#and i can recite the whole of the 'i thought you did do ancient history' clip by heart i love it so much

[vitamin-zeeth]

Starting a new britcom even though I've not finished the IT crowd cause honestly I can't be fucked watching the last season and my friend wants to show me peep show

[partialbirthabortion]

So I analyzed Surah al-Hadid, right? It is a beautiful chapter (and an incredibly important and beloved chapter because it contains a verse Muhammed apparently said is "better than one thousand verses" and recited each night before bed) and it is really interesting from a historical theological perspective because it was revealed (imagine bc you are not in my Qur'an class I am doing scare quotes here, but I am very respectful in class I swear) immediately after a major loss for the Muslim army in Medina, the Battle of Uhud. Like, the nascent Islamic State was absolutely at risk of being fully destroyed. And unlike other historically relevant Medinan surahs, whose relevance to their particular historical context only becomes clear once you actually learn the history outside of reading the text, al-Hadid literally names the conquest of Mecca and praises the behaviors of Muhammed's followers that led to victory. And so this surah opens with a description of God's perfect knowledge of your heart and deeds, as well as reminds you of all the stuff God did for you (made the earth in six days, merges the day and night) and then the very next verse tells you to give God('s messenger) money so that Medina can be won. Remember, you love and fear God! And God('s prophet) needs your money to spread God's message! How is that not a rhetorical relationship?

And then we discussed whether a "rhetorical strategy" maps onto a text that was intended to be purely recitational and I argued that rhetoric as we understand it in the Western tradition originated in ancient Greek oration, and another thing that is closely parallel to Hellenic tradition is the Qur'an's concept of revelation, which we had already discussed in class!

Anyway I literally can't remember the last time I was like forming whole new original cross-disciplinary thoughts in a class like this and I feel so energized lmao.

Got into a genuinely fascinating and also genuinely heated (in a respectful academic way) discussion with my religious studies prof yesterday because he challenged my description of a Qur'anic chapter as having a "rhetorical strategy." He said, we wouldn't call this rhetorical, we would call it hymnic in theological studies. And I was like, sure, okay, these ayat are hymnic in character yes, the meditation on the deeds, power, omnipotence, etc of God are hymnic and meditative, yes, but also literally every piece of text ever has a rhetorical strategy, it is the nature of communication, even allegedly divine communication! And if you don't believe in God like I don't and think all scriptures were just written (in this case, very cool, recited) by some guy than it is EXTRA clear that this chapter has a rhetorical strategy!!

[mst3kproject]

The Giant of Marathon

For some reason, probably because I've seen them all so many times, I thought I'd already done all four Film Crew episodes.  Evidently this is not true.  Here's one, and if you haven't seen it... wow, Mr. Honcho was not exaggerating about the thousands of sweaty men.

Philippides of Athens is the greatest athlete there is, having won the entire Olympics. With the games over, he returns to his day job as commander of the Athenian city guard.  Followers of Hippias the exiled tyrant are plotting to take control of the city with help from the invading Persians, and they try to seduce Philippides to their cause by offering him wine, women, and homoerotic wrestling (it was ancient Greece, after all).  Philippides refuses to be seduced, and sets off to secure the help of Athens' old enemy Sparta in opposing the Persians.  His mission is a success, but upon his return a spy tells him that the Persians are planning a sneak attack on the harbour of Piraeus.  Can even Philippides get there in time to deliver the warning?

I don't actually know if it were possible to win the entire Olympics in ancient Greece.  I know there were several events and at least one of them involved reciting poetry.  The Battle of Marathon was in 490 BC and a table on Wikipedia suggests that there could have been up to twelve different sports, but some of them were only for children.

The Giant of Marathon touts itself as a tale of epic battles, daring deeds, and political machinations.  I'll get back to the epic battles and daring deeds, but what stands in for the political machinations is mostly a bunch of people pining.  Unimpressive villain Theocritus is pining for the beautiful Andromeda, whose father has promised her to him but she thinks he's a dick.  She's pining for Philippides, who is also pining for her but thinks she's one of Hippias' followers, so refuses to speak to her.  Meanwhile Theocritus' concubine Charis is also pining for Philippides because he's the only man who ever refused to fuck her, I think.

These relationships are important to the plot, too.  Andromeda's love for Philippides is one of the reasons her father refuses to join the traitors, and when Theocritus realizes he cannot have her, he ties her to the prow of his ship to force Philippides to watch her die.  Charis' crush on Philippides leads her to her death, as she is executed for spying.  Yet none of it is ever developed beyond 'these two pretty people saw each other and now they want to bone'.  Philippides declares his love for Andromeda after a single five-minute interaction.  Charis has seen Philippides twice, and both times it went badly, when she decides to betray Theocritus.

Why do the writers hang such important plot points on the 'love' between people who have barely spoken to each other?  I can't decide if it's because they're lazy, or because they're hacks, and I lean towards a combination of the two.  There is absolutely no subtlety to the writing in The Giant of Marathon at all.  Everything is told, not shown.  We know that Theocritus and Creusus are traitors because they talk about it, in dialogue that's clearly written for the audience, not as anything that sounds like a natural conversation. We know that Charis and Andromeda are both in love with Philippides because they say so.  The only thing we're really shown is that Andromeda hates Theocritus, which comes through in her body language (though we are also very much told), so props to actress Mylène Demongeot for that much.

The movie doesn't care about any of this character stuff, anyway.  It just wants to get straight to those epic battle scenes, and it's very obvious how much work and time went into those as opposed to everything else.  The battles are lengthy and elaborate, full of impressive stunts and props and miniatures being destroyed all over the place.  We get to see Persian chariots run down Greek infantry, and while I'm pretty sure this would have been orchestrated so the stuntmen didn't get hurt, I'm not nearly so confident about the unfortunate horses (and neither was Bill).  There are ships in flames and injured men screaming as they fall overboard.  There are even some pretty good deaths, like the guy who was hit in the eye with an arrow.  The desperate last stand of the city guard against the entire Persian fleet, with the Spartans arriving just in time to save the day, is very tense indeed.

I get the impression that this is what somebody really wanted to put on screen, and they did a decent job of it, but pretty much the entire rest of what ought to be the story is just an accessory to the fighting stuff.  It's as if the film-makers wanted so badly for their fight sequences to be epic that they forgot what makes epic-ness – which is the characters and their stake in the events. We don't know any of these people, none of them have anything we might call a personality trait, and so we don't care.

The focus on how epic it all is makes I seem a little strange that the battle ends on a shot of dead Persian guys floating in the water. You'd think they'd want to end with something that more decisively shows the Athenian victory, maybe the men cheering as the Persian ships turn around and flee.  Or perhaps some kind of victory celebration, which could mirror the celebration of Philippides winning the Olympics in the opening and call back to the scene where Philippides asks the goddess Athena to protect her city.

Instead, we cut to a shot of Philippides and Andromeda walking across the farmland together.  This feels a little too sudden, and is also a poor fit with the rest of the movie.  The only time we've seen Philippides on his farm is when he's gotten disgusted with the politics of Athens and returned to the countryside to sulk.  If the farm is supposed to be a place where he's happy and at peace, the movie never establishes it.

So that's political machinations and epic battle sequences, let's talk about some daring deeds.

Unlike the Hercules and Maciste movies we've seen in the past, The Giant of Marathon wants to be grounded in real-life history.  This means that while the script does reference gods and mythical heroes, none of them ever appear and there is no hint of them working behind the scenes to bring events about.  Likewise, Philippides is not a demigod, so we avoid several of the tropes associated with the genre.  Nothing important ever happens (or fails to happen) because the hero was asleep, and he never bends prison bars or drinks a love potion – although a love potion is mentioned, as if to draw attention to this.

This doesn't leave Philippides a whole lot of scope for daring deeds, and when they try the results are a little lackluster.  His main feat is, of course, running all the way from Marathon to Athens (the proverbial forty-two kilometres) to let them know of the impending attack, but while this ought to be the highlight of the movie it's shot in terrible day-for-night and we have nothing to suggest how far this is... I think the writers just assumed everybody knows the length of a marathon.  If we'd seen the army tired from making the march earlier, we would have a better sense of it being a long and tiring journey even at a walk or with horses, and it would seem that much more formidable as a distance for one man to cover before sunrise.  Of course, showing us these things is apparently beyond the scope of The Giant of Marathon's writers, but you'd think they could at least have a character say something like, “it's twenty-six miles!  He'll never make it!”

His other major daring deed is when he pushes giant boulders down a hill onto the attacking Persians.  This is kind of weird because Philippides is not Hercules or Maciste.  He's good at track and field, but we haven't seen any evidence of him having godlike strength, and this is a universe where gods don't seem to do much anyway, so it comes out of nowhere.  The rocks are huge – there are similarly-sized ones at the park near my house and I know one guy couldn't move them no matter how buff he might be.  Did somebody just forget that they weren't making a Hercules movie?

Between the battles and the various plot twists, The Giant of Marathon could have been a pretty fun sword-and-sandal movie, but it's like a tower without a foundation.  The fights have nothing to hold them up, so we just can't get into it. Also, what the Underworld happened to Hippias? We see him once, chatting with the king of Persia, and then he vanishes and the movie decides weaselly little Theocritus is the big bad instead. I'm sorry, but if you've got a character with a name as cool as 'Hippias the Tyrant', you really can't just drop him like that.

The Best Brains liked to complain about the tinyness of the costumes in these movies but honestly, nothing here is as off-putting as actual ancient Greek sports would have been to the modern viewer.  When I was in university I TA'd for a course called Introduction to Greco-Roman Civilization. It was an adventure in several ways – the students were mostly dumb freshmen who spent the lectures playing Farmville, and the professor didn't give a shit because she'd just been denied tenure.  I don't know how much anybody learned in that class, but I'm sure they all recall how, after the professor told us that Greek athletes stripped naked and covered themselves in olive oil before wrestling, somebody raised a hand and asked if they removed their body hair.  The professor cheerfully told him that they did not, so next time we see a Greek vase we ought to remember that these guys were much sweatier, oilier, and hairier than terra cotta can possibly convey.

[goodlucktai]

the ship sways but the heart is steady

chapter two: how the light gets in 

the untamed pairing: jiang cheng & wei ying, lan zhan/wei ying word count: 3713 summary: Wei Ying’s friends are at rock-bottom, and Wei Ying puts his life on hold to help them put theirs back together. To absolutely no one’s surprise except Wei Ying’s, his family goes with him. read on ao3

x

“We’re here,” Wen Qing says, bringing Jiang Cheng out of an involuntary doze. He realizes that the car has stopped.

He can’t see much of the estate through the glare on the windshield, so he glances into the backseat. Wei Ying is still very much dead to the world, and still sprawled against Lan Zhan, who is playing what sounds like Candy Crush on Wei Ying’s phone. Wen Ning is fast asleep on Lan Zhan’s opposite shoulder with the rabbit crate nestled safely in the loose loop of his arms.

It can’t possibly be comfortable for any of them, except maybe the rabbits.

“I’ll extract you in a sec,” Wen Qing says.

“Take your time,” Lan Zhan replies peacefully.

Rolling his eyes, Jiang Cheng drags himself out of the car. The dry heat smacks into him like a solid wall. Stretching stiff muscles, he gazes across the overgrown yard. It’s—alright, it’s a lot.

The whole property is clearly old farmland gone to seed. There’s some rusted equipment all choked through with weeds sitting off to one side of a dirt road, which wings around to a distant structure that must have once been a barn. Goldenrod is growing all over the place, and with the late afternoon sun baking overheard, it really adds to the illusion that everything has been bathed yellow.  

The villa itself is both better and worse than Jiang Cheng was expecting. It has exterior walls, at least. And most of a roof. Maybe once, it might have been someone’s pride and joy.

Wen Qing leaves the engine running, circling around the front of the car to stand next to Jiang Cheng. Her eyes look ancient with fear.

“I don’t know if we can do this,” she says. She’ll only say it now, where her brother and her best friend can’t hear. She’ll be strong all the rest of the time.

Jiang Cheng can’t begrudge her this important, much-needed moment of weakness. He bumps their shoulders together. He lets her lean on him for a bit. Jiang Cheng isn’t either of his siblings—he doesn’t know how to be a voice of comfort. The best he can do is just be here.

“What’s that stupid thing you and your siblings always say before you do something that almost gets you killed?” Wen Qing asks suddenly.

Immediately defensive, because he’s the one who started it back when he was like seven and Yanli and Wei Ying thought it was adorable and wouldn’t let it die, Jiang Cheng snaps, “It’s not stupid. It’s fucking—motivational.”

“It can be both. You’re living proof.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

She sighs, that familiar laughing sound that defangs Jiang Cheng in one fell swoop.

“‘Attempt the impossible,’” he recites grudgingly.

The sun is steadily sinking lower through the sky. All the daytime color is deep and rich now with the promise of evening, everything on the brink of shadow. A breeze rolls through the yard, catching Jiang Cheng’s hair and tossing it into his eyes. It carries smells he can’t recognize, smokey and woodsy, a little floral, clean.

There’s no smog, no oppressive diesel or baked garbage smell, no heavy industry works bleeding its fumes all over the place. It smells the way summer smelled in the books A-Li used to read to him.

He’ll get used to the heat, Jiang Cheng thinks. Summer has always been his favorite season. He doesn’t know if he’ll get used to the smell.

“Did you ever manage it?” Wen Qing asks quietly. “The impossible?”

Jiang Cheng can’t help but smile, half a dozen memories crowding forward in the space of a heartbeat. Him, and his brother, and his sister, always together. Never apart. Keeping each other safe, and even more importantly, keeping each other happy.

“All the time,” he says.

It must be the right thing to say. Wen Qing stands a little taller. Her expression goes so firm with resolve that Jiang Cheng would never have believed that she’d wavered if he hadn’t seen it for himself.

This was right, he realizes. It finally quiets the uncertain voice still loitering around in the back of his mind. Coming here for her was right.

#

Wei Ying is much more enthusiastic about the decrepit property than Jiang Cheng and Wen Qing combined, and for the life of him, Jiang Cheng can’t decide how much of it is an act to make the Wens feel better about their circumstances. It seems largely genuine.

“Can you believe how huge this house is?” Wei Ying says gleefully, somewhere in the middle of his third lap around the property. “Babe, the dining room is as big as our entire apartment!”

Lan Zhan smiles at him, likely just because he called him ‘babe’. Jiang Cheng is going to throw up on both of them at least once.

The inside is not actually quite as depressing as they feared. There’s old furniture stacked up in most of the rooms, each individual piece moldy and cobwebbed and not likely to support anyone’s weight without breaking in half, and collections of miscellaneous things, like ten-thousand stacks of newspapers in the study, and just as many empty wine bottles out on the back porch.

But there’s something to it, Jiang Cheng can’t deny that. Some sort of presence to it. A history, maybe, that haunts all these empty spaces that used to be full and busy and lived-in. It makes him linger over an old console table at the end of the second floor hallway, with a dusty jewelry box sitting on top. There are someone’s ruined treasures inside. This was someone’s home.

Maybe it could be that again.

“We’ll have to drive into town for dinner,” Wen Qing says, surveying their progress in the living room. They’ve set up camp there, since they’re losing too much light to do much else. “And flashlights. The electric company promised they’d have an inspector out here in the morning.”

Wei Ying collapses onto a dusty sofa, which is probably actively infested with something, or at the very least was at some point, and pats at the cushion next to him until Lan Zhan unfolds himself from his seat on a wine crate and joins him there.

“This place really isn’t that bad, A-Qing,” Wei Ying says. “You made it sound like they’d gutted it down to the studs.”

“That’s how it was described to me,” she says. She seems a lot firmer on her feet, now that she’s walked the length of the place and knows firsthand that it probably isn’t going to collapse on top of their heads at a moment’s notice. “What was it our cousin called it, A-Ning?”

“A rathole,” Wen Ning says helpfully, feeding the rabbits bits of dried rosemary out of his hands. “He said he was glad it was our problem and not his.”

“He’s probably just angry it wasn’t left to him in nainai’s will,” Wen Qing says.

“Is this your cousin who got kicked out of school for driving his professor’s car off a bridge or the one who was arrested for breaking and entering?” Wei Ying asks.

“Same cousin,” Wen Ning says. “He’s not very nice.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to asshole relatives, so he stands up and says, “Let’s get a move on. We’re already gonna be coming back in the dark. A-Ning, put the rabbits away. Lan Zhan, stop mooning over my brother.”

“If it’s gonna be dark by the time we get back anyway, there’s time for mooning,” Wei Ying grumbles.

He squeaks and scrambles over the back of the sofa when Jiang Cheng advances on him, and Wen Qing berates them for trying to break what little furniture they have three minutes after they fucking got here, and for a few minutes the old house is packed to the rafters with shouting and laughter as they jostle each other out the door.

It already feels a little fuller than it did when they arrived, in a way that has nothing to do with the suitcases stacked in the hall.

#

Jiang Cheng gets up the morning feeling unfairly jet-lagged. Everyone else is awake already, sitting on the floor of the kitchen, eating dry cereal because the fridge isn’t running yet and things like milk are still only a distant dream. They greet him with a round of sleepy but sincere hellos and Wei Ying passes him a box of Lucky Charms. 

Lan Zhan, who bought a camping generator and a power strip when they went to town the night before, holds his hand out for Jiang Cheng’s phone. Jiang Cheng surrenders it so it can be charged and refuses to admit out loud that he’s glad that Lan Zhan is marrying into his family.

