curled in closer.

“There’s something else you’re not telling us,” Tibia said, watching Atomic closely.

The banescale hesitated, then reluctantly admitted, “If I’m not careful, when I go to announce my intentions, and they take me as a coward, or as not being strong enough, they’ll kill me out of disdain. Just to prove how strong they are.”

Lamp made a sound of disgust.

Atomic lifted her wings in another shrug. “I’m a loose end. A factor they can’t predict. It’s simply safer to have me killed.”

Tibia’s voice was flat. “You’re thinking they’ll try to assassinate you before you even get there.”

She nodded reluctantly. “It’s what’s easiest.”

“This is horrible,” Lamp burst out. “I don’t know of any clan in Wind that’s like this. All the fighting, and the—the—” He gestured helplessly to Atomic.

“I know that,” the banescale spat, porcupine spines standing out. “I’ve only ever lived in Wind, the same as you, Lamp.”

“I wasn’t trying to suggest—”

“Well you did,” she snapped. “My eyes are the same green. I’m Wind and clanless, not of their clan.”

“You’re right,” Tibia said, cutting off whatever apology Lamp tried to begin. “But not about one thing. Well, two.”

Atomic looked at her skeptically. “Yeah?”

Tibia lifted her chin. “You’re not clanless. And I’m coming with you.”

#Skeletal Escapades #fr #flight rising #fr lore stories #my writing #lookit all these idiots who love each other too much awww

1 note · View note

cobra-diamond · 5 years ago

Text

How to Develop Avatar’s Season 4 - Part 3

1 The Pillars of Season 4

In order to move discussions about future Avatar past mere speculations about what the creators were thinking, or whether or not going beyond Aang’s journey makes thematic sense, you have to start coming up with answers for what a 4th season would have been about: through which characters’ eyes do we primarily view the story? What is the overarching conflict? Who, or what is the primary threat? What are the new goals for the original cast? What challenges will they face? What changes will they go through? And so on.

Fortunately, the three Fire Nation comics give us insight into what the creators had in mind for a 4th season. That being said, the comics are not Season 4. A Season 4 would not have had a Zuko that is so brain dead that he would forget his responsibilities and make a deal with Azula to give her the crown so he could live with his “real” (i.e. biological) family in some small town. A Season 4 would not have retconned Ursa so that she was exclusively a hapless victim of the royal family and not directly responsible for the killing of Fire Lord Azulon (this is not what the show implied, nor what the creators and prior official content stated about Ursa). A Season 4 would not have had an Azula whose multiple layers of inner turmoil vanish off-screen so she could become a “weightless, free” anarcho-guerilla inside her own country (see: Smoke and Shadow), among other problems.

Nevertheless, the comics contain the critical elements necessary for devising a comprehensive post-finale story. These story elements are fundamental; they originate from the internal logic of the show and the loose threads left behind. However, since the comics exist and will likely never be retconned or remade, we may never get the “true” Season 4 that is revealed by these fundamental story elements. In that sense, these story elements could be thought of as the “Remnants of Season 4”, but that isn’t a very positive way of looking at things. It suggests we fans can’t use our own imaginations to fill in the gaps and come up with better answers than what the market forces affecting Avatar allows. Fans should be encouraged to use their imaginations, so I call these story remnants “The Pillars of Season 4” because they provide the foundation for building a compelling, consistent continuation of Avatar past the ending in the finale.

1.1 Pillar #1: Resentment & Opposition to Zuko

In Zuko’s coronation speech at the end of the show, he said he would restore the honor of the Fire Nation, that the road ahead would be challenging, that one hundred years of war had left the world scarred and divided, but with the help of the Avatar, they could get it back on the right path and begin a new era of love and peace.

A new era of love and peace. Rebuilding. Healing. That is exactly what the world needs. The Water Tribe needs love and peace. The Earth Kingdom needs love and peace. Rebuilding the Air Nomads needs love and peace, but the Fire Nation… Does not. Remember that the Fire Nation was not militarily dominated at the end of the show, nor was Zuko part of a wider internal movement to overthrow the current leadership and undo the past one hundred years. We did observe a small community suffering due to the war (the fishing village on the river), but this is not shown to be widespread; we are shown far more clean Fire Nation cities with substantial industrial activity in the background. The Fire Nation was not decimated by a century of invasion, nor was it brutalized by an external (or internal) foe that requires rebuilding from. It doesn’t need to heal. It is not scarred. It is not divided (more than any other stable country, that is).

Zuko took power while the Fire Nation was at the height of its power and prestige and he believes it needs to be taken down several notches, that its honor questioned and its feats during the war impugned and undone. How many Fire Nationals are going to accept that view, especially from someone who was so recently deemed a failure and traitor by their previous Fire Lord? How much of the nobility, government and military is going to be skeptical of his intentions, or even downright furious at his ascendance? How many people in the Fire Nation are going to view him as a usurper, as a traitor, as an unworthy recipient of the crown? What kind of actions is Zuko going to take that will inflame these parts of the populace so much that they actively resist him? Notably, this is what happens in The Promise.

One could take the stance that Zuko becoming Fire Lord was enough to set things right, that the whole Fire Nation simply rolled over and became obedient, but an instantly reformed Fire Nation has no potential for conflict and drama and thus no potential for a story. It also conflicts with official descriptions of the present culture of the Fire Nation, which Zuko is very much not a representative of as established by the fact that he became disillusioned with it. Therefore, the cause of Season 4’s central conflict is this: Zuko’s idealism must collide with the reality that the Fire Nation is not ready for the demilitarization, disgrace and emphasis on morality that it deserves.

What are some of the potential points of conflict between Zuko and his country? They could be: dismantling the colonies, mishandling the relocation of the colonials to the homeland, using vast amounts of Fire Nation resources to rebuild the world, mishandling the rapid demilitarization, being viewed as a traitor serving the interests of the world versus the Fire Nation, being seen as trying to destroy valuable parts of Fire Nation culture, and so on.

At the same time, members of the old regime—the bureaucracy that manages the country—might flee their posts, leading to momentary disarray and less qualified replacements; they might drain the royal coffers and armories and hide it to undermine Zuko; they might clandestinely divert funds, sabotage his efforts, or even embed themselves in his new cabinet to sabotage him from within.

In short, things are not going right for Zuko. They can’t be if you want a compelling central conflict.

In the words of Uncle Iroh, fire is the element of power. The people of the Fire Nation have desire and will and the energy and drive to achieve what they want. From that statement alone, it can be ascertained how that type of culture can have an aggressive, ambitious, ruthless streak buried within that must be controlled less it boil over into disaster (Sozin’s desire for conquest could be argued to have stemmed from this culture). As a result, the Fire Nation should be full of people who view Zuko’s rise as an unjust coup by their nation’s enemies, his actions as the willful destruction of the Fire Nation’s legacy and his lack of heirs as an opportunity to make sure Zuko’s policies end with him, which is exactly what happens in The Promise: multiple, constant assignation attempts on Zuko as a result of his destruction of the colonies.

So the 1st pillar of Season 4 requires Zuko to face opposition from his country over his policies surrounding the end of the Hundred Year War and his goal to change Fire Nation culture. The next pillar concerns the royal family.

1.2 Pillar #2: The Anemic State of the Royal family

The royal family is both a hereditary monarchy and one in which the leaders must be seen as worthy of their role. Although it was never shown in the series, Bryke have stated that they believe Fire Lords are expected to “prove their worth” and can have their authority and hereditary line challenged through Agni Kais. This is partly why they have to be powerful firebenders and proficient fighters. At the same time, the Fire Sages also play some role in the legitimacy of the Fire Lord, though this role is not clear. Perhaps it is like the Shogun/Emperor relationship from ancient Japan, where the Shogun had the “blessing” of the Emperor, but it was really the Shogun who ran the country while the Emperor acted as a figurehead and cultural leader. At any rate, Zuko inherited the throne after defeating and/or incapacitating Azula and the Fire Sages in the capital crown him the new Fire Lord...

… But it’s only him. He has no other family ready to continue his legacy. Are he and Mai married? … No? Are they having kids any time soon? Not for several years at best. At the same time, his father is in prison and his bending has been removed, making him both ineligible for the crown and a threat to Zuko’s plans. Ozai is simply out of the question. Making matters worse, Zuko’s mother is gone, Iroh is a childless old man and his sister is both in a form of prison and, seemingly, mentally unfit to rule in addition to being a hostile member of the old regime. Maybe Iroh could be considered as shoring up the royal blood line, but he has no children and he might not last that long.

This “anemic” state of the royal family could allow the ambitious-types in the country to smell blood for a regime change. Those who hate Zuko could view this as an opportunity to off him and the rest of the royal family. Maybe they want a Fire Lord who will do what they want or be easily manipulated. Maybe they want a new royal family with a larger network of existing family. Maybe they want to get rid of the royal family altogether and replace it with something else, such as a return to the Fire Islands (think of the feudal domains of ancient Japan or the numerous kingdoms of ancient China).

