#and how once we know the full breadth of her story

[mizulekitten]

I love the Case of the Two Dead Dragons ep for a lot of reasons, but the scene where they're talking to Twitchy Richie, like when they first start to mess with him is just so... perfect. Like the way Charles steps up and says "Ooh, try it, mate," his crossed arms coming down. And in the following scene when it shows just Richie & Crystal it's like "What's he going to do omg."

Except Crystal tilts her head with the stupid lighter in her face and it's Edwin that goes "Don't mind if I do." And Charles just looks so enamored and Crystal and Edwin are both so pleased with themselves.

I don't know. It's just the way they're working in tandem with each other for once. Not just with one another, but exactly in step. Crystal knew, without a word, that they'd play along. Edwin could've just let Charles do his thing, especially after what he said, after knowing they kissed (even if they broke things off right after). But it's like... Crystal is a part of their team now. He may not be super close to her yet, but they're both bitches /pos that of course this is the moment they fall in step. It's a shared trait that they were using to hurt and annoy each other, but now it's a bonding moment, a crossing of that divide between them.

So of course Charles lets them have their little moment and is so happy to do so. Whether it's queerplatonic or romantic, this is his best mate for 30 years and his new best friend. He knows they'd get along in their own way if they got through it. And here they are.

Perfect sync, not just Charles and Edwin, but Charles, Edwin, and Crystal.

[wilcze-kudly]

I do find it annoying how a lot of Zutara fans tweak the character's stories, personalities and even the timelines to suit their own needs.

Once again, there's nothing wrong with fanon and headcanons, however if looking through the lense of canon, you're objectively wrong.

I ended up stumbling on a post from a Zutara shipper. (At this point I'm regretfully considering not following the tags for Zuko or Katara because I get way too much Zutara content lol) I'm not replying directly to her because I don't want this to turn into an argument, and I know she doesn't take criticism very well.

Ok, So let's break this down.

The character who was first out of the group to trust Zuko?

I'm quite sure this is referring to the scene in Ba Sing Se's caves. And yes, that is a very important scene. I think it's a very important scene preceeding Zuko's 'relapse'. It shows how he's matured during his time in Ba Sing Se and therefore it serves to add to our dismay when he joins Azula. I adore the fact that Zuko's journey to redemption is not linear, it certainly adds a lot to the character and shows us how his trauma affected him.

It's also a horrific moment for Katara. To have her worldview on Zuko and firebenders as a whole challenged, and then for it to go blowing up in her face. It rips open old wounds of her childhood. It refreshes her resentment of Zuko and the Fire Nation as a whole. It parallels the death of her mother when Aang dies due to Azula's lighting and she is unable to do anything about it. It places her back in that spot of helplessness. Even though she's grown up, even though she's a master waterbender, she still comes a hair's breadth to losing one of the most important people in her life.

No wonder she hated Zuko so much after this.

It's an important moment for both characters, but I wouldn't say it is that in a romantic sense. It's a sweet, hopeful moment that then turns absolutely horrific and visceral for both parties.

I could argue that there are other characters who could be given the title of 'first to trust Zuko'. Funnily, Appa being one of them lol.

But other characters trusting Zuko dovetails nicely into the next point.

The character who emotionally connects to Zuko?

Well, technically, I'd argue that most members of the Gaang connect emotionally on one level or another with him?

But I'd argue that Aang is the person Zuko connected with the most. Aang is Zuko's parallel. Aang is the first person to reach out to Zuko. Aang is the person who showed mercy to Zuko, multiple times. Aang is the person who valued Zuko's life, the life of someone whose whole life goal is to capture him.

This was also an incredibly important moment to Zuko. This is the thing he brings up when trying to convince the Gaang to let him join.

Zuko: Why aren't you saying anything? You once said you thought we could be friends. You know I have good in me.

The character Zuko feels safest letting his guard down around?

It's Mai. Love her or hate her, her relationship with Zuko is incredibly important to him. Maiko isn't my favourite Zuko ship, in full honesty. But even platonically, Mai and Zuko are one another's reprieve from their respective shitty lives.

People often talk about Katara touching Zuko's scar while discussing healing his scar, however one could argue that she did so as a medical examination. Mai touching Zuko's scar is a casual thing, neither of them really make a big deal of it and that's the beauty of it.

I'm mainly talking out of my own personal experience, as someone with a huge amount of burn scars, but there is a world of difference between someone inspecting my scars like Katara did and simply accepting them as a part of me, like Mai does for Zuko.

With Mai, Zuko isn't the scarred banished prince, Ozai's son or Azula's brother. He's just Zuko. And they speak freely with one another, arguing like real people do. Often, being comfortable having arguments is actually a sign of being comfortable with one another.

The character who helps Zuko heal from his trauma?

Once again, this is a bit of a flawed question. By the end of the show, Zuko isn't even fully healed, in my opinion. He has made leaps and bounds on the road to recovery, but when he will truly heal if ever is yet to be seen.

Zuko's journey to recovery includes plenty of people. This includes Iroh, Aang, Song and Jin. People who show him the error of his coping mechanism. Who challenge his worldview, who coax him out of the his shell of pain and anger.

The character known for showing most compassion to others?

Yes, Katara's compassion is a huge part of her character. Her need to help and protect those who cannot do that for themselves cannot be understated.

But Aang's compassion for others and all beings is just as great, if not greater than Katara's. Compassion and nonviolence are huge parts of his culture and his own philosophy.

Aang: Wait, we can't just leave him here. Sokka: Sure we can. Let's go. Aang :No, if we leave him he'll die. Aang airbends himself off Appa and retrieves Zuko, bringing him to Appa. Sokka: [Sarcastically.] Yeah, this makes a lot of sense. Let's bring the guy who's constantly trying to kill us.

Friendly reminder that Aang could've absolutely wrecked Ozai, but held back because his own moral compass was so powerful. Hell, he was friendly and nice to Azula, the woman who literally killed him.

This is why Aang and Katara work so well together. They're both incredibly compassionate people who will immediately jump in to help others in need. Like they did during the Painted Lady, destroying the factiry together.

The character who primarily bears the burden of having to step up into a parental role?

I think "parental role" is an incredibly vague term. There's a lot of things that go into a "parental role". Katara plays a stereotypically "maternal" role, while someone who plays a "paternal" one would probably be Sokka.

Katara deals with very "homemaking" tasks like sewing and cooking, etc. And Sokka often takes on the role of leader, hunter, gatherer and also protector, despite being a nonbender.

This coincides nicely with their core childhood traumas. The loss of Katara's mother impacted her greatly, leading her to have to step up into a motherly role. While Sokka was clearly heavily traumatised by his father departing and the crushing responsibility of having to care for his entire village.

Sexism also probably played a part in this dichotomy.

The character who represses their emotions to be strong for others?

I'd argue that this could apply to all the members of the Gaang in some capacity.

Aang's pain is something most of us will never experience and cannot hope to understand. The complete horrific destruction of his culture and home followed him through the entire show. He was entitled to his grief and rage, yet he supressed it. We see during Appa's kidnapping, how easy it would be for Aang to rage, to let himself be destructive. And yet, he wakes up every day and chooses to smile and goof off, because his friends need someone to remind them how to be children.

Sokka puts on a very impressive bravado, despite having a lot of insecurities. However, as the oldest member of the Gaang (pre Zuko) he puts on a facade of the confident and unbothered older brother. Even if he's the butt of almost every joke, he still keeps that demeanour up, letting it slip only a few times.

I'd actually argue that Toph is the person whom this label fits best. While we know Toph as witty, callous and strong, we have to remember that she kept up the facade of her parents' good, helpless little blind girl for no reason other than her mother and father's comfort. She actually hides a lot of her hurt, covering it up with a prickly exterior.

I want to do longer think pieces about Toph and Katara so apologies if this isn't complete.

I'm actually baffled by the idea of Katara repressing her emotions. She's actually quite straightforward and open about her feelings. She yells and feels a lot of emotions and lets them be heard. She gets angry and sad. She's actually kinda bitchy sometimes and that's honestly why I love her so much.

The whole inciting incident of the show was her getting so pissed off she somehow pulls a giant iceberg from the bottom of the sea.

She is anything but repressed.

She is angry.

She's angry at the fire nation, at Sokka, at her father, at men, and with good right to be so.

This is what makes her an amazing character and one who broke the mould of a lot of female characters at the time. Her anger and unrestrained emotions rang true with a lot of watchers at the time. I'm not sure why this is being taken away from her rather than celebrated.

I reiterate the point I made at the beginning of this post: there is nothing wrong with headcanons and fanon interpretations for one's enjoyment. I do find it a bit odd when it changes a character too much (because then, why not just create an oc?) but it's all in good fun. However, you shouldn't push that onto other people and how they perceive canon and you certainly shouldn't use it to take away from other characters. It's a very unfair way of entering discourse.

[seaofwine]

What do you like about the Odyssey? Besides some entertaining episodes (e.g. Circe or Calypso), I've never really been able to get into the Odyssey as a whole (I find the first 5 books especially dull). The Iliad really speaks to me more.

It's hard to really pinpoint what I like most about it but I love to talk about the Odyssey so I hope you like long posts hahaha

The first five books act as the exposition. When the Iliad ends, there's a general understanding that most of the surviving characters made it home. Menelaus and Helen have reunited, the catalyst for the Trojan War has been resolved. Agamemnon traversed the sea and made it back, and although he was killed by his wife Clytemnestra, there is no question about where he is; unlike Odysseus.

Telemachus has spent his entire youth without a father. When he finally decides to set out from Ithaca to find any leads on where Odysseus is, he is confronted with the fact that most everyone else has been accounted for. He sees Menelaus and Helen, the order of their kingdom, the comfort they have in each other and the bonds they have restored. Telemachus has known nothing but uncertainty, while his mother is forced to weave lies and deceptions to keep the suitors that plague their home at bay. The first five books really show how important one man can be when he is utterly lost, and what it would mean for everyone who loves him should he be found. These books also show the close interest that Athena, as patron of Odysseus, takes in his family. She steps into the chaos of Ithaca and gives Telemachus the inspiration to embark on his own journey, chasing the ghost of his still-living father.

When we finally reach Odysseus, he is not the same man that those who knew him in Troy described. They are the closest Telemachus can come to knowing what came of his father, but even they are separated by nearly a decade and the breadth of the sea. Penelope hasn't laid eyes on her husband in twenty years, there is no overestimating what that can do to a person's memory. Odysseus's first action is to cry. When finally Calypso is forced to allow Odysseus to leave, by order of Hermes, he makes his own raft and leaves at the first possible moment. He is fighting against the will of Poseidon, against the wrath he incurred, all alone. He has lost every single one of his men, every single person who could ever vouch for his identity, in a world where no one could recognize him, is gone. Despite this, he is still fighting to get back to Ithaca.

Odysseus is so utterly human in the text. When he is hosted by Alcinous, Odysseus asks the singer there to recount the story of the Trojan Horse. It's like landing at the doorstep of a stranger who graciously allows you to stay and immediately asking his DJ to play *your own* greatest hits - which in turn only upsets him. This also sets up the dramatic reveal of his identity (I like to imagine him looking around like, you guys remember this one? Yeah that's Me, I pinkie promise. Please give me 4000 drachmae and your best oarsmen (: ).

He recounts the story of how he got so utterly lost on the way back and one thing the Odyssey will tell you, to your face over and over again, is that Odysseus is a big time liar. But for some reason, his tale is so compelling it's hard to remind yourself of that when hearing it for the first time. Some points are so beyond baffling (like striking Polyphemus in the singular eye the poor sod has, and then once to the safety of his boat (which is on open water, the domain of said cyclops's father) loudly announcing his full gods-given name and mailing address, just in case anyone missed who it was) that it's like, yeah that was probably exactly what he did. This is the section of the story where we see Odysseus as he sees himself. This is his own reflection of the actions he made and the troubles that befell him because of it.

Odysseus is such a complex character that one of the epithets he is given is "polytropos", the many-faced or many-sided. Odysseus and his relationship to his own identity, which he can shed and don at any point that's convenient for him, is one of the main reasons I am obsessed with his story. This, and the exploration in an ancient text about what a close relationship with a deity, is something I am constantly thinking about.

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 43

The Alliance Leader’s Ambitions

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

“Ah, Teach.” Veery smiles, nodding to Professor Byleth as she approaches. “Are you checking up on my training?”

Professor Byleth nods. “The Imperial army will arrive soon. Are you prepared?”

“Is anyone prepared to go to war?” He sighs. It’s easy to pretend, despite the rubble around them, that he’s simply back at the academy days. “I won’t lie… I’m not sure I’m making the right decision.”

“That’s understandable,” she says kindly. “I would be more concerned if you did not hesitate to go to war.”

“…You aren’t hesitating.”

There’s a soft exhale next to him, something approximating a sigh. “Is that how it looks?” Professor Byleth asks. “I’m glad. Our allies don’t need to see me hesitate.” A pause. “But it’s not the truth.”

Veery looks over to her. “Really? You… always seem like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Professor Byleth smiles slyly. “I haven’t known what I was doing since I came to Garreg Mach. All I know is mercenary work, and even then, I wasn’t any good at anything but the fighting part. I’m horribly unqualified to be a teacher.” She looks down into the fishing pond, watching the fish swim past. Someone has recently cleaned it, after five years of no maintenance. (The smell was something that, apparently, cannot be tolerated.) “I never expected to enjoy it so much.”

Veery hums, following her gaze to the water. “I never expected to like it here, either,” he admits.

“Even if we didn’t expect it,” Professor Byleth says, “this is how it is. That’s why it hurts. I will never turn my back on Claude, but… the truth is that Edelgard is one of my precious students, as well. I try not to show it for everyone else’s sake, but I am not entirely sure yet that I have the conviction to kill any of my students. I decided before all this that I would die to protect them, so now…”

That… makes sense. Veery isn’t aware of the full breadth of Professor Byleth’s relationships with the students of the academy, but he does know that part of the reason they adore her so much is because of her care for them. Veery himself is no exception. He has never had a mentor in his life… ever. Some of the agell elders try, and Affah may even come close, but no one listens to him like Professor Byleth.

There is a difference, between teaching and guiding. Instruction, encouragement, and control. The only figures in Veery’s life who may qualify as “teachers” only ever tell him what to think and believe. Affah isn’t as bad about it as many of the elders, but Veery only truly learns that after his time at Garreg Mach, when he gains the confidence to speak his mind to counter their teachings in the first place.

Professor Byleth tells him what to do, yes. She’s the reason Veery knows anything about Faith magic, and he still doesn’t understand what she sees in him that makes her think he’s suited for it (even though he has to admit by now that she’s right). But never once has she told him what to believe. She only pushes him to expand his horizons, learn all he can, and be the best he can be. She ensures he has every tool at his disposal to survive – which lines up perfectly with Veery’s aims.

She only supports him and brings him into the family that is the Golden Deer and does that completely unprompted.

She is a good teacher. It makes sense that she would hesitate to kill one of her students. Part of Veery thinks he’s stupid for not realizing how hard this must be for her – she always seems so composed – but another part is wondering what it says about him that, when given the chance five years ago, when his relationship with Edelgard was so much closer than it feels now, Veery does not hesitate at all.

He fails, of course, because Edelgard is stronger than him, but he does not hesitate in his attempt to kill her. For Veery, the simple truth is that he believes from the very beginning that these humans will eventually try to kill him. It’s a foregone conclusion that, if he can’t escape, he will kill them first or he will die. No matter how much it pains him, no matter how much he wishes it isn’t like this… part of him always expects to have to kill these friends of his. It applies to every human. Even Professor Byleth, even Caub, even Claude. So, he does not hesitate one bit. Not because of that.

Does it make him a bad person, that he is prepared to kill someone he calls a friend? Even those he calls family?

“Teach?” he asks. She hums for him to continue, so he does. “What do you believe in?”

Professor Byleth is quiet for a long time. When her answer comes, it is simple and direct. “My students.”

It’s the same answer as before. It’s what she has faith in, what she believes in. Her purpose is her students. “If more of us were on Edelgard’s side,” he asks tentatively, “would you fight with her? Do whatever it takes to minimize the number of your students who have to die?”

More silence. It stretches thin. “You’ve called me out,” Professor Byleth says softly. “You’re right. My students are the most important things to me. Not ideals or justice. I never had to think about those before, only the mercenaries in my crew. Perhaps that’s why. Even so… I am not sure I will be able to kill Edelgard, but I know I cannot kill Claude.”

Veery nods. He doesn’t expect her to admit it like she does, but he has the feeling… they aren’t so different. It’s not about those grand ideals, not about making the world a better place or appeasing the gods or anything. Even so, Professor Byleth’s reason is a lot less selfish than Veery’s. “I’m scared,” he admits, frowning at the fish.

“So am I,” Professor Byleth says.

He can’t help the disbelieving chuckle. “It’s… hard to imagine you scared.”

“I am.” She shrugs, as if it is perfectly normal. “My students are about to fight in a dangerous battle. I am only one woman – I know I cannot protect you all. I can only hope that the lessons I’ve taught everyone up to this point is enough to keep you alive. I missed five years, Sothis won’t wake up… I no longer have my father to guide me. Sometimes, it seems as if nothing has changed, yet other times I do not recognize anything.”

“I… know the feeling,” Veery whispers. “I feel it too. I’m not sure if it’s war, or just that humans change so fast, but… everyone is so different. Sometimes it’s like I never left but sometimes…” He sighs, shaking his head. “It must be much worse for you.”

Professor Byleth hums softly. “Maybe. But it’s nice to know I’m not alone.”

Veery bites his lip. How ironic. He’s a hermit who only wants to live alone in peace, but she’s right. It helps, knowing that he’s not the only one with doubts. If even Professor Byleth doesn’t have complete conviction, then he feels… a little less like he doesn’t belong here.

He doesn’t. Objectively, he has no place here. That’s sort of the point of fighting for Arcadia. But… he feels better about it knowing that he’s not alone.