By the time the inspector arrives, they’re picking their way through the junk in the kitchen. “Start with one room,” Wei Ying says, likely repeating the helpful Youtuber whose DIY videos he paid an obscene amount of his fiance’s money on the in-flight WiFi to watch. “Make it ours.”

So they’re clearing out cabinets and removing ancient rodent carcasses and sorting dusty glassware into possibly-salvageable and definitely-garbage piles when a loud knock draws their attention down the hall to the foyer where a friendly-looking, if bemused, man in a hard hat is standing on the threshold of the open front door.

Wen Qing shoves a blender into Jiang Cheng’s hands that probably hasn’t blended a damn thing in thirty years and pats as much dust off of her person as she can.

“You’ve got this,” Wei Ying says with enough belief to power a small aircraft. “And if you need me to flirt with him for any reason, just say the word. Lan Zhan will understand.”

Lan Zhan won’t understand, if Jiang Cheng is as good at reading his mico-expressions as he thinks he is. The inspector, who could clearly hear Wei Ying’s voice from like ten feet away, is already grinning when Wen Qing introduces herself.

Ultimately, after a walk around the house, the inspector has good news and bad news. He starts with the bad news.

“It could be a lot worse,” he says frankly. “But this building is practically an antique, and it hasn’t been upgraded in two decades, at least. We might be able to get away with a partial wiring, but anything less than a full one would leave you at a real risk of an electrical fire.”

Wen Qing’s whole body goes stiff. Wen Ning steps up beside her, taking her hand in one of his bandaged ones.

“A full rewiring then,” he says, firm in the way he only is when someone else needs him to be. “We’ll figure it out.”

Apparently sympathetic, the man nods. He imparts the good news. “We’ll get started on the repairs right away. I can probably get some guys out as early as this afternoon, and it shouldn’t take longer than a week.” After a beat, he adds, “We can arrange a payment plan when all’s said and done. I’m not going to hound you about a lump sum up front. We’re a pretty close-knit community out here, pretty neighborly. Don’t be surprised if you’ve got people poking their heads in at you soon.”

Wen Qing, who grew up in LA, seems to need a minute to digest that. Wen Ning seems automatically delighted.

“Hey, thanks for everything,” Wei Ying says when the inspector starts to head back to his truck.

The inspector grins and taps his hard hat in reply, looking amused. Jiang Cheng doesn’t have to search farther than two inches past Wei Ying’s shoulder to find out why.

“Jesus Christ, Lan Zhan, they’re not going to elope,” Jiang Cheng says, shoving him back towards the kitchen. “Wei Ying has literally never looked at another human being since the first time he looked at you.”

“Aww,” Wen Ning says.

“Shut up, that wasn’t—it’s annoying! Not cute!”

“It can be both things,” Wen Qing says dryly. She’s smiling.

#

Through some grace of god, the plumbing is sound. Unlike the wiring, the pipes were replaced recently enough that they’re not made of lead or polybutylene or anything else that will make them violently sick from bathing or drinking out of the tap.

This leads Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying on an expedition to the basement in search of the hot water heater. Jiang Cheng could fucking cry when they find out it’s one of those huge gas-powered tanks. Wei Ying looks up how to turn the gas on without exploding the place into tiny pieces, because of course he has data out here even though no one else does, and it’s as simple as turning a valve they find in the middle of some big fuck-off spiderwebs.

“Hot showers tonight!” Wei Ying sings when they make it back upstairs, significantly more dusty than they were when they descended. Wen Ning gazes at them with such open admiration that Jiang Cheng doesn’t want to admit there was literally no skill involved in the process at all.

The electricity inspector is proven right about curious visitors exactly four hours after he said it, as a warbling little voice calls, “Hello?” from the front porch.

The kitchen is in the middle of a thorough scrubbing, and Wen Ning isn’t allowed to put his hands anywhere near chemicals or heat or anything, really, aside from the lazy rabbits, so he pops up to his feet and scurries to the front of the house in a desperate bid to do something productive.

“A-jie,” he calls a moment later, in a tone that gets Wen Qing’s attention faster than a fucking lightning bolt from the sky probably would have. Her urgency is distracting. The rest of them don’t want to keep cleaning cabinets while Something Is Happening, so Jiang Cheng, Wei Ying and Lan Zhan get up and follow after a minute of pretending to work.

There’s a little old woman, probably well into her seventies, holding one of each of the Wen siblings’ hands and talking warmly. A little boy is clinging to her leg, peering up at them with wide eyes.

Granny, as she insists they call her, has lived in this town her whole life, and was a close friend of Wen Qing and Wen Ning’s grandparents.

“I heard about the fire,” she says, clutching their hands, “and I want you to know that I’ll help you however I can. There’s not much heavy lifting I can do, really, but—cooking and cleaning, I am more than capable of!”

Jiang Cheng, who had respect for his elders literally beaten into him growing up, would sooner walk into traffic than he would let this kind old woman clean for him. The sentiment is clearly echoed on all of his friends’ faces, and his brother steps forward to look at her with big, liquid eyes.

“Granny, you’ll stay and keep us company even if we don’t have any interesting stuff for you to do, won’t you? Even if all you do is sit here in the shade and chat with us for a bit? It’ll break my heart if you don’t, it really will.”

This earns Wei Ying a fond pat on the cheek, as he’s adopted by Granny on the spot. She does stay for a few hours, and they make a meal out of some day-old donuts and chips and sunflower seeds. Jiang Cheng watches Granny visibly come to the conclusion that they’re all incapable of feeding themselves, and something needs to be done about it, even if she politely declines to say it out loud.

Her grandson, A-Yuan, has picked his way cautiously to the little makeshift enclosure they’ve constructed for the rabbits, and crouches next to it to look in at them with wide, wanting eyes.

“Do you want to pet them?” Wei Ying says. The answer is obviously yes, no matter that A-Yuan shyly ducks his head and doesn’t answer, so Wei Ying lifts the white rabbit out and places it carefully in the child’s lap. “This is Bao. She’s my favorite. Don’t tell Pidan.”

A-Yuan giggles, carefully petting Bao’s velvety ears with the tips of his fingers. Bao is content to just sit there and soak up the affection until the end of days, the most laid-back creature on the planet.

“Pidan?” A-Yuan asks, glancing inquisitively at the black rabbit, who is chewing noisily on a piece of cardboard.

“Her sister,” Wei Ying says, lifting the black rabbit out and putting it next to Bao. A-Yuan is laughing fully, now, gifted with too much rabbit for his tiny arms to contain. “She’s silly and annoying and a trouble-maker. For some reason, she’s Lan Zhan’s favorite. Don’t tell Bao.”

“For some reason,” Lan Zhan intones solemnly. He’s looking at Wei Ying the way he’s always looking at him.

“I can’t stand this,” Jiang Cheng says to Wen Qing. “There has to be something else for me to clean, far away from them.”

“Have you seen where you are? There’s a million things for you to clean.”

But she gets up when he does, and they wander through the mostly-clean kitchen and into the pantry, where the shelves are nearly fully-stocked with foods at least ten years past their expiration. Sighing, Wen Qing ties back her hair. The curve of her neck is disarmingly delicate.

Jiang Cheng glances away quickly and refuses to think about why.

#

There’s a spigot in the conservatory that refuses to work. There’s a wall dividing the dining room and the living room that just doesn’t make sense. There’s broken windows and holes in the roof. Wen Ning walks across the second floor balcony to release an angry squirrel that they found in a wardrobe and nearly falls over the edge when the wrought iron railing bends beneath his weight. The yard and the grounds are an outright disaster.

The plot on the west side of the house was once home to a small vineyard, which explains some of the tubing and big gallon buckets they found in the conservatory. The original owners must have made their own fruit wine. The land by the barn is fenced off in a way that suggests a vegetable garden, and the rest of the considerable acreage is eaten up by the edge of a big lake, the remains of a dock leaning out over the water.

It’s all neglected, overgrown, untamed.

But, Jiang Cheng thinks, almost a month after they arrived, it’s getting there.

The last time it rained, he and Wei Ying and Wen Ning ran through the house looking for leaks, and couldn’t find a single one. For some reason it was so fucking exciting to have a roof without holes that they called people about it.

Yanli was ecstatic. Lan Huan, who, Jiang Cheng thinks, still doesn’t fully understand why his brother and future brother-in-law disappeared to California to begin with, was bemused but very happy for them. Granny brought over a strawberry sponge cake in celebration.

She’s been spending more time at the villa, anyway. One of the guest rooms has become hers, for those nights that dinner runs late and Wei Ying employs his wide gray eyes and convinces her not to drive home in the dark. All of them are more than okay with it, because otherwise she would go home to an empty house with no one for company but a four-year-old, and that makes Jiang Cheng’s stomach feel sour.

Granny says that A-Yuan has gotten attached, but she doesn’t specify what he’s attached to. It could be the bunnies, it could be all the wide open space to run around in, and it could just as well could be Jiang Cheng’s idiot brother, who carries A-Yuan around on his shoulders or under his arm tirelessly and threatens to plant him with the radishes every time he misbehaves.

They returned the rental car because someone in town had an old truck they didn’t mind parting with. There’s no A/C, but it’s not exactly a hardship to crank the windows down and drive really fast instead. Jiang Cheng usually volunteers Wei Ying for trips into town with him, because, even though he would die before he’d admit it out loud, it’s nice to have his brother to himself for a change.

If Yanli were here, he thinks, trudging through the little grocery store and deflecting most of Wei Ying’s attempts to sneak stupid shit into their shopping cart, it would actually be perfect.

#

They’re piled on the new second-hand sofa and a couple salvaged leather armchairs in the living room, watching a Dreamworks movie with A-Yuan on the satellite TV that Lan Zhan’s fuck-off bank account secured for them, when Wei Ying’s phone rings.

Wei Ying is sharing one of the recliners with Lan Zhan, tucked into his fiance’s lap with his legs draped over the arm of the chair and his head tucked into Lan Zhan’s shoulder, and it looks as though it would take an act of god to move him.

“Here,” Wen Qing says, amused, and leans over to pass the phone to Jiang Cheng.

“What are you good for if you won’t even answer your own phone?” Jiang Cheng grumbles without heat.

“Eye-candy,” Wei Ying says shamelessly.

“Hello?” he says loudly into the phone so he won’t have to spend a second thinking about what his own brother just fucking said to him.

“A-Cheng,” Yanli says.

“Oh, A-Li,” Jiang Cheng says, smiling automatically. “You didn’t call this morning. I meant to call you after dinner, but my phone died, because someone hogged the charger to play Candy Crush all day.”

Lan Zhan gazes at him serenely.

“A-Cheng,” Yanli says again, very gently. “Are you with A-Ying?”

“Yeah, of course,” Jiang Cheng says. His smile is fading. After a life spent reading verbal cues from his siblings, something about Yanli’s tone has his stomach doing somersaults. “He’s right here. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wei Ying sitting up. A-Yuan’s bright little voice is asking what’s wrong, and Wen Ning is shushing him. Wen Qing’s hand covers Jiang Cheng’s free one, as light and insubstantial as a bird landing on a telephone wire, until the second he needs a firmer hold.

“Of course I am, I’m okay.”

“A-Li,” he says, feeling light-headed. “What’s wrong?”

With a deep, shuddering breath, she tells him.

[farore-or-less]

Forgotten Instincts - Prologue: Reawakening

Author: farore-or-less | tumblr | ao3 | fanfiction.net Rating: M Pairing: Zelink Notes/Summary: Having been torn from her sealing power, Zelda travels with Link as a companion to conquer the Beasts, but she must hide her identity because his memory is gone & mentality hanging by a thread. She has to live under an alias until his memory of her returns, even if that means he's falling in love with the woman she's pretending to be. (Angst / Smut / Romance / Comical / Slow Burn) Small Content Warning: Features violence, swearing, mental health & suffering, masturbation, and eventually explicit sexual content.

His breathing is soft and steady, like the soothing rhythm of waves.

In a dark unknown room, he is alone, lost and forgotten to this world, existing merely as remnants of a fable, now. He has no thoughts or worries, no fears or dreams, only the peaceful darkness that surrounds him. He feels nothing, he thinks of nothing —is completely motionless except for his slow breath and sated heartbeat. It's not terrifying or lonely to exist out of place and out of time because it's all he's ever known.

In this melodic submersion that is his sanctuary, a distant voice creeps through the silence and calls out to him.

...Link. 

......Link.

He hears it in the faintest corners of his mind. The voice is muffled and choppy, like swimming under water, and the noises from above are distorted and eerily different. He never stirs from his slumber but the smallest part of his attention is now alert, just incase the voice calls back to him again —and it does. It whispers; closer and more distinct this time.

…Wake up Link.

Everything before had existed in a vacuum —absent of time. Now, he feels like the world around him is in motion, racing towards the present, trying to catch up with that pleading, feminine sound. He feels it nudging him from his enchanted slumber and his next inhale becomes heavier and more pronounced with the subtleness of new life entering his body.

The weight of consciousness becomes its heavy burden once again, something that hadn't plagued him for over a lifetime.

Then a new voice, his own voice, speaks out to him —a welcoming reality that had been dormant for so long. What’s going on? The question enters his thoughts briefly, and the voice seems to answer in return.

…Open your eyes.

In this reawakening, the softest golden light appears. Ever so distant, yet so inviting. Should he head towards it or should he return to his deep, empty subconscious? He felt at ease there —his body and soul laid to rest where the burdens of life couldn't haunt him— but did he really want that? Should he dare let his curiosity take over just to see what lies beyond this shadowed void?

Without making his own decision on the matter, the light begins to grow until it becomes a blinding white nothingness all around him, and then the voice repeats the command.

Open your eyes…

The voice is gentler this time, the anxious undertone gone from its tone. It's no longer a plea but merely coaxing him out of his dream state. 

As his mind journeys towards the blinding white light, his eyes begin to open. Were they shut this whole time? With his physical senses tingling, he becomes aware of the environment around him and it's…moving. The strange substance that surrounds his body begins to drain away, making it feel like he’s suspended in a small, personal ocean and the waves have pushed his body onto shore. 

Wake up Link.

His eyes flutter open.

Slowly, a blur of hazy blue hues begin to align with their proper shapes. When his eyes finally focus, he realizes he’s gazing at a centerpiece above him. It's artistically designed and displays glowing blue dots connected with lines in a pattern that could possibly be constellations, and he finds it unidentifiable, unrecognizable, but enchanting either way.

As the last of the liquid substance drains away, his eyes begin to move slowly around the room. It's the first movements he’s made in a century, but he doesn't know that yet. He notices the wash basin he’s in, lined with textured swirls and a glowing blue essence that he doesn’t quite understand. Is this some sort of technology?

Before he gives in to the curiosity within him, Link takes one more moment in the calm silence to inhale as long as he possibly can. His breath feels strange and new, like he’s either been holding it for ages or maybe it’s the first he’s ever taken, he’s not really sure, but then suddenly he remembers the voice he heard —now the first memory his mind has tucked away. Did he imagine it? No… that’s not possible. He couldn’t have imagined it because he had never heard that voice before.

So where was it coming from? 

He rises and begins walking towards the only other structure in the room and takes the Sheikah slate from the pedestal as a door opens on the wall before him, beckoning him into the wild. 

    » . «

This is one of his favorite perches in all of Hyrule. 

To the west the traveling bard can see the rust colored mesa mountains of Gerudo Desert, where mysteries seem to begin and never end. He gazes towards his homeland of the north and spots the snow covered peak of Hebra, protruding high above the mountain range. It's odd, unique crescent wound displayed like a proud scar for all of Hyrule to witness, although its origin story is now lost to memory —just like most things in this world. He can see the dark malevolent clouds forever lingering above Death Mountain as the lava flows dangerously down to where the contrasting humble Goron folks reside. This perch where the flighty musician stands displays one of the best views of the slumbering Hyrule Castle, forever a charred scab at the center of this world. A blackened heart barely breathing.

No, Hyrule is not without its scars and wounds, cuts and burns, it seems.

And of course, over his right shoulder, he can view the crumbled ruins of the Temple. It must have been a site to behold during its glory days, though now it is just another memory almost forgotten. Almost. 

Although the clerestory and western tower still remain, it displays a great wound along its side, enervated but not destroyed completely. He stares at the structure, grateful for his Rito wings which allow him to see such a legendary building hidden atop this vacant high ground. How long has this Temple held together? How many eras of time has it seen come and pass, and how many more will it bear witness to? 

The Temple is like a song, he thinks. It changes and resurrects, is forgotten until it's discovered again. Its story is passed down as legend, speaking perhaps more tales than truths, adapting throughout time just to survive. Just like the way a song carries throughout a generation, it morphs and rearranges, becomes relevant to the present after an era of being lost. It will be revived, retold, will share its wisdom when it's found once again. 

He carries these songs within him and perhaps he's the only one to do so now. When he had taken his apprenticeship, he knew one day the songs must be retold —either by him or his successor, whomever that will be. Perhaps one of his daughters will appreciate these songs like he does. He's always cherished the stories told from old, passed down through the line of poets and singers, dancers and performers.

Artists, he thinks. Artists pass down history more so than books in Hyrule. Books can be burned, destroyed, but songs of legend, they never seem to die. Not completely.

The bard comes here when he knows he won't be interrupted. Not by the rowdiness of stables or the crashing ocean waves, vagabonds or wanderers intrigued by his unique musical instrument and Rito voice. His race is known for being talented warriors, skilled in the combat of hunting and archery, albeit his path has always been different, but just as significant.