But that’s what the ambitious, disgruntled members of the country think. For the rest of the country, the anemic, divided and dysfunctional state of the royal family sends three troubling messages: 1) that their country’s leadership is unstable and that it might be better to get a change over with now lest it be catastrophic later; 2) that the most powerful people in their country (the royal family) disagree with what’s best for the country when they are supposed to know what is best; and 3) that the current royal family might be permanently divided.

And Zuko sees this. In the beginning of The Search, he comments how his father being in prison, his sister in an institution and his mother being missing for years sends a bleak message about himself, his country and family. If the royal family is supposed to be exactly that, a family, as Zuko laments, then is the fact that he went to war with his own family (to do what was right) sending the message to his people that they should go to war amongst their own family (their fellow citizens) to do what they believe is right: either overthrow the Fire Lord, or stop him from being overthrown? That’s kindling for a civil war. Notably, that Earth Kingdom academic’s explanation about a nation being a large family is based on Confucian thought.

Second to this, Zuko also feels depressed that he doesn’t have a real family. Yes, he has the Gaang. Yes, he has Iroh. Yes, he has Mai, but the fact that he can’t sit down for dinner with a mother, father and sister like a normal family eats at his soul every night and day as portrayed in The Promise and The Search. It’s something he wants, something he craves and it is a constant, depressing reminder of how messed up his family is. Gaining friends through the Gang and wearing the crown hasn’t fixed that.

But we know Zuko can never have those things, at least not for a long time. His father is a menace, his sister is an enemy and lunatic, and Iroh is just one uncle who, while like a real father to him, is a reminder of how dysfunctional his family is. His mother is also gone… Or, does she have to be?

She might very well be alive. If Zuko finds her, he can have a mother again and not only that, he could use it as an example of the royal family being on the path to recovery. She isn’t his enemy. There’s no bad blood between them. If he could find her and bring her back, then he would feel less alone and the royal family wouldn’t be as empty. It would just be his mother, but at least it’s something, and this is exactly why Zuko decides to put his duties on hold and look for his mom in The Search.

The 2nd pillar of Season 4 must be this: the currently anemic, dysfunctional state of the royal family must have wider implications for the success of Zuko’s rule and the Fire Nation at large.

The fact that Ozai is in prison with his bending removed is not important because he is a villain who deserves it, but because he is the father of the Fire Lord and that’s how bad things are between him and his son. The fact that Azula is in an asylum is not important because she is a villain who deserves it, but because that’s how messed up the princess is. The fact that Ursa is missing is not important because Zuko misses her, but because the mother of the prince and princess is not supposed to be missing.

This bridges into the next pillar of the season: the search for Ursa must represent a step toward rebuilding the royal family.

1.3 Pillar #3: Finding Ursa is a Step Toward Repairing the Royal Family

When the show ended, the number one question captivating fans was, “What happened to Zuko’s mom?!?” The creators even teased us with it in Korra. Certainly it was a worthwhile question to answer and the creators thought so too, having stated in interviews that they storyboarded the reunion scene, but ultimately gave it the axe because they felt it needed more time to be properly told.

This was the right move. Having the reunion scene be a 30 second blurb at the very end serves no greater purpose than to give Zuko a happy moment. Such a shallow handling of the subject would also have had other unfortunate implications. First, it would have trivialized the freshly revealed issues that Zuko’s sister has with their mother, which were depicted as being of much greater psychological importance to her than to him, and secondly, most critically, it would have erased the enormous value that the search for Zuko’s mom has for continuing the show past the finale. This is a key point: the search for Zuko’s (and Azula’s) mom is the key to bridging the gap between the end of the show and the start of its continuation. This is because fans are already interested in the subject of Ursa and it was left unresolved; it was a blatant loose thread that was compelling enough to answer. Putting the search for Zuko’s mom at the start (or close to) of a 4th season would allow fans a way of immediately buying into a continuation of the series.

However, it is a waste of time if the search for Ursa is merely an adventure for the Gaang and Zuko. The events that occur and its outcome have to tie into the existing problems surrounding the royal family (see: Pillar #2) and must contain conflict, uncertainty and contribute to the overall story that Season 4 aims to tell. This means the search for Ursa cannot be simple and cannot merely be about finding Ursa. It must hit multiple turtle ducks with one loaf of bread. So how can this be done? How can the search for Ursa be both full of conflict and uncertainty, contribute to the overall story and convey the theme of rebuilding the royal family? By applying the 4th pillar: the Fire Siblings must work together to find their mom. This means the return of Azula.

1.4 Pillar #4: The Fire Siblings Work Together to Find Their Mom

There were two loose threads at the end of the show. The first was well recognized and obvious: what happened to Zuko’s mom? The second was less universally recognized, but equally perplexing: what is the ultimate fate of Azula?

In addition to being a top villain, Azula underwent the most rapid and unexpected change of any character in the franchise, creating questions about her motivations and personality where none had previously existed, but yielding very few answers in return. What should have been a triumphant battle between her and Zuko—obvious evil versus obvious good; a bully getting squashed by their victim—turned into a somber event backed by sad violins. So was the fade-to-black at the end of the Agni Kai the last we should ever see of her?

It turns out that Azula is critically important to the layout of a 4th season. There are three reasons for this. First, she is Ursa’s daughter. Since Ursa is Azula’s mom, Ursa is going to implicitly care about what her daughter thinks and feels, regardless of our (the viewer’s) feelings about her villainy. At the same time, Zuko is going to care about what his mother thinks and feels, which means we are going to care about what Ursa thinks and feels about Azula. If Zuko’s mother is expressing concern, regret, longing, etc. over issues relating to Azula, then Zuko is going to take his mother’s feelings to heart because that’s the kind of person he is; he isn’t going to dismiss his mother’s feelings out of hand because Azula makes him and others uncomfortable. Consider this: is it really Avatar’s place to talk about what it’s like to have family members in prison who were rightfully convicted? Because that is a dead-end topic full of heartache and distress with no hopeful message or inspiring resolution.

As a result, when Zuko decides to find his mother, the topic of Azula is going to arise immediately because he knows his mother is going to care about her. This makes the search for Ursa the most logical re-entry point for Azula. This is a key point: just as the search for Zuko’s mom is the bridge between the end of the show and its continuation, the search for Ursa is the bridge for bringing back Azula. We care about Zuko. We care about the Gaang. We also care about Ursa, but we don’t necessarily care about Azula. Tying her into the search for Zuko’s mom softens the shock of her return.

But why bring Azula back at all? Aren’t we done with her? Can’t she just be left as a “messy” part of life so the Gaang and Zuko can go on new adventures and meet new people?

Azula’s ultimate outcome is relevant both for the sake of Ursa and for the future of the royal family. Keep in mind that Zuko is both the supreme leader of his country and default leader of his family (which is in shambles). He is responsible for a great many things greater than himself and his feelings. It is his job to ponder questions like, “Should I execute Azula, or keep her alive?” Or, “If I keep her alive, what is ultimately done with her?” Or, “Would annihilating her ability to be a credible authority in the country (i.e. remove her bending) be a mistake further down the road?” And even, “Are those actions in line with the kind of person I am?” Zuko can’t shy away from these questions and neither can we.

Whether or not Azula can be part of a functional, peaceful royal family with Zuko is not what’s important. The fact that Azula is Ursa’s daughter is what’s important and unassailable. This, however, is minor compared to the next two reasons for Azula’s involvement in Season 4.

The second reason Azula is critical to a 4th season is because she is a young member of the royal family who can firebend. That fact alone makes her supremely relevant to the success of Zuko’s legacy. Will the country view her as a natural, more desirable alternative to Zuko? Will they disregard Zuko’s attempts to make her ineligible to rule? Will they view Azula as hope they can have her as a leader some day (and undo Zuko’s policies)?

Not only would the opposition have their eyes on Azula, but will Zuko hope that Azula can be integrated into his rule in a timely fashion, thereby strengthening both his position and the royal family’s?

You could take the viewpoint that nothing bad will happen in the decades it takes for Zuko to raise a family, but Zuko’s enemies might act much sooner (and they have to since the goal is to create a gripping story). From Zuko’s perspective of looking at the big picture, it might be regrettable in the long term if Azula’s potential to help stabilize the country and royal family is left unfulfilled.

The third reason is because Azula is a well-regarded, powerful and highly accomplished member of the old regime. Not only is she an alternative to Zuko by family, but also by her reputation and abilities; the forces in the country that oppose Zuko might want to use her to neutralize him; they might also hold her in greater esteem than Zuko and view her as the rightful Fire Lord.