“Good work, everyone,” Claude says, looking out at everyone assembled in the war room. “Thanks to you, Garreg Mach is bustling again. As much as can be expected, anyway.”

Alois eagerly leans over the table. “Yes! The Knights of Seiros must express our thanks for your help with the restoration. You all even routed the bandits!” He sighs, looking guilty. “That job should have fallen to us. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“Hey, don’t think twice about it,” Claude says. “We’re all allies in the resistance against the Empire, right? Garreg Mach isn’t just the center of the faith, it’s literally the center of Fódlan. We want to secure this location while the Empire is still overlooking it.”

“That’s all well and good,” Catherine huffs. “And until Lady Rhea is found, I won’t protest you using Garreg Mach. Just don’t think that we’ve forgotten the lies your side spread.”

“Now, Catherine…” Alois starts.

“No, it’s fine.” Claude waves off Alois’ concern. “In fact, I’m glad she said something.” He takes a breath, casting a commanding gaze over the room. “If we ignore the tensions within our own alliance, the Empire will surely take advantage of them. The relationship between the Old Church and the Cult of the Cat Saint is part of the reason we lost Garreg Mach five years ago. It isn’t something we can afford to overlook now.”

Veery sinks in his chair, covering his face with his hands. He really doesn’t bear any ill will towards Lysithea and Claude for encouraging that cult, but… by the gods, what a nightmare.

Catherine rolls her eyes. “It sounds like you’re scheming something. Out with it.”

Claude nods. “Very well. With Veery back with us, and his cult only growing while he was gone-”

“Because of you,” Catherine says.

“I won’t deny that I encouraged it.” Claude shrugs. “The cult has been very useful under Lysithea’s watchful eye in our thus-far covert work against the Empire. But with Veery back with us, the cult will have a higher morale than ever. You can leave Leicester proper to me. The Kingdom is firmly rallied around Duke Fradarius, though they obviously aren’t present here just yet. That leaves just the problem with the Knights of Seiros and the Old Church.”

Catherine hums. “You’re not wrong. But don’t think that we’re going to budge on finding Rhea.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Claude says, smiling. “In fact, I want your opinion on this idea of mine. The problem we face is inspiring the hearts and minds of the people of Fódlan. They’ll be crucial if we want to win this war. Restoring Garreg Mach goes a long way, but simply deciding that it’s ours to occupy won’t quite do the trick. What we need is something – or someone – for all of us to rally behind. Faerghus, Leicester, church, and cult alike.”

“That’s a tall order,” Catherine says. “I suppose you have just the one in mind, don’t you?”

“Naturally.” Claude grins mischievously. “I would have brought it up earlier, but I wanted to make sure that she’s okay with this responsibility. The obvious choice is our good ol’ Teach. Think about it. Lady Rhea adored her, even entrusted the Sword of the Creator to her. I’m sure you remember Rhea’s order that if anything should happen to her, we should entrust the affairs of the church to Teach?”

Catherine grimaces. “I remember. You raise a good point.”

Professor Byleth smiles. “Don’t worry. I have every intention of finding Rhea.”

“Hm. I suppose I have no choice but to believe you.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Claude says. “Rest assured, I want to find Rhea alive, too. So, I hope you will cooperate with us, and bring along the Old Church faithful with you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Catherine says. “I will fight the Empire. I know it’s a hopeless cause on our own. It makes sense to work together, and it’s true that Lady Rhea wanted me to follow Byleth.”

“Good.” Claude nods. “I’ve been carefully curating the information around Teach up until this point so that Edelgard doesn’t get wind of her and send reinforcements. That said, with the Imperial army at our doorstep, it’s time to reveal her. Teach will be our figurehead, the symbol of the resistance against the Empire, to a united front rather than having four separate banners to try to inspire the people with. On that note, I’ve asked our beautiful and talented Hilda to prepare something for us. Hilda?”

Hilda tuts, pulling a large roll of fabric from under the table. “Don’t expect too much. It’s just a proof of concept, really…” She unfurls the roll, revealing an immaculately crafted banner. Grey, with a gold and red border, and the Crest of Flames emblazoned front and center.

“You may recognize it as the Crest of Flames, which resides in Teach.” Claude says. “The phantom Crest that has reappeared after more than one thousand years. We’re attempting our own miracle, so it seems like a suitable symbol for us.”

“It is an excellent idea,” says Seteth. “The defense of Garreg Mach will be the first victory under the banner of the resistance, and Byleth’s sword and Crest will inspire the people. Many will believe this is divine providence.”

Ugh. Despite how fortuitous that language is for them, it still leaves a bitter taste in Veery’s mouth. He hates the idea of sainthood for more than just because he doesn’t want the attention, after all. He disagrees fundamentally with the very idea of divine decree being used as a measure of anything.

“Now we just have to ensure that we win here,” Lysithea says. “Or this rebranding will ultimately be a waste of time.”

“No need to worry about that,” Claude says. “We have everything we need to succeed. So long as we’re coordinated, there’s no way the token force Edelgard is sending after us can take Garreg Mach. In fact, thanks to Dorothea’s information, we’ve actually overprepared. As much as we could, anyway. General Ladislava, who was part of the group at the time that Dorothea got her information, broke off on the march since then to fly to Fhirdiad. It seems that she only went part way with the assaulting force and was truly flying to communicate with Edelgard’s allies in the Faerghus Dukedom.”

“Which is good for us,” Leonie frowns, “but we shouldn’t underestimate General Randolph. Edelgard doesn’t do half-measures. If this is all she’s sending, it’s because she believes it’s enough for her aims.”

“True, except Edelgard doesn’t know about Teach, yet. The power of the Sword of the Creator coupled with her skill, plus the morale boost and unity we get from fighting under one banner and a clear leader, is more than enough to turn the tables on her.”

“A clear leader and one banner.” Seteth hums. “We must also ensure we have a clear message that can rally the common people.”

“We’ve had that from the beginning. This new rebranding will just make it more obvious,” Claude says. “Arcadia. As requested by the goddess herself in her revelation five years ago.”

“Edelgard claims to fight for Arcadia,” Catherine says. “You cripple your own message by aligning with your enemy.”

“Normally, you’d be right,” Claude sighs. “But too much of what we’re doing smacks of divine providence. People haven’t forgotten the revelation. If we claim to fight for anything else, Edelgard will turn the people on us immediately, saying that we’re hypocrites claiming to side with the goddess but ignoring her own words. Obviously, we’ll campaign on relief, too, and putting an end to the war, but the broader, idealistic goal is building Arcadia.”

“You are hypocrites,” Catherine scoffs. “You are just using the goddess to get people on your side.”

Claude frowns for a moment, closing his eyes as he leans on the table. “…Regardless of any of our personal beliefs, what we saw in the Holy Tomb during the revelation is simple fact. Sothis connected her heart to Veery’s in the Sealed Forest and gave him the power to heal us, and then later she appeared before us all and gave us the message that everyone knows well by now. It won’t do anyone any good to deny that much.

“But I, for one, agree with Sothis’ dream.” Claude eyes Catherine, gaze hard. “And you know… for everything that she said, even her message to me, personally, it’s what she said to Veery that keeps me thinking. Fly free, she said. Free and alone if that’s what you want. This war isn’t about the church, or the Alliance, or the Empire. It’s about freedom.

“Hilda, Teach, and Veery know all this already, but…” He sighs heavily, looking every person in the room seriously. “It’s about time I laid my cards on the table. I’m asking a lot from all of you, and I can’t expect your trust if I can’t even give you a little bit of mine.”

“Claude, putting his cards on the table?” Lorenz chuckles. “It truly is a miracle.”

“Ha! Be that as it may, I’ll make it plain for all of you. Edelgard has made her path to Arcadia clear. You’re here because you disagree with her. I’d… like to know if you agree with me.”

“Well, we don’t have all day,” Lysithea says. “What are your dreams, Claude? Though, I think I have an idea, already…”

Claude smiles. “You, Lysithea? I’m sure you have me all figured out. But as for my dream… Well, for example… to bust open Fódlan’s Throat.”

Alois sputters. “Bust open the Throat? Wouldn’t that leave us open to attack from the Almyrans?”

Claude laughs, but it comes out almost like a sigh. “Not if they wouldn’t attack us. Listen. I like to think of it as a lid on a bottle. The people of Fódlan only know a small part of the world. Their prejudices are born because they don’t know what lies beyond their borders. And the opposite is true too. Those outside of Fódlan don’t know about this place. Ignorance breeds discrimination. Whether you look inside the bottle or outside of it… If you really look, all you find are people who you can get along with, if you only try. That’s why I want to bust open that lid, which is keeping us locked inside. Or destroy the bottle entirely.”

“Peace with the Almyrans is possible,” Hilda says. “I believe that.” At her words, people hesitate. She is a Goneril, after all, responsible for protecting the Throat. She has more authority than anyone on this particular issue, aside from Holst himself. “And you know Claude is right. Look at Veery! Friends can be made anywhere, and if we only try to get along, we’ll all grow from it, and the world will be a better place. That’s the whole idea of Arcadia – it doesn’t matter who or what you’re born as, we can all live together in peace.”

Lysithea hums sharply. “I was right, after all. Since we’re being honest, I may as well say that I’m fighting for my own reasons. Even so, I look forward to your Arcadia, Claude.”

“We all have our own reasons to fight,” Claude says, nodding to Lysithea. “But that’s the beauty of it! We’re all free to choose our own destinies, to live as we see fit. It’s about freedom. No more artificial bottles keeping us from seeing each other or forcing us to think any particular way.

“You know… I used to think that being alone is the worst thing in the world. I have to admit, part of the reason for my dream being what it is, is because I hate the idea of isolationism. But that’s why it���s Sothis’ message to Veery in particular that stood out to me. She said that my dream is her own, but she also told Veery that he should be alone if that’s what he wants.”

Claude worries his lip for a moment, then sighs. “I’ve always understood that he’s not like me. He needs time alone. But at the same time, I never understood how he can dream of just going off and living completely isolated for the rest of his life. I even tried to convince him to stay a few times, but I know better than anyone that there is no shackling him.”

A beat passes, and Claude’s eyes land on Veery. Veery himself wrings his tail, uncomfortable with the attention. “But that’s exactly why I love him. He is exactly what Arcadia should be. He’s a hermit from another continent, and he comes here and so quickly becomes part of my family. He proves that we don’t have to stay in our bottle, and that the people on the other side of that glass don’t have to be strangers. We don’t even have to sacrifice our own beliefs to get along with others, we simply have to respect theirs. Veery does it, his friends from Albinea do it. Teach, who grew up outside the faith, does it.

“So, let’s tear down the walls between us, not each other,” Claude says. “Let’s make peace with Almyra, with Dagda, with Sreng. Let’s make Arcadia, a place where people are truly free to think for themselves. And let’s stop Edelgard, before she forces Fódlan into just another bottle of her own design.”

War rages in Fódlan for five years, but Veery knows only a single battle. The very first battle of this war, the battle of Garreg Mach.

Once more, he stands at the walls of Garreg Mach, awaiting the impending Imperial army. Most of the town is still in ruins, the scars of the battle five years ago yet linger, both on the landscape and on Veery himself. He holds his arm, touching the ugly scar from Edelgard’s axe, and knows that it is just one of many scars he’s given that day.

Rough hands cover his, gently pulling his hand away from the scar on his arm and lifting that arm so that Caub’s lips can meet the raised line there. Caub snakes one arm over Veery’s shoulder, and let’s Veery’s arm fall to hug him from behind, nuzzling gently into his neck. “War, huh?” Caub murmurs, just between the two of them. “This is really happening.”

Caub is affectionate, but he’s also professional. Veery knows him well enough to know that an embrace like this, on the cusp of a battlefield, isn’t the same as when he’s drinking himself silly and getting a bit too touchy. Veery… probably should care a little more about the invasion of his space. Besides his own feelings, they’re in clear view of their allies right now, and things may be misconstrued. Ordinarily that isn’t a problem, but with the Cult of the Cat Saint no doubt watching him… But Caub will not do this – not now – if he does not need it. So, Veery doesn’t mind.

“Having second thoughts?” Veery asks. He won’t blame Caub for it. Part of him really wishes Caub would stay in Albinea where he’s safe from this, where he has family who loves him, and who he loves.

“Never,” Caub says firmly. He pauses a moment, and then continues in Albinean. “But I admit… I guess I’m not as brave as I thought I was. Now that it’s right in my face… I’m ashamed to say that I’m just about shaking in my boots.”

Veery hums, purrs for a few seconds, allowing Caub to hold him tight and take comfort in the rumbling, and then Caub releases him – is that enough comfort, or is Caub simply backing off for appearances in front of their allies? – and Veery sighs. “You know I’m scared, too,” he says, responding in Albinean as well so that most of their allies cannot overhear. “I still doubt that coming back was the right decision. But… I have faith. Even if it’s stupid and doesn’t make any sense and I’m not sure I’ll survive, I’ll keep going, because that’s what I need to do. You?”

Caub chuckles softly. “I am a proud Albinean warrior. I am a seer and a poet. I am…” he sighs, “happy, so long as I am by your side. And I believe in Arcadia. If I die in this war, in this land, let it be gloriously, in battle, with my axe in hand. I… I am not afraid to die. I am afraid that you will.”

“…Please don’t accept your death so readily,” Veery murmurs. “Survival always comes first. And you need to be there to witness Arcadia when we finally create it.”

Caub smiles. “Walking through the streets hand in hand with an agell… It still astounds me that I can do that here.” He sighs, still grinning to himself. “You’re right. Selfish as I am, I want more. I’ll trust you to survive to Arcadia, and I will prioritize myself in turn, as you wish. If fate allows, we will both enjoy Arcadia personally.”

“What are you two mumbling about?” Sadi sidles up to them, smiling impishly. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Caub coughs awkwardly, pink dusting his cheeks as Sadi pins him with her gaze. “Not at all,” he says. “We spoke merely about the battle ahead. Are you prepared?”

“As anyone is for war,” Sadi says. “I have no doubts in this path, if this is what you mean.”

“Good.” Caub nods.

“Do you smell it, Veery?” Sadi asks, flicking her tail towards the town.

Veery eyes her, frowns, and sniff. Ah… smoke and iron, carried in on the breeze. Yeah, he smells it. Veery nods. “They’re almost here. Just outside the walls now.”

Caub sighs. “This is it, then. Let’s find Hoarvug and Dorothea and get in position.”

The three of them make their way down into the town, where the frontline fighters are already standing at the ready. A few of the old Deer are down here. Lysithea for one, the Deer’s best tactician next to Claude, who is in the lower part of Garreg Mach, the town, while Claude himself flies above it all commanding the defending fliers and Professor Byleth takes command of the defenders closer to the monastery itself.

Lorenz is down here, too, with Thyrsus and his own battalion to lead. Catherine insists on being the front line of defense, but she’s further east from Veery and the others, with the more fervent church loyalists among the knights with her, separated at least a little from the cat saint and the other heathens.

Veery himself is not a general, and thus does not technically have any command, but there is no mistake that Caub, Hoarvug, and Sadi answer to him alone, not to mention how the more ardent cult believers would gladly follow his orders should he give any, and the fact that he’s present at war councils alongside the actual generals, so most common knights and soldiers probably assume he is.

But though Veery has plenty of tactical training from his time working and training alongside the students of the academy, the fact remains that he’s not trained to be a commander. He’s not an actual alumnus from the academy, despite how closely he worked with them, and though he learns a lot about command in practical exercises and on the field, he still does not attend lectures, so his education is half-baked at best.

Part of him feels like he’ll be bad at it, if he has to take command. He’s not good at thinking beyond himself in the middle of a battle, if he’s honest, and there’s no way he can make the tough calls that a war like this will bring. He’d rather follow Claude, or Lysithea, or even, as he is in this battle, Dorothea.

And making Dorothea a general is a heck of a move on Claude’s part. She may be the only Adrestian general in the resistance army who’s not also one of the Knights of Seiros. But no one can deny that she’s a trained commander, alumnus of the Officer’s Academy, and thus qualified for the position.

Of course, despite five years of helping the resistance, her Adrestian blood still leads some to distrust her. Maybe that’s why she has Veery on her team in this battle? Claude knows Veery, at least, won’t put up a fuss about following Dorothea’s orders.

“This again…” Dorothea sighs, looking out into the town. At this very moment, the Imperial army is breaking into the outer walls. The defenders here don’t have the men to hold the outer wall, but they can hold the inner one, where the Imperial army will be funneled into smaller arenas.

“At least Edelgard isn’t here this time,” Veery offers, trying to keep his voice light. Claude always… tries to keep things light in times like this. “And we already took out Randolph once.”

Despite it being an objectively poor attempt at levity, Dorothea cracks a tiny smile. “You gored him; you mean.”

“Honestly, I hardly remember it. Probably wouldn’t at all if…” His voice trails off. If Caspar didn’t tell him later that Randolph is his uncle, is what Veery almost says.

No one needs a reminder that they’re killing old friends and their families. Veery winces and holds his tongue.

Dorothea sadly hangs her head. “I wish we didn’t have to do this.”

“We all do,” Veery says. It hurts his heart, to think of Caspar. Sometime in this war, they will almost assuredly cross paths. Even if Veery is not the one to face him, he will likely be on the battlefield. It’s not so bad with some. Ferdinand is a good man, but one whom Veery has little attachment to. They did not grow close. Edelgard was a close friend, but five years of this all festering has dulled those feelings. Veery… regrets what will come, but he no longer considers her close.

But Caspar… Caspar who he roughhouses with in the training yard, who he dances with and laughs and gossips with. He may not be close like Claude or Sylvain, not family, but he is most definitely a friend. And that feeling in Veery’s heart does not go away in these five years. No, Veery misses him keenly.

And today, Veery is part of the force that will kill Caspar’s uncle.

Veery sighs. “But they chose this.”

“…I know.” There’s a crash. The Imperial army is inside the walls of Garreg Mach. Dorothea takes a breath, steels her expression, and looks out over her troops. “Does everyone remember the plan?” As soon as she has her men’s confirmation, she nods, hefts her levin sword, and takes the first step forward. “Then let’s go. The Imperial army will not take Garreg Mach again!”