Nay, he seeks the Great Plateau because he knows no one will disturb him; not even the hooded stranger who is the only occupant atop this Plateau. He observes him sometimes, chopping wood by his cabin, wandering the Forest of Spirits or resting in his little alcove like he is now —always seeming to be in several places at once.

Perhaps he is a memory, just like one of my songs, he thinks.

Before he begins reciting his teacher's lessons, he likes to stand for a moment in silence; to mourn for the land and all its wounds, its misfortunes and destruction. It has seen its share of hardships come and go as it is will again and again —an endless cycle of destruction, peace, restoration, and war. He stands in silence to give admiration to where it need given, for this world, no matter how many scars it bares, is still beautiful, still strong, still breathing.

When he's ready, the bard takes a cycle of breath, ruffles his feathers, and rolls his broad shoulders. He flexes his feathered fingers against his instrument —the weight of it feeling light and airy much like the melodic notes it performs. He closes his eyes and hears the melodic music of nature around him, feels the wind through his feathers the way a song can breeze through a soul.

"What song shall I perform for you today, Hyrule?" He asks and it doesn’t answer. "How ‘bout an ancient song today, eh?"

The finches and squirrels scatter behind him.

He thinks it could have been a coincidence, but then again, Kass knows there is no such thing. He feels the vibration beneath his talons, hears the rumble of the cave behind him, creaking and moaning, whirling and swirling. The sounds of lost technology no longer dormant, and nature giving in to change. 

Looking over his feathered shoulder, Kass opens his eyes and smiles towards the shrine. Ahh, a new ballad has begun.

He rises from the cliff and soars away in a flurry of colors before the Sleeping Knight ever knew he was there. 

    » . «

Hylia, you know we do not meddle in the affairs of man. This is asking too much.

The four stand between time and space, shrouded in the purple embers of twilight. Here, they each stand atop a pillar of cobblestone suspended in another realm where no soul but deities have ever stepped. This meeting has been taking place out of time because the four that stand here use it as a tool —chiseling and forging paths of story and legend, creating lines and webs that are infinite and benevolent.

But now, if Hylia did not seek aid of her creators, her own path may result in an ending at all timelines. 

You created me. You created this world. It is your responsibility to see it endure, Hylia says.

No. We created you for that very purpose, o ne of the Three Sisters speak.

I cannot be in two places at once, trapped inside a mortal body. This is my only option. Hyrule’s only option.

Why do you not go in her stead? Surely he will be better guided in your care. Forever curious, the Goddess haloed in blue ponders. 

She cannot hold the sealing power alone. Ganon would be released to my world before the Hero’s first breath.

You are one of divinity, Hylia. You cannot hold the Seal if you are not encased in mortality, states the Goddess haloed in red.

Discussion and asking questions are a good sign, Hylia notes. They are finally coming around.

You will recall, I have used that very same power at the beginning of this world against Demise himself. I was not mortal then. If you grant me your blessing, I promise all of Hyrule will be saved.

Silence falls. They're considering her request.

Hylia, are you willing to sacrifice yourself for this land that we have made? The green haloed Goddess asks.

Haven’t I already proven that?

Yes, you have ��but this. You have never asked of this before, the Goddess of power speaks.

You would break the cycle, you would make it linear. You would make it end, the Goddess of courage adds.

Even I do not know if you can be sewn back together, the Goddess of wisdom concludes.

Then let us try because I have weighed the options and I have no other.

Silence blankets over the four Goddesses until finally, she can feel her creators giving in.

The Princess will not be the same without you. Her soul will be incomplete. If you are sure this is what must be done, then my Sisters and I will fill her void of where you once were whole, Nayru states.

What about the Hero?

His spirit is unbreakable indeed, but he is not worthy of our aid, Farore speaks.

We can do nothing for him now. He is too weak to adorn even a breath of our might, Din adds.

It is understood, Hylia replies.

Then you have our blessing, but remember, this will change Hyrule’s future. They speak in unison, in warning and in prayer.

Time is always rewritten for my world. Hylia bows to her creators and in an instant, they are gone. 

[wangxiandecoded]

Episode 4 (& Wangxian Meta)

Previous Episode | Next Episode

(Spoilers for the whole show ahead!)

Cultivation Partner

Episode 4 opens with shots of the Lan clan’s rule books that drowned Wei Ying the night before. As explained in this amazing observation by a fan, the only rule that is visible in the shot is the one which states a Lan clan member should not take off their forehead ribbon unless in front of their parents or cultivation partner, despite the show using the word “wife”. This is a strikingly gender neutral change for a show that is going above and beyond to establish that the heroes are in love without being allowed to do so explicitly.

Wei Ying is Whipped, Lan Zhan is An Ice Prince

Wei Ying is like a puppy in constant need of love and affection from Lan Zhan, isn't he? It is so important to him that Lan Zhan forgive him, befriend him, laugh with him, spend time with him. Oh Lan Zhan, if only you would look past who you are supposed To Be and admit how cute he is.

There are only two people who can make Wei Ying wear this "guilty 5-year-old who stole the candy he wasn't supposed to touch" expression, and that's Lan Zhan and his Shijie.

Wei Ying earned my respect with the number of times he tried to get the attention of his crush in the initial episodes. A true inspiration! 

Look how excited he is to see Lan Zhan! And look how gorgeously framed they are to once again remind us they are soulmates in life and the battlefield. 

Lan Qiren and Wei Ying’s Disagreement Is The First Seed of his Downfall

Wei Ying angers Lan Qiren in this scene by suggesting they harness resentful energy the same way they use spiritual energy to his hypothetical question, when such a thing is unheard of, unnatural and contemptible in the cultivation world. He gets kicked out of the lecture for his answer, foreshadowing his fall from grace.

The interactions between Wei Ying and Lan Qiren are always strained, and understandably so. He is no stranger to the grim consequences of demonic cultivation after having raised two kids who were caught in its crossfire. Lan Qiren follows the traditions he values above all else down to a T. Wei Ying's method, be it now or when he actually starts practising demonic cultivation, is something that strikes him as being almost perverse. But are him and the other cultivators right in classifying Wei Ying as corrupt for going down that road? Wei Ying simply considered a logical but forbidden path people have not dared to think about. His ideas are out of the box and definitely not the orthodox thing to do but should he be labelled a villain for it? The cultivation world and Wei Ying just have two vastly different approaches to the same problem. The line of thought separating a genius and megalomaniac is pretty thin after all, and Wei Ying's heart has never been guided by anything but pure intentions and an unwillingness to sit back in the face of injustice.

But Lan Qiren's generation and all of the cultivation world would not understand that. And what they do not understand, they fear. The order of their world is sustained only by the stratification of black and white. This is indisputable and there is no other variable to it. Heck, it even takes Lan Zhan a long time to accept it is Wei Ying who is right and the rest of the world that is wrong.

Lan Qiren represents the ancient "natural" order of the world and Wei Ying's disrespect for what reveals itself to be a suffocating system leads to the new, better, inclusive order with revised perceptions of right and wrong that Wangxian end up creating. Even if this new world comes with a great cost. The story leaves us with the questions, who is right and who is wrong, after all? Who are we to dictate that and set them in stone? 

(On a less serious note, I don't know if it's because I've seen this trope in many Asian dramas, but I found it funny how Lan Qiren is questioning Wei Ying simply for the purpose of belittling him by finding a blind spot in his intelligence. Even though Wei Ying is easily the smartest guy in the room, whose heart of gold and morally grey choices paint him as a villain. It gave me "mother-in-law who despises the woman who's going to marry into their family" vibes. Lol!)

Is The Untamed A Tale of Righteousness Or A Queer Romance? Both, Always Both 

Somewhere in this war that will happen between Wei Ying and the rest of the cultivation world, between what can be considered right and wrong, honor and disgrace, the natural and unnatural ways of life (which are all codified into an absolute, immovable binary), there is a metaphor for being different in a world that is hell bent on excluding you for being thus. And you know what Wei Ying’s whole journey reminds me of? Of our heroes being queer. If you haven’t thought about it, the parallels do exist in the story, becoming obvious when Lan Qiren punishes Lan Zhan for questioning the fallacy in the same rules that made him lose his lover, and culminating with Lan Zhan irrevocably taking Wei Ying’s side in episode 42. He chooses to be on the “wrong” side with Wei Ying, orthodoxy be damned. (I’d hate to be Lan Zhan's uncle who is implied to be homophobic and ends up having a son-in-law.)

It might be early in the story to bring this up but The Untamed is at its crux, a story about two different guys who come together for the same cause and fall in love on the path of justice, while struggling to safeguard the definition of morality they know in their hearts to be true. Their soulmateship is woven inextricably with living with a clean conscience and doing the right thing even when the world tells them they are grossly incorrect. (Eat that, Romeo’s and Juliet’s! What life-or-death challenges did straight romance ever face?) That’s how Wangxian’s upright lifestyle (which only they know to be just and others frown down upon) doubles as a metaphor for their relationship. Some people support it, some don’t, some even deplore and oppose them for it because they think they are committing a crime. Doesn’t change the fact that we, the audience, can see that they are right (and that they’re in love). In fact, it is precisely because they chose the single log bridge together (because they fell in love) that led to balance being restored in their morally corrupt world.

It’s the many little things like this about our two heroes that make the world of The Untamed undergo a transformation for the better. We don’t talk enough about the fact that Wangxian together overthrow ancient, draconian laws that decreed what is black and white, by swearing an oath to protect the powerless together but also by swearing an unspoken vow to be together forever. And one can hope, especially if you’re a queer person who fell in love with this story, that the world and most of Asia will see the light about the LGBTQ+ people one day, like the other characters realized Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji were not criminals but the best of human beings who simply lived life the only way they knew as being honest with themselves and true to their hearts. They need not spend their lives on the lonely bridge of darkness, and deserve a wider path of acceptance built by and shared with the rest of the world, one that shines under the broad daylight, because they have always, always been in the right. Like Lan Zhan and Wei Ying have been. It’s that everyone else is slow to catch up with them. 

It Is Doubly Hard For Lan Zhan To Do The Right Thing 

Lan Zhan in this scene recites the rules he has learnt verbatim and his uncle beams. It is clear he takes pride in Wangji being his prized student and the perfect example of who a duty-bound clan member should be. The person Lan Zhan used to be makes it that much harder for him to rebel against his own uncle later. I cannot imagine the courage it took him to unlearn the principles he had centered his life around after they turned regressive, and acknowledge that they did more harm than good by viewing an expanding universe through an achingly narrow vision. 

Wei Ying was born free-spirited and defiant so his choices are not totally unexpected. But Lan Zhan's choices make him lose his reputation as the unwavering bearer of light, along with the respect of his uncle who had placed him on a pedestal and vice versa. Once again drawing the comparison that turning his back on the world and ensuring his conscience was clean is the same as siding with Wei Ying, the man who he loves and was wrongfully denounced by everyone. 

In summary, Episode 4 shows us the polarity between our heroes and the lives they lead. And after all, it is the most basic rule in the book that opposites make the perfect formula for a romance.  

What Gay Messages Is The Show Sending?

In the new world order Wangxian write by themselves when no one else can, for Lan Zhan to choose Wei Ying means to choose an honorable life, and to choose Wei Ying also means to choose love. Their love for each other is the last standing untarnished virtue in the contaminated world that is already unravelling when Lan Zhan declares his love for Wei Ying in public and the first virtue in this new world that came into existence all the way back when Lan Zhan and Wei Ying launched the lantern together, deciding to stick together and be the voice that speaks out for the voiceless. It is Lan Zhan and Wei Ying’s love for each other that redeems the sorrows of the past, and paves the way for a greener future in their world. Their love story is undoubtedly the most extraordinary part of The Untamed and we are privileged to have seen it in our lifetime.

It is groundbreaking, if this metaphor for their gay love story was at all intended in any way. Even if it wasn’t, Wangxian are the queer heroes that have been sorely missing from our history. Their story propagates that people like Wangxian are liberated only when we realize we have to foster and feed the very thing that makes us different. The odds are we are the only ones capable of knowing that we are right, even if everyone else condemns and invalidates something as vital as our existence. For the sake of our clean conscience, we go on living life the way we see fit because that’s what living an honest and honorable life entails. That’s what Lan Zhan and Wei Ying would want us to do. We are all ridiculously ahead of a time that is running to keep up with us. So..

[wonderlander-i]

How to nail a study date when you’re not even dating

Pairing : Beckett Harrington x f! MC (Eli Russell)

Warnings : none, it's pure fluff (if you exclude one bad word... Or maybe two 😂)

Words count : 2,5k

Author's Note : The world needs a little bit of domestic love and well... I'm an emotional ball of drama who'd rather spend a week working on this than read my school books.

*sends virtual hugs to everyone*

On the afternoon of a rainy autumn day, Eli stood by the closed window of her dorm room, watching the clear water droplets hit the glass then race down to the wooden frame. She smiled to herself. Being a sun att and all, she loved the summer. But there was something about the rain that calmed her buzzing mind. This whole season brought her soul to an unusual peace. The mixture of the earthy sweet smell rising from the ground, the unanticipated flashes of the lightning followed by the roaring thunder in the darkening sky, the steady beats of the drizzle when it meets the window. She hugged her arms tight, humming to herself a song. She barely noticed when the door opened, and Becket stepped in with a pile of books in a hand and a dripping umbrella in the other. He set the books carefully on her desk and looked around. She already had her hanging lights on the wall next to her bed, and they were casting a soft glow across the room. It smelled the gentle spice and freshly baked cookies. That was no mystery to him; she had something baked for him each time he visited.

Finally, his eyes landed on her. And he chuckled when he noticed that she was wearing a pink cotton onesie. He walked to join her by the window, where she was deep in her thoughts.

“It’s beautiful” He mumbled, looking at the rain pouring from the grey clouds.

“Yes” she sighed wistfully “And you’re late” She turned to face him, poking his chest.

“I had to fetch my umbrella”

She shrugged “Still not an excuse”

“I brought us some hot chocolate”

“That’s a damn good excuse”

He clicked his fingers, and two mugs appeared on the desk next to his books.

“I couldn’t carry them all the way to your room, it’s too cold outside”

“And you wouldn’t miss a chance to show off your powers” She rolled her eyes, amused.

“That’s nonsense” he objected, swishing his fingers to channel an air current around her. She crossed her arms over her chest as the air pushed her straight to her bed, making her fall on top of the mattress.

“you pretentious little–” She got up, but he was already sitting down next to her. He handed her one of the mugs, and the rich smell of chocolate persuaded her to let this one slip through. He opened one of the books on his lap.

“I found this one is the hidden aisle in the library, I thought you’d find it interesting”

“Pendragon: a history of mythical fire breathers” She read out loud “You mean to tell me that dragons are real?” her eyes lit up as she flipped the pages, stopping at the drawn image of a burgundy creature with fire bursting from its mouth. “The Morelth Nighthowler” She ran her index finger under the name “Burns his victims alive after trapping them in…”

“Slow down” He interrupted her laughing “You didn’t know?”

“How am I supposed to know?” She furrowed her eyebrows. “It’s not like I walk around asking people if leprechauns exist. Or how the dwarfs keep their beards perfectly trimmed”

“To answer your questions, yes and dwarfs go to barbers like anyone else would do”

“That was sarcasm!” She exclaimed “Wait are they really that short? do they really have a hidden pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

A strange warmth invaded his chest when he looked at her excited expressions. Born to a magical family, nothing was unusual or unbelievable to him. All the things that made Eli’s eyes go wide were mere facts to him. To be the one who introduces her to these small fragment of their world, of the world she lived far away from for most of her life, was an honour he didn’t believe he deserved. He shared all his knowledge with her, not holding back anything. And it made him... Proud ? No... Happy. Happy that she’d listen to everything he teaches her. Happy that she was passionate about those things the same way he was. Happy that she understood him.

“Eliana, your curiosity is a breath of fresh air” He chuckled “Let’s start from the beginning now shall we?”

She nodded, scooping closer to him so she’d get a better view as he flipped to the first page and started reading to her “Chapter one... “

Many hours later, he was halfway through the book when something clicked inside her head. She picked up a sharpie and looked at him with a strange glow in her eyes.

“It has been proven that his scales could be useful to treat battle wounds if they’re properly smashed and mixed with Hooded Skullcaps at high temperature to make a salve–”

He stopped reading when Eli leaned forward and started drawing lines from his cheekbones to his nose.

“What are you doing?” He asked her, crinkling his nose as he felt the ink running across his face.

“Playing ‘connect the dots’ ” she replied, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“On my face?” he arched an eyebrow, still confused

“Yes”

“With a sharpie?”

“Yes” she huffed; blowing away a strand of hair that slipped from her bun and fell on her forehead

“May I ask why?” He shook his head, waiting for her answer.

She didn’t reply, biting her lips instead as she studied his face, contemplating her work. After few moments of silence, she mumbled.

“Orion”

“Excuse me?”

“Orion, the hunter” A grin broke into her face. “Your freckles match the constellation”

He was speechless. He looked at her, his jaw dropping. How does she manage to make everything poetic? Moreover, for how long did she need to gaze at his freckles before she could join them up into a constellation? Did the Eli Russell really pay him that much attention?

“Right” He cleared his throat, looking away blushing. He took a sip of his drink “Maybe you can focus back on your lesson now?”

“You’re so bossy” she rolled her eyes, shifting her gaze back to the page he was reading.