We know it is not this simple, though. Azula is not operating from a clean slate. She suffered a psychotic episode so bad that even Zuko and Katara were able to take pity on her. Instead of putting her in prison and having Aang remove her bending, Zuko had her incarcerated in straight jackets and padded cells in relative comfort. She also just embarrassed herself in front of the whole capital and, by extension, the leadership of the country, by banishing all of her servants and guards for no good reason (seriously, where did the Dai Lee go??) Maybe the events that transpired in the finale shifted the public’s view of Azula from being a “terrifying yet inspirational” leader to being weak-willed and too unstable to be Fire Lord despite her accomplishments. Maybe she has lost the respect and confidence of the people who would have otherwise sought her leadership.

At any rate, whoever gets a hold of Azula has a powerful weapon at their disposal. If the opposition acquires Azula, they will be made substantially more powerful and legitimate. On the other hand, if Zuko can get Azula on his side, his position will be that much more strengthened; not only will there be someone to guard his legacy—if, if, IF he can get her on his side—but her allegiance might be what it takes to win over those who hate him; if Azula of all people can accept Zuko’s rule then doesn’t that mean the rest of the old regime can?

So Azula’s ultimate outcome is not a heartfelt reunion with her mother. It is not a moral redemption story. It is not resolving her myriad of emotional problems for her own sake. Azula’s ultimate outcome is to contribute to the leadership of the Fire Nation, because that is what members of the royal family are supposed to do and she is a member of the royal family. This requires her to play a key role in resolving the massive internal conflict facing the Fire Nation as a result of Zuko’s policies. By having Zuko and Azula work together to find their mother, it introduces the idea that it is possible for the Fire Siblings to work together, that the defeated members of the old regime can get over their differences with the new one, and acts as a mirror to the 1st pillar about Zuko facing resentment and opposition from his own people (who better to represent that than Azula?).

But this role for Azula cannot be forced upon her. In any good story, characters must make choices and the reasons for those choices must be sufficiently developed. In order for Azula to take a side in the conflict, it must come as the result of believable inner-conflict and soul-searching on her part, or else it will just be a shallow rehashing of something she already is (a villain) or an unearned, half-baked means of getting her on the side of Zuko. Essentially, since Azula was already a villain and soundly defeated in the show, her new role has to be more complex and different from what we’ve already seen. For this to occur, Azula has to learn for herself the depth of animosity toward Zuko that is brewing in the Fire Nation and the consequences of it should it fester out of control.

But Azula has been in an asylum all this time. She’s been chi-blocked, restrained, manhandled on a daily basis and altogether detached from the outside world. She needs to get experience with what’s going on in the Fire Nation and learn it firsthand, not be told it (as smart as she is, she is not all-knowing). This yields the 5th pillar of the 4th season: Azula must live amongst her people.

1.5 Pillar #5: Azula Runs Away and Lives Amongst Her People

Azula is not brought back in Season 4 because she deserves a happy ending, or because she is misunderstood, or because she is cool or for anything close to that. She is brought back because she is necessary for resolving the season’s conflict and for conveying its themes. In order for this role to be believable (i.e. feel like it is earned by the character and not by the plot), it must be given adequate time to develop.

To contribute to the overarching conflict, Azula must first develop a detailed perspective on the burgeoning unrest in the Fire Nation. Similar to how Zuko’s exposure to Earth Kingdom peoples allowed him to develop sympathy for their plight (and respect for Iroh’s teachings), Azula must live amongst the people of the Fire Nation to understand what is happening among them and what is at stake. In this respect, if Zuko represents a leader who must feel compassion toward and act in the best interests of the world and Fire Nation, Azula must be a leader who feels compassion toward and act in the best interests of the Fire Nation. Her concern is not the world, but for the Fire Nation. Zuko’s concern is both. This is where their interests align.

The time Azula spends amongst her people is not for her to develop sympathy or tenderness or righteous protectiveness toward them as we would expect from Zuko. This is not to say that she wouldn’t feel compassion for her people, but there is a shrewdness and practicality to the insights she makes into her nation, like an undercover boss learning their company is not what they had thought, or like a princess learning that there are problems in her country that otherwise would deserve the attention of its princess. There is another key point highlighting Azula’s value in contributing to Zuko’s goal of redeeming the Fire Nation, and it is absolutely critical: Azula provides a key perspective on the current Fire Nation that we cannot get from the heroes.

The lesson at the end of Zuko’s coronation is that the Fire Nation has to be taken down several notches. It has to be impugned and reprimanded, defanged and reformed. We have not seen that Fire Nation, though. The most we saw was a factory spewing sludge into the river near a small fishing village and kids who were taught lies about the start of the war (and weren’t allowed to dance. The shock and horror). What we don’t know is what the current Fire Nation thinks and feels about Zuko and his plans to undo the past hundred years.

Remember how Azula is a member of the old regime and, in many ways, the Fire Nation that must be changed? She was also a true believer in that Fire Nation, just like the people who are trying to assassinate Zuko in The Promise. Not only this, but she is royalty, making her perspective on what it takes to lead the country more prescient than disgruntled nobles, generals, colonials and the like. It makes her perspective on what the Fire Nation is today more valuable than the rose-tinted view of what it used to be, or should be. It is the Fire Nation of today that must change, not the Fire Nation of old that must be arise from the grave; those people are dead and buried, it’s the people who are alive now who are of concern.

When we see the Fire Nation and its troubles through Azula’s eyes, we do so from the perspective of the Fire Nation that must have its honor restored, not the Fire Nation that must be rebuilt through Zuko’s idealism and unquestionable honor. Remember that the overarching purpose of Zuko’s journey is to restore the honor of the Fire Nation. Restore it. It has not happened yet. For Zuko to do that, he has to better understand the Fire Nation that benefited from the war, that found it acceptable that he be burned and banished by his father and that was willing to do horrible things that he could not do himself because that is the Fire Nation that he needs to change.

Do you think Zuko is going to have a “kill all who oppose me” attitude? Is he going to order troops to storm into libraries, break into academics’ homes and burn all documents and writings that say anything positive about the war in order to erase it from history like certain Chinese emperors did? Is he going to jail all who oppose him? Probably not, and that probably wouldn’t work either as, if the penalty for treason is death and the penalty for rebellion is death, then you rebel, and as we know, a single firebender is a one-person army. How many of them live across the Fire Nation and could do immeasurable damage if organized into even a modest army? The Capital has to get its food from somewhere…

But that Fire Nation hates Zuko’s guts and Zuko is constrained by being the Fire Lord. He can’t just put his duties on hold and live amongst his people for an extended length of time, nor does he have the inclination to sympathize with people who believe he deserved to have been burned and that the war was good and justified. But there is someone in the royal family who can sympathize with those people, who has the anonymity to live amongst them, learn the details of their grievances and plans and, potentially, command their respect, and that is Azula. Think that Iroh cares much about that part of his country? Or, that they even care about him? This doesn’t mean Iroh hates them, but he might feel casual disdain. We’ve seen evidence in the show that Iroh is both loved and despised. Not only this, but he’s been secretly working against the Fire Nation for years and did so very blatantly during the events of Sozin’s Comet. All of this now out in the open, along with the White Lotus Society’s “extranational” status as a group of foreign agents working to supplant the Fire Nation’s government. Remember that the people opposing Zuko do not view Iroh and the White Lotus as the heroes that we do. They likely hate the White Lotus’ guts too.

In order for Azula to be exposed to these intimate levels of Fire Nation society, she has to live amongst the people affected by Zuko’s policies, and the decision for her to do so has to come entirely from her. It can’t be a brokered deal between her and Zuko at the start of the season, nor can it be out of pure self-interest either. It also can’t be contrived; no one can break her out of the asylum, tell them their plans and she says, “I’m in!” She has to be in the right place at the right time and in the right frame of mind to end up on this path naturally. In order for all of this to occur, she must literally escape the influences of her old life (being a prisoner, threatened with having her bending removed, being second to Zuko, reminded daily of her failures, feeling humiliated, etc.) and go into hiding amongst her people. This allows us to see the “full” Azula through the eyes and experiences of the Fire Nation, not through the heroes and their bad blood with her.

So Azula is initially reintroduced through her connection to Ursa and the royal family. She is involved in some way with the search for her mother, but events transpire during the search that motivate her to run away and go into hiding. Whatever those events are, the motivating factors have to be tied to the themes and unresolved issues surrounding her downfall in the finale. Her psychotic episode, banishing people, her erratic behavior during the Agni Kai, incarceration in an insane asylum and her ultimate failure to prevent the old regime from falling are essential features of who she is moving forward and they cannot be resolved off-screen. There is no going back to the old Azula, just like there’s no going back to the old Zuko. The latter half of Season 3 changed her forever and must be addressed.

There is a concept in story crafting called “scene and sequel”. It’s odd terminology, but it works like this: “scenes” are where the action occurs. It is where the world in which the characters live, or the characters themselves, undergo major changes that drive the story forward. Whereas “sequels” are the low points between the scenes, the low valleys between the high mountains. They are where things are relatively static for the characters; the lulls between major changes where the characters need time to adjust. Scene and sequel affects the tempo of a story and the key to understanding it is this: by the end of a scene, a character must have undergone a substantial change from who or where they were at the beginning, whereas during a sequel, they remain unchanged from start to finish. Sure, they can move a teensy bit, but if, for example, whatever is making them sad at the start of a sequel is resolved, that resolution must occur during a scene. It can’t “just happen” during a low point; it can’t happen off screen.