Just like that, the battle begins.

In the midst of the fighting, it’s hard to remember that they’re all five years older. Truthfully, the only thing that grounds Veery in this time is the simple fact that, five years ago, he is the only agell in Fódlan. Sadi taking the legs out from under a nearby soldier or Hoarvug ripping open a man’s cuirass are signs too far removed from the battlefield of five years ago that there is no mistaking where they are.

But everything else… Dorothea’s electric magic, the clashing of iron, the fire, the blood, the red… it is as if it is yesterday that Veery walks these streets and finds himself at the mercy of Edelgard’s axe. It could very well be in this same hour, for how these visions blur together so completely.

Perhaps the last five years are not in the past at all, but another cursed premonition, like that moment when Jeralt dies.

There is a moment, surrounded by blood and flames, where Veery hesitates. He hesitates because he realizes that he cannot bear to lose these last five years. If it is all just a premonition, then Veery does not know Caub. He does not earn Hoarvug’s respect or help find Sadi’s cub. If it is only a premonition, then Veery loses part of his family. And he, who is so afraid of betrayal and deception and who is already crippled by one human fulfilling the agell’s prophecies of humans, already betrayed by Edelgard, by Solon, by… by his own faith, which believed the best even in his parent’s murderers… If it is only a premonition, then every moment that gives him real hope, when he watches Caub and the agell learn about each other and fight together and get along, is gone.

Veery is not sure he can bring himself to trust again. It is already so difficult. If that too betrays him, then… it may be impossible.

For a moment, just a moment, as Veery summons a Nosferatu spell, the shape of the magic within his maw fizzles into nothing and dissipates in the smoldering wind.

An enemy falls in front of him. Hoarvug bears a razor-toothed grin and roars. He brushes Veery’s side, and Veery feels… openness. An invitation, the baring of his soul, waiting for Veery to respond. And he does.

Veery opens his heart to Hoarvug there on the battlefield, wondering what the purpose of this distraction is just as much as he appreciates something so unmistakably now to bring him out of thoughts of the past, and then, when his soul brushes Hoarvug’s, when their fur slips together to burn orange, it all makes sense.

The domain of the first god, Chaos, is not war necessarily, but war does fall under her sphere. Like all things, there is Order and Chaos both in war, but even so, few can argue that the battlefield is more firmly in Order’s domain than it is Chaos’.

But Chaos is not simply terror and blood and death. Those do belong to Chaos, just as they also belong to Order. Also life, and light, and growth – growth is so, so chaotic. Tell twenty people to grow as they will, and you will see twenty different paths through life. No order, no structure, can contain the natural growth of people, even as that growth follows rules and structures and meaning that only Order can provide.

Right and wrong, betrayal, deception, trust… what do they matter, here in this wild world? Every individual, with Chaos’ blessing, follows only their own path. Even when they align with others, it is through their own choices.

Hoarvug has these ideals inscribed so deeply in his heart that Veery feels almost as if they are his own. The path does not matter, so long as the decision to walk it is his. Lost in time or not, even if he walks into war, even if he is betrayed, even if he dies, he reaches the end of his path with his own power. It is his muscles, his energy, and his drive that propel him forward.

There is no such thing as fate. A loss of time, a loss of trust… it doesn’t matter, because Veery is not beholden to the world. Every step forward is taken with his strength, and every obstacle in his path is cut down with his claws. If Veery finds he does not like the destination his path leads to, he needs merely to walk in a different direction.

There is no obligation to continue. The path doesn’t matter. In the eleventh hour, if a warrior believes a diversion in his path is for the best, there is no problem with that. The ultimate goal is not the point, and he does not need to be convinced wholly that he is doing the right thing, nor does he even need to follow through to the end if another path is yet available to him. All that matters is that he keeps moving.

A warrior is… someone who walks that path of theirs regardless of what lies in their way. A warrior is someone with the strength to keep propelling themselves forward, even if things look bleak. A warrior is someone with the conviction to cross any border, overcome any obstacle, not because they fight for good or truth or any moral ideal, but because they are strong enough to face those obstacles and keep moving.

And the sun continues to turn, no matter how much any individual so desperately wishes for it to hold still.

A warrior is like the sun.

Is this… really how Hoarvug – big, strong, scary Hoarvug – sees little Veery? Veery can feel it in Hoarvug’s very soul, so there is no denying it. Awe and splendor, warmth, like gazing up at the sun.

Veery fights. He fights and survives because surviving, moving, is what matters in life. Even as his straining muscles fight with him, they do the work to bring him further along on his path towards that ultimate dream of Arcadia, of peace. But the path, the life which Veery is experiencing, in this moment, is defined by surviving.

In Hoarvug’s eyes, in his heart, Veery is a warrior, who shines and who pads along on his path as sure as the sun. They fight side by side, one warrior and another, bonded in battle, part of each other, their souls marked by each other just as their bodies are. Thin lines on Veery’s face, from Hoarvug’s claws, a missing chunk of ear, from Veery’s teeth, conviction and certainty…

Hoarvug laughs when the trap is sprung. Dorothea’s hand drops, giving the order. Veery pulls a rope and sends flaming barrels raining down upon the Imperial army. Some of the town burns, but it is merely the already abandoned, already destroyed part that hasn’t recovered even the slightest from the battle five years ago, in the groove so cleanly carved by Rhea’s dragon breath, where nothing of note even remains.

Fire burns hot like the sun, and Hoarvug laughs, and Veery cannot enjoy this, but he laughs too, because he feels it. He feels what is so enjoyable to Hoarvug, because he keeps brushing against him, touching their souls, searing each other in this battle.

Like a dance with Flayn, he and Hoarvug know each other as if they are each other. Every movement, every attack, every step, every cut, every loss, and every victory is felt by both of them at once. Every motion is as if they’ve practiced their entire lives, because the sharing and listening is so, so easy with this power of theirs. And they are a terror together on the battlefield.

A battlefield is a place where one proves the strength of their convictions. It is not necessarily in the strength of their bodies or their magic, for setting the world ablaze is no less valid than an honorable duel. The point is to survive here in the depths of Chaos. To prove that they can face the most insurmountable odds and still come out and keep moving forward. It’s a visceral reminder, every burn, every sting, every drop of wet blood and scratch of smoke and ash in their lungs reminds them that they are moving yet forward, finding new obstacles to overcome, and that once they’re past this, they will be a few more steps forward, in whatever direction they are walking.

Where they walk doesn’t matter. What matters is that they walk at all. That’s what a warrior does. Let the truest of warriors set this battlefield aflame like the sun they are.

It is in the midst of this conquest ablaze that Veery, Hoarvug, and the others meet Randolph. Veery reminds himself, in this heat and red, that this man in front of him is Caspar’s uncle. Caspar’s family.

Randolph recognizes him. As Hoarvug once more brushes his pelt against Veery’s, there is this twin feeling between them that this is how it should be. Of course, Randolph remembers Veery. No one who encounters a warrior like him can possibly forget. Veery can’t help but puff out his chest a little, pride swelling it. The general of this detachment, which Edelgard so erroneously thinks can take Garreg Mach while these warriors are resolved in defending it, eyes Veery as his greatest threat.

And he is right.

Veery does not want to kill him. No amount of mingling his heart with Hoarvug’s will change that. Frankly, Hoarvug doesn’t delight in death, either. It is not killing his enemy that he so enjoys, but the conquering of another challenge, another obstacle, though he is, unlike Veery, much more eager to end the lives of humans. He is so mired in those old prejudices, though he is getting better about it, that it doesn’t hold the same meaning to him that it does to Veery.

And Randolph… he is Caspar’s family. Veery’s heart aches, and Hoarvug purrs for his sake, and Veery knows what must be done here.

He must bring down the flames of the sun onto Randolph. He must show this general exactly how much of a warrior he is. He must show Randolph that nothing will stop him in his tracks. If he does not… then Randolph will do that to him.

Like the sun, Veery will never stop moving. He pushes magic out of his maw and calls on that constant starshine. The flames of conquest and of conviction and of constancy, which will never die. Veery growls, pure white flame licking at his lips. Dorothea slashes with lightning, her levin sword extending her reach. Caub punches Randolph in the gut with his shield, biting into the neck of another soldier with his axe. Sadi hamstrings a soldier, throwing him onto the spear of another.

Dorothea sees what’s happening – it’s her job to, as the commander here – and orders Caub and the nearby knights back, filling the area they vacate with lightning to prevent their enemy from following. Her eyes meet Veery’s, and they nod together firmly.

Neither smile. Neither want to kill. Neither want to rid Caspar of one of his family members, however removed he may be. Veery cannot imagine how difficult this will be when they face Caspar himself, or any of the others. All the same, they cannot show mercy. This is war, and this is ultimately the choice that they make. This will not be the obstacle that brings Veery to a halt.

So, Veery darts forward, clashing with Randolph. While lightning cracks through the air and ozone, smoke, and ash sting at his eyes and throat, while Randolph’s men come in at him from the sides and Randolph himself holds surprisingly firm in the face of Veery’s flaming maw, Veery releases the blinding light of the heavens, of the ever-moving sun, down upon their heads. Abraxas.

[biffhofosho]

Chapter 3

Up to the next chapter and I hope this will fix the EMOTIONAL DAMAGE that the previous one inflicted

At least we start cute

He wants to play too, omg

HE IS HELPING SARAN I AM SO FULL OF LOVE I COULD BURST!!!!

What no???? They can’t leave earlier??? NOOO

MAGDA you are a blessing!!!!! And I am sure she will be the voice of reason when needed

“As did I,” the queen admitted, “but that doesn't mean that all is lost. Contrary to what you believe, you hold power here, Naran. Women do not have to wield iron to be the strongest in the room. Remember what I told you at the ball: be the right hands. Do not force but guide. There is goodness in your prince. He will follow you.”

Her mooooooooooom,I  am crying

THEY ARE GONNA RIDE TOGETHER!!!!!! CLERVER, CLEVER QUEEN

NOOOO!!  she must let her eagle go!!!! That was very painful, lots of painful goodbyes

And just like that she’s on her way to her “prison” and of course she’s gonna lash out

She is lethal with her words but I am sure Hyungwon can it be too, if necessary

“You’ll do well to remember it then, Your Highness. Let her come to you, for she will, and before too much longer, I would wager. I can see she’s getting restless. She always does.”

Bless you, Magda, you know what’s up

And she’s doing the Lord’s work, well done Magda

“My lady requested me?”

jsdvn;SJNDV;OsndvK\m:kvdms:lvmLKNJKHAGEUIRHUIFJD

Fuck me, this whole conversation was DE LI CIOUS

I meeeeeeeaaaan we all knew he was gonna keep his promise, but reading him saying so IS SO SEXY, she will ride once again!

And the bet? The wager? I AM SCREAMING and them playing  kai bai bo??? Surreal

This ride!!! Wow, so well described I was sweating

Bath time!

OMG THE EMPRESS KNEW!!!!!! But then again she would not be what she if if she could not see absolutely every detail, I am impressed

That last convo, what he wants, ughhhh, and she said yes, I am crying….

And I am done just in time so I will be back later for more comments!!!

Thank you, as always, my dearest heart, for your expert and engaged reading. You always give me so much to reflect on.

NGL, the opening scene with the prince and the princesses was a little more than my heart could bear. IT'S SO OBVIOUS I'M IN LOVE WITH THE MAN, BUT ALSO, TRY AND CONVINCE ME THIS IS SOMETHING OUR HYUNGWON WOULD NOT DO! *breathes fire*

It's cool. I'm normal about things.

Even though my fantastical brain wants to pretend I'm Naran, I'm really just Magda. I feel like she's my actual self-insert lol and will continue to be so throughout the novel.

Hahaha, you came into this chapter hoping to avoid emotional damage and instead get loads of it upfront. :( I sorry.

Jigme's complexities are actually one of my favorite components to this story. She's just a supporting character, but she's also a looking glass into the future, and, like any true parent, ultimately wants the best for her children, but she's lived a life, too, and her own experiences cloud some of her judgments. Anyway, what I'm saying is it's tough to be a mom as we know. :D

We will see more of the prince's temper in its own right. I wonder what you will think of it compared to hers?

Not to be a braggart because I know I'm the author and I probably should be in love with my work since it's mine and all, but I really loved chapter three. We cover a lot of ground emotionally and physically, and especially considering the breadth of the travel time they had to endure, I think the pace came out pretty well in part due to these lovely moments of connection (which you know is my greatest passion).

Ah, the bet. I wonder if that's important? ... >.>

We'll see more of Indeok, too, obviously, because how could we not, but I wonder what sides of her we may also yet see. So much fun to come!

[angelictyphoon]

“It’s true!” Vash laughs, happy to corroborate as he clatters down to occupy the seat besides Wolfwood. “Man could barrel straight through an army.” 

The way Vash’s fork cuts a swath across the griddle cakes, savories, and brighter flavors is illustrative. “That isn’t to say you can’t stop him dead in his tracks by dropping a tiny bug at his feet.”

Granted, depending on the type of bug they were talking about, Vash would be equally squeamish facing it. A topic best not described over breakfast.

He has contributed at arm’s length since the Ark. Not as much as he could have, not enough. He was too afraid, too sorrowful to ever approach Hopeland in person in the aftermath. Trading past stories and sharing good company is a favored pastime, but not here. Speaking in the past tense would have hurt too much. 

“Oh, uh. How ‘bout that,” Vash muses, feigning innocence through a cheekful of tomatoes. Melanie does not need to sing her praises for Vash to know they are surely there. “‘’sh yummy!”  

Paige rises from her seat as everyone gathers up their plates. Armed with the help of several teenagers, she begins to direct all curious eyes on the adult table down to the classrooms for todays’ lessons. If they can progress very far at all through the buzz of excitement and promises of the thing. Her question remains, filled with her own uncertainties.

The Eye has peered into the heart of Hopeland for as long as it existed.

That question hangs over their head every day. As with so many cults, if their followers did not truly believe down to its very roots, no matter how rotten, nor spread their faith equally zealously, then the organization would ultimately wither. Ignorance often disguises itself as belief. What science the layperson could not sufficiently distinguish from magic the Terrans have illuminated through radio broadcasts and an exchange of knowledge with November’s finest institutions. 

Whether any believers remain, hanging onto their faith in the face of capture or worse no matter how unlikely, they do not know for certain.

“The Feds and Terrans have been on the hunt for anyone associated with the Eye of Michael.” 

That gives them more than a fair reason to scrub the sigil from the church walls and banners beyond marking the end of a long line of blessings taken from the orphanage grounds. Despite the many unknowns surrounding them, Vash looks optimistic. “I don’t think you’ll see them anytime soon. We came to help pull down all that old stuff so nobody comes asking after why it’s there.”

Paige’s brow furrows with the desire to know more, but an earnest crowd of eavesdroppers belays further questions. She was not here the day Chapel threatened them all to draw Wolfwood out, and she never expected that she would meet the Humanoid Typhoon in the flesh. Neither Jasmine nor Melanie seem at all worried. Melanie rests a reassuring hand on the young woman’s shoulder, then tips head towards the rear door leading out the back through the kitchen.

“There’s a tool shed right by the greenhouse. Hammers, chisels, clippers, and ladders. Can’t imagine You boys should be able to find everything you need in there.”

“Thanks, Melanie!” Vash exclaims, eyeing the breadth of Wolfwood’s shoulders like they don’t make for a perfectly good ladder up to reach any gonfalons that might flutter just out of reach. 

Melanie smiles fondly at the obvious direction of Vash’s gaze, then continues, “If you plan for full coverage of the grounds I imagine it’ll take the better part of the day.” She gives the group a meaningful look. “This old lady has asked for plenty of your time as it is, but I hope you’ll let us see you off when you’re done.”

And visit every once in a while.

Vash slips his fingertips slowly across the upturned face of Nicholas’s palm until their fingers interlace. Squeezing, Vash holds Nicholas’s gaze long enough to feel the full warmth trapped between their hands. He does nothing to hide the wonder in his voice nor the positively smitten wrinkles that form at the corners of his eyes. 

“Never seen you hold a baby before.” 

Humans are already so fragile, so easy to break. 

“Made it look like the most natural thing in the world, too.” 

Vash would not have trusted himself. It would have been akin to making a promise he may not be able to keep, and Vash has already made that mistake before. Too often. Too many times. There he goes, living in his head about it when they haven’t even stepped out of the room. 

Melanie is percipient. If he were about three feet shorter, she’d be that much more terrifying. 

The second floor as a whole bears far less evidence of childrens’ handiwork. Closed bedroom doors on one side, a small common space between, and the washroom door opposite. They make their way past the cushioned rocking chair sitting behind a privacy screen, a freestanding roll of muslin and lumpy work table covered by heavy cloth suggests sewing and embroidery machines used to repair the many tears, rips, and holes that inevitably visit cloth materials on the orphanage grounds. 

A double-vanity sink ensures washed hands and fresh faces does not take long. 

They can hear and smell the refectory long before they ever step foot in it. High ceilings and open rafters stretch over two tables that stretch from one end of the room to the next. A serving counter extends about half the breadth of the room with a dedicated table for adults attached at the end. 

There are far more children here than they witnessed out in the yard, filling up nearly every bench with chatter and messy mouths. Many of those who did not survive the passing of the Ark left little ones behind, many of whom found their way to Hopeland after the dust settled. Those who did not witness the trio’s exploits were informed in spectacular, hyperbolic fashion by their peers.

The room falls into a bubbling silence that pops as soon as any one of them attempt to announce themselves. 

“Big Brother Nico and his friends! You came back! You came back!” 

Slowed only by the need to clamber over each other and the benches upon which they sit, children fearlessly swarm the two brothers. Pulling at pant legs, shirt hems, and sleeves, all with arguments over which table is the cool table for them to sit at. 

One ginger-haired child manages to climb about halfway up Livio’s back before getting dragged back down to earth by his cohorts. Another enterprising climber soon replaces him.