“The Cordonian Gronkaloth dragon” He carried on “Though it was thought to be a descendant of the latter, was nothing compared to the Corpsebreath Pelagius, which was last spotted in the Irish highlands in 1783. With its ability to change the colour of its scales to fade in the surrounding environment, this beast represented a major threat to the kingdom…”

Eli smiled to herself, looking at him recite the history passages as if they were poetry. She loved the way he was passionate about it, as if he was lost in the words that ran from his lips like a sweet melody. Everything makes sense when it comes out of his mouth. It was his secret talent perhaps. His eyes twinkle with every name of a forgotten king he reads. The corners of his lips lift up to a discreet smile whenever he stumbles upon a reference from an ancient historian. Sitting there beside him, with a cup of hot chocolate in her hands and a blanket around their shoulders, was her favourite getaway spot. Just seeing him all relaxed in his world made her heart flutter. And she felt grateful that he never rejects her when she asks him to come over. Little did she know that he’d throw away any plans he had scheduled for the day each time she’d call him, that their study sessions meant more to him than to her. She was roughly the only person he’d be willing to read to.

“The prohibition law came afterward on January 1863” His voice ran through the room “banishing every act of… Eli, are you following?” He paused, looking at her from the corners of his eyes.

“You aren’t wearing a blazer” She ran her fingers across his arm, caressing the fabric of the dark green wool sweater that replaced his usual button-ups and blazers.

“I’m not” This came out more like a question than a statement, looking down at his sweater. “This is more suitable for the season isn’t it?”

“Well” she chuckled “It’s refreshing to see the ‘Always-put-up-together-Beckett’ cozy up”

“Excuse me?” He raised an eyebrow “Are you saying that I’m uptight?”

“Of course not!” She exclaimed “More like…constipated” She giggled, covering her mouth with her fist.

He glared daggers at her, but the smile that he was fighting to hide gave him away eventually.

“Very funny, miss ‘I wear pink more than I wear my own skin’” He smirked.

“That’s not true!” She grabbed a pillow and threw it at him, which he easily caught before it made contact with his face.

“And you’re not wearing a pink onesie” He pointed out “With this... unicorns and rainbows pattern”

“But... It’s cute” She pouted, giving him the biggest puppy eyes she could manage.

Don’t say it Beckett.

Don’t give her the satisfaction of hearing it from you.

Her eyes grew more insistent, and he sighed defeatedly .

“Yes, it is cute”

Her face light up, mischief gleaming her eyes. “Hum...” She tilted her head to the side, looking at him thoughtfully.

“Eli, why do I feel like you’re going to make me regret saying that?”

“No reason”

Three minutes later, he was standing in a pair of pyjama pants that were identical to her onesie.

“Don’t say a word.” He said through his gritted teeth.

She was in the middle of forming a snarky comment, when loud music blasted from the room next door.

“Shreya!” Beckett groaned and walked to the wall, knocking on it furiously “We’re trying to study here”

“Can’t hear you over the sound of my one person party, you loner nerd” Shreya’s voice echoed over the song.

Eli exploded laughing and he turned back to face her.

“What’s funny?”

“Dance with me, Beckett” She smiled, offering him her hand.

Eli wasn’t the dancer, and he knew it. He pursed his lips, studying her facial expression to detect any ulterior motive behind her request. And when he found none, that she genuinely just wanted to dance, he gladly took her hand, joining her in the centre of the room.

“Don’t step on my toes” he warned her as he moved them both, guiding her around in swift movements.

“I make no promises” She twirled, her hair completely breaking loose from the bun, flying around her with each turn, then landing back to her shoulders. She looked up to him, biting her lips to cover a giggle as he missed a step while looking at her.

The song came to an end too quickly; the upbeat vibes were replaced by a softer serenade. They slowed their pace, and suddenly aware of how close they were, they stopped dead on their tracks. Eli looked down, a million thoughts rushing through her mind and each time she’d try to grasp them they’d fly away, leaving her heart in utter confuse.

Beckett Harrington was a handsome man indeed. Even if it took her a lot of time to realise it. He wasn’t just a pair of beautiful eyes, a strong jawline and the body of a Greek god in tight jeans. He wasn’t just the sum of perfectly crafted parts. He was more than that. He was the smartest man she’d ever met, with the heart of a lion and the good manners of a prince. And for the flicker of a second, she saw the heaven in his eyes.

He brushed his knuckles under her chin, and then lifted her head up to meet his gaze. She blinked, then looked up, her mouth gapping. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers running through the strands of his soft hair.

“Hello” She smiled shyly.

“Hi there” He breathed out. He clutched her hips gently, his eyes widening at how perfectly she fit between his hands.

He swayed her slowly from side to side, the soft light of her pink lamps reflecting on her eyes, turning the whole room into some sort of pink/purple-ish wonderland. She smelled like wild lavender and white honey, and he inhaled deeply, letting the scent flood his senses, making it even harder to focus.

It was like a snow globe. He wished he could be stuck in a glowing snow globe, dancing with her to the endless song his heart was beating to.

But why was he thinking this way? What has gotten into him? She’s just Eli... The same Eli he shares all his secrets with. The same Eli he’d give the last slice of his blueberry pie. The same Eli he knows like the back of his hand. The one who makes him feel ever so... Alive?

She was always something else, something extraordinary. With the way her face lights up when she walks by an ice-cream shop. How her eyebrows crease when she’s so focused. When she tears up after laughing too hard. The way she blushes when he pokes her little nose.

She lived with her head over the clouds, just like the golden sun. Always so warm, so dreamy. Nothing was so far beyond her reach. She believed that everything was possible. What was impossible is the way his heart raced with her in his embrace. It’s like a wave of sunlight was rushing through his veins. This newfound idea thrilled him in the most delicious way. His shoulders relaxed, his mouth curved into a euphoric smile. He gazed at her eyes, at the dilated pupils which starred right into his soul through her batting eyelashes. And he knew. He knew that these were the eyes he wanted to be lost in forever.

He blushed, muttering the first question that popped in his hazy mind.

“Did you put something in my drink?”

“No I didn’t”

“Then why am I feeling so... light headed?”

“I may have bewitched you” She whispered, her cheeks burning to match the shade of his.

Too shy, he stutters after planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“That, you did”

The next morning, Atlas walked into Eli’s room to wake her up for their usual training. And she was greeted by the sight of her sister and Beckett in a deep slumber. They were curled up together on the blanket fort they made last night with a lot of bed sheets and pillows. With her head resting on his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her smaller body, they were holding into each other like nothing else mattered. It was only them, snuggled up in their little world, surrounded by the open books of last night, the papers they scrabbled together, and Eli’s million sharpies.

Atlas groaned, slamming the door shut.

“Fucking teenagers”

[accioprozac]

Hi, my love! If requests are open, could I ask for one with a character from any era, whichever you prefer! (I adore both, the Marauders and the Lightning era equally as much). I’m a Ravenclaw, a Virgo and my personality type is INFP and I’m bisexual :) I’m quite short (5”0, to be exact) and petite, I have big grey eyes and red cheeks, which I love about myself very dearly. I truly and wholeheartedly enjoy reading and learning about history. I’m a bit shy and I don’t mind being alone, I guess that means that I’m introverted. Though, I consider myself as a very loving and giving person, I love making people feel adored and important. On top of all this, I speak 5 languages and play four instruments, I find that my greatest trait is my wit. I hope you have a divine day, darling! All the love x

Hi nonnie!

Thank you so much for your request!

For guys, I ship you with

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Remus Lupin!

Remus and you would honestly get along so well, although at first, he might be a bit intimidated by how smart you are.

You would probably have Ancient Runes or History with him. He’d catch your eye because he was so quiet and unassuming, but got almost perfect grades on every test.

I think you would be the first to initiate conversation. He was probably carrying a book you liked and you were like, “Oh I love that book so much!”

He was kind of surprised you were talking to him but managed to stutter out a reply, “Yeah, the author is brilliant.”

“Have you read any of his other works?” Remus and you would start talking about books everyday in class and sometimes during lunch, you would catch him staring at you.

I feel like you’re a pretty observant person and would realize that Remus was a werewolf fairly quick. You don’t say anything because you figured that if he wanted you to know, he would have told you himself.

You and Remus start dating but he slowly starts to become more withdrawn. The day after the full moon, he comes up to you, dark bags under his bloodshot eyes and exhaustion dripping off his frame.

He breaks up with you, or at least tries to. “Remus, I know you’re a werewolf. Really, it doesn’t bother me.”

He froze and slowly turned to you, “What did you say?”

The bell rings and you realize you’re both going to be late to class. You pull him into an abandoned classroom so you can continue talking, away from prying eyes.

“I can’t do this,” He tells you. “I’m a monster.”

You kind of roll your eyes at him, “You’re not a monster. You’re Remus Lupin. The quiet boy who sits next to me in History, the friend who lets Black and Potter copy your homework, the student that always tries his best, and my boyfriend whom I’m very much in love with.”

Remus actually starts to cry because one, he’s just so exhausted and his whole body hurts from his last transformation, and two, you somehow said exactly what he needed to hear.

Whenever Remus starts to spiral into another cycle of self hatred, you’re always there to remind him that you love him.

After full moons, you always make sure to have lots of chocolate on you.

Remus is a cuddler. He likes being both the big spoon and the little spoon, he just likes having you close to him.

The other marauders notice that Remus’ mood had improved a lot since he started seeing you, and they welcomed you into their group with open arms.

Remus loves to spoil you. He buys you chocolate at Hogsmeade, reads to you, makes sure you’re healthy, and overall adores you.

For girls I ship you with

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Hermione Granger

I was initially torn between shipping you with Luna or Hermione, but I ended up picking Hermione.

So first of all, Hermione thinks that intelligence is the most attractive trait a person can have.

(It also helps that you’re super pretty)

Maybe she’s a bit jealous when you get higher marks than her, but she honestly admires your wit and can see why you’re in Ravenclaw.

I feel like Hermione would make the first move.

She would probably give herself a pep talk in the mirror and remind herself that the worst thing that could happen was that you’d say ‘no.’

She’d then wait outside the library for you, reciting what she wanted to say in her head. She honestly get so lost in thought, she doesn’t realize you leaving until you come up to her to say hi.

She took a deep breath and asked you out. You smiled widely and nodded, kissing her cheek, before leaving.

Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room victorious, and Ginny definitely teased Ron. “Hermione can get more girls than you!”

Both you and Hermione are very invested in school and the majority of your dates are quiet study sessions where you just enjoy each other’s presence.

Hermione overthinks a lot and gets stressed and anxious about school, so she’d need someone who’d help calm her down and not make fun of her for being scared of bad grades or tease her for taking everything so seriously.

Whenever you feel Hermione overthinking, you usually try to distract her by cuddling up to her and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek as you remind her to take a break.

During exam week, you always make sure that Hermione is hydrated, sleeping and eating.

Sometimes she can get a bit snappy, but she always apologizes straight after because she feels terrible for treating you badly when you’re just trying to help.

[5lazarus]

White Nights, Ch. 2: The Docks

A year or so after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a brief vacation from mapping weaknesses in the Veil to Val Royeaux, and brings a new lover with her. She steps out to her balcony to enjoy the melancholy night, glances over curiously when a man steps out to the balcony attached to the room next to her, and freezes. It looks like the Dread Wolf had the same idea.

She says, “I won’t tell if you don’t.” Ch. 2, The Docks: They walk, and they keep on talking. CW: Discussion on whether or not Solas "laid with her under false pretenses." Neither comes to a satisfactory conclusion. Read on AO3 here. I made the banner, and yes, it’s from the movie adaptation of the Dostoyevsky novella of the same name. It’s a good watch! I suppose you can call this a Dostoyevsky/Dragon Age crossover :’’’’)  read Ch. 3: The Broadsheet here. read Ch. 1: The Balcony here.