Scene and sequel is important to understanding how to reintroduce Azula back into the show. Whereas Zuko, Aang, Katara and the rest of the heroes completed their arcs by the end, Azula had not. In fact, her misery was just starting. The time between the end of Season 3 and the start of Season 4 represents a sequel for Azula. Therefore, Azula’s unresolved problems leftover at the end of the finale cannot be explained away; they have to be continued.

The last time we saw Azula she was rolling around on the ground, in chains, screaming and crying as her world fell down around her. The next time we see her, she cannot be radically different from that. Yes, she can be lucid and calm and able to hold a conversation, but she has to be frazzled and on edge; she has to be bitter and depressed; humiliated and resentful; hopeless and scared. She has to be in denial about her culpability for her failures. She has to be desperate to absolve herself of blame even though the truth is gnawing at the back of her mind, because that’s where she left off. Essentially, the emotional “pallet” from the finale has to be carried forward.

However Azula is portrayed when she returns, one thing has to be very clear: she has not gotten over the events that transpired in the finale. Notably, this is what The Search did with her and it was done rather reasonably well.

As for the reasons why Azula runs away, or escapes, or disappears? Perhaps she does try to kill her mother in a hairbrained scheme born out of her desperation and mental unwellness, as portrayed in The Search, and so does not want to face the consequences for it. Maybe there is a letter putting Zuko’s paternity in doubt, but Azula screws up the opportunity to use it against him (she gets distracted by trying to kill her mom, for example) and runs away so she isn’t imprisoned by her brother. Maybe she tries to take revenge on Zuko but fails and so she doesn’t want to go to prison, go back to the asylum, or have her bending removed. Perhaps she has another psychotic episode and the shame of being returned to the asylum is too much for her to handle. Whatever the reason, she has to be motivated by the fear, anger, resentment and humiliation left over from the finale. Think of what she was feeling during that final scene in Sozin’s Comet. That is what she wants to escape from.

But where does Azula physically go? It has to be somewhere that is experiencing the variety of problems that the rapid end of the war and Zuko’s policies is creating, somewhere she can experience first hand the range of causes that is fomenting trouble in the Fire Nation. Maybe it is a city that benefited economically from the war industry and is now seeing its prosperity decline. Maybe it is an industrial town that has seen all orders dry up and they want their livelihoods back. Maybe it is a locale full of relocated colonials who are unhappy to have been removed from their homes and are struggling to make ends meet due to the strain they are placing on the Fire Nation economy. The options aren’t endless, but it should kill as birds with one stone as possible. For example, an isolated mountain village showing ”traditional” Fire Nation culture is not a suitable place for Azula (or the viewer) to go.

Wherever Azula goes, it has to open her eyes (and ours) to the situation in the Fire Nation, and this leads into the 6th pillar of the season: Azula must discover the major threat brewing in the Fire Nation.

1.6 Pillar #6: Azula Learns the Major Threat Brewing in the Fire Nation

Until this point in the hypothetical Season 4, the primary threat cannot be known. Yes, there have been assassination attempts on Zuko and yes, it has been revealed that there is widespread displeasure toward him, but none of it has been anything that the combined might of Zuko and the people who support him cannot put a lid on, and so far, a lid has been put on it.

The reason the primary threat is not known are: 1) it has been hidden by those who are behind it; 2) members of Zuko’s cabinet have been hiding it/misleading him; and 3) it has been hiding its true intentions behind a benign façade.

The reason Azula is able to discover the primary threat is because only someone who opposes Zuko and wishes him harm would be able to join forces with the people behind the primary threat. A peaceful, obedient, “normal” citizen of the Fire Nation is not going to seek out, or be interested in, ways of taking down the Fire Lord. But Azula would. So when she learns of the existence of this “threat” (a movement, plot, conspiracy, etc.), it appeals to her negative feelings and gives her hope that she can turn back time, that she can rise from the ashes of her shame and humiliation. Only someone with her background and belief in the old regime would be willing to cooperate with such a movement against her country’s imperial leadership. In other words, only a former villain. Zuko can’t do it. Aang can’t do it. Iroh can’t. None of the heroes can. They don’t even know it exists, neither do they have the personalities to associate with the kinds of people actively working to sabotage Zuko’s government. They would oppose immediately. Azula would want to get inside it.

But that isn’t the only reason why Azula is the character through which the primary threat is revealed. She must be the one to reveal it because when she learns the full extent of the primary threat’s goals, she realizes the massive, cataclysmic consequences it poses to the Fire Nation and royal family. Now pillars 1 and 2 are tied together.

A “normal” disgruntled citizen who hates Zuko would go along with the primary threat and trust its leaders, but Azula is not a normal citizen. She is the princess. She can see the big picture. The consequences of the primary threat have to make Azula’s “princess senses” tingle. It has to be something that reminds her of who she is and what her responsibilities are. It has to make her question what she truly wants and how far she is willing to go to get it, if she even still can.

And the heroes don’t know what Azula finds out. Zuko doesn’t know the cataclysmic problem building in his country, but now there is a member of the royal family who does and she holds critical information necessary to either stopping it, or using it to her advantage.

So Azula’s time living amongst her people is ultimately about teaching her (and the viewers) key facts about the Fire Nation’s culture and society that is leading it towards a massive internal conflict, a conflict bad enough that even the resentful, jilted Azula can’t feel comfortable about. Whatever the primary threat is, it is not something she can ignore and this leads to the 7th pillar of the season: Azula must take a side.

1.7 Pillar #7: Azula Takes a Side

The main thrust of Season 4 is beginning to take shape. Zuko’s ongoing journey is to redeem the Fire Nation. He is opposed in his journey by his own citizens who despise him and what he is trying to do. At the same time, the anemic, dysfunctional state of the royal family is harming his legitimacy and requires resolution. He and Azula manage to cooperate with each other in finding their mom, but that too falls apart and Azula disappears. While hiding amongst her people, Azula discovers the truth about what’s happening in the Fire Nation and what she learns is so serious that it spurs her to action. But what will she do with her knowledge? Will she try to use it to her advantage, perhaps by taking over the primary threat from the inside? Will she do nothing and let the Fire Nation burn out of spite and desire to make her enemies pay? Or, will her pride and sense of duty as princess prevail?

All of Azula’s experiences living amongst her people has been to prepare her for this decision (and for the viewer to believe it). Technically, she could make any choice (viewers’ expectations and internal consistency be damned), but keep in mind that Season 4 needs to show us new things. We have already seen Azula as a straight up villain. We’ve already seen Azula and Zuko fight to the death. We’ve already seen Azula defeated, badly. What we haven’t seen is Azula willing submit to Zuko’s will. What we haven’t seen is the fire siblings work together in a big, lasting way that isn’t born out of self-interest (Zuko wanting to earn his father’s love in The Crossroads of Destiny), or ulterior motive (whatever scheme Azula has during the search for their mother, which goes wrong and forces her to run away and become a fugitive). Just as we haven’t seen the Fire Nation that hates Zuko reconcile with him, we haven’t seen Azula reconcile with Zuko.

So there is really only one choice Azula can make. It is the choice that contributes to Zuko’s journey of redeeming the Fire Nation, of rebuilding the royal family and of solving the central conflict of Season 4. It is the 8th and final pillar of Season 4: Zuko and Azula must work together to save the Fire Nation.

1.8 Pillar #8: Zuko and Azula Work Together to Save the Fire Nation

This is the heart and soul of Season 4. It is what everything has been building to. This is why Zuko’s anxieties about the royal family are more than just heartache for him. It is why we have to spend time learning more about Azula. Season 4 is not about having extra adventures for the Gaang. It is not about the events that lead to Republic City and Korra. It is not about having more Iroh and his anecdotes. At its core, Season 4 is about this: it is the story about how the two warring sides of the royal family (represented by Zuko and Azula) become united again, symbolizing the change for good of the Fire Nation.

How exactly they work together depends on the nature of the threat. We know Azula can be fearless, or at least highly confident, and is quite intelligent. Perhaps she infiltrates the threat to act as a double agent, playing both sides until the very end (we know she has the ability to do this given her success at taking control of the Dai Lee). Maybe Zuko uses his reputation as a kindhearted idealist to feign ignorance of Azula’s involvement with the enemy in order to shield her from scrutiny by the heroes and give her credibility amongst his enemies (to maintain the ruse). It can’t be last minute save-the-day though, as Zuko needs enough time to build trust for Azula.

Whatever the details of the conflict and the manner in which it is resolved, the relationship between Zuko and Azula has to be believable and earned. There has to be times of conflict and mistrust between them. There have to be moments where the heroes have to be defended from Azula and where Zuko has to defend Azula from the heroes, but binding them through all of it and tempering the worst of their feelings is the fact that they are both royalty with duties greater than themselves.