“Mr. Angel, too! Come sit with us! Come, come!”

“M-Mr. Angel?” Vash squawks, bug-eyed as he’s pulled down by the arm. He flails, waggling his limbs in an awkward dance to keep prying hands away from the gun at his hip. The kids spare no hesitation tugging and flapping the tails of his coat.

“Where are your cool feathers? Pew! You can catch bullets with them, right? I remember!”

“Uh, I’m really not–ah, hey! Let’s not, please–” Flustered, Vash is turning redder by the second.

“That’s quite enough!” Melanie’s voice booms, hushing the clamor at once and scattering the crowd back to their seats. They keep their grumbles under their breath, but a warning glare sets them right. “I did warn them not to get too excited,” she sighs, brushing away a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “But when do kids ever listen when you tell them to? C’mon then, help yourselves and join us.”

There are two other women already seated at the adults’ table. Paige, who they had seen earlier out in the yard, and a darker-haired woman sipping juice out of her cup with a rifle slung across her shoulders. Recognition flickers in her eyes as she looks up to the group’s approach.

“I suppose introductions and re-introductions are in order,” Melanie muses. “We all do our fair share on the grounds, but Paige helps run our classroom and kitchen. Jasmine came back from Octovern not long ago. She keeps an eye out for trouble when she isn’t helping me keep this whole place from falling apart.”

[talldarkandroguesome]

24th of Sun’s Height, Sundas

With no word from Father by dusk, I assumed I was going to have to inform Count Ravenwatch that it might yet be another day. I knew asking for any records on borders or within occupied territories from the last fifty years was going to be a bit of a task.

No sooner had I informed the Count that we would likely be waiting another day, when word came back. They had completed a search of the archive and found something.

I was elated and went to summon the Count at once with the news, asking Cheerz to fetch a carriage so that we might see Father at once.

The Count was similarly pleased by this news of Reezal-Jul and agreed to accompany me to Father’s at once. I invited Gwendis to join us, but she said she preferred to stay, there were a few stories she wished to share with Sildras, if it was permissible. I said I was sure that he would be most pleased by this and had her escorted by one of our new members of staff and told him to let Avon know of my permission for such things as soon as Gwendis was taken and to have one of the Count’s staff have a glass of port brought to her. He bowed and took her there straight away.

Father was at home, seemingly purely on the basis of my request. At such an hour he would never normally be home. Typically he kept himself to the Temple or city archives until late into the night, save for those important social functions that Mother forced him to attend.

In fact, so unusual that it was, Mother was out on the town with some of her own acquaintances. 

Father ushered us into his study, a messy place full of large stacks of books upon most of the floor that towered half way up towards the vaulted ceilings. His desk looked like a summer storm had passed through, every manner of paper spread across it in a thick layer like the aftermath of a blizzard in paper and vellum. Notes were scribbled on scraps and stuck into nearly everything. His bookshelves, so under prepared for his needs that they were turned horizontally and stacked two or three deep upon each of the shelves.

How the mer ever finds anything is a complete mystery. I have seen some chaotic systems of organization before, but Father’s is on an entirely different level from most people I know. I must work hard to keep Sildras from ever reaching such a stated with his books. A place for everything. If you have too many for your study, find a place for them in the library. I will have to ensure that when he is old enough to get a manor of his own that there is ample space for a library appropriate for his needs.

Now, this is not to say that Father only has use of books within his own study. The library in Mother’s home is nearly twice as large as my own. She has a library of extraordinary breadth. Yet Father is not interested in half of those books, preferring a different variety of tomes. Some of which are the ancient and rare types you might expect of an enthusiast, not that his treatment of such books seems appropriate to me, others are of a less intellectual nature. He seems an avid collector of stories of romance. I think he has a copy of every one that has been published in the city in his life time and perhaps beyond.  And he has a few from abroad as well. Every year on his name day I always have one sent to him and he always says it is his favorite gift. Even though I am sure that Mother does the same for him each year. And he is known as a collector of each publication of The Lusty Argonian Maid. He has everything from fully illustrated copies to woodcut collections of scenes. And despite being a rather randy tale, he says that the core of the story is a romantic one.

He also says that the last volume is the best, which simply shows that he is either not a very analytical reader or that he has no sense of taste. Not that the story is not a classic or entertaining, but once you have read a couple of chapters you can intuit how every situation is going to wind up. It is not what one would call a particularly subtle story. And certainly I would never classify it as a true romance.

But I digress.

Father was happy to share the knowledge he had found, that the archivists had gone over all the records multiple times with their search spells, just to be sure that they had missed nothing. And the name Reezal-Jul was a rare one which they had only a single person attributed to it.

Count Ravenwatch and I stood expectantly as Father explained that according to the records, Reezal-Jul had been born in Stormhaven, the son of a fisherman and an alchemist. He had lived in the city until he reached the age of eleven, wherein he had been recorded crossing the border into Deshaan with his mother on a supposed business trip. His mother’s explanation was that she was going to speak with a new business partner in Selfora.

The Count nodded along eagerly until Father paused, then asked when he had made the crossing, both of us expecting it to be a period of some time.

Instead, Father reported that it had been twelve years ago. According to the records in Selfora, his mother’s shop had paid permits for business for about five years before they moved northward.

I could see the hope in the Count’s face collapse, his whole body deflating as Father continued to talk about how this other Reezal-Jul and his mother had been reported to be moving to Skyrim. Father asked if we should like to get the records of the border crossing into Skyrim sent to them from Fort Virak.

With the falling mood in the room, I told Father that we had all that we needed from that search and thanked him for having gone to such lengths on our behalf. The Count followed suit and encouraged Father as he asked, in a near child-like manner, if the information provided had been helpful to us.  I felt almost bad for Father then. It was clear that he cared somewhat, even if it was not particularly much. He had likely used quite of few favors to gain access to that information so quickly.

He invited us to stay for a meal, but I told him we had only just finished supper when we received word from him. Though we did agree to share a glass of cacao tequila he had recently imported from Murkmire. I admit, it was far stronger than I would have expected, the bitterness of the cacao blending nicely with the bite of fire from the liquor. He told me that one of his colleagues had recently spoke of how the beverage was often mixed with hot water, spices, and a single slice of a fruit that he did not learn the name of yet. I could see how that would likely be a very delightful drink, but that it would certainly go to the head faster, being heated after all.

Father asked many questions about the Count’s visit and how he was finding our fair city. I focused myself on indulging in Father’s liquor as he fawned over how the Count was so observant about our history and culture even at his young age. Oh, that he only knew the Count’s nature. Then he could stop with his false flirtations and flippant flatteries. 

Eventually we took our leave, my mind beginning to thrum with the strength and quantity of the tequila. The Count and I returned to the house to find that Sildras had gone to bed, but Avon had gone to seek out Plays-With-Fire again. It left the Count and I some privacy with which to discuss matters after Father’s.

We went to their chambers so that he could share with Gwendis as well. It was disappointing, certainly, and I apologized once more that we had not found more. I told him that, despite that, I could certainly help to gain information about the best places for him to search in Black Marsh should he want to try and learn more directly from the source. I could even speak with Plays-With-Fire about acting as guide to help the Count track down the source of this mage’s power.

He told me that he did not wish to trouble Plays-With-Fire again, though he might be obliged for information on where to head next. I told him that I could provide him with some maps for the journey and probably a trustworthy guide, too, should he be willing.

There was a sort of queer look that crossed his face and he asked if I had any rare alchemy ingredients. Gwendis flashed him a surprised look that he did not acknowledge. I had no idea what it could possibly represent.

I told him that I had a very broad selection of ingredients from across Tamriel and with few exceptions, I did not mind him using whatever he liked if he had need for utilizing my work bench. He had me lead him into the room off the magicka practice room, a place with stone walls and floor and show him my stores. He said that it should be sufficient for his needs and asked about using various ingredients. The ones he was most worried about were ones which were fairly common, particularly in Deshaan’s climate. And I decided to make another of the potions from the day before while he checked to see if he had everything needed in his notes.

We returned to his chambers and Gwendis wrinkled her nose, saying that she hated when the Count spent time mixing potions, that they smelt downright awful to her sensitive nose. I reminded the Count of the hot spring fed-bath and the variety of bath oils and minerals that were available should the smell be offensive to his ward.

He sighed and said he would make use of the oils this time if it would allow her some measure of relief and left Gwendis and I alone. I was starting to thank her for having spent time speaking with my son, when she seemed to be staring strangely at me.

I asked what it was, if I had something on my face. She ignored my question and asked if I had done for the Count as I had done for Fennorian when I was at their castle last.

I was about to deny as much when she told me that she could see the yet healing mark. That sense of danger flared up again. I had little idea how long the Count might be gone for. Instead of panicking, I simply said I had and asked her what had sparked the recognition.

Gwendis explained that she recognized the faint mark of a healing bite mark. That she was well acquainted with how the healing potions caused the wounds to close and that it always left a faint mark around the puncture wound, perhaps something only vampiric eyes might notice.

There was a way that she began to lean forward, as though she might salivate or lick her lips as she sized me up for a meal. I forced myself to stay put where I was. I asked if she was particularly hungry and if I should summon a servant to bring her a meal.

The way her nose twitched, I do believe that she may well have been taking in my scent, discerning if I was going to be an appropriate meal.

I was about to take a step back when she shook her head and told me that she had enjoyed her fill earlier. I was beginning to wonder about leaving my son with her. I had to ensure he was safe.

So I said I needed to check on the servants and made my farewells for the night. I rushed to Sildras’ room and found him fast asleep, candle still burning and book open across his lap.I placed it on his nightstand and blew out the candle and gave him a forehead kiss before I returned to my own room.

And so now I lay in bed and wonder, as I rub the place the Count had drunk his fill of me as I sat in this very bed. And only last night! I will have to remember to keep a close eye on her. I do not think she would harm Sildras, they have some weird sort of connection, but I worry about the fact that I should, in good conscience, offer my blood to her. Perhaps at a time when the Count is around. Until then, it is only thoughts.

[zenosanalytic]

Harrow the Ninth: Blood and Guts; With Feeling!!!

While I’m sure the physical trauma, gore, intentional autophagia, unintentional cannibalism, and necrophilia in the book will be what turns mainstream heads, what really grabbed me about Harrow the Ninth was its unabashed and sincere humanity.

Every character in Harrow the Ninth gets to be a full human being. The best example to my mind is Crux: a gruesome cadaver 2 parts loyalty, 3 parts shouting, and 5 parts sheer bloody-minded cussedness; who blew up a long-grieving, broken family(and their completely innocent pilot) for the “crime” of leaving the place that murdered their husband and father and broke them; who insulted, beat, and tortured Gideon her WHOLE DAMN LIFE. And, also, the major, if not only, source of kindness and sympathy in Harrow’s own.

CRUX!!! Kind uncle Crux sneaking her sweets once a year and whenever she gets sick? Reliable retainer Crux always honest with her about her hallucinations and never judging or dismissing her for them; doing EVERY BIT of what little he can to help and protect her? Soft-voiced and kind Crux being the only member of the household who DOESNT abandon her in the Nova AU? THIS IS HOW HARROW SEES CRUX! The guy who casually kicked and spit on Gideon, who treated her as less than trash and never showed her even the shadow of an ounce of kindness is, in Harrow’s mind, the kindest person in her life. That is Fucking Wild.

Everyone is allowed to be 3D in this book, even when Harrow and Gideon disdain them. Ortus -a too-big blubbering joke in Gideon the Ninth, and Gideon and Harrow’s minds both- doesn’t JUST get to be brave, to be selfless, to confront and face up to and SURMOUNT his mistakes and flaws and then ride off glorious and stupid into Valhalla, he gets something so much more important; to speak for himself. To be Known. Understood. Through Harrow’s petty sniping we get to see the love and care he has for his shitty poetry; through her defensively projected self-loathing his regret, his sympathy, the breadth of his Heart, the loyalty to Harrow which lets him be insulted and also the stubborn pride which insists those insults not go unanswered. I’m tearing up just writing this! We get to see, in his meeting Protesilaus, him struggle with the very image of EVERYTHING he wants to be but isn’t, AND we get to see him resolve that displaced self-hatred to BOTH men -who he is, and who he isn’t- and befriend them both, and realize that the physical distance between them is superficial before the siblinghood of souls, and even more: that the conceptual distance between his ideal and his reality doesn’t have to prevent him from being good. He’s still a side character but he gets an arc, development, a story, and resolution, and HE gets to give its summation. And he’s allowed to be Heroic in his own way! HIS words summon his Hero from The River to speak HIS meter while fighting to save them all powered by THEIR shared belief in HIS Art, and then a heaven of his own defining. What other book does that for a JOKE character?!

And again: this is everybody. Yes of course the souls Harrow unknowingly called up, all those too-soon dead from Gideon the Ninth; We get to see Abigail and Magnus’s love for one another -and the dreadful teens, and their universal big-heartedness- up close, and the refutation of(or perhaps counterpoint to) Ianthe’s selfish conception of love gets to come from Magnus’s lips(oh: and Abigail SAVES THE FLIPPIN DAY! Harrow gets to know her and, through this, we get to know the true tragic waste of her death at the same time that we get to watch her MAKE her own meaning from beyond the grave); we get to see Protesilaus’s bravery and grace and kindness; Dulcinea’s indefatigability and cleverness and morbidity; Marta’s selflessness and unshakeable faith in Judith; we get to see ALL OF THEM run literally soul-risking cosmic dangers to shepherd one grieving, suffering, traumatized young woman -their jailer!- not only THROUGH that grief, but also through spiritual invasion by the product of their society’s sins: Of COURSE that was Noble as Fuck and I was Sobbing.

but EVERYBODY! John, for all his exTREMELY fucked up morality and inability to understand her, GENUINELY cares for Harrow, GENUINELY tries to see the best in everyone(even if, I suspect, that’s for mostly selfish reasons), and we get to see the sincerity of that; his care, and the self-recrimination his missteps bring despite that unyielding, bullheaded, self-warping insistence to continue on one Faustian course after another. The Lyctors in all their twisted, ancient cruelty: we get to see their surviving virtues beside their ENORMOUS, demented, murderous flaws -Augustine’s cleverness, wit and charm; Mercymorn’s outrage at endangering the young; Gideon’s faithful dutifulness; the endless love and sorrow all of them have for their Cavaliers- in the context of the fear and strain and loneliness the Emperor has forced them to endure for ten thousand years. We get to see the true grief and betrayal, fresh and bloody even now, they feel at John’s lies and manipulations, the relief they feel at thinking it all finally over, and even some small glimpses of the love they’ve managed to carve out for themselves in all of that: Gideon’s necrophilic makeout with Cytherea’s corpse takes on a whole different meaning when you learn that the first soul he’s truly loved since Pyrra is driving it around. And this too is significant; for all the discomfort it brings Harrow, and the general gross-out factor, and despite their villainy, the Kindly Prince and his Lyctors, the “Adults in the Room”, are allowed to have desires; allowed to be full and sexual people.

And the same sentiment extends to how Ianthe is written. As much as she is Harrow’s tormentor(and she is); as much as she is a ghastly, gaslighting manipulator(and she absolutely is); we also clearly see that she is Harrow’s fellow prisoner and victim on that station. Her terror is real; her suffering is allowed to be real. As much as they would Harrow, the Lyctors would as soon kill Ianthe as help her, and the Emperor not only allows that mindset but orders it thinking it helpful; just so long as his deniability remains plausible throughout. She gets to be Harrow’s safest harbor in a sea of troubles while ALSO being the person fucking with her perceptions to build in her feelings of helplessness and dependency for the SOLE PURPOSE of getting in her pants. Yet Gideon herself names her joy at seeing Harrow alive Genuine; her love for Harrow, Genuine; as twisted and awful-made by the cruel ideals instilled by her life of entitlement and emotional abuse they are, those feelings are still allowed to be real and heart-felt. Her attraction to Harrow, expressed cruelly and selfishly as it is, isn’t dismissed; Muir treats it always seriously, as she does Harrow’s own desires, and repressed confusion over them, for Ianthe. Everybody in this book gets to be REAL.

Fuck even Alecto. Over and over again we get to hear the Lyctors call her a Freak, a Monster, Subhuman(and given her eyes, those white-on-black oddities, it’s very likely she ISNT human; either a Planet-Soul herself or something even stranger); we get to hear from John’s own lips -the person SHE guarded; HER Necromancer in a pairing we have seen presented as the epitome of intimacy through two books- how he betrayed and “killed” her to calm their fears of her; and yet all the while there she is with Harrow, comforting, advising, never shaming or judging, being the only real friend Harrow’s allowed herself to be aware of.

Harrow the Ninth may very well be “Genre” Fiction, but its emotional universal is not only meticulously naturalistic, it is radiantly understanding and humane.

[eclecticstarlightconnoisseur]

Paying It Forward

Good Evening all,

Ok, I know I haven’t posted the next chapter of Edinburgh to Boston. I am sorry about that. But it has been a pretty bad, horrible, no good end of the year for me. Hubby got sick again and I had to rush him to hospital. He needed heavy duty antibiotics.  He is now ok, but still very debilitated after his illness. Me? I have been taking care of him, going to work, and my characters have decided not to play nice with me. Hubs said I painted myself into a corner. Not exactly, I just haven’t figured out how to get them to do what I want them to do. And I am tired. Which is partially how this fic came about.  

I decided that I would start to read MOBY for two reasons. One, it has been some time since I read it and I am hoping that Bees will be out this year and I wanted to refresh my memory of what happened previously. Two, I was hoping it would help my writer’s block. It did but in an unexpected way. After getting to a certain point in the story, I went to sleep and dreamt the story you are about to read. It played in my head over and over, like it had to some out. So I wrote it and here it is.

Now that I said MOBY:  SPOILER ALERT!  SPOILER ALERT! If you haven’t read MOBY and don’t want to find out what’s going to happen, PLEASE DON’T READ THIS. The story actually draws on ABOSAA, ECHO, MOBY, and a tiny bit from the TV program.