In the dull lamplight Solas is almost unrecognizable, with the gray in his closely-cropped hair, the carefully groomed beard. Still, she recognizes the silhouette, and part of her thrills to see him. She had hoped he would have already left. She draws closer and notices the embroidery of his shirt: a gift from Clan Lavellan. She touches the filigree at the collar and traces the edge of his jaw. His breathing catches. He is also afraid. They are making a mistake, and she knows she will have to hold herself partly culpable for this. “So,” she says, and waits for him to fill in the silence. Instead Solas puts his hands behind his back, and she rolls her eyes. “This is a mistake,” he says tightly. Yet he came anyway. “So you’ve told me, from the beginning,” Lavellan says pleasantly, “one of many horrible little things you did to me. Still, you keep cropping up. Unavoidable, actually. Like a fungus.” A smile ghosts across his face as they both remember Cassandra. “I am sorry. Loving you--” “I wish you wouldn’t apologize,” Lavellan interrupts, “when you are going to repeat what you did, over and over again. Banal’nadas. The Blight is inevitable. We don’t have time to relitigate this.” Solas takes a shaky breath. “No. We don’t.” He lets his arms fall to his sides, relaxing his shoulders. She takes his hand. He looks at her ring ruefully. “You have always liked symbolic gestures. Your vallaslin--” “I want to show you something,” Lavellan stops him. She lifts her chin, makes a face. “To show you what you mean to me.” She squeezes his hand. “Come with me.” Solas winces dramatically. “I suppose it was foolish to hope you would not remember my worse words. Where are you taking me?” She says drily, “Not a swamp.” Solas rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “It wasn’t a swamp when I was there last...perhaps two thousand years ago.” “What was it then? A sewer?” Solas thinks for a second then twists his mouth wryly. “I have called it a cesspool before.” He laughs at the face Lavellan makes. “Fine,” she says. “Keep your secrets.” She starts forward, tugging him along, and she both enjoys and hates the slight bounce to his step as he matches her. Walking with him was always like a dance, twisting in and out of each other’s magnetic orbit. “It was my house,” Solas bursts out. “Or at least the place that held my laboratory, when I was still…working with the Halla-Mother. Where I decided to break with the Evanuris and Geldauron’s clique both. I had planned to tell you everything.” She stops so suddenly he stumbles. He looks at her, afraid, and she lets go of his hand and touches the plastered wall of the building at the corner to ground herself, closing her eyes at the sudden rage that has swept her. He waits, awkwardly, as she breathes. They have done this routine before, of course, she has always struggled with her anger. She reminds herself of what she can feel: cobblestone worn smooth below her feet, ocean-cold air on her skin, the metal end of the prosthetic digging into what is left of her arm. The Veil is so thin now, and she does not want what could have been to tear it. Solas says, “I should not have told you that. That I was going to tell you.” “No,” she agrees. That possibility sits between them, and throws its arms around them companionably: there could have been another way. It should not be like this. Lavellan rubs the bridge of her nose, trying to calm herself down. “You are angry,” Solas says warily. “Did you expect applause?” She flexes the fingers of the prosthetic, as if to check if they still work. The middle finger sticks slightly, and she bends it back into a fist. She does not want to look back at him and see the pity and shame cross his face. She has built her life out of the ashes from Haven, and he has not been the worst thing to happen to her. She has survived worse humiliations. She smiles grimly. At least she is still moving. Solas says, “I have always been too rash in matters of the heart, and even after these long years, I have not yet learned moderation. I indulged myself at the wrong moments, and held back too. And for that, I am sorry.” He sounds like his Keeper has made him sit and think about his apology before reciting it aloud. It has the touch of rehearsal--but Solas has always thought themselves in some tragedy. Lavellan had always thought she was the lead of her own play, but it seems she has been upstaged. Lavellan musters herself to look at him. His eyes are pleading. The beard is ridiculous. She touches it, tracing where he has trimmed it along his jawline. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch like a cat. “I am not your Keeper,” she says. “There is no reason to confess. And I don’t forgive you, anyway. As you said. This is yet another one of your mistakes.” Solas does not rise to the bait. He rarely does. “Where are you taking me?” Lavellan does not know. She picks a street and keeps moving, and he matches her stride. His arm brushes against hers. They look in opposite directions, lost in their mutual self-pity. The night itself is liquid, a wet breeze teasing through the narrow streets. Magelight spills onto the cobbes, worn smooth by three hundred years of human occupation. Her great-great-grandfather on her mother’s side had been from Val Royeaux. He had died in yet another failed raid on Halamshiral, long before her mother was born. The streets are as old as history, and she misses her misspent youth, running goods from Orlais to the Free Marches, taking the Minanter through half of Thedas and leaving friends and enemies in her wake. Tomorrow she and Anders will visit some of them, and see what has changed. She has to clean her mother-in-law’s grave, too. She wonders what her late husband would have thought of this, what he would say. He would say something clever about her moving from the slapstick comedy of their smuggling career to epic tragedy. She says casually, “You know I met my husband here. When I was a student, working for Briala. And then when the Carta began paying me better.” Solas has always been amused by her past. He enjoyed the rumors flitting about her wake, and how they twisted him into it. The truth was stranger than the story, and the story served to entertain. He says, “Mahanon? Yes.” They duck into an alleyway that has an unguarded gate into the alienage--an example of Briala’s munificence. Before Solas stole the key, Briala had kept an eluvian there. A sick hatred rises up her throat, and Lavellan swallows as they turn into the elvhen quarter. A statue of Fen’Harel faces outward, away from the Vhenadahl. Solas grimaces and pats its head. She steers them away from the Vhenadahl--he does not deserve it--and towards the docks. Jasmine vines up the ancient buildings that date to the Exalted March, and she breathes in that heady scent with a rush of nostalgia--for whom, for what, she cannot tell. Perhaps herself, before--before all of this, before love. As they pass, Solas plucks a blossom and places it in his pocket. A perishable souvenir, she thinks: quickling memory. How apt. Solas says, “I was surprised to find how effectively you and Briala had seeded the various great ports of Orlais and the Free Marches with your organizers. And you joined the Friends of Red Jenny, did you not? An interesting move, considering their decentralization cripples their coordination. But it does leverage you into the back alleys of Denerim, Antiva City, and the Grand Necropolis. Though the Qunari invasion has stymied their recruitment efforts in Tevinter.” He is wrong, but she will not tell him that. “The Qunari,” she hedges. “They think if they find out your name, they can reveal your true nature and master you.” Solas chuckles. “I was, and always have been, Pride first. Fen’Haril, and then Harel,” he grimaces, and Lavellan cannot help the rush of affection at how he is still affronted over the name, Keeper Deshanna reckoned the vowel shift must have occurred over two thousand years ago, he has been quietly seething over it since before the fall of Arlathan, “--came during the war. And if Mythal could not master her pride, I have no doubt the Qunari will likewise fail.” The street widens as they approach the dock but he bumps into her anyway. She tucks her good arm into his. They can pretend they are old lovers and not political enemies locked in a cold war. They can accept that they are old lovers, currently locked in a tense nonaggression pact. Lavellan’s mouth twists. Leliana will be so horribly pleased with the whole situation. It is all so terribly Orlesian. Lavellan asks, “Who named you?” She does not expect him to answer. They reach the docks, and he turns to her, smiling. “Do you know,” he says, “you are the first person who has bothered to ask me that? Most assume I chose the insult for myself.” “Yes,” she says. “You’re far too proud to laugh at yourself.” He is avoiding the question, but he has still revealed that he has kept a close eye on the Red Jennys, which Sera suspected but could not confirm. “I have you to do that for me. You keep me humble.” “And here I thought it was Cassandra and her Smite that kept you from picking fights. With anyone but Vivienne, Iron Bull, Thom, Sera--didn’t you have a go at Varric once? What did you call Orzammar? Ah, yes. ‘The severed arm of a once-great empire.’ But now I know you were projecting. Is that what you call the Dalish? Twitching to give the appearance of life. Never dreaming,” Lavellan says bitterly. “Left for dead.” Solas looks at her strangely. “Not anymore,” he says quietly. He walks to the edge of the dock and sits down gingerly, avoiding wet spots and fish guts. He leans back, feet dangling above the water, and looks up at the stars. It is a beautiful night in Val Royeaux, and Lavellan’s heart catches. She remembers too much--friends long dead, friends lost, her first husband. She sighs and sits next to him. He shifts closer to her, pressing his leg against hers. He still smells the same. “Tell me about this place,” he requests. “It holds some significance to you.” “It doesn’t matter,” she says. Those stories are not meant for him. In another world, she would tell him about the Portinari boys, about Sylanna and Garta and Briala’s first girlfriend, and maybe she would have even told him how she asked Mahanon to leave Val Royeaux, on a night as cool as this. But, as he himself told her, that world is not this one. It cannot be. She says instead, “You were going to tell me your name.” She rests her head on his shoulder. He nuzzles into her hair and breathes deeply. Such an odd thing, scent: he must miss it too. He puts his arm around her, tentatively at first. When it is clear to both of them she will not pull away, he holds her tighter, and takes her hand. Solas says, “You know my name.” Lavellan says mildly, “You know lying by omission is still a lie.” “No--” Solas draws back, and the wooden pier creaks beneath them. “Careful,” Lavellan says. “Don’t fall in.” Solas stares at her. “I never lied to you. I...may have misled you. My meaning may have been ambiguous. Our language is one of intents, my heart.” Lavellan’s frown deepened. “You know my intent. In that I have always been clear.” He looks at her, afraid, and he braces himself for what she will say next. Lavellan thinks, oh I don’t want to talk about this oh but there’s no going back oh I should’ve stayed with Anders and ignored this white night. Solas says, desperation in his voice, “Our time together may not be kind for either of us--it isn’t. We both know that. But I did not lie to you. I did not lie with you under false pretenses!” Lavellan says slowly, “Is that guilt I hear in your voice?” Her mouth twists, and Solas’ lips thin. “I do think you protest too much, Dread Wolf. Fen’Harel, or Haril --whatever you call yourself.” Solas opens his mouth to interrupt but a furious look from Lavellan silences him. “You know you did wrong by me. You know what your name is, you know what you should have told me. You--dishonored me, you lied to me--do you think I would’ve fucked you if I knew--” “Then why am I here?” Solas demands. “Why are you here? Tell me--why do you keep tormenting --” “Me or your conscience?” Lavellan snaps. “Nosing at the edges of my dreams! You use me to torture yourself, because you’re guilty and you know you’re guilty, but you’re too proud to admit it so you’ll keep wearing me like a hairshirt--” “I did not force you,” Solas hisses. “I asked you to leave. You pulled me back from the door. Every time. Time and again, I warned you. This...connection has been cruel from the beginning.” He puts his head in his hands and breathes deeply. Lavellan is momentarily concerned, but anger is burning below her skin, despite the chill off the ocean. “If that is what you think…” He is at the brink of tears. “If that is what I have done to you.” He swallows hard. Lavellan is unmoved. “I have been nothing but myself, and my worst self, with you. I was Solas first and I have been Solas since. Did you expect me to tell you, when Cassandra held us both prisoner--oh, to keep us on even standing, I am the monster of your people’s mythology.” He laughs bitterly, wiping furiously at his eyes. He smiles at her sardonically. “Do you think I did not rehearse it constantly in my mind? From when I gave Tarasyl’an Telas, to Wisdom’s murder--and what would you have done? Would you have treated me fairly? Would you have given me hearing?” “I don’t know,” Lavellan says. “Did you, for me?” She meets his gaze steadily. He is at the brink of tears, which brings out the almost violent tinge to his gray eyes. She tells herself she is unmoved. She has watched him cry before, in fear and loneliness, when he could not sleep for the nightmares in the Emprise. They had both been haunted by the mines, and he had been particularly upset at the report that the red lyrium had taken root. Now she knows: he understands the rot has sunk into the soil, eating away at the people, and he was despairing. Then she had been worried for him, now she is glad. Finally, Solas looks away, ashamed as he had been in that ridiculous armor. They both enjoy a good costume performance, but she has him as stripped as she feels. Solas says, “Why are we here? To growl at each other like two territorial wolves, and sniff out what the other knows and does not know. Now you know the Blight that is upon us. You know this world have been doomed since Corypheus slaughtered the city of Kirkwall to break open the Black City.” “Before,” Lavellan says. “The Titan. I found your bolthole in the Crossholds. For a man who keeps his secrets close, you do like to dangle half-truth all over your walls.” Solas laughs hollowly. “I paint. That is what I am, before I am called to Mythal’s service.” Lavellan notes the change in tense, but allows it to pass without comment. “So now you know.” “Dread Wolf,” Lavellan says. “Fen’Harel. Fen’Haril. Rebel. At the feet of Mythal. And Pride first, Pride before all. I’ll spare you the pun about the fall.” “Two millennia too late for that,” Solas says. “But you are the only one counting.” She cannot help but smile at that. She stretches her legs and throws herself down to the pier, looking up at the still-visible stars. Solas looks down at her, fondness mixed with sadness. She squints and picks out a familiar pattern to the embroidery of his shirt. “I gave you that,” she says. “My clan sent that to you. I didn’t know you kept it.” She lifts a hand to his collar and examines the filigree. The magic responds, familiar: her aunt Ithilien sewed the pattern, but Deshanna enchanted it. They thought she would bring him home. From his collar, she moves her hand to his neck, traces it down to his collarbone, and contemplates tightening her grip. Solas closes his eyes. “Stop,” he says. She does not remove her hand. His heart beats steadily under her palm. They wait, listening to the waves gently lap against the shore, the planks of the pier creak, the carousing from beyond them, in the alienage cafes. She remembers fucking her first husband down at the docks, both daring in plain view of the moonlight, then more slowly in the shadows, even overturning, laughing, a boat, grabbing at some poor fisherman’s net. She looks up at Solas. She can imagine him grunting, half in pleasure, half in pain, her scrabbling to get him out of his clothes--perhaps someone opening their shutters to see what the noise is about and rolling their eyes at these two horny middle-aged elves. What good would it do, what pleasure would she take from it? She misses sharply the feel of his skin against hers, she misses him holding her hot against him, all those freezing nights. She says, “Do you remember those nights in the Hissing Wastes?” He says, “And those languid days.” He wraps his hand around hers and removes it from his neck. “My heart.” “Melodramatic,” Lavellan says. “Cassandra will love it.” “High intrigue,” he adds. “Devastating to us both.” He lies down next to her and caresses her shoulder. “Varric will pillory me in song. More than he already has.” She snorts. “Truly, he could not have helped Maryden come up with a better rhyme? And the book . That book--is the moonlight still glinting off my ears? Or has the effect changed, since I grew out my hair?” “He misspelled my name,” Lavellan says. “Called me by my matronym. I think he did it on purpose.” “Entertain me,” Solas says. “What ending will Master Tethras write for us? Because I do not know how to leave this gracefully. Though I suppose any ending is better than the last one, when I left with your arm.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Lavellan says, “you’re not allowed to make me laugh after I’ve made you cry.”

“Rules of engagement,” Solas says. “You do not strangle me, I let any cancers you encounter strangle  you--no laughing, but we can both cry.”

Lavellan presses in closer to him, eyes sparkling. “But only in the moonlight, under a,” she glances up quickly, “waning gibbous moon.”

“Obscure as your wit,” Solas says. “Agreed.” A draft of wind shivers over them, and they pull together. Lavellan feels hollow, exhausted, as emotional as the tides sucking at the Val Royeaux beach. Solas is  watching her. He always is. He says, “We will  not meet again.”

“One hopes,” she says. “Why that inn? Why Val Royeaux?”

“Because I am tired,” he says simply. “Because I like this city. I did not want to stay in the alienage and think  of you, and the hotelier did not sneer and call the guard when he saw my ears. And you?”

She parrots back, “Because I am tired. Because I love this city. Because I cannot bring a human to the  alienage, and the hotelier did not call for the guards when me too.” Solas’ eyes flicker, and he pulls away from her. She thinks, jealous? Good. He thinks of her in Val Royeaux, he thinks of her in the  alienage--just this one, or in general? They stayed in the alienage, when Cassandra brought her to testify to  the Chantry. The four of them had had a good time. “You should go to your lover,” Solas says. “Before he wakes.” Lavellan smiles thinly. He thinks she lied to him--a lie of omission, but a lie nonetheless. “And you to your empty bed?” He snorts. “Empty, and lonely, and ever-desiring what I should not. I have not changed much.” She is flattered despite herself, and triumphant, but then remembers that he has always laid the flattery a little too thick. “Desire?” she says teasingly. “What do you want?” He stares at her. “Life. More life. And not to die alone.”

[talldarkandroguesome]

15th of Sun’s Dawn, Morndas

If I never had to see Aunt Vivyne and the twins again, I would be overjoyed. I had always though the most annoying thing about the twins was that cousin Folsi had a terrible habit of always asking her elder twin, Adosi, for confirmation on everything, usually in ways that insult others, to which Adosi would then just make the most obnoxious laugh.

I am happy to say that, now that they are in their 240′s, they have abandoned this habit of the last five decades.

On the down side, they have developed a new habit which is to constantly ask Adosi’s children to perform what can only be described as parlour tricks of a sort. Malvi, the eldest, attempts to perform the ancient martial dances. Yet, in place of of the fluid and powerful grace that turns a spear drill into a dance, she is stiffer than a set of Ordinator mail. I think I have seen automatons in Dwemer ruins with better range of motion. To listen to her speak, it seems she is equally talented in speechcraft. I feel sorry for her husband, who has had to commit to a marriage bed with so stiff a mer. Surely a sack of ash yams would have more flexibility and warmth. 

The middle child, Telvon, recites histories of the first era. It might be interesting if it were not delivered as though a starchy librarian was reading pages from a book entitled, Dry Histories of the First Era: An Account of Every Unnecessary Fact of War Making and Politics by Chimer Society. It is enough to be able to put even the most enthusiastic scholar of the era yawn and recline into their seat while attempting to fight off an unbidden slumber.

The youngest child, Vedeyne, who is about Sildras’ age, is learning to sing an old Chimer tune, which, I know for a fact, is mostly a reconstruction made, and subsequently popularized, about twenty years ago. It was discovered that only part of the music is actually accurate, the lyrics and most of the tune having been destroyed by the ravishes of war with the Nedes and Dwemer. Not that you would know that the way Folsi loudly proclaims it as a treasure of Chimeri tradition.

It is only made worse by the fact that the poor mer can hardly carry a tune. I do not fault her not being able to hit many of the notes. It is a difficult melody for an adult to do, but at so young an age to force her to try and learn it, it seems cruel. Though, the twins are likely tone-deaf, if only by love and ambition, for they praise her as a prodigy of vocal talents. Perhaps they hope if they announce it loudly and often enough it will come to be. The Three know the poor girl needs all the help she can get. Perhaps they could actually get her a music tutor to help her develop his voice in a way that is more appropriate for her age.

That they should think we all would be impressed by such feats is rather the most pathetic and pitiable part of all of it. I do not fault the children on the whole, knowing how they must have been raised. Mostly I feel great pity for what they must have had to endure. I am sure they were praised for such skills that do not suit them, when they could have nurtured whatever the children’s natural or learned talents were instead.

Aunt Vivyne is hardly better, though. She spends every such event, save for when they are hosted by her personally, announced ever perceived fault in the venue and menu. Her comments on the other attendees is even more slanderous. She and her children and grandchildren, plus their respective spouses, are always praised without any seeming fault. Yet every other soul present might as well have committed treason or murder the way she reacts with such an air of scandal.

That I should be displaying Boiche green instead of Eplear green this season might as well have been my putting a sword to her throat, for she took as great an offense in seeing the nearly identical colour.

Nabine was lucky enough to be able to have uncle Urnel invite her to speak, so that he might meet the children before the meal, that she missed out on some of the loud sighs and nasty looks of Aunt Vivyne.

Cousin Ano, the twins younger brother, stood silent against the wall. He may not say much, for which I count things as a blessing, but should anyone complain about the twins or Aunt Vivyne’s behavior, he has a hair trigger that has him holding blade to the throat of any who dare to insult his beloved mother or sisters. Seeing as I did not wish to have any bloodshed in my home, I had him seated close to Father, who always does enough to talk for two and is so enraptured by his own voice and thoughts that he hardly stops to consider anything others are doing as rude.

I put Aunt Vivyne, the twins, and their children at the same side of the table, with a large buffering space between them and Mother. She is already upset enough with me, if I put her so close to her sister and nieces, I would surely fall victim of one of the Mabrigash curses that the Farseer undoubtedly taught her.

Due to social reasons, I had to sit by Mother, which left Nabine seated over to Ano’s other side. I warned her about his temper and asked that if she had to kill him, she do it after we had finished dealing with my House. Preferably in a way that we would not be jailed.

I was surprised to see her engaging with him in a way that, not only did not seem to anger him, but seemed to actually get a sort of curl at the corner of his lips. I do not think I have seen him smile before outside of combat.

Later I was to learn that she had been flirting with him in a way that was more akin to issuing the challenge of a duel. I told her that if she were to pursue anything of the sort with my cousin, to spare me most of the details. She agreed.

Kuna and Cariel seemed to enjoy the evening. Kuna is rather enjoying the princess treatment, as she calls it. There is a sort of charm to her zealous child’s confidence. It seemed to go over well.

I find myself in need of more brandy, however. We are about to start planning for the first hosting of the House Council. It shall be in two days time and I dread what may be to come. At least Mother has told me that she will help with the expense of the children’s dresses. That leaves me only to worry after Nabine’s. Hopefully we can come to an agreement.

My Prince, please guide me in your infinite wisdom. I shall make you a large offering very soon should we succeed here.

[matildainmotion]

My Cure for the Blues, thanks to my Daughter who Loves Pink: What Might Yours Be?

I am blue. I don’t know why. There are many blatant reasons for blueness in the world right now - more than there have ever been in my lifetime - yet still I don’t know why. If I did I wouldn’t be blue. I would be sad with purpose. Or angry. Or upset. But what I have is a slightly pointless feeling. Being blue is vague. Vaguely low. A big wash of a dark colour, devoid of detail.

Meanwhile my four year old daughter is definitely not blue - she’s pink. “What’s your favourite colour today?” She asks, everyday. I find it a hard question to answer with accuracy, perhaps because of my vague blue feeling. She does not: “What’s yours?” I say. “Pink,” she replies with absolute certainty, “And gold.” Another favourite question of hers, that she poses most evenings at supper: “What are you the fairy of?” The grown-ups round the table come up with various quips in answer: Daddy is the fairy of mashed potato; Granny is the fairy of hearing aids; Mummy is the fairy of tiredness. 

“And you, Tenar?” 

“I’m the fairy of beauty, sparkly things and everything I like,” she replies, while skipping up and down beside the dinner table, because the fairy of beauty is much too busy to pay any heed to the fairy of meal time manners. Her favourite Christmas present was a gold princess gown, which she dons daily, and Snow White-like, checks in the mirror to see if she looks suitably fair. She wants to grow her hair down to just above her bottom. 

This all comes as rather a shock to me because I was not a pink girl - my favourite colour as a child was navy blue, no pastels please. I refused to wear dresses. I had a party boiler suit- dark blue - for birthdays. I climbed trees, ran along garden walls and lived in trousers. I was inconsolable when my father once brought me back a kilt as a present from a trip to Scotland - imagine being given a skirt! Despite being told this was a skirt meant for men, despite the photos in the family photo drawer of my father, a proud soldier in a Black Watch regiment kilt, I remained unconvinced. I have stayed relatively consistent in my tom-boyness into adult life. As a mother my children rarely see me in dresses, hardly ever in make up. Mummy has long hair under her armpits and on her legs but often shaves her head.