By the end, the primary threat should be defeated and no others lay on the horizon. Zuko’s rule should be safe and the future of the royal family certain. No longer will Zuko lament his lack of family, or feel haunted by his past. He will have regained his mother and, for the first time in his life, have someone who he is proud to call his sister. For him, it will feel like turning a new page. The past will truly feel like the past and the future will be unlike anything he has ever experienced.

There will be no doubt that the Fire Nation can achieve the redemption it needs and that Zuko is the one to lead it, but not because he is a good, moral person. Not because he stood up to his father and defeated Azula in the finale. Not because he is a hero who earned a happy ending, but because he made the right decisions as Fire Lord, applied Iroh’s teachings to new situations, stood by what he believed was right even when other heroes doubted him and, finally, because he figured out how to turn a former enemy and member of the old regime into a friend, or at least into a lasting ally.

Azula’s journey will be over and, at last, so will Zuko’s.

2 Summary

To summarize, these are the pillars that must carry Season 4:

1) Zuko’s policies are met by significant resentment and opposition from his own people;

2) The anemic, dysfunctional state of the royal family has major implications for the stability and legacy of Zuko’s rule;

3) Zuko is inspired to find his mom in order to strengthen the royal family;

4) Zuko brings Azula with him to find their mother, both for the sake of his mother and to test the waters on a peaceful relationship with his sister;

5) Azula goes awry on the search, resulting in her escaping/disappearing;

6) While on her own living amongst her people, Azula discovers a massive internal threat brewing in the Fire Nation that she cannot ignore;

7) Azula decides that using this threat to get back at her enemies is not compatible with her values, so she joins forces with Zuko to stop it;

8) And finally, Zuko and Azula work together to stop the threat, thereby setting an example for the rest of the country and healing the rift between the two warring sides of the royal family.

3 Closing Remarks

This framework does not place a limit on the content of Season 4, but clarifies what it must be built from. You’ll notice it says very little about the roles of Aang, Katara, Iroh and so on. That’s because they do not undergo the levels of change that Azula and Zuko must go through. Their journeys were over at the end of the series, whereas Zuko’s and Azula’s were not. At the same time, it is Zuko and Azula who have to work together to resolve the conflict, or more specifically, Azula who has to learn to work with Zuko. That is a major change on her part. In order to sell this to the viewer, adequate time must be given to its development.

The Gaang needs to be involved, but what they do and the changes they undergo have to be in the context of the eight pillars and central conflict, or else their actions become extraneous filler and fluff. For example, Kataang is not furthered for the sake of fanservice, but because strengthening their relationship is the result of their teamwork in solving the story’s problems. At the same time, Iroh is not present because we like Iroh, but because he is a member of the royal family, has a checkered relationship with the war, split allegiances (White Lotus vs. Fire Nation) and apparently pessimistic view of his niece (i.e. Ursa’s daughter). Is Ursa going to appreciate, “She’s crazy and needs to go down?” Iroh must be tied to the troubles of the Fire Nation and its royal family.

This depiction of Season 4 appears heavy on Azula. In short, this is because she has the most to reveal about the Fire Nation and has the most change to undergo. Essentially, she has to go on a journey, and journeys require time. In that sense, Season 4 could be thought of as being 1/3rd Zuko & the Heroes, 1/3rd Azula on her own, and 1/3rd Zuko, Azula, & and the heroes.

A final word about how to handle Azula: you can’t be too nice to her. You have to sell her importance to the heroes and not assume people are going to care about her. In fact, that’s how any character should work, but in the case of a former villain, you have to work even harder at it. This makes Azula’s involvement in the season the most radical, but also the most intriguing.

If you’re familiar with the Fire Nation comics (The Promise, The Search, and Smoke & Shadow), you’ll notice the parallels and deviations this framework has with them. It is quite apparent that Bryke were thinking along these lines when they brainstormed the comics, but for whatever reasons, they failed to follow through.

The way to understand this framework—these “pillars” that support Season 4—is to look at them as universal to the franchise. They come from the internal logic, unresolved issues and established themes of the show. If, for instance, Bryke got abducted by aliens and Nickelodeon had to hire new showrunners to make a 4th season, the new showrunners would find this story inherent to the source material whether they were prior fans of Avatar or not.

We’ll probably never get this story, but as fans we are free to speculate and devise our own scenarios in order to keep the entertainment value of Avatar alive. If you agree with this framework, you now have a method for developing the details of how Avatar can be continued past Aang’s journey in a way that is compelling, full of heart, and builds upon what was left behind.

The craving you felt for more Avatar at the end of the show was not you being a ravenous fan who couldn’t accept that their plate was empty. It was recognizing the potential for a story that has not been fulfilled.

170 notes · View notes

dishonoredrpg · 4 years ago

Photo

Congratulations, JEM! You’ve been accepted for the role of STRENGTH with the faceclaim of MICHIEL HUISMAN. I think you best stated it yourself -- Roland is kind and cruel in equal measure, willing to break the tenets of his own moral code for a little bit of kingdom. I found myself drawn to him in a way I wasn’t expecting, which is exactly what I wanted for a character like Strength; in spite of his constant contradictions and struggles with the work he’s doing and his willingness to acknowledge he might have been led astray by Septimus, he’s still real. Still fathomable on the larger scale. He has the potential to be a real power player with the Sons of Argos in his hands, and I’m more than excited to see how things play out with the plots you’ve provided and concepts you’ve so kindly shown here!

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC

NAME: Jem.

PRONOUNS: She/her.

AGE: 26.

TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: EST. I’d say my activity level is about a 6/10! My work schedule is a little wonky right now, but I always try to carve out some time for writing, and I’m usually able to crank out replies consistently throughout the week.

ANYTHING ELSE? Not a thing!

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: Strength.

NAME: Roland Alexander Bishop.

FACECLAIM: Michiel Huisman (1st preference) or Can Yaman (2nd preference).

AGE: 33.

DETAILS: I fell in love with about 10 different skeletons before it dawned on me that Strength is, in fact, my one an only!!!!!! I’m so completely fascinated with the dichotomy of Roland’s character. He’s somehow kind and cruel in equal measure, a man of conscience willing to break his moral code for the right price. With no parents to speak of, he raised himself by virtue of naught but teeth-bared survival, and he’s carried that instinct for perseverance with him well into his adulthood in a way that I think has perhaps blurred the lines of what he believes to be right and wrong, or at least blurred his willingness to cross those lines. I wouldn’t say he’s altogether without integrity, because his stomach yet turns when buries his dagger hilt-deep in the belly of the King’s enemies, but his moral compass certainly isn’t working the way it used to these days. He’s whip-smart, too (he must be to have assembled a legion of Tyrholm’s nastiest, most ruthless bastards and foster loyalty and obedience among them). By that same token, though, he’s prone to foolishness in the face of profit. A boy raised by the street urchins of Tyrholm knows better than to trust kings, and had he used his head to consider his contract with Septimus, and not his deep-running pockets, he surely would’ve seen all that gold for what it really was: a gilded cage. Not all that glitters is gold, and not all that’s gold glitters. Here we have him, then: a man kind and cruel, bound by integrity and bound by greed, moral and immoral, clever and foolish. A ruffian mercenary who’s now finds himself under the King’s thumb. An avaricious profiteer who will do almost anything for the right price, but a fair and just leader devoted to his men. A self-made king of Tyrholm’s rapscallions and reprobates, but a servant to a King with no principles to speak of. He’s a living, breathing paradox, always walking a fine line between two versions of self. But in Septimus’s Tyrholm, there’s no room for fair-weathered allies, and if Roland plans on terminating his contract with the King, it’ll be a bloody affair. He didn’t exactly read the contract’s fine print, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to honor a treaty with a King whose head in his a basket, right?

BACKGROUND:

He never knows his parents. His mother leaves him on the stoop of a small temple in Hightown when he’s a babe. An Emissary finds him, and for some time, he’s looked after by acolytes of the Undying. They’re kind, mostly, from what he can remember, but he never takes to faith the way they all hope he will, and as soon as he’s old enough to run, he does—he runs far, far away, straight into the underbelly of Lowtown.

The streets of Lowtown raise him, and later in life, when he’s asked about his heritage, he’ll say that Tyrholm is his mother, and she may well be, for the man he is today is due in full to her lessons.

The seaport town raises him brutally, with an iron fist. He’s a boy with only ten years of life on him, lean and fresh-faced, when he takes to the streets of Lowtown, and in his first months of independence, he’s so gaunt that you can see each divot of his ribs, and he counts them over and over again to pass the time. He’s a fast learner, a living, breathing study in survival, and he realizes in no time at all that he’ll have to earn his right to life.