As always I am indebted to @scubalass for her most excellent work as my beta. Also she contributed to the story which made it so much better. I’ll tell you at the end. I am also grateful to @gotham-ruaidh who told me it was different and good. And that I should go with it. The other important thing you need to know is it is written like one of Claire’s voice-over monologues. I know that people hate the monologues, but that’s how it was and I kept to it.

So I give you Paying It Forward. I hope you like it. 

The detritus of the woodland floor muffled the sounds of the Army advancing. Moldy leaves crackled and fragrant pine needles from fir trees helped to disguise their steps. But, it is not in the make-up of the military to travel quietly especially in the 18th century. Horses neighed and harness jingled. Goats bleated. Shot pouches and cartridge-boxes buckled to belts rattled and clinked  Wagons creaked under their heavy loads. Carriages groaned pulling the weighty cannon along. And, of course, there was Rollo, half-wolf, half-dog. The mongrel barked madly harassing man and beast alike as he weaved among them. The voice of my nephew, Ian Murray, called to the animal, “ Thig an seo cù .” Yipping with glee at the sound of his master’s voice, he raced to Ian’s side.  The sounds of infantry on the move certainly broke the peace of the coppice.

Our journey became hampered by the dense forest we traveled through. It was thick with trees, bushes, and bramble impeding the progress of the Continental Army as they marched toward Monmouth. Once there we were to muster with General George Washington and the other battalions.

Commanding this regiment is the newly ordained General James Fraser, my husband to whom I serve as company surgeon. I do admit it was quite a shock to first see him dressed in the full military regalia of a Continental Officer.  I began to tremble becoming a quivering mess when I first took him in wearing an officer’s dark blue and buff.

“Why does it always have to be you? Haven’t you, haven’t we given enough? Isn't it time for you to put down your sword and pistol?” I shuddered as I recalled the failed attempt by Charles Stewart to regain the Scottish crown which resulted in our twenty-year separation. The skirmish at Alamance that resulted in Murtagh’s death and the hanging of our son-in-law Roger which almost cost his life. The battle of Saratoga where I amputated one of Jamie’s fingers. Now, we were being pulled into another conflict. Was it too much to want to return to our simple life on the Ridge I wondered? But Jamie, my Jamie, is a highlander born and bred. A decent man, with strong principles and morals. He is a man of honor and that is not a small thing to be. I watched him as he sat at the head of the column, sitting straight and tall in his saddle like the true highland warrior he is. The breadth of his powerful back and shoulders would leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was born to lead, to command, to this moment in history. And command he would, braving the responsibility of leading his battalion to fight against the oppression of the British king.

Jamie knew the meaning of suffering, cruelty, and loss at the hands of the English. The loss of his home, his country, his own personal freedom came at their hands. And the loss of his family. He had quite the history with the Redcoats. Arrested for obstruction, escaping, then being recaptured. He ran afoul of a sadistic dragoon captain who had him flogged most cruelly one hundred lashes upon one hundred lashes. He escaped again and lived as an outlaw on the run instead of facing the gallows for a murder he did not commit.

Then there was Culloden. Where he, or should I say we lost everything. I was pregnant with our second child; our first child, a daughter, was stillborn. On the eve of battle, Jamie forced me to return to my own time for the safety of myself and our child. Jamie believed it would be his destiny to die in battle. Instead, he lived. Again he went into hiding for seven years living in a cave in Lallybroch. The Redcoats continued to harass his family, stealing what they wanted from the estate. They arrested Ian, Jamie’s brother-in-law as the Redcoats believed he knew of Jamie’s whereabouts. And there was the Highland Clearances which destroyed homes, Scottish culture, language, and their way of life.

Jamie was not driven to this war because of a need for revenge because of his losses, but rather he felt he was honor-bound as a father to take up his sword to protect those he loved. Even if those he loved lived centuries after him.

“Ye said that this was meant tae be Brianna’s home, her country, aye? Then I must do what I can for our daughter and her bairns. ‘Tis my duty as sire and grandsire to see that they will live free, Sassenach.”

And he would do what he must for Brianna, Jem, wee Mandy, and Roger. No matter the cost to himself.  

My mind completely focused on Jamie and our immediate future prevented me from noticing a tall man thin as a rail standing in the middle of the road blocking our progress. Immediately, Jamie’s second in command rode up next to his commander.

The man did not budge an inch. He was rather rough looking. Wearing a knitted cap on his head, his long greasy hair protruded out. A grizzled beard covered his face. His clothes were quite worn having been patched many times. He wore no shoes. In all, he looked quite primitive.

Suddenly, he moved with a decided determination; a man on a mission.  The man strode up to Jamie assuming correctly that he was the man in charge.

A strong downward breeze announced his presence. Most likely the man had not bathed in months if not years. The odor was enough to make your eyes water.

The old man came forward eyeing Jamie like an entomologist studying a new species of bug. Relaxing he gave a tug on his cap and briefly bobbed his head.

“Ye in charge here?” the old coot demanded.

‘Aye, I am. General James Fraser at yer service sir. Might I enquire to whom I am speaking?”

“Mortimer Hepplewhite the owner of this here land yer trespassing on. And I want tae know when ye will be gone.”

“Mr. Hepplewhite, we shall be off yer land as soon as may be. We need to travel off the main road for now as there have been sightings of English troops nearby.”

“Well, all yer clanging and stomping about is disturbing the peace of me home.”

Jamie turned around to look at the property. It had not been cleared for planting nor were there any animals grazing. All that stood in the distance was a ramshackle cabin with a lopsided chimney discharging an inordinate amount of smoke.

“I dinna see any crops, or animals grazing, or people that we might be disturbing, sir.”

“Not disturbing he says! Why I’ll have ye know me Arabella is in a right fit. She doesn’t care much for strangers.”

The recluse, a long-limb man, raised a heretofore unnoticed ball of fur and thrust it under Jamie’s nose. He focused on it intently causing his eyes to almost cross. It hissed, spit, and yowled with great ferocity.

It seemed that Arabella was a cantankerous cat. And was as ill-kempt as its master with matted fur and bald in spots. One fang hung outside its mouth and on closer inspection seemed to be missing an eye.

Mortimer drew the beast close to his chest whispering sweet words of comfort while tenderly stroking its scraggly fur. The cat settled in his arms and even began to purr.

Jamie called to his Lieutenant and leaned over to whisper in his ear. He nodded and rode off to follow his orders.

I sat on my horse watching this spectacle play out. Without warning, I felt the sudden loss of my cat and worried about his well-being. Adso was part house cat and part feral cat. However, he was my cat. He loved to jump onto my lap to snuggle and drift off to sleep. Or lie on the windowsill basking in a sunbeam tail swishing like a metronome. He did wreak havoc in my surgery at times but he was mine, a gift from Jamie. Adso was just as much a part of the family as any of us. So why couldn’t Arabella be this lonely man’s family?  Family is whoever you say they are.  

The Lieutenant promptly returned carrying a bundle which he handed to Jamie.

Jamie slid down from his horse and approached the gentleman.

“On behalf of the Continental Army, I would like tae offer ye recompense for disturbing yer peace. Please accept this small token from myself and General Washington. And for the lovely Miss Arabella, I make a gift of this fish just caught this morning.”

Jamie removed his hat and bowed to the man.

Mortimer truly wasn’t sure of what to make of this but graciously accepted the parcel. He removed his cap revealing a head of matted hair and returned the bow.  He replaced his cap, straightened his shoulders, held his head high as he strolled back to his home, a rich man. A man made richer not for what he received but for the respect given him.

Later that night as I lay in Jamie’s embrace I asked him what prompted his actions on the road.

“Do ye ken the conversation we had in the gardens in Philadelphia? The one about what happened between ye and his lordship?”

Did I remember, he wanted to know? How could I forget?

“Of course I remember, you said that you would mention it from time to time.  Am I to take it that this will be one of those times?”

“Aye, ‘tis. But not what yer thinking about,” he said with a sidelong look. “I’m speaking of how John’s friendship healed us during times of great need. Mine at Ardsmuir, Hellwater, and Jamaica. Yer’s when ye thought I died.” The topic of my hasty marriage to John (for strictly political reasons) was still a sore point to him. He understood it, but didn’t and wouldn’t like it.  

Jamie let out a sigh trying to collect himself before continuing, “Mortimer was naught but a poor lonely old man, Sassenach. And I did not do much for him. I gave him a wee bit of flour, lard, dried meat, apples, and some parritch.” Jamie stopped to think for a moment, “Oh, a razor, a lump of soap, and a fish for his mangy cat.”

“Are you saying that you did this because of the kindnesses John showed us?”

“Exactly so, mo ghràdh . I felt..it just felt like the right thing tae do.”

I raised my face to look at him, “There’s a term for that and it's called paying it forward .”

He looked quizzically at me trying to understand what I meant.

“What that means is when someone does something kind or helpful for you, you return that kindness to a different person instead of repaying the person who originally helped you. Did you know that the man who started this idea is alive now?”  

“Och, aye? Who is he Sassenach?”

“Benjamin Franklin. I think you would like him. He was a founding Father, freemason, inventor, scientist, and a printer.”

His eyebrows lifted at the mention of Franklin being a printer and a freemason. “I should like to meet this man one day. “

Jamie grew quiet as he attempted to digest this information. “Paying it forward,” he rolled the words around in his mouth tasting them. “Aye, that’s it. Just so, I was paying it forward.”

“Jamie, I think what you did was far greater than repaying a kindness. I think you gave him something more than he ever expected. You gave him respect and a way to restore his dignity.”

He leaned over and kissed me, “Aye, Sassenach, respect is something every man or woman deserves.” Jamie stopped to think for a moment, “No man wants to go about stinking if he can help it.” I knew he was thinking of his time hiding in the cave and as a prisoner at Ardsmuir. “There were days I thought I would never get the stink off my body, dirt from under my nails, or be rid of the lice. ‘Twas a small thing but it may make a big difference to him. Maybe it will help to restore his self-regard.”

The following day we resumed our journey. Once again a man stood in the road again blocking our path. There was something vaguely familiar about him. It was Mortimer, now clean-shaven, clothes washed having removed several layers of filth, and much less fragrant. He carried a pack strapped to his back probably containing all his worldly possessions. Strangely he carried a beautiful and well-maintained musket in his hand.

He approached Jamie, removed his cap, and bowed deeply.

“Yer Excellency, I have decided tae travel with ye fer a while. If ye dinna mind.”

“Yer presence is welcome, Mr. Hepplewhite. Find yerself a place among the men. This evening please come by tae see my wife. She is the physician of our troop. She will see tae yer physicking needs should ye have any.”

“I thank ye, sir.” Mortimer replaced his cap, lowered his head, and took a position among the rank-and-file.

Jamie smiled, a pleased look playing across his face. His arm raised and he waved us forward.

As the men resumed their march, a wee black puff ball of fur stuck its head out of Mortimer’s bag evidently Arabella had a wash-up too.

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

Thig an seo cù - Come here dog.

If anyone wants to know, Jamie’s white stallion’s name was Samson. And he sneezed violently when he sniffed Mortimer.

A little bit of history here. Benjamin Franklin lent Benjamin Webb a sum of money to start a business. He told Webb that when his business was successful and he had paid all his debts, he should likewise help someone else like Franklin helped him. In return, that gentleman would have to assist someone else like Webb helped him. Franklin hoped this would continue until some knave would stop its progress. The idea of paying it forward was born.

We can all thank @scubalass for telling me about Ben Franklin and Paying It Forward.  She is truly an amazing person and a fount of information and wisdom. I think that this added so much to the story and found it quite interesting.

Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it.

It is also on AO3 where I am LadyJane518:   https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907349

[lannisterdaddyissues]

since you reblogged a second ask meme, answer for matthew, bates, and tom pls?

DSHGUAFKJDGKDSF THANK YOU ANON ILYSM YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY MAKING MY NIGHT AND I OWE YOU MY LIFE <33333

Matthew:

Sexuality Headcanon: matthew is and always will be bi to me, i physically cannot imagine him being any other way <3 however, he is very closeted and very confused about it bc wtf men don't kiss other men?!?! (hc taken pretty much straight from this fic btw which is probably the greatest fic i've read for any fandom ever)

Gender Headcanon: just cis! i don't really explore gender hcs with characters that much bc i haven't experienced anything like that myself

A ship I have with said character: mary/matthew 2kforever <3 they really are the otp to end all otps and true love didn't exist before they invented it actually

A BROTP I have with said character: tom/matthew!!! their bromance was Everything to me!!!!!

A NOTP I have with said character: thomas/matthew bitch wtf is that i'm going to kill you

A random headcanon: he is a good little church boy who doesn't drink :) this is partly bc he likes to remain in full control of his mental faculties, but he also is reluctant to admit that he just dislikes the taste of alcohol lol. additionally, he is an ace at trivia! he knows so many miscellaneous facts about obscure things from reading books and takes great pride in impressing mary with the breadth of his knowledge whenever an opportunity presents itself

General Opinion over said character: he is my precious cherub and i would protect him with my life ❤️

Bates:

Sexuality Headcanon: my dude, my man, my guy...have you seen his private scenes with robert. he is so bi you can't even question it. he definitely experimented more than once while off at war when there weren't any women around and he has absolutely no qualms about checking out other men whether they're paying attention or not because they normally misinterpret it as his 'ascertaining how best to kill you' look

Gender Headcanon: this is a middle-aged man i cannot believe i have to say this but he is cis

A ship I have with said character: banna of course!! i get that a lot of people on here don't like them or find them problematic but aside from mary/matthew, bates and anna were the reason my mom and i watched downton in the first place

A BROTP I have with said character: oh definitely robert. i want all the war stories of those two, they have so much history and it's ripe for the picking

A NOTP I have with said character: defund his wife

A random headcanon: he always knows exactly what the weather is going to be like on a given day. when asked how he knows, all he says is "i just do" but it's really because his knee starts acting up whenever it rains

General Opinion over said character: he is my emotional support war criminal and i think he should get away with murder actually

Tom:

Sexuality Headcanon: also bi! he has definitely kissed another man at least once just to be sure and is comfortable checking out other men but only when they're not looking

Gender Headcanon: cis male again i'm sorry i'm boring

A ship I have with said character: i liked tom/sybil but i wouldn't say it's an otp. tbh i would probably ship him with matthew if i didn't love matthew with mary so much. i also secretly love brary, their friendship after losing the loves of their lives was just so touching and i couldn’t help reading into it a bit in some scenes in the later seasons 😭

A BROTP I have with said character: again, is there any answer except the tom/matthew bromance?? they were so special

A NOTP I have with said character: i hated edna and sarah bunting so much like can we give tom a new love interest who doesn't make me sick

A random headcanon: he's really good at card tricks! mary will think on a trick for hours after he's shown it to her but she can't figure any of them out for the life of her

General Opinion over said character: hmmm honestly it fluctuates. he had some very frustrating moments in the series where i was like wtf but i liked him from the get-go and i liked him overall throughout the series! i really enjoyed his developing relationships with the upstairs family and i was thrilled when he came back from america

[alesreadings]

Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo.

5 stars.

“No mourners. No funerals. Among them, it passed for 'good luck.” If we added as soundtrack Gimme Gimme by ABBA to this book, it would fit. Can y'all imagine Inej, Jesper and Wylan stealing the tank and running away with that song on the background? Masterpiece. *chef kiss* Six of Crows is by far one of my favorite books. I read it two years ago, after the Grisha trilogy and I have to admit that Leigh Bardugo has improved tremendously as a writer. I consider this a much better story than her main trilogy. The plot, the characters, the writing, the pacing, the descriptions, the worldbuilding and the breadth she has given it is perfection. I'll go in order to describe how much I loved this book. In Six of Crows, we follow six misfits who have a common goal: thirty million kruge. They have to go to the Ice Court in Fjerda, the "safest" prison in the world and rescue, or kidnap, Bo Yul-Bayur, a Grisha who accidentally created a drug called jurda parem, which sharpens and increases the Grisha's powers, taking them to high and unknown levels. We have a sharpshooter who can't stay away from a good bet. A wayward son who was kicked out of his father's house and is underestimated, but is very smart. An ex-convict accused slaver, the world's most handsome, lovable, and idiotic fjerdan brute, out for revenge. A lost Grisha who makes a living healing people and trying to get the fjerdan out of the jail he put him in. A suli girl who is basically a ghost, the Wrath, a spy who defies the laws of gravity and is a sweetheart of a person. And finally, our favorite swindler: the Bastard of the Barrel, someone whom legends have turned him into a monster, someone without scruples, without morals or conscience. Will they be able to unite to achieve their goal and come out alive? Or will they end up killing each other before they reach Fjerda? Plot. As I said, compared to the Grisha trilogy, Six of Crows is perfection at its finest. It's not the first heist book (I've only read this one, sorry), but it grabs you from the first moment. I love that Leigh has taken up the Grisha again - I must confess that I love the Grisha order and how she has placed them - and that in this book she continues to include them as a fundamental part of the plot. Just like the first time, Six of Crows grabbed me, although I never understood why Joost and his chapter, I did feel bad that he was all dead. Each chapter had me hooked and begging for more. Even the very end left me screaming and crying like crazy. I have to repeat it: Miss Bardugo, this is a masterpiece, an exquisite and divine piece. Every plot twist had me in suspense or saying "I need more". It's a more radical departure from what we were given in the Grisha trilogy. They steal, explote things, destroy places and make great entrances, lol