Given the version of womanhood I have presented to my daughter, I assumed  her predilection for pink princesses was a result of the vicious marketing to which children, especially girls, are subjected - the bright pink magazines with plastic toy lipsticks and hair curlers sellotaped onto the front, placed at just her height on the wracks near the supermarket check out. This is just one example of the many things about the world that make me blue so, when her pink princess phase began, I set to work. 

I had already consistently switched pronouns around in books - mostly from he to she - or had discussions with my daughter about the absence of active female heroines.  More recently, her questions such as “Why is it girls that have long hair?” Or, “Which one of these princesses is the most beautiful?” lead to long discussions about the history of fashion, gender as a colourful spectrum, and how peacocks are just one example of a species in which it is the boy that gets to wear the gorgeous feathers. None of this seems to make the slightest difference to my daughter’s commitment to pink, but two developments recently have eased my concerns and made me think that there is more than 21st Century patriarchal capitalism at work in her choices, and that the pink thing - or the thing for pink -that is sustaining her spirits through this hard time might actually contain within it a clue to the medicine I need for my blues.  

Firstly, last weekend, after a day on which I had had to work and so had resorted to letting Tenar watch Disney’s Cinderella (the 1950 animation) she ran back and forth during supper and told us her version of the story. In her rendition, she played the part of the fairy godmother, and having magically rustled up a stunning dress for Cinderella, she thought she should be the one who got to enjoy it. So it was she, the fairy godmother, who danced the night away with Cinders. And what of the prince? No princess for him - he was left with a slice of pizza. After three nights of dancing together, Cinderella married Tenar, the fairy godmother, and they lived together happily ever after, with an ever-expanding wardrobe of fabulous dresses. The prince married the pizza, and was, apparently, content with his lot. 

I was reassured by this that my daughter is in no way either a passive consumer of pink-ness or likely to become an easy victim of social norms. Soon after marrying Cinderella, she came up with the second thing which allayed my concerns, and made me question my fast feminist assumptions as to what is at work in her psyche. She announced, seemingly out of the blue (that colour again), that one day she wants to acquire a white, calm, mare.  

We have some chickens, but on the whole we are not an animal-focussed family. No cats. No dogs. Certainly nothing as large and demanding as a horse. My daughter accepts the fact that owning a horse is a big deal - you need a stable, a meadow, and various other bits of kit, so she is going to be patient - not a quality that comes to her easily - and wait, but it is important that she gets the mare when she is still young, she says, by the time she is twelve. By then her hair should have grown to her full desired length and both she and the white mare can ride over the fields with their locks streaming behind them. She is also keen on a cart to go with it, which will, she says, make shopping much easier and less boring. She will look after it very well: she will dress it in garlands of flowers, feed it hay and apples and exercise it daily. Its stable will be right beside the pink, gold and violet-painted bedroom of her own, into which she will also have moved by the time she turns twelve.  

I am not entirely sure from where this horse has ridden into her mind. She has a sticker book of white unicorns, but much of the dream seems to be of her own invention. I am not about to surrender to an essentialist narrative and suggest that all little girls harbour a horsey dream - how could I when I myself never have?- but it has touched me, this sudden passion for a white horse, the oddly mature way in which she discusses the details of it, and it makes me think there is more than magazine marketing at work in her.  

My husband plays Tenar the theme tune to White Horses, the 1960s TV series, whilst I remember all the stories I know that feature a woman and a horse. One of my favourite Ted Hughes’ tales concerns the first woman complaining to God that she is bored - she wants a playmate. After trying out various creations and getting it horribly wrong, God finally gets it right when, out of the crests of the waves, he conjures a horse, who rides ashore to greet the waiting woman. Going further back in time, there are the tales of Epona and Rhiannon, Celtic horse goddesses which I know of thanks to mother-maker, Jackie Singer, who made a brilliant show about them that explored women’s power and sexuality - both its repression and liberation. Rhiannon in particular, who can outride any man with ease, is no passive princess. Whilst the image of a girl dressed in pink is no more than eighty years old, the image of a woman riding a horse is clearly a good deal older. However, irrespective of age (simply using the fact that something has been around for a long time is a highly dubious reason for justifying it - patriarchy, for example, is ancient!) it seems to me, listening to Tenar, that she has somehow tapped into an image-geyser - it has sprung up mysteriously, and with tremendous energy. It feeds her.  Life is tough, we are confined in a tiny house, while we try to stay well, stay sane, shield Granny, but my daughter is buoyant, not blue, because she is dreaming of horses- I need some of what she’s got.  

But I never dreamt of horses. They don’t do it for me. I think back to when I loved navy blue and try to recall what else I was dreaming of then. What made me run around the kitchen table with delight like my daughter does? And then the answer comes: I wanted a meadow too, but not for a horse. I wanted a cabin in one corner - I was going to run across the meadow, barefoot, marvel at the wonder of the world and then head into my cabin and write. I didn’t want to be a princess, I wanted to be a poet. With the same passion, the same weird mix of realism and fantasy as I see in my daughter and her horse ambitions, I made plans for my poetry cabin. I remembered this when I watched the amazing Amanda Gorman, not dressed in pink or blue but brightest yellow, reciting at Biden’s inauguration - a young poet woman warrior. I can feel it does me good to summon up this archetype, this image. It starts, slowly, to dispel the blue. It’s a dose of a meaning-of-life medicine, the first iteration of it that I ever brewed for myself and so, because of this, it still holds a certain potency. As Victor Frankl argues in his classic Man’s Search for Meaning a sense of purpose, of meaning, is what we (man, woman, or betwixt and between) need to survive the hardest times - a holocaust, a global pandemic, or, closer to home, just a tough day of schooling with the kids. 

So, here are your questions for the month - actually a mix of my daughter’s questions and mine:

What is your favourite colour today? What are you the fairy of? What do or did your children, if you have them, dream of? And what were your own childhood dreams? And can your answers to these questions change the colour of your days?

As I type this, Tenar is sitting on my lap, and she has asked for the last word. I have said she can dictate and I will type. Over to Tenar, then, to finish this off:

“I ask my mum so many questions that I feel in my body and I say my heart is the thing that controls my feelings. I ask every night to my mum, why she was a tom boy? And I say that I love you as much as I am going to love everything around me, and I love my heart, and my horse. And I am a girlie girl, not like my mummy.  I love princesses, I say, every night.”

[kibakun02]

Naruto Retsuden Epilog

“Mom, is hokage-sama going to coming out soon?”

The small palm of a hand gripped tightly to the hem of the skirt fluttering by

his face.

“Yeah that’s right, you’ll see him soon”

Quietly, the mother looks up to the shrine dedicated to the gods on the hill.

Among the modest crowd on the piled sandstone was a meeting happening between

the 7th hokage and the Daimyo of the Land of Stairs.

Tons of people had gathered at the foot of the hill just to catch a glimpse of

the “hero” on his first visit since he had taken office.

The air around the slope of the hill gently sways, making the thin smoke of an

orange flame rise.

No one understood why it burned.

For the 4,000 years of recorded history, the flame at the top of the hill

continued to burn even through the rainy days. The indelible flame is regarded

as a blessing from the gods and a curse from the devil, since ancient times

it’s been worshiped and been the subject of awe.

Eventually, as the fourth shinobi world war ended with the five great

countries in agreement of social peace, and once the rumors of the mysterious

flame that burned in the corner of a small country reached the ear of Kakashi

Hatake, the hokage at this time, had a team of investigators dispatched.

Their research, consisting of both science and ninjutsu, resulted in the

reveal of a large deposit of natural gas that sat beneath the hill. Natural

gas erupted from underground while the geothermal heat ignited the flame.

The heat from the never-ending bonfire caused a gentle breeze, shaking the

petals of the dull wild violets that bloomed.

The 7th hokage and daimyo of the Land of Stairs came out of the temple exactly

at their scheduled time. Seems like the meeting went off without a hitch.

“Hokage-sama!”

“Seventh! Over here!”

“Do a rasengan!!”

Cheers rose from the crowd gathered by the staircase.

In response to seeing the cheering crowd, the 7th hokage lifted his arm to

form a rasengan just as from behind, his escort from Konoha rushed to push

down his arm in restraint.

“Hokage-sama, please don’t show off your rasengan so carelessly! It could

affect national security!”

“Whaaat? It’s fine. Just a little-…“

The seventh hokage sourly frowned, reluctantly lowering his arm.

Naruto Uzumaki.

The Village Hidden in the Leaves’ top shinobi, the protector of the Land of

Fire, the young leader holds the position of 7th hokage. His hair a bright

blonde, his eyes reminiscent of ramune soda in the summertime

He’s reaching his mid-thirties, but from his juvenile innocence, you’d never

guess.

It’s no secret that he’s the jinchuriki to the nine-tailed fox, but his face

looks closer to that of a racoon than a fox. His big eyes, nose, mouth, in

addition all moved well, making his expressions rich. It wasn’t just his

expressions that were flashy, it was every slight move he made, catching the

eye of the people all around you. He’s your average “smooth talker” type of

leader that pulls you in, but in his case, the love he gives breaks through.

Naruto stopped his feet suddenly in the middle of the staircase, narrowing his

eyes as he threw his gaze far off in the distance. He was sure that he’d be

able to see visible skyscrapers that were lined in the distance behind the

clouds from his view. The dull field connected to the foot of the hill

abruptly ended at the border of the capital and switched completely to a

cosmopolitan view interwoven with inorganic material.

Since the natural gas underground could be easily obtained in the area, it

became widely used as a source of fuel for in the five great nations for

large-scale transportation, causing the Land of Stairs to rapidly develop.

Their Gross Domestic Product increased seventeen times over a decade ago,

their infrastructure improved, welfare enhanced excessively, and life

expectancy increased by 20 years.

There is so much money. What’s missing is tradition, and the story of a hero.

“Hokage-sama, how was your visit to the Land of Stairs?”

Waiting at the bottom of the staircase for the 7th Hokage were interviewers,

surrounding and pointing a microphone at him.

“I was happy to experience the development of the Land of Stairs first-hand.

I had also accompanied the investigators dispatched by the previous hokage. To

be able to get a feel for the Land of Stairs development like this, I’m glad

I came.”

After the hokage gave his comment, a shrill voice rose with “please come

again!”

“haha… well we’ll look for another opportunity”

As the hokage answered softly laughing, applause erupted from all over the

crowd.

The long-established hidden village leaders, everyone in the Land of Stairs’

aspiration. In particular, they had great confidence in the hokage, the leader

of the hidden leaf village. Over 10 years ago, this country, whose livelihood

still depended on their blacksmith industry, received a grant for development assistance by the Land of Fire’s daimyo Madoka Ikkyu and the sixth hokage.

After passing laws for refining the natural gas underground, the country’s

total production per capita grew three times bigger than that of the Land of

Fire, and aid was discontinued. Though they never forget the support they

received in poor times.

The more people like you, and the greater influence you have, the more enemies

you’ll inevitably have. At this time, the person who’d been asked to

assassinate Naruto Uzumaki was surely one of them. Looking at Naruto’s

profile as he continued with the media correspondence, Aze Yanaru narrowed his

sharp eyes. He was an assassination specialist shinobi, changing his

appearance with a transformation jutsu as he approached Naruto.

While the usual strategy to assassination is aiming at your target while

they’re alone, Yanaru often picked places conspicuous and visible to the

public. Unexpected attacks in places with an unknown number of witnesses. What

makes this possible is the use of shadow clones enclosing in a four-man cell.

With his kekkei genkai, Yanaru can share his stored accumulated memories when

his clone disappears, not only with his original body but with the rest of his

clones. It’s a great advantage to have the ability to exchange information

closely should there be any unexpected situations at the site of

assassination.

His shadow clones, A, B, and C, all 3 of them placed and already aiming at the

hokage’s life. On the other hand, only three escorts were guarding the

hokage.

The bounty presented was enormous. If one were to succeed in this job, you’d

have enough to live comfortably for 3 generations.

Yanaru looked at the crowd gathered at the foothill, taking a deep breath to

release his nervousness. The life of the seventh hokage for money. Something

much more than natural gas.

One of Yanaru’s clones, A, hid himself in the thick leaves, aiming at the

seventh hokage from atop a tree.

On the path the hokage walked, there was a luxurious rug, dyed a luxurious red

from sappanwood dye. The root was clear, there was almost no open space

anywhere or blind spots in the perimeter, so aiming from there was a good

location. No doubt that Shikamaru Nara, one of the hokage’s right hand men,

would complain, but he persisted on by the side of the stairs, since this hill

was the most sacred site in the country.

“A” gripped a small firearm in one hand, reciting and confirming his plan.

A state-of-the-art photon gun, issued by his employer, a weapon that emits a

400,000-watt high power (maxima laser) to attack enemies from a distance. The

intense heat from the laser instantly transmits from cell to cell, even if it were to hit the tip of your hair, your whole body will heat itself in a few

minutes, causing you to burst from the inside out.

He raised his face again, readjusting his grip. The questions from the media

are pouring in with rapid succession and without hesitation towards the

seventh hokage.

“Does the Land of Fire import gas not only from us but also from the Land of

Wind? I know that the Land of Wind has been closely tied to the Land of Fire

for a long time, but what do you think about the rumors that both countries

are trying to exclude natural gas from the market by favoring each other?”

“eeeeeeh? Who says that? The kazekage is an old friend, but negotiations

between countries are another story.”

“Then, there’s no favoritism?”

“No, no. We do import a lot of your gas, but we wouldn’t suddenly switch

over if Gaara gave us a friend discount.”

Laughter erupted from the reporters. Whether it was natural or calculated, the

seventh hokage cleverly dodged presumptuous questions from the press.

“A” checked his watch. It was decided that there’d been enough time to

cover the area. Soon, the hokage was to walk on that carpet made just for him

then head out a boat seaplane. Plenty of chances.

Aim there.

Licking his dry lips, “A” clutched the photon gun even tighter.

*whoosh*

The wind of the shot grazed his cheek.

“huh?”

The moment he looked off to the side,

Byi-i-in!

As it shook the air, the shot pierced the body of a tree. “A” was stunned,

shrinking himself back into the branches of the tree.

The hokage should’ve been safe from any distance but for some reason he was

under attack.

When and why did they find out about this place? Who shot the beam? Where was

he? His thoughts still confused, he rammed his hand in his pocket ready to

fight back.

The leaves overhead sway as they fall down. The gloved palm of “A” held his

grip on the photon gun.

“eh....”

A man looked up, eyes sleepy, like the gaze like a goat. The face of a man who

hid his face with a cloth mask.

He didn’t recognize him. This man...

“Kakashi Hatake-” A kunai sank into A’s throat before he could finish saying the name. The tip

of the blade cut through bone and flesh, blood splattered onto the fresh

leaves around him.

A puff of smoke.

“A” disappeared without a trace.

As “A” disappeared, the memory of what happened right before he died flowed

into Yanaru’s body and the body of the others, “B” & “C”.

The last view of “A” was the worst imaginable.

Kakashi Hatake. The man with listless eyes, at first glance he seems

ambitionless and naiive, shinobi are still deceived by this appearance even

while part of the five great nations. His face, the former hokage, is well

known, too.

Being the man who first sent a research team for the natural gas, he was no

less popular than the seventh hokage in the Land of Stairs. Despite this, none

of the people in the crowd noticed him, a sign that Kakashi is completely out

of sight.

After retiring from the 6th hokage title, he spent his days reading the news

from the paper and enjoys visiting hot springs as his hobby. However true,

he’s still on the scene, participating in security for the 7th hokage.

“B” slowly kicked at the dirt beneath his straw sandals.

Kakashi Hatake removed his first blade, deliberately letting the clone see

himself. Intimidation was the purpose. Since the opponent had no chance of

winning against Kakashi Hatake, the third-rate assassinate reluctantly

withdrew. Celebrities had to be self-aware of such disgusting guys. That’s

the reason why he let his head fall, to show the difference in strength, that

there was no room for resistance. “B” pulled his sweaty hand out from his

sleeve.

Easy does it. Stop shaking and looking upset. He got rid of his disturbing

behavior as not to be found out. He sucked in a deep breath of air. Moments

later as he went to exhale, something covered his mouth.

“―――！！”

It continued on, he put his hands up to his neck as he were being strangled,

tiny gasps leaking out. “B” instantly clutched at the wrist of the unknown

person who covered his mouth.

Thin. A woman’s wrist.

“B” tried to kick back his left foot to somehow escape, but he missed. His

toes kicked up and ended up in the air, causing him to lose his balance. His

hunched body held in a firm one-legged hold by the woman, finally stopping

“B” from stirring about.

When the brain becomes deficient in oxygen, it ceases to function. Within the light-headesness and the daze of fading consciousness he could

faintly feel something soft touching his back. She was a woman, after all.

The female ninja with Kakashi Hatake who was guarding the 7th Hokage. She had

the excellent skill of getting rid of someone without anyone in a crowd

noticing, with little room for them to resist her powerful strength.

……Sakura Haruno。

He was convinced she was the one who had gotten him (B),but couldn’t confirm

if his guess was correct or not. Without even a glance at her face, she

tightened her strangle around his neck.

“B” vanished into smoke.

What was going on? Security wasn’t insufficient?