He does just that. He watches the other street-dwellers, men and women of all ages and shapes and sizes, each hungrier than the last. Some fight for coin. Some beg. Some dance. Some sing arias. Some charm snakes. Some sell looted treasure, others sell their bodies. Roland watches them all, tries to map out a viable plan of action for himself. He tries his hand at magic tricks, but his sleights of hand are nowhere as advanced as the smoke and mirrors of the veteran illusionist that performs at high noon every day at the marketplace. He tries fighting, next, and he’s good at that, even at a young age, but he’s skinny, weak from hunger, and he spends what little coin he wins on herbs and medicines from the local botanist to patch himself back up. Theft is his next venture—he’s a natural. He has good, quick hands that dart in and out of pockets less intrusively than a dove’s feather carried on a springtime breeze, deft and steady. For a few years, this sustains him. He loots coin, jewels, and treasures of all sort straight from pockets and purses and holsters, and he never gets caught.

When he’s fourteen, he steals a dagger straight from the belt of a fisherman selling his catch at the docks. The hilt is carved from ivory, and the blade shines like molten moonlight beneath the dawning sun. It’ll sell well, he thinks, only… He likes it. It feels nice in the palm of his hand, lightweight enough for a fourteen-year-old to wield with no trouble at all, and he spends the next week twirling it between his fingers, sharpening it against sea-worn rocks, practicing parlor tricks. He finds he has otherworldly aim, and he hits every target, from sandbags to trees to peaches to peach pits. And so, like any man well-versed in the trade of survival, he takes his Undying-given talent and turns a profit from it. He begins performing in Lowtown’s streets, and word of the boy who can slice a pomegranate in half midair while blindfolded spreads like wildfire.

They say that idle hands are the devil’s playthings, and it isn’t long before the devils come crawling out of every corner of Lowtown in search of Roland’s hands, eager to lay claim to a boy who will no doubt make a fine weapon to be used at their discretion. A boy young enough to appear unassuming to targets and old enough to get his hands dirty. The first to find him is a headhunter named Argos, a surly bastard with scar that stretches from his left temple all the way down to the right corner of his mouth, ugly and red. The look of him makes Roland tremble, and years later, he’ll laugh at his boyish fear of a man beloved to him, a man kinder and with thrice more heart than any of the pretty-faced, rosy-cheeked nobles Roland had ever robbed.

By the grace of the Undying, Argos takes him under his wing before any of the other leeches can latch onto him. Roland isn’t a particularly religious man, but he thinks, sometimes, that maybe the Undying is real, and that maybe she does favor him, because he can think of no other reason why he was delivered into the hands of Argos, and not any of the other ghouls of Lowtown who would surely have preyed on his inexperience and whittled him into a fine weapon with an expiration date of five, maybe six more years. As it is, Argos teaches him to kill just the same as all the others would have, but he teaches him how to kill honorably, quickly. He teaches him to respect life and death in equal measure, and he warns him that what he takes from the world, he must give back to it twice over. He teaches him how to fight well and how to fight dirty. He teaches him how to fight with his hands bound, with his eyes blindfolded. He introduces him to the Warrior’s Guild, where Roland’s career as a mercenary begins.

He does as he was taught, and he gives twice over for every life he takes. In spite of the dirty work he does, humility and honor flourish impossibly within him like a garden of desert roses in dead, dry soil. He donates a portion of his coin to brothels, street performers, pickpockets—the lowliest of Lowtown, those without places and people to call home, those who can’t put a name to the feeling of love. He never forgets his roots, and though he earns his weight in gold, enough to leave Lowtown and never look back, enough to dress himself in the wares of a proper Hightowner, he never leaves. Lowtown, the Warrior’s Guild, the docks, the street urchins, the baker’s son who sneaks him scraps of burnt bread, Argos—these are all home.

He’s twenty when Argos dies on a job gone wrong, and as the underwolders of the Warrior’s Guild and Lowtown mourn the death of Argos, a night king in his own right, beloved by those who love naught, they turn to Roland with expectant eyes. Roland, the boy who Argos affectionately called “Bullseye.” Roland, the boy who Argos raised to kill well, and meaningfully. Roland, the man, now, who Argos preened to inherit his legacy, to lead the mischief-makers and nightmare-makers, to protect Tyrholm’s underworld. And so he does.

It’s no easy feat, to be sure, wrangling a group of soldiers of fortune, kingslayers, outcasts, thieves, killers. But Roland is stubborn in his determination, and he works tirelessly to weed out the evil; to foster trust between himself and the good; to create a legion of Lowtown’s meanest bastards and make something special of them. Leadership becomes him. His humility, a rare quality in Tyrholm, and his charisma inspire ironbound devotion from a breed of people who know nothing of loyalty. He’s fair and kind in equal measure, and the men and women of the Warrior’s Guild take to him like the drape of midnight sky takes to the north star. For all of Roland’s goodwill, his ruthlessness is never forgotten. A killer is a killer is a killer, and those who mistake his kindness for weakness learn well that his honor knows some bounds. He goes to great lengths to instill that same notion of honor in his host of mercenaries, and he teaches them the same lessons that were taught to him. He teaches them to kill quickly, cleanly, and honorably, and he teaches them to give the same way that Argos taught him to. They resist, in the beginning, as all creatures of habit do, but in the end, they become a fine brood of noble killers, if such a thing exists. They’re vicious bastards, all of them, but they learn to respect life and death in equal turn. In his mentor’s honor, he calls his troop of sellswords the Sons of Argos, and in no time at all, Roland and the Sons are notorious for the dirty work they do—and how well they do it.

Roland and the Sons of Argos become so notorious, in fact, that word of Tyrholm’s them reaches King Septimus himself, and he promptly offers Roland a deal that he ought to refuse. He doesn’t. Greed and the promise of prosperity for the future generations of the Sons blind him, and the moment the ink on the contract dries, dread washes over him, and he can nearly picture Argos rolling over in his grave, fixing him with that look of grim disappointment he used when he was displeased with Roland.

In the beginning, the King’s assignments aren’t so bad. Roland and the Sons are asked to tie up loose ends, eliminate political threats, clear out bandits. Easy. Roland obliges, and the dirty work he and the Sons do is immaculate. But the King’s orders grow bleaker as time passes, and soon enough, Roland can hardly sleep through the night without waking from nightmares of his own making: screams that could crack glass, the sound of weeping broken up by choppy sobs, enough blood on his hands to fill up the Sahrnian. You must give twice over what you take from this world, Argos had told him, and he’s beginning to feel the weight of a debt long overdue. He’s taken so much, lately, life after innocent life, and his moral compass whirs in protest every time he plunges his dagger into the belly of an enemy not his own.

PLOT IDEAS:

Roland breathes and bleeds for the Sons of Argos, and there’s little—no, there’s nothinghe won’t do to protect his legion, even if that means compromising his honor. The Sons of Argos is his legacy, his life’s making, and he’ll sell his soul to highest bidder to ensure the continued prosperity of his ragtag battalion. It’s why he signed the King’s contract, and it’s why he yet serves the insufferable oaf. The coin Septimus funnels into his pockets is enough to sustain the Sons for generations, and not even Roland’s stalwart honor could sway his resolve to preserve the Sons. But a life bought and owed is not a life worth living, and Roland has learned well the cost of servitude. He’s spent the last decade assembling a group of fine men and women, teaching monsters the rite of nobility, preaching the gospel of life, taking and giving it. Nothing in this world is as beloved to him as the Sons, and he’ll be damned if stands by idly and watches Septimus sic Roland’s lot of honor-bound sellswords on his enemies like a pack of rabid dogs. The Sons of Argos are a proud brood of beasts; they are not pawns to be used to wage and win the King’s infantile wars. Septimus thinks he’s bought the Sons’ loyalty, but he’d do well to remember that loyalty bought can be outbid. Loyalty earned, contrariwise, is everlasting, Roland has earned enough of the Sons’ loyalty to last lifetimes. The Sons of Argos may well serve Septimus, but it’s Roland they’ve sworn an oath to; it’s Roland they answer to, it’s Roland they kill for, and it’s Roland they bend a knee to. Should the benefits of revolting against Septimus ever outweigh the benefits of serving him, it will take only a look from Roland to rally his Sons of Argos against the King.

Do you know who’s good at rebellion? A man who’s spent years squashing the very notion of it. Since the beginning of his arrangement with Septimus, he and the Sons have been charged with eliminating uprisings of all sorts. Some fires have been more difficult to put out than others, some rebellions have been organized better than others, and some have been led by insurgents quicker and braver than others. Roland’s well-acquainted with the many shades of revolt in Tyrholm, and I’d say that makes him a damned good asset in the bid to overthrow Septimus, wouldn’t you? Roland and his Sons are a hell of wildcard if ever there was one, and as the revolters of Tyrholm begin to coalesce, they’d do well to entreat the Sons’ Captain. Let us not forget what happened to Agamemnon’s army when the King of Mycenae waged war without Achilles and his Myrmidons.