Characters. Kaz "killer cane" Brekker. I want to protect him, and at the same time beat him with his cane. His story is touching at a certain point and makes you understand how or why Kaz became who he is now, why he is such a bastard, arrogant and fearless at the same time. There is never a challenge hard enough for him as he dares to prove otherwise. He shows us that he is one step ahead of the rest, and if he runs out of tricks, our demjin manages and invents more. Dirty Hands is a magician, a monster thirsty for revenge for the death of his brother, Jordie, thanks to a scam Pekka Rollins pulled on them when they were just kids. Kaz is full of secrets, tricks, schemes and more that it's scary to know what he's thinking. He's a bastard forged in the very cauldrons of hell, a seventeen-year-old kid who worked his way up through tooth and nail, using his brother's corpse to swim and get to where he is. Inej "The Wrath" Ghafa. Inej was captured and sold as a slave to the cursed Tante Heleen, who owns a brothel. Inej has the ability to go unnoticed, so much so that Kaz Brekker did not feel her approaching him. In any case, Kaz pays Inej's contract with Heleen and joins the Undesirables, becomes Kaz's right-hand man and his spy, or spider. Kaz and Inej are obviously in love, but they don't confess it to each other because it's complicated, and I don't know if I want to yell at them to kiss, or punch them to make them realize it. Inej deserves the whole world. She can stab me and I would appreciate it. Nina "my queen" Zenik. Nina had joined the Ravkan Second Army and was captured before the civil war in Ravka, she was imprisoned by the drüskelle to be taken to Fjerda to be tried for her crimes, which are basically: having powers. She is a heartrender, order of the Corporalki. She met my other goddess Zoya Nazyalenski. Well, anyway, Matthias was one of the drüskelle who imprisoned her and when their ship sinks, she saves him. Nina and Matthias wander around in each other's company and in the end, she brands him a slaver and Matthias ends up imprisoned in Kerch. One can feel the tension between them: enemies to lovers vibes, yup, I live for that. In the end, to save them all, Nina decides to consume jurda parem and knows that she will experience drastic changes in terms of her power and herself. Matthias "the tulip" Helvar. He is my beautiful baby, the most adorable bear and the cutest brute of all. You don't know how much I have laughed for him, he is so innocent in many things that I want to protect him from everything and everyone. Yes, I have a thing for blond brutes (Nikolai Lantsov, I'm talking to you too). From the first time I read Six of Crows, I instantly fell in love with Matthias and will be in love with him until I die. Amen. I already know what happens to him in Crooked Kingdom and I don't want it to come to that. Seriously he deserves all the love in the world, and even though I wanted to punch him many times, I also wanted to hug him and tell him that everything is going to be okay. In the end, Matthias renounces the beliefs that were instilled in him, accepts reality and becomes a Dreg, fighting against his own people. Jesper "crazy hands" Fahey. Jes is a Zemeni boy who came to Kerch to study at the university, but by chance, he ends up becoming a gambler. Jesper is a Grisha, a Materialki, and only Kaz and Inej know his secret. He is a fairly agile sharpshooter and a gambler who can't resist a good game without knowing he will lose. In a slip of the tongue, Jesper confesses what they are about to do and as they are about to leave Ketterdam, they are attacked. Jesper is a baby and I must protect him from all evil and danger. Plus, I really ship him with Wylan. Wylan "little merc" Van Eck. Another baby. I want to protect him from everything and everyone, especially his bastard of a father. Ugh, I hate him. When Jan Van Eck proves to be the jerk he is in front of his son, I wanted to cry with rage because my little baby boy doesn't deserve any of that. Wylan is smarter than others give him credit for, and

even Kaz thinks that just because he can't read doesn't stop him from doing amazing things; he doesn't put it that way, but I do. Worldbuilding. We find ourselves in a totally different country from Ravka. In the Grisha trilogy, we focused more on a description of Ravka, but now, we have two different places: Kerch and Fjerda. Although Shu Han, Novyi Zem, and Ravka are mentioned again, Ketterdam is a fairly fixed point. The description of the places is incredible: you seriously imagine it as a Dutch city in the Victorian era. Tell me I wasn't the only one. I don't know what else can I say about these assholes that I haven't already said. They're so chaotic, funny and you attach to them really quick, even if you want to kick them. I can't really believe they're 16-17-18 years old: they feel really older and "mature", but once you know them, you realize they're a bunch of kids trying to make a heist. Anyways, I loved Six of Crows with my entire life. I'm a sucker for this masterpiece and I'm really looking forward Crooked Kingdom, but knowing what happens to my tullip makes me wanna cry, scream and destroy the world. We stan Kanej, Helnik and Wesper, bitches. I love my Dregs. :')

[elisaenglish]

Books are my lifeblood. They are the gift my mother gave me, not least of all because – as with the familial generations that preceded her and through circumstance not choice – she never received them herself. Although she couldn’t have known what she intellectually had on her hands with me, she did understand that breaking cycles comes from embracing what you’re terrified to hold. Or to read or to write, especially when you can’t.

It’s a story, I suppose. But never one that I’ve felt is mine to tell – and I haven’t. Except now she’s halfway gone and I don’t know how long we’ve got, I wonder whether I’ll have to reconstruct her one day, that this is my gift, my terror. Not to break a cycle, but to complete one. And if love is immortality, then I have to pass it on.

Whether the goddess is in the questions or the cumulative answers that yield yet more, we are the precipice becoming. Feminism isn’t a label or an identity and, whilst we flirt with ideology, I still think that it’s too politically charged, too abstract in conceptual terms to fully capture the visceral stance – in defence of self and other.

Balanced scales, balanced hearts. Everything in equilibrium.

And no, not in any way or shape or default, always necessarily female.

As to the why? To paraphrase Maya Angelou, Why wouldn’t I be on my own side? A side further in and farther on than socially determined gender norms or archaic modes of being. A side that is not so much a binary line as an opening to what has closed upon itself, either in substance or in meaning.

One word after another, page by page, and on...

As I return once more to books, I remember that my greatest freedom has been that I’ve read from the first unbounded. My literary breadth, depth and contextual scope aren’t confined to the feminist sphere by any stretch of the imagination; but I’ve roamed there nonetheless and, suffice to say, it is the current course.

In this regard, we see tastes trending towards Atwood and a revival of the like but lesser-knowns; Naomi Alderman offers up The Power should you have a penchant for cautionary reversals; but for me, it’s still Carter that reigns and her ever so unsettling castration fantasy – The Passion of New Eve – that litmus tests the nerve:

“At the end of the second month, she took off all my remaining bandages and inspected me without a word. Then she opened the wall upon the mirror and left me alone with myself.

But when I looked in the mirror, I saw Eve; I did not see myself. I saw a young woman who, though she was I, I could in no way acknowledge as myself, for this one was only a lyrical abstraction of femininity to me, a tinted arrangement of curved lines. I touched the breasts and the mound that were not mine; I saw white hands in the mirror move, it was as though they were white gloves I had put on to conduct the unfamiliar orchestra of myself. I looked again and saw I bore a strong family resemblance to myself, although my hair had grown so long it hung down to a waist that, on the operating table, had acquired an emphatic indentation. Thanks to the plastic surgery, my eyes were now a little larger than they had been; how blue they were showed more. The cosmetic knife had provided me with a bee-stung underlip and a fat pout. I was a woman, young and desirable.

[…]

Let the punishment fit the crime, whatever it had been. They had turned me into the Playboy centrefold. I was the object of all the unfocused desires that had ever existed in my own head. I had become my own masturbatory fantasy. And – how can I put it – the cock in my head, still, twitched at the sight of myself.”

Tip of the revelatory iceberg, I tend to think. Although technically it falls under the critical auspices of feminist fabulation. Either way, it’ll reflect his mettle – and yours if you’re up for it.

But I promised you debate, not fiction – layers of the living kind and ours, as women. So here it is, complete with the usual perspectival caveat and varying degrees of intersectionality, my list of eighteen. It’s neither absolute nor essentially prescribed; just what has steered my lens to clarity. I could wind it back to Christine de Pizan’s Le Livre de la Cité des Dames and her proto-feminist assertion that:

“Condemning all women in order to help some misguided men get over their foolish behaviour is tantamount to denouncing fire, which is a vital and beneficial element, just because some people are burnt by it, or to cursing water just because some people are drowned in it.”

I could hover over Wollstonecraft, meander through A Room of One’s Own, abandon Woolf for De Beauvoir, then on to Friedan, Lorde and Hooks, go the Greer or Dworkin route, or the academic one via undergraduate staples such as Judith Butler and Hélène Cixous. I could. But I’m keeping it here and now, and only so far back as I go – and maybe one day you’ll do the same for your girls, for your futures:

Everyday Sexism, Laura Bates

Men Who Hate Women, Laura Bates

Misogynation, Laura Bates

Asking For It, Kate Harding

Down Girl, Kate Manne

Know My Name, Chanel Miller

Cunt: A Declaration of Independence, Inga Muscio

Rose, Inga Muscio

Bitch Doctrine, Laurie Penny

The Mother of All Questions, Rebecca Solnit

Whose Story Is It Anyway?, Rebecca Solnit

Three Women, Lisa Taddeo

Full Frontal Feminism, Jessica Valenti

The Purity Myth, Jessica Valenti

Sex Object, Jessica Valenti

The Beauty Myth, Naomi Wolf

Promiscuities, Naomi Wolf

Not All Dead White Men, Donna Zuckerberg

Occasionally I wonder whether I would’ve wanted someone more like me for a mother. I wonder if we would’ve had a different dialogue, a different ending. But then I remember that without who she was – and is on her better days – I wouldn’t be me.

Read freely, ma fleurs. Be well in yourselves, have faith in each other. Now let’s go build a thing. Because that’s who we are, and these are our verbs – compose, construct, cultivate. Here, now, always. So we are, together.

[xserpx]

Somewhat nebulous thoughts on Gorst, heroism, and what it means for AoM

Seeing Reddit bros sympathise with Gorst -> me thinking about Gorst -> me thinking about Byronic heroes -> actually makes me want to read the Brontës, just to better explore what I think Abercrombie was doing with Gorst - which is thrusting the Byronic hero into mundane reality to face the fact that all that brooding and narcissism and "dangerous" reputation is in no way admirable, and is instead rather pathetic actually.

Gorst believes himself to be a romantic hero sweeping in to save Finree. He imagines himself to be a war hero winning glory on the battlefield. There are times his sense of persecution might feel justified - who doesn't want to write a letter to their boss calling him a Fuck-Hole? - but at the end of the day Abercrombie writes:

'You went to a ford, and a bridge, and a hill, and what did you do there except kill? What have you made? Who have you helped?'

He stood there for a moment, all his bravado slithering out. She is right. And no one knows it better than me. ‘Nothing and no one,’ he whispered.

She is right. Even Gorst himself admits that. Perhaps you could make an argument that making things and helping people wasn't ever Gorst's goal, that there is some substance in striving for honour and glory and personal redemption... but I really don't think that's what Abercrombie is trying to say here at all.

The 'winners' of the Heroes are the characters least comfortable with sticking swords in people: Finree, Calder, and Beck. Their femininity/weakness/cowardice means they don't qualify as 'heroes' in the same vein as Whirrun or Gorst or Black Dow, but they're the ones who actually make things better for themselves, have families, have lives beyond war and fighting. Beck chooses to stop following in his father's footsteps and goes home to his mother instead, Calder chooses to hand power to his older brother rather than claiming the glory for himself, Finree gets (almost) everything she wanted through diplomacy alone.

In contrast, Craw and Dow often think about hanging up their swords for a life of trade. They never do. Tunny is fully aware there's no helping him at this point. And Gorst is, I think, Calder's direct opposite - a single man, a warrior, battling against how he thinks people perceive him rather than leaning into it the way Calder does.

Gorst also has physical issues that he sees as emasculating him: his high voice, his impotence. It's only in committing violence that Gorst becomes an example for other men to follow, but of course, in Abercrombie's world and in the Heroes especially, violence is a form of impotence. The war destroys farmland, wrecks families, and at the end of the day it's just a proxy war between wizards.

I love Gorst, truly. He's absolutely fascinating and I definitely think there's room to feel sorry for him. Unlike some I don't think he's a full-on incel - he puts Finree on a pedestal rather than blaming her for not choosing him, which, y'know... is a hair's breadth better than blaming all women for everything, I suppose - but at the same time, I love the subtext in this book and how it totally crushes Gorst's Byronic vision of himself. No one actually makes fun of him, aside from the woman he's creepily obsessed with. His flowery inner monologues are shown to be pretentious fantasising. The dark past that haunts him is a badly timed rendezvous with a sex worker followed by a tumble down some stairs. He's convinced he's a joke, and he absolutely is, but not for the reasons he thinks.

Abercrombie's writing always caters to meta analysis through subversion of tropes, playing with expectations, and laying the subtext on thick. He does it amazingly with Gorst. It's just a shame that many blokes who read the book manage to miss all of that and make it all about who has the biggest fucking sword.

I also wonder where this leaves Leo and Stour, as natural progressions of these ideas. Both men are obsessed with the idea of glory and heroism. Stour leans more toward violence while Leo leans more toward honour. Against the backdrop of AoM, where revolution and war are the only things that might be capable of unseating Bayaz from power at this point, will violence remain impotent, or will it actually manage to effect change? Will Leo actually become a hero, and what will that mean? What happens when two warriors are forced to stop fighting? Their stories have been running almost parallel thus far, is this where their paths diverge? Once again, we have a character who might serve as Calder's opposite, his shameful legacy, and I'm wondering if there are any lessons Stour might actually have learned from his father. Same with Leo, to be fair. And then there's Rikke who seems like she's half way to dragging the North back to the Dark Ages. A good chunk of my excitement for TWOC is to see whether Abercrombie builds on the message of the Heroes at the end of AoM or if he calls it into question in some way.

[codylabs]

December’s Wrath

Chapter 1

It hadn't been a simple decision to leave California and his family and his sister to go spend the holidays in Gravity Falls with Wendy. But that was the decision he had made, and by the time he was really starting to question whether or not it was the right one, he had already crossed the state line into Oregon, and the rumble of the bus's engine had lulled him halfway to sleep. Thoughts like his parents' and his grandparents' disappointment at his absence, thoughts like Mabel wishing he could be there to see her new Hanukkah sweater, thoughts like the price of the bus fare, thoughts like the incomprehensible breadth of miles increasing between him and home, thoughts like the knowledge that the Corduroys had 'apocalypse training' instead of any kind of holiday celebration, thoughts like he wasn't prepared, thoughts like high clouds and dark trees and rare sun, these were the thoughts drifting through his head. Thoughts like he was right. Thoughts like he was wrong.

It was a starless night outside the bus, so all he could see beyond the window was a foot and a half of whirling snowflakes, and his own reflection, both layers tinted a grim color by the bus's pinkish interior lights. Crystals of frost were growing on the outside of the window, his breath was condensing on the inside of the window, and he was fast asleep a minute later, and his dreams were sad and lonely and brave and cold, cold, a terrible and cutting cold that pierced to the bone, clawed like an eagle's talons. His dream was a walking dream, while Wendy called him forward and Mabel called him back. The wind was calling too, but not in any specific direction. It just called.

The dawn came around 8:00, he woke up around 8:30, the bus left him at the stop around 9:00, and Wendy met him around 9:01. He almost didn't recognize her at first, beneath the layers of unfamiliar winter clothes, the gloves twice the size of her hands, the grey jacket and the baggy pants. It was only her face by which he identified her, peaking out from the middle of the hood. There was a light in her eyes and a smile on her lips, and he only barely had time to recognize her before she grabbed him in a hug and lifted him off the ground. "EEEEEYY It's good to see you man!" She hollered as she twirled him around. Her words were drowned out for a split second by the hissing of the bus's brakes as it moved off down the road. "How's it been going?"

"It's been going good!" She hugged her back until she set him back down. His backpack threatened to tip him over as he landed but he managed to catch himself. The ground was icy. He took a deep breath of the chill air as he shrugged the pack higher onto his shoulders and tightened the straps. "Good to see you too! I've really been missing this place! And, uh, and you, and everyone. How about you? How have you been?"

"Oh, same, you know how it is!" She punched him in the shoulder. Her breath crystallized in the air in front of her smile, and for just a moment, she looked to him like the most beautiful thing in the world. "Same as last time you were here, same as last time you called, same... I mean, what changes, man? School still sucks, weather still sucks, life's going great."

"Mood." He agreed, even though school had never really sucked that much for him, and the weather wasn't too bad, was it? It had stopped snowing, at least. "Anyway, I packed as best I could, I got my whole winter... Outfit. On." He gestured inclusively to his heavy jacket, heavy boots, three pants, and gloves, and took some reassurance that she was dressed similarly. "And uhhh toothbrush and sleeping bag and stuff. Is there anything else I need? I've never gone hiking in the winter."

"Nah, you're good. And if you're not, don't worry, we don't set out until after breakfast, and dad'll get you squared away once we get to the house." She led the way toward the Corduroy truck, parked on the roadside. "You got a change of clothes at least?"

"Yeah."

"Eh." She gave a dismissive shrug as they climbed into the truck. "You'll be fine." She was right, she was wrong.

As Dipper tossed his backpack into the back seat and made to close the door, his vision was almost completely obscured for a moment as a gust of wind pushed the vapor of his exhale back into his face. He blinked for just a moment, almost startled, and then as his breath dissipated, his eyes landed on the forest.

The forest.

It was the same forest he'd known before. The same valley, the same cliffs, the same mountains, same dome, same trees, same grass and ferns, he recognized that bend in the road, and that sign, and that water tower. But at the same time, this couldn't be the same place. Could it? The old woods were green, green and brown, and crowned with gold beneath a blue sky. These woods were grey. Grey within grey, grey as pale as snow on the fingertips of the trees and grass, grey as dark as night in the spaces beneath. The sky was grey too, no blue, no shapes of clouds, no penetrating ray of sunshine, all the world stood as if encased in prison.

It was beautiful, to be sure. Beautiful as art. But Dipper couldn't shake the nonsensical feeling that the bus had taken him to some alternative reality, some timeline where the bombs had dropped or the sun had gone out or time had frozen, that his eyes were seeing some grim warning vision and not reality. As he gazed out at that sight that used to look like a playground or a second home or some magnificent untold adventure waiting to happen, he thought, at this moment, that it looked something more like an enemy; a world-sized monster, some overbearing rival of mankind itself. He found himself sizing it up.

As Wendy watched him doing so, watched his eyes travel the landscape with a look so needlessly grim and fearless, for just a moment, he looked to her like the most handsome thing in the world. "Eh, I guess the weather's not so bad." She shrugged.