“C” was impatient.

For Kakashi Hatake, he didn’t know a person who didn’t know Sakura Haruno’s

reputation as being a go-getter with brilliant technique in endurance, the two

of them being a part of the 7th hokage’s security. In a face to face fight

with 10-1, you wouldn’t even be considered a challenge.

The 7th hokage walks toward the boat seaplane.

“Calm down”, “C” told himself.

I’m a clone. Even if I were to be attack, I’d just disappear, I won’t

die.

Five seconds passed since “B” vanished. Even if he no longer had his

comrades, he was safe. They haven’t noticed he was the assassin.

“C” touched the photon gun hidden within his jacket.

It’s ok. I can do it.

He takes a deep breath and waits for the hokage to step in front of him.

A little more……

Just a few more steps……

Then, across the red carpet’s pathway, he noticed a black-haired man

standing. He stood out as the tallest man in the perimeter.

While everyone’s eyes were all on the hokage, he only gave his attention to

the masses of people, rather than to the other heroes of the Land of Fire.

His handsome features were too famous among other shinobi.

Sasuke Uchiha――

Are you participating in security to this monster?

It’d be impossible to go with a front facing attack. In a moment of

judgement, “C” pulled a woman within arms reach towards him.

“Don’t move! I’ll kill this woman!”

He shouted with the gun’s barrel to the woman’s temple as the crowd screamed

and scattered.

Sasuke stopped the hokage in his tracks, stepping in front of him in defense.

How convenient. The photon gun had the power to shoot through seven men lined

up in a row.

I’ll shoot them both!

The man went to lift his arm and point the barrel to Sasuke’s chest.

Somehow as he went to move his arm, his fingers moved.

His lightly bent middle finger moved, pulling the trigger.

A laser emitted from the barrel pressed against her head, shooting through

the woman’s temple.

BANG!!

Countless crows flew from within the ruptured head.

“huh?”

Ebony feathers flutter around.

“C” fell to his knees as he suddenly became lethargic, unable to stand up.

Genjutsu.

[rosie-janeposie]

Crashing Down

PART 2 of the Stolen Moments Collection

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24416908

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  Summary:            

Ellana never had a first day of classes that bombed as she did today. Merula decided to mess with all her ingredients during potions. Transfiguration, she nearly fell asleep due to sudden exhaustion. The Divination room was so hot she had almost passed out, which Trelawny argued that it was Ellie's third eye manifesting. Then in practice, she almost threw up after catching a bludger to the stomach. Those things, however, weren't the worst thing. No, it was the glare Murphy gave her in the corridor was what really ruined her day.

  Notes:   

I would love to say I wrote this for the sheer joy of writing... but I am trying to procrastinate hardcore of this History assignment. That being said. I have another chapter hot off the presses! I was trying to add a little character depth to some of the characters (Mainly Rowan and Murphy).

I have some ideas that I am going to do along the way. But if you have anything that you may want to see in the future, leave a comment below, or you can find me on AO3: AlleyChaton!

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Quick Note: Ellana is starting her Third-year at Hogwarts. Meaning her Quidditch friends will be starting their Fourth-year.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hogwarts a Mystery. If I did Murphy would be seen a whole lot more, and he would be a romance option.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

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 "Ellie, wait up!" The redhead turned to see her best friend, Rowan following her from the potions classroom. "Jeez, you certainly didn't waste any time getting out of potions class."

 "Sorry, Ro," the redhead muttered. She was adjusting her satchel. The strap seemed to be weakening the longer they stood in the hallway, "I was hoping to make a quick stop into the library before heading to Transfiguration."

 Rowan looped her arm through Ellie, dawning as smile, "Well then, shall we?" Ellie smiled as they walked up the stairs. Leave it to Rowan to want to go with her on an adventure to the library before class. "I never asked at breakfast, what classes are you taking this year?"

 "I am taking Care of Magical Creatures and unfortunately Divination…" Ellie drawled, rolling her eyes in the process, "I wanted to take ancient runes, but you should have seen my grandmother's face when the topic was discussed last Christmas." The redhead rolled her shoulder's forward and curled her right hand, trying to imitate an old woman, "Ellana Aurora Bennett." A shirl voice came out from Ellie's mouth, "You are named after my mother, who was a magnificent seer. It would be an insult not to study the noble art of divination. NO, BUTS!" Rowan and Ellie burst into giggles as Ellie's glasses bouncing down towards the end of her nose.

 Rowan giggled, poking Ellie's glasses back into the appropriate place on her face, "My parents didn't care what electives I took. Though, being that mom was muggle-born, she told me not to bother with Muggle Studies. She said, and I quote, 'if you are so interested in the muggle world, I'll let you spend the summer with   Daadee and Daada in Varanasi.' unquote." Ellie missed this simple talk. The last two years had been haunted by conversations about the hidden vaults. Ellie wanted to find her brother, she did. Still, the constant search made her wonder what typical students attending Hogwarts worry about. "So, when it was all said and done, I finally decide I am taking Care of Magical creatures and Ancient Runes!"

 Ellie groan, tugging on the dark-haired girl's arm, "Wait, so I am going to be in Divination by myself!"

 "You'll be fine."

 "Nooooo," She drawled now, pulling her friend downwards, both giggling madly, "I'll die without you there!"

 Rowan rolled her eyes now, trying to wiggle free from Ellie's grasp, "I think you'll have Penny with you. You won't die." They made it to the main corridor. Students were hustling in and out of entranceways and stairwells.

 "When I die I am coming back to haunt your a-"

 THUNK! CRASH!

 "Shit…" a male voice mumbled. Rowan and Ellie turned to see a familiar blond laying across the floor. His wheelchair was on its side a few meters away from him on the floor.

 "Murphy…" Ellie whispered quietly as she pulled Rown the direction of the Quidditch commentator. "Let's go help him."

 McNully hadn't seen the girls walking towards him as rubbing his left wrist silently cursing. His books were scattered across the corridor floor. Ellie noticed a familiar dark shaggy-haired head of Orion, Ravenclaw's Quidditch captain, bending down and collecting the scattered papers. "Apparently, it was the 12.8 percent chance of falling that won out today."

 Rowan was the first to speak up, "Are you okay?"

 "Yeah," McNully mumbled as he pushed himself up into a seated position. Ellie noted that his voice must have gotten lower the summer holiday. McNully voice now had a low-calming tone to it. "Orion and I were coming from the Divination classroom. I used my levitation charm to easily descend the ladder. Orion noted that I happened to be distracted today, which I am not." He shot over to his friend.

 Orion merely gave his usual lazy smile as he held McNully's books in his hands, "I am telling you, my friend, that your head and body have been out of line."

 "Then, we were heading down the staircase when I happened to see you girls talking merrily." He noted his ears pinked lightly, and his hands were still going a kilometer a minute. "The back part of my wheel was on the part of the step when I released the charm, only happens 12.8 percent of the time. Then I lost my balance. My textbooks came flying out of my bag. Then I was on the floor cursing." McNully was laughing lightly at the events of his own fall. "Then, you girls came over."

 "Wow…" Rowan muttered in surprise, "You weren't kidding when you said he can go off into tangents." Ellie shook her head.

 Ellie sighed as she walked over to grab the overturned wheelchair. She pulled it up, so it was right-side-up, she also noticed a stray wand laying close-by on the ground. "Some fall for you to lose your wand." She rolled the chair back towards her friend on the floor. Ellie noticed the forced smile that seemed to be on his face. Ellie saw that his eyes seemed to communicate his annoyance. He may have just been embarrassed to fall in front of everyone in-between classes. McNully sighed as he pulled himself closer to the wheelchair. Ellie watched as he pulled a lever on each side on the chair. Ellie was unable to hold back her words, "Do you want help?"

 "No." Ellie jumped at the harshness of that single word. "I've got it. Just let go of the chair." Ellie let her hands fall from the handles. As far as she knew, McNully never used that tone with anyone.

 Ellie and Rowan backed away from the blond silently as he pulled himself up into the seat. McNully took some time to right his legs back onto their platform. "Let us get to Potions," Orion spoke, breaking the silence. Orion held out the books which McNully accepted quietly.

 "Sounds like a plan."

 Ellie sighed, she thought she and Murphy were actually getting to be good friends. She meant nothing by it when she offered to help. "Ellana…"

 "Yes?" She looked over towards the boys who were heading towards the dungeon.

 "We have our first this year practice after dinner this evening. I'll see you there." Orion spoke a faint apologetic smile graced his face.

 "Sounds good," she whispered.

                                                          xXx  

 Orion sighed as he flipped a page in his potion manual, "If I may make a suggestion…about Ellana."

 "You are going to anyway." Murphy muttered as he pushed his chair back to look for his ingredients, "I need flobworm, lionfish nettles, and ginger root."

 Orion let out a huff as he watched the blond wheel away from the table, "Why do you have to be stubborn now?"

 Orion looked up across the table to see Ravenclaw's female Scottish chaser looking at the two with a raised eyebrow. She appeared to stop taking notes from her potions manual hearing the boys whispering, "What's this about Ellie?" She asked curiously.

 "McNully decided that he was going to yell at Ellana in the hall," Orion muttered, pulling his hair back as he started brewing his potion.

 "Ya, what?" Skye whispered shock evident in her voice, she turned to look at the commentator, "Ya yelled at Ellie?"

 "Bloody hell, that's not what happened," McNully noted as he placed his ingredients on the potion's table. He started to weight out his lionfish nettles. McNully recited the tale of his wheelchair catching on the stairwell. How his books scattered across the floor and how Ellie had brought back his wheelchair, "Then she said, 'Do you need help?'." His face twisted as he began after a moment, he was quiet.

 "Then he gave her a short 'No,'" Orion finished for the blond as he started to stir his potion. "Then Mcnully told her to let go of his chair."

 Skye sighed as she looked up from her cauldron, cautiously watching the eerie smoke coming from the top. "Fine, ya didn't yell at her." The female chaser noted, "But, ya probabl' put her into a right foul mood."

 The three were silent through the rest of class, well until Skye's cauldron started to spit potion everywhere. McNully took it upon himself to extinguish Skye's cauldron before any severe damage was done, but not before Snape ensured 15 points each were deducted from Ravenclaw. 15 points from Skye for not following directions. Murphy 15 points for being a know-it-all and not allowing the professor to handle the situation. And finally, 15 from Orion for allowing the incident to happen.

 Skye pulled on the back of McNully's chair, "She probabl' didn't mean to offend ya when she asked." Skye reason as she let him go, now realizing she has had his attention. "She was just tryin' to be helpful. But, ya bein' short with her doesn't help either."

 McNully opened his mouth to rebut her statement, but the small voice in his head told him to wait, "You have an 86.3 percentage of being correct."

 "Damn right, I am."

 "How mature of you, Skye," Orion smiled, nodding towards the female chaser. "Glad to know we can agree on something."

 "Well, it's nice to have another girl on the team." Skye noted as she crossed her arms, "As for ya, I would suggest grabbin' some pumpkin pasties at dinner." She had a stern expression on her face as she turned towards the commentator, "They'll be a nice bargainin' chip for when ya talk with Ellie. And don't worry, they are effective 95 percent of the time."

                                                          xXx  

 "My day can't get any worse…" Ellie whispered, lacing up her sneakers. She's never had a first day of classes that bombed as she did today. Merula decided to mess with all her ingredients during potions. Transfiguration, she nearly fell asleep due to sudden exhaustion. The Divination room was so hot she had almost passed out, which Trelawny argued that it was Ellie's third eye manifesting. Then in practice, she almost threw up after catching a bludger to the stomach. Those things, however, weren't the worst thing. No, it was the glare Murphy gave her in the corridor was what really ruined her day.

 The glare and sad tone in his voice every time he had to say her name in his commentary. Those seem to resonance with her more than the awful day of classes. So much for starting her third year off right.

 Ellie pulled off her practice jersey. She wadded the recently used jersey and threw it into the back of her locker. She pulled out her blue t-shirt and quickly put it on, she just wanted to go up to her common room and…

 She paused, did she really want to go and face Murphy now? Perhaps she could grab Rowan and hide in the girl's dormitory, Tulip and Badeea wouldn't mind. Maybe they could invade Skye's dorm room if they got bored. Anything to avoid…

 RIIIIIIP! THUD!

 Ellie stared as her backpack discarded all of its contents onto the floor of the locker room. Ellie felt her emotions slowly bubbled to the surface. Ellana was shocked at the sound that escaped her lips. She dropped to her knees and began reaching for any book or piece of parchment as she could.

 Ellie pause at the sight of a napkin with three pasties neatly placed within it. She looked past the pasties to a forearm, then a white sleeve, then finally to a breast-pocket proudly displaying a golden snitch pin, "Pumpkin Pasty?"

  Ellie was silent, trying to keep her face neutral. This really was a horrible day. Murphy lowered his face to try and look her in the eyes. Ellie diverted her eyes. She was not in the mood to deal with him right now. With her book set in a neat stack now on the bench, Ellie turned her head to search for her ripped bag. Ellie stood patting her face with her hand, frustrated tears leaked from her eyes.

 Murphy pulled the napkin back onto his lap, "There's a 56.8 percent chance that you are actually listening." He began, "For as long as I could remember, I remember being in a wheelchair. I remember people giving me these sorrowful looks. As though I wouldn't be normal." He was not looking at Ellie; he was, in fact, looking everywhere but her. "I remember being at this muggle park. It was shortly before my father died. I just wanted to play with the other kids." He muttered as he tried to focus on the redhead's back. "At some point, I lost my balance, and my chair fell over like it has done multiple times. Older kids and parents were circled around me as though I was broken. They wanted to 'help' and 'keep me safe.'" Murphy let out a dry chuckle, "You have no idea how excited I when mom told me I was going to a Wizard. It gave me a chance to take my life back."

 "Murphy, Why are you telling me this?" A small voice whispered.

 "Because, I don't like the idea of people looking through me and only seeing the chair," Murphy muttered as he patted the arms. "I don't like that I am known as the wizard in the wheelchair. I was embarrassed when I snapped at you. I know you didn't mean anything, but I felt like I was back to being helpless."

 Ellie turned back to the blond, she didn't realize his brown eyes were following her every move. This was not the Murphy McNully with whom she played wizard's chess. Nor was this the McNully who provided commentary for Hogwart's Quidditch matches. This was Murphy McNully, who wanted to be seen.

 Murphy sighed as he put his hands on his wheels, "It was a 56.8 percent chance you would listen. I didn't bother in calculating if you would try to talk to me…" He rolled started to roll backwards out of the changing room.

 "I was asked because you were my friend Murphy." Ellie force out the words, McNully stopped in his paces. "Friends help each other. Besides," Ellie paused until the courage struck, "I was more hurt that you pretty much bit off my hand. Orion was helping you too. I didn't see you yell at him."

 "He tends to yell back," Murphy admitted, "Ellana, I am truly sorry. I can tell you that Skye and Orion have been letting me know how much of an idiot I have been all day."

 "What a way to start off classes?" Ellie reached down to gather her books.

 "Yeah," He whispered, "Ellie, I want us to be friends again. Hell, I brought pasties because Skye said they can be a peace offering."

 Ellie cracked a smile, "You must mean it if you are taking advice from Skye."

 Murphy smirked, "Well, fine if you don't want these…" Murphy pulled out the napkin that contained the pumpkin pasties. Ellie jumped in front of him so quickly, he could have sworn she apparated.

 "Let's not be hasty," She smiled as she reached for the napkin in his hands, "it is a nice gesture after all." Murphy handed her the sweets. He smiled as he watched her pull out one of the pasties to nibble on.

 "Hm, 95 percent of the time, huh?" Murphy mutter as he rubbed his chin.

 "Did you say something?" Ellie asked with a raised eyebrow.

 Murphy smirked as he rolled right passed her, "I said, let escort you back to the common room." He gathered her books and torn bag from the bench and put them on his lap.

 She blushed, trying to reach for her mess, "You don't have to do that."

 "A gentleman never lets a lady carry her books," Murphy drawled, putting on an overly formal tone, "Especially when they are trying to eat."

 Ellie rolled her blue-green eyes behind her glasses. She pulled out her fake curtsy, "Why thank you, such a charming gentleman."

 McNully grin settled back onto his face before he threw a wink back to Ellie. Once, he had balanced her books and backpack comfortably into his lap. They journeyed up to the castle, merely enjoying each other's presence.

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  Notes:  

Alright, my Lovelies! Please leave your comments and Kudos down below.

I hate to inform you that I will not be able to upload frequently as I did today, but I promise to have more content coming your way.

Until next time!

~Rosie 🌹

[carewyncromwell]

[Carewyn had actually intended to see Torvus before hearing Trelawney’s prophecy -- she hadn’t gotten around to visiting him at the end of the school year, so it’d be polite to give him an update. Plus the centaur had been a good enough of a friend to her over the last two years that she'd looked forward to them meeting again under less dire circumstances. Just because these circumstances weren’t less dire didn’t mean she had to change those plans.

Carewyn found Torvus in a glen of the forest they’d met in before, which likely wasn’t far away from the centaurs’ camp, although Carewyn had personally never seen it. The Slytherin Prefect had two glass jars tucked under her right arm.]

Torvus: “(with a smile) Of course, Carewyn.”

[The centaur’s face then grew more grim.]

Torvus: “Were you able to defeat the dragon in the Cursed Vault and break the curse trapping those students in portraits?”

[Carewyn gave him her best smile.]

“Yes. I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

[She adjusted the glass jars under her arm.]