Roland, for all his vulgar mannerisms and bold-as-brass behavior, isn’t stupid. He knows he’s sitting on a small goldmine made up of The Hanged Man’s secrets—he just hasn’t decided what to do with that particular treasure trove just yet. Roland is uncannily good at playing his hand close to his chest, and he thinks he’ll wait this one out a little longer before he shows the head servant his royal flush. Perhaps he’ll reveal what he knows and use it to leverage The Hanged Man as a resource. Perhaps he’ll take the information he’s filed away and sell it to the highest bidder. He’s not sure yet, but for The Hanged Man’s sake, he hopes the poor bastard folds soon, because Roland doesn’t think they’re very good at playing this game.

Conscience, thy name is Judgment. It’s strange, really, the way the Cleric amplifies all that goodness in Roland tenfold, in turn amplifying all the guilt that goodness births when compromised. His conscience has never been particularly content with the dirty work Septimus pays him and the Sons handsomely to do, but ever since he began attending Judgment’s sermons, his remorse has made a home in the marrow of his bones. He knows what he’s doing isn’t just or good, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s Judgment who makes him feel the truth of it all, every grain of it, and he finds himself growing sick with guilt these days. You wouldn’t think a Cleric has much pull in the dawn of a war on the horizon, but it’s Judgment who has Roland’s ear, and it’s Judgment who’s beginning to make Roland wonder if, perhaps, a revolution would make for a fine penance, coin and contract be damned.

There’s a reason the moon and sun never share the sky at the same time, and there’s a reason Roland and The Fool don’t often share a room at the same time. It’s not that Roland has no respect for the King’s Captain of the Guard, because he does, but cleaning up The Fool’s messes and tying up the loose ends of their army’s incompetence is getting old, quick. Still, the sun shines favorably on The Fool, paints them in the gold of heroism and leaves Roland and his Sons to bask in the muted silver of moonlight. The Sons of Argos are in this for gold, not glory, so he doesn’t terribly mind The Fool and their men acting as frontmen and taking undue credit for the dirty work Roland and the Sons do, but the bastard has the audacity to parade around Castle Tyrholm like they’re the Undying’s gift to man. It’s only a matter of time until the tension between the pair of captains comes to a head, and when it does, Roland is sure the fallout will be catastrophic, with far-reaching repercussions. A pity, really, because if The Fool could swallow their pride and Roland could swallow his prejudice, they could do great, terrible things together.

CHARACTER DEATH: Yes, absolutely!

WRITING SAMPLE

He dreams of his life’s small joys. He dreams of poppy fields in southern Tyrholm and figs stolen from the sweet shop next to the bakery in Lowtown. He dreams of the smell of sea salt, the sound of low tide crashing against black shale rock. He dreams of the baker’s boy, who used to sneak him scraps of burnt bread when he was naught but a half-starved child. He dreams of the boy’s kind smile, and his impossibly kinder eyes: one brown, one blue. He dreams of Argos, how the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he’d laugh at Roland, face warm with a rare fondness seen once, maybe twice in a lifetime. He dreams of the Sons, the lot of them gathered in this brothel or that tavern, heads thrown back as they all boom a chorus of boisterous laughter that draws more than one sidelong glance. He dreams of JUDGMENT, the way their voice rolls like the drip of warm honey, sounds something like absolution, atonement. He dreams of a time when he was proud of the man he was, of the work he did, even the dirtiest of it, because it was done meaningfully, with honor.

He wakes with a start, and the world returns to him in pieces, slowly. First light filters dimly into the barracks, and he huffs a quiet sigh as pushes himself up into a sitting position and swings his legs over the side of his cot. The Sons sleep soundly around him, and here, like this, they look nearly…peaceful. Roland catalogues the memory and stores it somewhere in his mind it won’t soon be forgotten. The rest of Castle Tyrholm, save for those of the King’s Guard working night patrol, won’t rise until sunup, at the earliest, but Roland’s always been a bit of a bastard when it comes to the Sons’ unforgiving schedule. They’re welcome to fight and fuck and drink their weight in ale until the moon sets, but come dawn, the day’s work begins. A fair trade-off, if you ask Roland (and one that inspires good behavior without Roland having to explicitly enforce it).

Soundlessly, Roland reaches over to the bunk next to his and gives Galen, his most trusted lieutenant bar none, a solid smack on the cheek. “Up.” The command is quiet, but it carries the weight of a king’s authority all the same. Brow pinches, Galen opens his eyes halfway and makes a vulgar gesture at Roland, who only laughs. “Fuck off,” Galen hisses as he turns half of his face back into the plush bedding of his cot, one eye closed and one trained on Roland. “Fuck off…?” Roland prompts, crooking his forefinger expectantly in a silent come on gesture. Galen rolls his one open eye. “Fuck off, Captain,” he amends. A low, throaty chuckle rumbles somewhere deep in Roland’s chest. “Better. Get dressed and gather the lot. His Grace has a job for us.” The way Roland says “His Grace” doesn’t sound particularly blasphemous, but Galen, who knows him so well, will surely have no trouble at all undressing the resentment that manifests in the way his lips curl hatefully around the King’s title. Galen passes him a long-suffering look, and Roland returns it empathetically, but they say no more on the subject. Roland dresses quickly and stands to leave, and Galen salutes him with his middle finger, but he nonetheless complies, and he, too, makes fast work of dressing.

The Dining Hall is… Well, it is as it always is. The Sons, loud and full of life even in the early hours of first light, earn more than one glare from other guests in the Hall. They’re outsiders, here, cawing ravens flying among a flock of singsong blackbirds, and the good people of Castle Tyrholm never let Roland or his Sons forget it. They don’t belong here, and as Roland catches dual sets of narrow eyes fixed on him, one belonging to THE HANGED MAN and the other belonging to THE FOOL, he wonders if they ever will. He doesn’t particularly care, so he tosses THE HANGED MAN a sly wink, and for THE FOOL, he presses his index and middle fingers against his lips and blows him a kiss. Neither seem particularly impressed with his flip, decidedly Lowtown behavior, but he cares not. Some things in this world are absolute. The sun rises each day, the sky is blue, and Roland Bishop will never balk in the face of judgment. He is as sure of the man he is as the Clerics are of the Undying. He will never waver from his spirit, his honor, his nature, and he will never know the shame of others. He is the legacy of Argos and Lowtown, a good man and a good city, in his estimation, and though he’s not always proud of the things he does, he is proud of the man he is, and he’s prouder yet of the legion he’s created. Wolves don’t lose sleep over the opinions of sheep, and the Sons of Argos don’t lose sleep over the opinions of a fucking cook and a Guard-Captain whose track record leaves something to be desired.

The meal is a quick one, and Roland thinks fortune might favor him today, because the Sons enter and exit the Dining Hall without brawling with any of the King’s Guard, and by the time the sun has fully risen, Roland and his men are well underfoot. They travel by horse to the northernmost point of the farmlands, where the King’s Spymaster has evidently caught wind of a budding rebellion. Roland stopped wondering long ago if there’s any truth to the Spymaster’s claims at all, or if THE DEVIL spoon-feeds the King lies just to keep the tyrant of their back.

Their journey is short, and so is the battle (if you can even call a massacre a battle) that ensues. It’s violent and bloody, but the Sons are trained for this brand of dirty work, and their victory is swift. At the end of it all, only one remains: the leader of what was a poorly organized coup that never stood a chance against the King and his cronies.

“He’s inside the barn,” Galen says as Roland kneels to push down the eyelids of a boy of no more than fifteen years. Roland doesn’t have to look up to know that Galen’s face is grim, and neither does he need a mirror to know that his own face is pale as driven snow. His gut knots and double-knots with throngs of unease, and guilt begins to gnaw in earnest at his well-meaning heart. Still, he yet goes through the motions: wipes the blood from his dagger, helps his men make a pyre of the bodies, closes the eyes of all the dead and prays that they’ll be better off in their next lives than they were in this one. When the dirty work is done, he joins the rest of the Sons in the estate’s small barn, where they wait with the self-crowned king of what was a novice mutiny at best and a botched rally at worst.

In the chaos of carnage, Roland hadn’t gotten a good look at the rebels’ fearless, foolish leader, and seeing him now, the knots in his stomach tighten tenfold. He’s on his knees with his head hung low, held at either of his arms by two Sons and stayed by a third, whose sword is pressed flush against his neck. He looks about the same age as Roland, maybe a few years his youth, with sun-soaked hair that looks reddish in places wet with blood. The Sons wait patiently for Roland’s command, the quiet of the room a stark foil to the noisy bustle of the Dining Hall earlier that morning.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice soft as a slip of cotton hung out to dry. The man doesn’t answer; he doesn’t even look up. Roland looses a quiet sigh. The King has instructed him, as he always does, to gather whatever information he can—by any means necessary. He and the Sons are meant to gut villagers bloody and cut out their tongues if they don’t divulge their secrets. They’re meant to exterminate the hope of revolution and send a message to neighboring revolters. They’re meant to be hounds that bite at the heels of a people who have everything to lose and risk it yet for naught but the meager chance of a Tyrholm free of Septimus’s plague of pride and greed. But the Sons of Argos are no dogs. Killers they may be, but they’re a proud brood, the lot of them, and they do their dirty work with as much honor as they can. If it’s gore and bloodletting Septimus wants, let the old prick get off his throne and terrorize wives and sons and husbands and daughters himself.