"...Yeah." He finally climbed fully inside and closed the door. "Not so bad at all." He was right, he was wrong. They rolled off down the road, toward the tall old woods where the Corduroy cabin lay hidden.

Dipper had been expecting some sort of grim, apprehensive, even frightened mood when they entered the house, (the whole 'apocalypse' motif having prepared him for the worst) but was pleasantly surprised to find the place full of laughter. Dan was bent over the stove cooking pancakes and shoveling nuts into bags, while the boys zipped around the house with their backpacks, thinking and rethinking and packing and repacking. Conversation loud and boisterous filled the air, about past trips and future trips and present trips, about weather and trees and old campfire stories and whatever else lumberjacks and mountain men talk about. Wendy joined right back in with it too, reminding her dad to bring the jerky, telling her brother to find the radio, getting told by another brother to bring an extra jacket, and all five of them were arguing about whether one person should carry all the toilet paper, or whether they should all bring their own, or whether they should just rough it off the land and wipe with leaves.

Somehow, though was no tree in the house, and no presents or decorations or cookies or little colored lights either, something about the joy and the togetherness of it all struck Dipper as belonging to a Christmas mood.

"YOU." Dan boomed down in Dipper's direction. He spun with a start to look up into the enormous man's face. "You got a knife on ya, boy?"

"Uh y-yeah. Got one right here." He nodded.

"Got matches?"

"Nope."

"You'll need matches." Dan tapped one enormous finger on a paper on the fridge; a packing list. "Need all this on here. Ask Wendy if you don't know where anything is."

"Awesome. Okay." As Dipper joined the rush, a smile touched his face, and he began to suspect that this would be a good Christmas after all. Different, for sure, different of course, but it may not be so hard, it might not be so worse. This was family, after all, a very close and loving family, and when a family is close and loving, nothing that ever happens to it seems quite so bad.

And besides, Christmas was more than just presents and decorations, wasn't it? More than just a few colorful nonsense traditions. A lot more.

But without all that, what was it exactly?

They were all packed by the time pancakes were done (As they had to be. Part of the Corduroy tradition was to leave immediately after breakfast no matter what; in a real apocalypse they wouldn't have much more warning than that, after all.) With Wendy's help Dipper had managed to get packed with everything on Dan's list, all except for a compass; the family had only six, and the sixth wasn't for using. He'd just finished zipping up his pack by the time breakfast was ready. The warm smell drew them together into the kitchen, and they set in.

"What was your name again?" Dipper looked up from his pancakes to see Wendy's youngest brother frowning across the table at him, mumbling words through a full mouth.

"Dipper." He nodded, and realized he'd never actually talked with any of Wendy's brothers, and didn't actually know anything about any of them. "...I never got you guy's names?"

"I'm Gus." The 11-year-old pointed a pair of thumbs in his own direction. "I'm the cool one."

"And I'm Marcus." Said the 15-year-old, and extended a hand to shake Dipper's. "I'm the actual cool one."

"I'm Wendy." Said Wendy, not even looking up from her phone. "I'm your girlfriend."

"I'm Kevin." Said the 13-year-old. He glanced Dipper up and down. "I bet I could take you."

That took Dipper off-guard.

Wendy snorted.

"Hey, be nice." Marcus snapped. "He's a guest!"

"You be nice." Kevin retorted.

"Everyone fight!" Gus cheered.

"EVERYONE BE NICE!" Dan thundered.

Silence descended rather immediately. u could take him. Wendy texted Dipper under the table.

Not gonna try???? He texted back.

By 10:00 their packs and supplies were all stacked in the back of the truck, and they were underway.

By 10:30 the truck was parked and locked at the end of a narrow logging road, with six sets of footprints leading away from it, deeper into the woods.

That was Friday, the 20th of December. Next week on Wednesday would be Christmas. The very next day, Saturday, was the solstice, when the days would be the shortest of the year and the sun would be dimmest, and the things the light drives out would feel most free to rise.

By 11:00 they were out of range of the cell towers, and there was nobody who could help them.

The sun flared yellow through the briefest gap in the overcast sky.

The wind howled.

A tree broke and fell with nobody to hear it.

The spirit heard it.

[buckybarnabus]

The Dance of These Things

Summary: Dawn and Bucky go to a gala.

Warnings: Some cursing. Moderate alcohol use. A broken wrist? Mostly fluff

Word Count: 5.4k oops

A/N: Next part of my Snapshots series involving Bucky Barnes and OFC Dawn. I can’t for the life of me write a whole multi-chaptered story, so this will be a series of one shots in no particular order that may or may not develop into something coherent over time. You can also read on AO3 if you want. Thank you!

“Tell me again why we’re here?” Bucky grumbled as they walked through the parking lot. Dawn shot him a look.

“Because Sam is our friend and he asked us to come,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“He’s your friend. Not mine,” he said, sounding much like a petulant child.

“He spent like two years of his life looking for you under every leaf and pebble he could find. ‘Not friends’ my ass. I actually think that might even qualify as bestie material,” she teased. Bucky tossed a scowl at her.

“As what material?” he asked. “You know what, no. I don’t care. He only went looking for me because Steve needed help. That doesn’t make us friends.”

“Right, because that makes sense. You’re only friends when he’s not asking you to go to a gala in commemoration of saving the universe,” Dawn drawled. Bucky huffed.

“Yeah, not exactly the place for someone like me,” he muttered. That made Dawn pause. She looked at him as they walked, and it hit her, way later than it should have. She should have known better. Bucky felt like he had no right to be there. All of the extra grumpiness made sense, suddenly, and she could see it then in the furrow of his brow, the clench of his jaw. He wasn’t mad, or pouting about having to go to some fancy party. He was nervous. Maybe a little scared.

“Hey,” she said, grabbing his wrist and planting her feet. She stumbled just a little in her heels as Bucky’s momentum kept him going for a couple steps. She felt him stiffen up at her touch, but she ignored it. He’d gotten better about contact, after that night she cut his hair, but it still wasn’t exactly easy for him. One step at a time.

He heaved a heavy sigh as she tugged him to a halt, and he looked over her head, exasperation in his face. “Look at me,” she said. He acquiesced after a stubborn moment.

“What?” he snipped. She stared at him. There were a million cliché things she wanted to wax poetic about, but she found herself at a loss. If she said any of it, she knew it would just work him up even more. Calling him a hero would probably send him into hysterics.

“I don’t know,” she said dumbly. She chewed at her lip briefly, forgetting for a moment that she was wearing lipstick. It claimed to be smudge proof. She was, apparently, going to test the claim whether she meant to or not. She sighed and fixed him with what she hoped was a meaningful look. “I get it, okay? My track record isn’t all that pretty either. It’s just one night. Just a few hours. People are here to celebrate being alive and throw obnoxious amounts of money at foundations. You know, if nothing else, we can just sit at the losers table together, and you can watch me get drunk,” she said, offering a sly little grin and a squeeze to his wrist.

Bucky looked at Dawn for a moment, didn’t say anything, his jaw still working overtime with his stress. But a certain softness worked its way into the edges of his eyes as he took her in, and it made a certain little shiver run up her spine. She felt almost exposed under his gaze. A tiny little grin made its way onto his face, and he gently slipped his wrist out of her grip to carry on walking.

“Well, don’t get too drunk. I’m not carrying you through the parking lot if you can’t walk straight,” he said over his shoulder.

He was tense as they walked up to the entrance of the building, people loitering outside, one or two of them staring from the sidelines. Dawn couldn’t be sure if Bucky noticed, but he paid it no mind regardless. She managed to weasel her way in front of him, giving the name to the bouncer at the door. They found Sam not five minutes after going in, and a wide smile spread over Sam’s face when he spotted them.

Dawn let out a low whistle as Sam flounced up to them, giving him an exaggerated once over. “Look at you, Wilson, Jesus,” she exclaimed. “You’re gonna piss a lot of married men off tonight, looking like you do.”

“Please,” he scoffed, giving her a hug and a light kiss on the cheek in greeting before holding her at arms length to get a good look at her. “Have you seen yourself? I think I just fell in love with you a little,” he said. Then, genuinely, “Dawn, you look beautiful.”

“If you two are just going to fawn over each other all night, I’m going home right now,” Bucky drawled. Sam smiled upon seeing Bucky.

“Look at you, man. A haircut, no tactical gear. If it wasn’t for the staring thing, I never would have thought it was you. Didn’t even think you owned a suit,” Sam said by way of greeting.

“I didn’t,” Bucky said flatly. Dawn tried to hide her smile. She had all but dragged Bucky, kicking and screaming, to the suit store a few days prior, when he was still adamantly refusing to to go the gala. Sam chuckled and smacked him on the shoulder.

“You look good, Buck. I’m glad to see you came,” Sam said.

“I can change your mind, real quick,” Bucky said. Despite the grouchiness, there was still a little lilt of jest in his voice, and Dawn was going to count that as a success. Not a minute later, someone else was calling for Sam’s attention, and they parted ways with promises to catch up later. Dawn spun on her heel to face Bucky.

“I think it’s time for a drink,” she chirped. Bucky gestured toward the bar.

“Agreed. Lead the way,” he said, a tight smile on his face.

To his credit, Bucky was doing just fine, making small talk with those who approached him, whether it be by Sam’s introduction, a familiar face, or the occasional stranger.

The pair had actually ended up getting separated after a little while, though Dawn made certain to keep him in her sights. A trio of old men had apparently decided to adopt Bucky while Dawn was just a little caught up letting some rich older lady talk her ear off about the donation she was making. Which was fine. The woman could flaunt her money all she wanted for all Dawn cared, so long as she was doing something useful with it.

But alas, that conversation came to an end when the woman suddenly saw someone she knew across the way and promptly forgot about Dawn, gliding across the room as she hollered and waved. Dawn blinked a few times before looking briefly over toward where Bucky sat, to find him already looking at her. She rose a brow at him in question. He gave a little grin and a nod, and she smiled brightly before wandering off back toward the bar for another drink.

She ordered one for herself, and another for Bucky with every intention of meeting back up with him and his old men soon, and leaned patiently against the bar top as she waited. There was a man standing near her- nondescript, a little sweaty- sipping on a beer. She didn’t pay him much mind as she waited, simply offering a polite grin when they briefly locked eyes.

“Hey,” the man said, giving her a weird grin as he pointed at her. “I think I know you.” Dawn immediately had a bad feeling about it.

“I think you don’t,” she responded, clipped, but trying to remain at least a little polite.

“No, I see it now. I definitely know you,” he said, scooting a tad closer. “Can you guess how?” Dawn took half a step away.

“I don’t really do guessing games,” she said, haunches quickly rising.

“You’re an assassin. You kill people,” the man said, and she caught the look in his eye. He was either very drunk, or way too excited to talk about things she didn’t want to talk about. Seemed like a little bit of both.

“That’s a bold accusation to put on someone who potentially kills people,” Dawn said, eyes flitting around for a possible escape.

“It’s true. You’re the Serval, I know it. I saw you in the S.H.I.E.L.D. files when they were leaked,” the man continued, Dawn’s attitude going right over his head. She gave him an incredulous smile.

“Oh, you’re one of those deep diving types, huh? Must’ve dug pretty far into those, the Serval wasn’t very high up in the ranks,” she said, giving the bartender a light thanks as she dropped the drinks off.

“I can prove it. The Serval’s got the brand of the Handler, right on the back of her neck,” the man said, eyes darting to the back of Dawn’s head. At the mention of the Handler, Dawn was suddenly in full fight or flight mode. She was just trying to have a nice night.

“You sound a little obsessed there, buddy,” she said, voice flat. “I wouldn’t test that theory if I were you. Excuse me,” she said, making to pick the drinks up and escape the situation. His hand was wrapped around her wrist, then, strikingly quick for a drunk man. It took every ounce of willpower Dawn had not to drop him right then and there.

“Let me go,” she said, surprising herself at how calm she sounded.

“Come on, just let me see it,” he said, other hand moving toward the back of her head. Dawn was a hairs breadth away from kicking the mans knee out when a familiar whir of metal was swiftly followed by the hand it belonged to. Bucky had the mans floating arm caught in his left fist, twisting the wrist sharply and painfully down and out of Dawn’s face. It happened so quickly, so subtly, no one around them even seemed to notice.

“This ain’t a game you want to play, man,” Bucky growled at the man who’s face was contorted in pain. “You’re gonna leave, and hope neither of us finds you later. You know, especially with her being a potential assassin and all.”

With that, Bucky released the mans arm, and the pair watched him crumple before stumbling off in a hurry, tail between his legs. Dawn didn’t bother questioning how he heard the exchange. They’d been through it before. He heard it all, so he said.

“Were you a drama major in your past life? Because that was pretty dramatic,” Dawn teased, hiding what definitely felt like a stiff smile behind her glass as she took a hefty swallow. Bucky looked her over quickly, assessing her body language for unease.

“A little theatrics can go a long way,” he said when he seemed satisfied that Dawn was mostly fine. “You think it scared him?”

“Maybe a little. That, or the broken wrist,” she shrugged, picking up the drink she’d gotten for him. “Got you a refill,” she said. He huffed a breath of laughter and took the glass.

“You went through all that trouble just for me? You’re a peach,” he teased.

“What can I say, I’m a hell of a date. I know how to treat ‘em,” she shrugged.

“I’m sure you do, Donnie,” he said. They fell into an amicable silence after that, but before either one could decide to start talking again, the crowds attention was drawn to the head of the hall, where the presenters of the gala were starting some big speech.

It really was a nice speech, all things considered. Well spoken, hopeful. Bittersweet, but overall optimistic about the world trying to get back on track. As galas went, full of rich, slightly sheltered people who didn’t really understand that things were still going to be rough for a long time, Dawn supposed it could have been a worse crowd. They had hope that things could be good, given the right resources. It made sense that Sam was so eager for them to go.

Sam had reappeared out of seemingly nowhere not long after the speech had ended, and the music had started back up.

“Dawn, you mind if I steal you from your date for a little while? I’m dying to dance with someone under sixty,” he requested, earning a giggle from Dawn.

“Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time? Wooing all the old ladies?” she asked.

“I’ve been drowning in Chanel Number Five for like an hour. Please, I need a break,” he whined, coaxing a proper laugh out of her. She turned to Bucky, then, the silent question on her face.

“Go ahead. I’ve got a conversation to get back to,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the table of old men he’d been talking to previously.

So Sam offered Dawn his arm and led her out onto the dance floor. They fell into form easily, and began moving with the music.

“So Bucky made some friends, huh?” Sam asked, raising a brow in amusement. Dawn smiled.

“Yeah. A bunch of old men, naturally. They’re probably just swapping war stories or something, I don’t know. Whatever old men talk about,” she said.

“Of course he’d fall in with them, cranky old bastard,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “At least nobody’s giving him any trouble.” Dawn shrugged a shoulder.

“He’s already broken a wrist tonight, I think he’s filled his quota for the time being,” she said.

“He what?” Sam baulked. Dawn laughed lightly.

“Don’t worry, it was very subtle. We’re staying out of trouble, I swear.”

“No, no. You aren’t getting out of this so easily. Why the hell is Bucky stealth breaking people’s wrists?” Sam prodded.

“The guy had it coming, honestly. He grabbed me. Trust me, I would’ve made a bigger scene if Bucky hadn’t stepped in,” she said.

“You two are going to be the death of me, I swear to God. Can’t stay out of trouble for one damn night, can you?” he said, giving her a little spin.

“Gala’s can’t stop a couple of wild animals, Wilson,” Dawn winked.

“And yet here you are, schmoozing with the best of ‘em,” he said, shaking his head fondly.

“I mean, I look sort of nice tonight. Might as well play the part, you know?” she said, earning a chuckle. They bantered easily for a bit before falling into quiet and letting the music guide them.

“You know,” Sam started after a few stanzas. “I don’t think Bucky’s danced since the forties. Steve said he used to go dancing all the time,” he said, pointed. Dawn snorted.

“What, you think he’d go for that now? No way. It was enough work just to get him to come here,” she retorted.

“You should ask him to dance. Since, apparently, he can deny you nothing,” Sam said, still with the stupid pointed look. Dawn was willfully ignoring it.

“I think he’d sooner rip his other arm off. You know how he is about touching,” she said.

“I don’t know about that. I don’t think you’re seeing what I’m seeing, Donnie,” Sam said.

“Oh? And what’s that?” she prodded.

“Right now, I see Sir Grumpalot sitting over there looking like a kicked puppy because someone else is dancing with his girl. Seriously, the dude is straight up pouting.” Dawn shot him a glare.

“I’m not his- he always looks like a kicked puppy, that’s just his face.” Sam smiled at her, a soft, warm thing. She felt small under it.

“To you, maybe. That man is an immovable object when he wants to be. Unless it comes to you. Then, sad little puppy, always ready to please.” She huffed at him as the song ended, and reached up to pat his cheek.

“Alright, Samwise, keep telling yourself that. I’m not nearly drunk enough for this conversation. Thanks for the dance. Back to the cougars with you,” she said, removing herself from his grip.

“Dawn, baby, don’t do this to me!” he crowed. She shot him a wide smile as she backed away.

“Sorry, sweetheart. You know my heart burns for you. But I think I’ve got a puppy I need to get back to,” she called.

Bucky was scowling at her once she arrived back at the table he sat at with his three old men. “Was Sam calling me a puppy?” he asked, throwing a glare in Sam’s direction.

“You heard that?” she asked, taking a seat next to him. He slid a glass across the table toward her, a refill of her drink. She smiled in thanks.

“I heard you say it. Which means he said it,” Bucky said, clearly grumpy.

“Don’t worry, Buck, you’re not a puppy,” she said, poking her foot into his shin under the table. “You’re a big, bad wolf, huffing and puffing as much as you do,” she said.

“I hope you don’t ever get into comedy. It’s really not your calling,” Bucky grumbled, and Dawn let out a bright peal of laughter.

And then, apparently, Dawn was dancing with one of Bucky’s three old men, because her feet weren’t killing her enough already. She could run around all day and night on missions, but on those, she typically had boots. A few hours gallivanting around in high heels, though? That was definitely another story.