Roland was taught to kill honorably and quickly, to respect life and death in equal measure, and he pays homage the lessons of Argos daily. It’s clear that the rebel-king isn’t feeling particularly chatty, and if he won’t loosen his tongue, there’s not much to be done about it. There’s not much to be done at all, really, except to give the man a quick and honorable death. “You fought well,” Roland murmurs. He means it. Galen is sporting what Roland can only assume is a broken nose given to him by the man, and it had taken more than one Son to fully bring him down. Death, too, must be earned, and this man, with all his lionheart courage, has earned his. Distantly, Roland thinks that this very man could’ve perhaps toppled Septimus’s rule himself, if given the proper resources. He has the grit for rebellion, to be sure, and the spirit, too, but he lacks the wherewithal, the time, the training. A pity, he muses. He could’ve made history, the poor bastard.

Out of the corner of his eye, Roland catches Galen staring at him intently, curiously, like he knows exactly what he’s thinking, and maybe he does. Galen opens his mouth, maybe to ask something, maybe to say something, but Roland gives him a fractional shake of his head, and Galen presses his lips into a tight line, no doubt making a mental note to badger Roland about it later. Eyes full of mourning and mouth set in steel, Roland looks over to Myra, the Son with her sword pressed against the man’s neck, and gives her a curt nod. She returns the gesture, and after drawing a deep inhale, she rears the sword far back and up, ready to deliver the final blow. The man, surely sensing his impending death, at last lifts his head, and Roland lets out a swift, sharp whistle that cuts through the air like broken glass. It’s a command to stop, and Myra, knowing the sound of the pitch for what it is, obeys, lowering the sword non-threateningly as Roland stares at the face before him: a man roughly his age, with one brown eye, and one blue.

The baker’s son.

Dread washes Roland’s face a shade of white impossibly paler than before, and he makes a punched-out noise as he remembers hot summers and cold winters spent starving, the sickly feeling of tightness clenching a stomach unfed, the thick fatigue of near-death staved off by the baker’s son, who had been the first person in Tyrholm to teach Roland well-learned lessons of kindness, charity, compassion. The boy who, even in his youth, radiated the kind of warmth and generosity that Roland has never seen in men and women who have lived full lives. His first friend, if you can call breaking bread together and stealing water from Callia Lancaster’s well and playing card games and chasing each other around on the docks friendship.

Recognition spark’s in his once-maybe-friend’s eyes, and the sea-glass green of them shifts from hate, to grief, to nostalgia, and then, finally, to something that looks remarkably like…understanding. Understanding, even now, even on the brink of death. This, Roland thinks, is honor. This, Roland thinks, is what he has perhaps forgotten in his years in the King’s employ. Idly, he thinks JUDGMENT would like this man. His endless reservoir of kindness is something divine, something reminiscent of faith, something that JUDGMENT would take to with overwhelming fondness.

Roland draws forward and places his hand over Myra’s, which remains gripped tightly around the hilt of her sword, and pushes it down, a silent command to lay down her arms. It’s said that the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword, but in the business of sellswords, that’s hardly ever the case, and in Tyrholm, that’s never the case, for the King is far too cowardly to do his dirty work himself.

This, though… This responsibility belongs to Roland and Roland alone. It’s personal, not business, and he can feel the heavy weight of his duty in his pockets, where the King’s coin rests. Argos had always warned him of the looming dangers of this trade, the threat to one’s honor, one’s soul, one’s spirit. Are you worth your weight in gold? he’d often asked him. I will be, Roland had always answered, because he’d thought, then, that Argos had been asking him if he’d grossed a sum of gold equal to his weight. Now, he thinks, he at last understands the question: is it worth it? Have you earned your weight in gold? Is the man you are today worthy of that coin?

Gently, nearly tenderly, Roland cradles his hand against the side of the man’s face. The baker’s son doesn’t flinch. The irony isn’t lost on Roland: he must give back what he takes from this world twice over, and here he is, about to take the life of a man who gave him his. You should’ve let me starve, he wants to say. You should’ve let me die. He wants to apologize, he wants to explain himself, but he won’t do this good man the dishonor of wasting his last moments of life assuaging his own guilt, so he instead reaches into the pocket of his breeches and pulls out a pouch of gold. He tosses it to Galen, who catches it reflexively. “There’s a bakery in Lowtown south of the bay, with a red roof and green door. Bring it to them.” Galen raises an eyebrow in silent question, but he turns on his heel, exits the barn, and mounts his horse all the same. “You’re family will be looked after for generations,” he promises. He knows it won’t be enough to absolve the blood on his hands, not this time, but he hopes it’ll be enough to bring the man some peace of mind. He thinks maybe it does, because the baker’s son smiles. He dies smiling. Roland strikes quick and fast, drives his dagger straight through a heart of gold. It’s a quick, painless death that lasts the span of a few heartbeats, at most, and it stays with Roland for the remainder of all his years.

That night, when Roland lays his head down to sleep, he doesn’t dream.

EXTRAS

Pinterest. MBTI: ESTP. Astrology: Aries (April 19th). Moral Alignment: True Neutral. Enneagram Type: Type 8. Headcanons:

He isn’t best fighter in Tyrholm, but he may well be the most adaptive. In his boyhood, Argos taught him combat techniques that he’d observed in the east, and the west, and the north, and the south. Roland has killed men from all over the continent, from all walks of life, and though many balk at his nontraditional manner of bloodshed, he’s quick and efficient, and he and his Sons always get the job done. They say it’s uncouth, the way he fights, the weapons he uses, but The Fool’s etiquette (knighthood proper, that one) hasn’t exactly done them a whole lot of good, has it? Roland is as quick as lightning and twice as hot in a fight, and he’s been known to use exotic weapons when he’s doing his dirty work. Of all his tools, his favorites are his decade-old ivory dagger and a sickle-shaped pair of handheld scythes.

Roland doesn’t share the King’s low opinion of magic. Raised by Tyrholm’s streets, by whores and beggars magicians and street urchins and musicians and muses, Roland learned young to embrace all walks of life, and his schools of thought are all considerably flexible. His opinion of magi is no exception. People fear what they do not understand, and as a mercenary with a moral compass, a man who’s been misunderstand by the masses his entire life, he can empathize.

Because he was looked after by worshippers of the Undying in his boyhood, he’s considerably literate for a man of his…lifestyle, and he’s actually quite smart, despite appearances. He’s well-read and well-taught, but the true nature of his wherewithal is known only to Judgment and the Sons.

Roland and the Sons reside permanently in taverns in Lowtown, and impermanently in the barracks. Though the lot of them have more than enough coin to afford taverns in Hightown, Roland prefers to keep the company of Lowtowners, and he finds that he and his Sons fit in far better there than farther north. He supposes that the King is fond enough of him—or the work he does, at least—to allow Roland and the Sons to occupy Castle Tyrholm’s guest quarters, but Roland has never asked such a thing of Septimus, and he never will. When their services are needed, Roland and the Sons stay in the barracks alongside The Fool’s soldiers, partly because Roland wants the Sons to remember their humility, and partly because he wants to piss of The Fool. Whether in Lowtown taverns or the barracks, Roland sleeps right alongside his lieutenants and soldiers, intent on remembering his own humility, too.

Whistling. It’s how the Sons communicate without speaking, and it drives just about every resident of Castle Tyrholm mind-achingly mad. Their secret tongue was initially created as a way to signal one another for help, but since signing on to work for King Septimus, Roland will often whistle to deliver commands or messages to the Sons in order to keep confidential matters from reaching the ears of bystanders. Different pitches have different connotations, and more than one Castle Tyrholm has bellyached about the secret smiles and obnoxious laughter exchanged between the Sons when Roland lets out a low whistle after a meeting with the King or The Fool. Still, even the loudest critics of the Sons’ nonverbal lingo can’t deny the sheer impressiveness of the way the Sons fall in line with naught but a whistle rendered from their Captain.

Though looked after by Clerics and Emissaries for much of his early boyhood, Roland never quite took to faith the way his caretakers had hoped he might. But he’s taken to Judgment the way most people take to religion, like they’re something absolute, something worthy of his hard-won devotion, and he can’t help but feel like some of their lessons are beginning to rub off on him. He thinks the Emissary who took him in would faint if she could see him now, knelt quietly in the foremost pew of the Sanctum, hands clasped as he listens to Judgment’s sermon with a look on his face caught somewhere between reverence and admiration. Life comes full circle, he supposes, and he finds himself growing increasingly fascinated by the idea of the Undying, of goodness, of life’s purpose. He wants to learn more about it all, he thinks. Or maybe he just wants to learn more about Judgment.

#accepted #accepted: strength

8 notes · View notes