By the time Dawn had managed to slip away from the dance floor, Bucky was looking spacey, tired, and ready to leave. He’d been a good sport over the course of the evening, and broke a drunk guys wrist for her. He’d earned the relief of leaving the gala.

They slipped out into the refreshing night air, after Dawn’s insistence that they at least say goodbye to Sam, and Dawn felt the relief instantly. She’d been riled up all evening, trying to be social and gracious. It was nice to breathe and let the tension go. But with her relief, the pain in her feet and ankles became her main focus. Heels were a curse to womankind, she decided. And Bucky was already a good few yards away.

“You always walk that fast, or are you just that sick of me?” she called out, irrationally grumpy at the pain in her feet. Bucky stopped and turned, looking just a little surprised that she was so far behind. He watched her for a moment as she tried to pick up the pace, and she scowled when she saw the amusement written all over his face.

“You look like a baby deer,” he teased.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You try wearing heels for hours at a time, see how you do,” she said, embarrassed as she hobbled up to him.

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to wear them,” he said, raising his hands in defense.

“I’ve got a knife under this dress, somewhere. Don’t make me use it,” she grumbled.

“You brought a knife?” he asked, surprised. She scoffed.

“Oh, like you don’t have at least ten stuffed in your slacks,” she retorted.

“That’s fair,” he said, then looked back down at her in consideration. “Alright. Come on,” he said, stepping into her space.

“What-“ Dawn was cut off by a yelp as she was suddenly airborne, and she found herself scrambling for a good grip around his neck. Bucky hiked her up higher and started walking, carrying her bridal style through the lot like it was nothing. Dawn took a moment to gather herself again before speaking.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to carry me through the parking lot,” she said quietly, amused. She was also trying not to think about how warm he was, and if she was talking, that helped to distract her.

“That was if you were drunk. Which I’m pretty sure you’re not,” he said, giving her a suspicious glance. She smiled.

“Nah. I can hold my liquor. Maybe even drink you under the table,” she said.

“Right. We are never testing that theory.”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“I’m not. You’d die.”

-

She let Bucky drive her car, not trusting her feet to cooperate with the pedals. It was a long, quiet drive back to Bucky’s apartment. They’d spent the drive sort of winding down from the evening, and Dawn was about to bid him goodnight upon parking, but Bucky beat her to it.

“You’ve been drinking. I can’t, in good conscience, let you drive home,” he said flatly. She rose a brow at him, unable to help the grin.

“I thought you said I wasn’t drunk,” she said. He didn’t look at her as he pocketed her keys and started walking.

“Three drinks? Maybe four? Yeah, you’re not driving,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Don’t know where your keys went, anyway.” Dawn smiled softly at his back and followed. She liked when fragments of his boyish nature of years past shone through all the grey he surrounded himself with. It was nice.

He let her borrow some clothes, let her use his shower, and she eventually emerged, clean and warm and comfy. She dropped herself onto the couch and let out a relieved sigh, leaning her head back and shutting her eyes with a grin.

“Feel better?” Bucky asked from the kitchen around a mouthful of food. His stomach had growled angrily the entire drive home. Dawn had tried to get him to eat at the gala, but he just wouldn’t. He moved back into the front room and placed a plated sandwich in Dawn’s lap. She was, admittedly, also very hungry.

“You have no idea,” she said, tucking into the offered sandwich. She watched TV while Bucky took his own shower. It was a familiar routine after sharing many a hotel room. They existed pretty easily around each other, for the most part. It was comfortable. Something safe, easy.

“Did you have to use all the hot water?” he griped without venom upon exiting the bathroom and flopping onto the couch.

“You should have thought of that before you met me. Long, hot showers are kind of my favorite thing,” she said, shoving at his shoulder.

“Right, because I definitely could have predicted some ex assassin, hot water leech was going to prance her way into my apartment one day just for the amenities,” he shot back. She could practically hear him rolling his eyes at her.

“Constant vigilance, Sarge. You can never be too ready,” she said, curling into her corner of the couch as Bucky started flipping through the channels. Dawn’s mind wandered as she stared at the television. The air between them was easy, comfortable. Quiet and content. She found herself continuously looping back to Sam’s words at the gala, couldn’t quite seem to get them out of her head. Bucky liked to dance, once upon a time. She could imagine it, the bright smile on his face as he twirled a pretty girl around the room, the innocence of it all.

“Sam said you haven’t danced since the forties,” she blurted before she could stop herself. She could see him turn his head toward her in her peripheral vision, but he said nothing. “Well. I guess Steve said it, really. Steve told Sam, Sam told me,” she rambled, picking at the borrowed sweatpants.

“Well. It’s a little hard to get some dancing in between brainwashing, bouncing from fight to fight. Turning to dust,” Bucky said, slowly, clearly trying to figure out her reasoning.

“You could’ve tonight. At the gala,” she said, chancing a quick glance at him. He was giving her a look, something carefully neutral and just a little suspicious.

“Don’t be so sure about that,” he said.

“You could’ve,” she repeated. “I’m sure anyone would’ve danced with you.”

“Not really my scene these days, Donnie,” he said. She chewed on her lip, ignoring the feeling of her heart hammering in her chest.

“What about here?” she asked.

“What about it?”

Dawn gestured around them. “Is this more your scene?” He furrowed his brows at her. Her stomach dropped into her feet.

“This is my living room?” he said, clearly confused. She was going to fucking throw up.

“Dance with me, Bucky,” she said. Maybe she would just die, dissolve into the couch and cease to be.

“What?” he asked, almost a whisper. She squared her shoulders and turned to him.

“Dance with me,” she said. He just kind of sat there for a moment, looking bewildered and caught off guard. It took him a minute to find his words again.

“I haven’t danced since ‘43,” he said, sounding a little breathless. She nodded slowly.

“Yes. We’ve been over this. It’ll be fine,” she said, standing up and crossing the room toward his stereo.

“I’m not any good,“ he argued weakly.

“Who cares? No one’s watching and I won’t know any better,” she said, hooking up her phone and pulling up a proper playlist. She pressed the play button and put the phone down before drifting back to Bucky as the grainy, old music started playing. She quickly muted the television and outstretched her hands expectantly. She made a grabby motion when he still just stared up at her.

“Come on. Just a few songs. It’ll be fun,” she said. He pressed his lips together and sighed heavily, not being overly helpful as he took her hands and let her pull him up. She pulled him away from the couch and they stared at each other for a moment. Bucky’s brows were furrowed, but she couldn’t tell what he was feeling. She could barely hear the music over the blood rushing in her ears.

He still didn’t say anything. Just hesitantly tapped her arm up, looking resigned, a silent order to place her hand on his shoulder. His left hand fell lightly onto her waist, and his right gently scooped up her other hand to hold up in the air. She gave him an encouraging smile, and then they we’re moving.

She let him lead, and it was a shy thing at first, stiff. “See? It’s not so bad,” she said. He huffed a tense breath of laughter.

“This is stupid,” he said. She clicked her tongue.

“No, this is nice,” she argued, giving his shoulder a gentle pinch. She moved with him as easily as he would let her, but he was still uncertain, almost awkward. She found it endearing. It took some time for Bucky to warm up to the idea.

Dawn could almost pinpoint the moment he got comfortable. He tugged her hand, twisted her out for a little spin, and pulled her back into him. She giggled as he spun her, almost losing her footing on the return. His left hand landed on the small of her back when she bumped back into him, and they were suddenly much closer. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, the coolness of his metal hand against her spine. She looked back up at him, and she caught a glimpse of that boyish charm he once probably wore so easily.

“I guess it’s not so bad,” he muttered as they continued swaying to the music.

“And you think you’re not any good,” she tutted. They moved around in a little circle for a while. Then, Bucky got brave and started putting some foot work into it. Dawn’s heart was absolutely soaring, and she could tell Bucky was legitimately having a good time, if the softness in his features was anything to go by.

“You looked beautiful, tonight,” Bucky said out of the blue, quiet, like he didn’t want to break the little bubble they found themselves in. “I should have said it before.” Dawn bit her lip against the shy smile threatening to rise. She could only manage a whispered thanks as she felt her cheeks heat up.

“You know. Baby deer ankles and all,” he teased, earning a scandalized gasp out of Dawn. She went to smack him in the arm, but instead, he stopped the motion by gripping her hand tighter and pulling her even closer, flush against his body. Any and all fight Dawn had in her left in a rush. “I’m kidding, Doll,” he said, the words rumbling against her chest. Dawn couldn’t find any words to say, so she rested her head against his chest instead, opting to feel his warmth and let the music guide them.

They danced around the apartment for more than the promised few songs, swaying and spinning and stepping. Dawn only stepped on his toes a few times. And Bucky seemed happy. The tension he usually held in his shoulders was nonexistent, and everything about him just seemed soft and sweet, and Dawn was almost jealous of all the girls he must have taken dancing back in his day, jealous that they got to see that side of him so freely. And she was sad for Bucky, that he’d been through so much, had no choice but to shut himself down. But at that moment in time, the pair of them floating around his apartment, things were good. Everything was okay. There was no mission. No nightmare. No Handler. No greater goal. Just Dawn and Bucky. Just music. Just a little bit of peace.

The song was nearing its end. The crescendo came, the last big chorus, and Bucky spun Dawn around once more before catching her against his chest. He smoothly transferred his weight, held her snug as he got a steady hold of her and dipped her with all the grace in the world. She found herself giggling at the feeling, and then he pulled her back up. He pulled her back up, and she was proud of not messing it up for all of a second before her mind blanked entirely.

They were close. Very close. Both of his hands were pressed into her spine, one warm, one cold, steadying her frame. Her hands landed on either side of his neck. Their noses brushed. They were so close. Dawn felt his breath against her lips, a quick, surprised little puff, and she almost could have sworn her heart stopped beating, that she would die right then and there. Hair had landed in her face with the momentum, and she couldn’t see much of anything, but she felt it all.

Her breath hitched and she froze as Bucky’s nose just brushed her cheek, an almost mindless nuzzle against her skin. She could feel the heat of his lips so, so close to hers. She would barely have to move an inch to meet them. She was pretty sure she was dead.

But, almost as soon as it had happened, it was over. Bucky took a step back, releasing Dawn completely.

“It’s, um,” he cleared his throat, looked somewhere over her shoulder. “It’s late. I’m sure you’re tired. You should get some sleep,” he said. It took Dawn an embarrassingly long moment to collect herself.

“Oh. Right, um. Yeah. It was a long day, wasn’t it,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as spaced out as she felt. She moved on stiff legs to grab her phone and shut the music off. Bucky was standing awkwardly off to the side, arms crossed tight over his chest.

“You can take the bed,” he said with a stiff gesture, voice rough. She nodded dumbly and pulled her lips between her teeth before shuffling down the short hallway. She was about to shut the door behind her, hand on the doorknob for a moment. She swung it back open a little.

“Bucky?” she called out hesitantly.

“Yeah?” his voice echoed, quick and a little shrill. Her words got stuck. She cleared her throat.

“Thank you. For coming. I had a nice night. I hope you did, too,” she called out, awkward, unable to keep the uncertainty out of her voice. She didn’t get a response for a minute, and she was about to shut the door.

“Yeah. I did. Goodnight, Donnie.”

Neither one of them knew it, but they both spent a long time staring at the ceiling that night, too wired, too deep in thoughts of What the hell is going on to fall asleep. And when they did, their sleep was as turbulent as whatever it was that they were trying not to feel.

[charlettebffxiv]

Prompt #27 Benthos

  The dregs, that’s what they call it. Charlette swirled the last of her tea in her cup, only a few stray leaves that escaped the barely functional strainer floating around in the leftover liquid. Like little black beetles sliding along the edge of the cup, it provided little solace for the fact that her only entertainment in this waiting room was long over. The tea was gone, what now? It had been bells since they had arrived, and Charlette was relegated to sitting outside the meeting itself. A fact she had pouted at, hard as she could, but couldn’t quite crack the expression well enough to produce the same results as her sister, Chloe. So here she sat, swirling dregs and periodically sighing as loud as she could to attract the attention of her one companion. Ogi Nogi did not open his eyes, the lalafell having immediately dipped into a nap, or at least it looked that way.

The room was luxurious at least, from the velvet coated cushions of their seats to the long, red tapestries that hung from walls covered in deep crimson wallpaper, edged with gold filigree. Dark varnished wood shone in the gentle light of a glittering chandelier above, all of it carved into a forestry theme. Leaves, branches and scenes from the forest all carefully imagined on the face of cabinets, beneath glass-topped tables, and all around the fireplace itself. Tasteful, elegant, the room could have been tossed into an Ishgardian manse and not looked at all out of place. Well, to the untrained scrutiny of a lowborn or foreigner at least, perhaps not that of an actual highborn. But Charlette’s mind was wandering from her malaise and she had a disappointment to upkeep. Another sigh, the door that A’nidreah and Alistair had stepped through with the contact they were meeting holding her gaze. If she could, she would burn a hole through it and take a peek inside.

“This is not fair.” she groaned, flopping back in her seat and clawing at the armrests with irritation. “Never is.” Ogi’s gruff voice answered, his eyes remained closed, but Charlette had finally got a rise from him. “Why are we sitting out here? We are all part of the same unit are we not?” One eye opened, and the lalafell peaked at Charlette through his annoyingly overgrown fringe that hung white locks in his eyes. “‘Cos you’re trying too hard.” She scoffed at him, something about the finery around them brought out her noble pantomime alongside her discontent. “Ridiculous. I feel like I am the only one trying, and I am right after all. This is a waste of time.” Ogi straightened himself in his seat, grabbing his own cup of tea and drinking down what must be room-temperature tea and completely ruined. He didn’t seem to care at all. “Yep.” Well, it was nice to have someone agree with her tirade for once, but this was still not enough for Charlette. “Yep? So you agree?” A quick nod in response. “We should have gone directly to the source of the issue, yes?” Another nod, and an agreeable “Mmhm.” while he clawed through the biscuit tin. “You are mocking me, are you not?” Ogi finally looked Charlette in the face, he did not have the face of a joker. “I’m not. You’re right, it makes sense. This is a waste of time, sitting here and having a three bell conversation with the jackass who just owns the building it happened in.” Charlette’s hand shot upward, waving towards the room that soft murmurs could be heard through. “Then why did you not back me up? I argued all the way here with both of them.” In a petulant moment she put on a mean-spirited imitation of A’nideah and Alistair. “‘We have to do it. He might know something. The man is in a panic. He found the bodies, maybe we can help him deal with it.’ Tsk, like we are a funeral home and tending to the feelings of the recently bereaved.” Ogi crunched his way through a treat, shortbread that had peanuts baked into it. Crumbs had caught in the thin moustache he had been sporting for a few moons now. Through a mouthful came the placating “Yep.” once more. This was infuriating. Alistair and A’nidreah emerged almost five bells later, Ogi had eaten half the biscuit tin and actually fallen asleep eventually. Charlette had walked the breadth of the room no less than forty times and read any piece of literature that was left out for guests. Which amounted to several pamphlets on local events, a published collection of vapid stories and opinion pieces and the labels of every bottle of liquor behind the glass door of a cabinet. The owner was fond of Limsan rum and obscure Thavnarian drinks Charlette had tried to practice pronouncing until Ogi’s grunts had turned her silent. “Thank you for stopping by. This has all been so rattling, and I just want to know she is okay. It was her first night working the late shift and, well, what a horrible night it was for it.” A’nidreah placed a hand on the portly hyur’s shoulder, ears flicking out and large eyes going wide and confident “We’ll get to the bottom of this, and make sure it does not happen again. She’s going to be fine, we’ll find out what happened.” He nodded, then looked at Ogi Nogi, snoring in his seat and covered in crumbs, and Charlette who had quickly strode up to them and was looming. She looked like a crane about to pluck vulnerable benthos from the riverbed. “Are we ready to go? The longer we wait, the more that can be done to hide evidence.” Alistair, from behind the man, raised his hands and gaped silently at her. “Just about. Darion has asked us to stop by the clinic and visit his night guardswoman. She walked into what was left behind and has not been doing well since.” Charlette’s lips pressed thin. “All the more reason to get moving, then. The sooner we can investigate the site, the sooner we will know how to treat whatever ails her.” A’nidreah’s nod was very patient, Darion let out a soft, near blubbering sound before speaking “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I would prefer you prioritize Chante’s health…” Charlette turned to the man, and he balked so hard his jowls shivered. Alistair cut-in though, stopping her just before she could educate the man. “We’ll go and see her immediately, Darion. Take the sun for yourself, you look pale and shaken and could use the rest.” Darion hesitated, obviously wanting to argue his case more. But his mouth closed, he nodded, then stepped into his office with a quick “Thank you, and good luck.” “But I’m right!” They made their way down the path, heading in the opposite direction of the warehouse were the aberrant event had taken place. This one lead to the clinic, and Chante. “Yep.” A’nidreah said, leading the way. Ogi had been a bad influence on her, Charlette just knew it, shooting a glance at the lalafell and catching him mid, immense yawn. “You can really be a callous shrew sometimes Charlette. Aren’t we here to help people?” Alistair spoke-up, his tone hard. “I am callous for wanting to do something that will actually solve the issue? Why does Chante need us to pile into her sick room and interrogate her on her well-being when she is in a place that is literally made for that?” Alistair dropped his shoulders, looked to the side and scratched his head. “You do have a point, even if you sound very mean while making it.” Charlette drew herself up to her full height, a motion that put her well above most people. “Of course I do, as I said. I am right.” “She is right.” A’nidreah agreed, and continued down the pathway. A fact that helped to further annoy Charlette. “But we are still going to the clinic on this pointless errand to annoy a sick woman in her time of rest?” and all at once, the three of them quickly responded with what felt like a very practiced “Yep.” Charlette dropped her stance, and lowered her face into the palm of her hand, letting out a long groan. “Let us get on with it then. If logic has to be sacrificed for insignificant gestures, then let us make it a short one.” Why did Charlette feel like she had just been ‘handled’?