“That’s actually why I’m here -- I brought you these.”

[She handed Torvus the two jars. The centaur peered at them curiously, rotating one in his hand and looking through the glass at its contents.

Carewyn’s gaze drifted away uncomfortably, but she kept her voice as level as she could.]

“It’s apple and cranberry chutney -- you can put it on just about anything, like bread or cheese...even some meats, I think -- if you eat meat, that is. I probably would’ve baked you some biscuits, but I wasn’t really sure if chocolate chip would be to your taste.”

I think chocolate is bad for horses, but I don’t know if it is for centaurs.

[Torvus blinked up at Carewyn, taken aback.]

Torvus: “You made this, for me?”

[Carewyn felt her cheeks flushing slightly, but she smiled fully.]

“Well, Pitts helped me. I just wanted to thank you, for all your help...reckon I probably could’ve done more to say ‘thank you,’ earlier, but...well, better late than never, right?”

[Torvus considered Carewyn for a moment, still clearly a bit stunned. Then his face broke into a smile as he looked down at the jars again.]

Torvus: “...I appreciate the gesture, Carewyn. You are truly a kind human.”

[Carewyn smiled in relief.]

“Then it is okay?”

Torvus: “Yes. You said that humans eat this ‘chutney’ with bread, correct? Bread is a staple of our diet.”

Thank Merlin!

“(through a soft laugh) Great!”

[Torvus glanced down at the two jars, thinking. Then he secured each jar to his quiver with the ribbons Carewyn had tied onto them, so that they wouldn’t fall and break.]

Torvus: “...I must ask, though...what of your brother? Did you manage to find him, when you discovered the Vault?”

[Carewyn felt like a cold stone had plopped down into the pit of her stomach. Her gaze drifted to the ground.]

“...Yes. But...”

[She took a deep breath, and settled down on a large tree root so she could sit comfortably. She rested her head in her hand.]

“In the Vault, Rakepick -- our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher -- turned on us. She would’ve killed us, if we hadn’t been lucky enough to overpower her...but she still escaped.”

Escaped back to R...

“I found Jacob in the Vault...but as soon as he learned that Rakepick got away, he immediately ran after her.”

[She swallowed back the lump in her throat.]

“...I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

[Although Carewyn had managed to keep her voice level, Torvus spoke very gently as he stood over her.]

[Carewyn shook her head, her gaze still lingering on the ground rather than on Torvus.]

“You had it so much worse, though. Your whole family shunned you...I can’t imagine how hard that must have been...”

Be grateful for what you have, Carewyn. At least you still have Mum. At least you still have the others to look after. And at least...at least you know Jacob left because he was trying to be helpful -- no matter how wrong he was --

[She scolded herself internally in a vain attempt to tamp down the pain and self-pity she felt.]

Torvus: “We’re together now -- that’s all that matters. (more softly) I hope you’re able to have a proper reunion with your brother too, Carewyn.”

[Carewyn looked up at him, touched by the smile on his face.]

“Thank you, Torvus.”

[She decided to change the subject.]

“Oh yeah...forgot to mention, I’m taking Divination this year.”

[Torvus raised his eyebrows.]

Torvus: “Oh?”

“(amusedly) I admit, I wasn’t that impressed with tessomancy, but...well, I guess there’s a whole term still to go. Do centaurs read tea leaves too?”

Torvus: “No. We read the stars -- from there, the best of us use Sage and Mallowsweet to refine their findings.”

[Carewyn listened in great interest.]

“(with a wry smile) So no dredging up shapes in moldy tea leaves or reading palm lines, eh?”

[Torvus’s nose wrinkled in disgust.]

Torvus: “(derisively) Most human branches of Divination are considered...unreliable by my herd.”

“(laughs) Well, you're not the only ones: a lot of people in my class don’t put stock in what Trelawney says, either.”

[Now that the topic had been smoothly brought up, Carewyn finally felt comfortable enough to bring up her question. She really didn’t want Torvus to think she’d come all the way out to see him just to ask him about it, not only to spare his feelings but also because she herself hated putting so much weight on it when she didn’t even truly believe Trelawney’s prediction in the first place.]

“...Torvus...may I ask your opinion, on something?”

Torvus: “Certainly.”

“How valid are prophecies? At least, to you.”

[Torvus raised his eyebrows.]

Torvus: “You have heard a prophecy?”

“I’m not sure. Trelawney claimed she’d had a vision and gabbled a bunch of stuff...but I’m not positive she wasn’t just acting out. I mean, considering my history with the Cursed Vaults, I’m sure she assumes I’ll be involved with the last one, so -- ”

Torvus: “The last one? Has there been another curse?”

“Yes. A Statue Curse. My friend’s sister found a student turned to stone in the courtyard the other day.”

Torvus: “I see...”

[He looked thoughtful.]

[Carewyn recited the prophecy to Torvus, just as she had to Percy earlier that day. The centaur considered the words carefully.]

Torvus: “...I’m afraid this is beyond my capabilities.”

[Carewyn couldn’t fight back a grin.]

“I personally suspect ‘fake’ myself.”

[Torvus, however, didn’t smile.]

Torvus: “Even so...it wouldn’t do, to dismiss it out right. At least until you have confirmed otherwise with someone else who is gifted in Divination.”

[Carewyn frowned.]

“Could you maybe ask a member of your herd what they think?”

[Torvus didn’t look very enthused about this chain of thought.]

Torvus: “Centaurs do not usually share their opinions of the night sky with humans. My herd would not take kindly to me speaking for you, particularly when you’re not known to them. And humans -- with the exception of Hagrid and a few others -- aren’t welcome in the Centaur Camp.”

"(very firmly) Then I won’t have you speak for me. The last thing I want is for you to get in trouble on my account.”

[Carewyn had been ready to close the book on the discussion, coming to the conclusion that learning more about Trelawney’s so-called “prophecy” wasn’t worth risking Torvus getting in trouble -- but Torvus spoke up again.]

Torvus: “However -- if you presented them with suitable offerings, they might be persuaded to permit you to visit our camp.”

[Carewyn blinked.]

“Offerings?”

“Well, I s’pose it is polite to bring some sort of a gift, when you visit anyone’s home for the first time...”

[Carewyn brought a hand through her ponytail thoughtfully.]

“I just wish I knew what gifts your herd would like.”

[Torvus smiled slightly as he pointedly adjusted the jars of chutney tied with ribbon to his quiver.]

Torvus: “I have faith in you, Carewyn.”

((OOC: According to Greek myth, centaurs are known for eating meat, bread, and wine. I imagine the bread these centaurs make would be slightly different than most modern bread recipes, though, likely to better resemble medieval peasant bread (which was made by grinding different grains and then kneading them into a dough with water and yeast and then baking it over a fire or in the sun) or Ancient Egyptian bread (a similar mixture baked over hot ashes).

Although in the game, Torvus dryly references that MC only comes to see him just to ask for his help (not like you give us a choice, Jam City!), Carewyn most definitely is not that way -- she is way too much of a Mama-Bear-type and way too sensitive about other people’s feelings to make anyone feel like they’re just a tool to her.

But yeah, just like with Duncan and Pitts, I demand more Torvus content! I want him on our friends list, damn it! YOU HEAR ME, JC??))

[theprojectschool]

The Circularity of Time

The Infinitesimal and The Monumental Duration Spin & Weave: An Exploration of the Themes of Nationalism, Social Fabric & the Circularity of Time ‘ 

- interview with architect and interior designer Aarushi Kalra.

AM - Could you give a bit of context about the Gandhi project of using the hand spinning of cotton as an instrument to raise awareness of the independence from England? 

AK ‘ In 1909, in an anti-colonial move towards Indian self- sufficiency, against the British, Gandhi decided to revive a craft many saw as already dead: the hand- spinning of cotton into thread, using the Charkha - the Spinning Wheel of India. He saw spinning as an economic and political activity that could bring together the diverse population of the country and was a defining symbol in the struggle against the British rule. It was a symbolic call towards a self- sufficient India, highlighting the ‘Swadeshi Movement’ - a part of the Indian independence movement that contributed to the development of Indian nationalism. This movement aimed to make Indians rediscover their sovereignty and strengthen their pride in Indian heritage, while also disengaging with the imposed British norms and boycotting all British goods. Gandhi claimed that spinning thread in the traditional manner could create the basis for economic independence and the possibility of survival for India’s impoverished rural multitudes.  His choice to stand in solidarity with the poor of the country, while East India company was systematically exploiting them became a powerful symbol that then became the face of the movement and urged his more privileged followers to copy his example, and discard, or even burn, their European-style clothing, proudly returning to their ancient, precolonial culture. This simple act of spinning pierced through the varied Indian community, uniting all classes, caste, gender and creed into one cause and fabric. However, today it seems to be reduced to a static symbol; as a part of history and as a part of the India national flag. It lost its efficacy once its dynamic performance ceased to anchor a political movement. We retain now only the echo of its circular rhythm. 

AM - How did you come up with this idea of exploring the idea of the spinning wheel as a tool for reflection, almost crafting through time? 

Having grown up in India, Gandhi’s presence is all around us. Not necessarily as the figure we have studied throughout history, but as an integral subconscious symbol in day to day life – on the currency notes, names of the streets, etc. Moving out of India, for the first time, to pursue my post-graduation in London made me acutely aware of of my heritage. Moreover, at the time the news was flooded with updates on Brexit, the election of Donald Trump as the president, the building of the wall between US and Mexico and more news of the same nature from Russia, India etc. When we were presented with the brief that asked us to expose a political space of production that spanned the ‘infinitesimal to the monumental’, the symbol of the spinning wheel almost instantly came to my mind, as it was a simple machine and a simple activity that united the entire nation. I wondered how today the term nationalism has been broken and twisted to divide rather than unite. And as an extension of this thought, can it be argued that the spinning wheel that once spun the fabric of unity now spins the fabric of division? What once symbolized inclusivity now takes pride in furthering exclusivity? And that for me was the starting of “Spin & Weave”- a project that explores the theme of Nationalism, Social Fabric & the Circularity of Time. I was interested in investigating how a symbol, so intrinsically part of my own culture, can be revived to interact with present-day political, global occurrences. How a symbol of unity, can now represent boundaries? Based on my new insight into nationalism, this project was a way to explore whether this symbol out of its original context remains the same static image while showcasing the change of ideologies, or does it take on a new form and new meanings? The end piece was envisioned as a scaled model of an experiential installation which showed the two sides of the wheel. One, where a multitude of threads converge at its centre, representative of the people that would once come together to unite, while the other showed the same threads diverging into multiple directions disrupting the spectator's path and field of vision. To be able to traverse this space you might have to go over the strings or under them, cut them, tie them up, loosen them; but you have to make an effort to navigate this stretch. At the centre of all, is this spinning wheel, entangled in the boundaries it continues to weave. A wheel that cannot spin any longer but continues to monumentalise the act of spinning. 

AM - Did you consider/imagined the meditative properties of spinning when you created your project? 

“Take to spinning. The music of the wheel will be as balm to your soul. I believe that the yarn we spin is capable of mending the broken warp and weft of our life…”   – Mahatma Gandhi 

The process of spinning yarn is inherently meditative. It’s not something I originally considered at the beginning; however, it was hard to ignore it as I sat for days threading yarn, creating scaled models of the final output. There is a rhythmic cadence to it. It is monotonous, repetitive, but just as when you’re meditating it allows you lose yourself into it. It is a wonderful process to instil patience, stability and peace in an individual. Which in my belief had been of utmost importance at a time when the people of India needed to be level headed and find the strength to stand against the colonial rule. One of my biggest takeaways from this project was the lesson of patience and discernment. I learnt the importance of each individual’s effort in fuelling a collective power; which during the colonial time, created this beautiful, peaceful and unified fabric of my country. 

AM - Do you think that there is a connection between crafting/identity and narration? 

AK - In terms of physical and tangible materials, for sure. Every region, city and village boast of its own handmade traditions and skills, the ancestral knowledge embedded deeply in our cultures. The geographical location, environmental factors, and the available local materials initiated certain ancient practices that slowly got imbibed within the fabric of the place, which inherently defines its identity and a specific cultural viewpoint. Local materials are used to tell local stories in a particular cultural context. The way of using them only further adds to that. Anything that becomes tangible has an identity, and everything that has an identity has a narrative. Crafts are a way of giving shape to new forms, building a whole new database of identities and narratives in design. It enables the piece to embody the history, culture, socio economic political expression and the various personal stories and aspirations of the designers/ craftsmen. Art and design by nature are a form of storytelling. In no two cities or zones can the same art or craft be practiced in the same way. It is always adapted, and with this adaptation the story changes immensely across boundaries. This is the beauty of context in art, design and narratives. Any small change brought to any one aspect has a ripple effect on all the others, leading to a completely new personality of the base identity. An example of this is how from Japan's kimonos to Scottish tartan, and from Uzbekistani Suzani to Gandhi's push for Indian khadi, the culture of the world is woven, quite literally, into local fabrics. Though the machinery and techniques have been similar, yet throughout human history one look at a man’s clothing could tell you more than his words: his social standing, wealth, class, military rank and more. Historically cloth was unique to its region and country, sometimes literally tying in elements of the land and the people that live there. Even today in a globalized society where one can swipe through countries in no time, all groups of people have secrets hidden in patterns, dyes and fabrics that are waiting to be explored. - How do you think that we could share ancestral forms of knowledge without commodifying them? This is a very difficult conversation to have in the world today. There is a very fine balance between conserving and commodifying. We have lost so many art-forms simply because we haven’t been comfortable in the idea of commodifying them. There are various ways to share knowledge but as soon as they become quantifiable, it becomes a commodity. It almost seems to me as though we might need to change the way we understand commodities and become more mindful of the exchange of these. As a designer I believe in sharing ideas and culture, and I see no harm in others doing the same even if it comes at a certain cost. One can’t ignore the fact that one needs an income to enable these storytellers to run their own lives while comfortably dedicating their lives to the craft. This constant debate between conserving and commodifying, impacts the simplicity and the purity of exchanging stories and emotions through craft. 

AM - How do you deal with the idea of orality associated with tradition? For instance, in African countries, many times traditions are never recorded, so, we lose them, but on the other hand that is how they evolve naturally... so, if we record them, we somehow kill them in the sense that they no longer transform/evolve... 

AK - India has a very rich oral tradition. Take Indian Classical Music for example, where the original tradition of imparting knowledge over thousands of years was through recital with a minimal use of the written word. Recorded and written material developed, but only as a key to absolute basics. Beyond that, Indian classical music is still almost entirely improvised, improvisations based on these certain written ground rules. The same is true for most of our forms of Art, Dance and Scriptures. The oral tradition is in a sense trapped within the confines of a culture’s collective value system. It is first and foremost a group activity, and reinforces bonds within the culture, but it also depends on that group’s willingness to further keep the art of practicing and sharing alive. Writing, on the other hand, is an individual pursuit. Writing transmits ideas from other cultures that reside outside the local sphere and allows the individuals to interpret those ideas for themselves. Written or documented references not only cater to a wider audience, but also to a more distant generation; enabling them to enjoy, learn and reinterpret past stories, leading to a natural evolution that keeps these traditions relevant. The only drawback being the loss of understanding, guidance and the radicalizing of the written knowledge. I feel, this documentation must allow the artist to freely interpret and improvise this knowledge. The need of the hour today is also to learn the subtle language of symbolism and essence, not only to keep the traditions and rich stories alive as they were, but also to strengthen our understanding of each other’s thought processes and maintain a better harmony. 

AM - Do you think that it would be possible to create a project that would connect young artists with old craft studios to create sustainable projects in India? What is missing in terms of business channels that could render these local projects visible worldwide? 

AK - Every craft form is based on shared information that is continuously evolving. Formulating more and more collaborations where old traditions and skillsets are funnelled into the younger artists, along with a freedom to reinterpret them through their own experience and insight, might help bring these traditions to new light. Take for example how a khadi wheel works - the wheel is a form of analogue technology and weaving is a cultural idea. The practice pushes the technology and cultural idea embedded in it forward. Now, for a ‘young’ artist, some of these technologies or cultural practices may present a space of possibilities that may connect to their own practice; or a possibility where they can combine it in with the latest technologies - retaining its roots but giving the product a more global and widely accepted appeal. This may perhaps be a way to find a common ground and explore further. To a certain extent this has already started to happen. However what concerns me is that in the collaborative effort between the designer and the artisan, the designer gets all the credit and possibly the profit while the artisan has gained nothing more than what they always had. The need of the hour is to evolve the stature of the craft and the craftsman enough to give the artisans an incentive to believe in what they do, and for the younger generation to be willing to learn and continue this process. Now as far as contemporising the traditional crafts go, I believe it requires work in two divergent directions. One is that art forms and crafts become a natural part of life again, as they once were. An extremely simple example is how in parts of the country and world over plastic plates are being replaced by banana leaves. This was a common traditional way of eating in southern parts of India, and now again there are people working on spreading it across the country, not as a tradition or luxury, but as an absolute basic awareness. On the flipside, craft must also be innovated and made a part of high-end design. One that celebrates the craftmanship for its glory, and adds an aspirational ramp value to these ancient crafts. An example of that is furniture designers today are reviving and reinventing the dying craft of making utensils and artefacts by hammering brass—traditionally practised by a community of Assamese artisans, to create high end, contemporary and innovative products that are highly global in their appeal while the manufacturing techniques belong to the Indian handicrafts’ tradition of the country. Government, innovators, investors, crafts organisations and designers need to come together and work closely with the craftspeople; listen to their voices, build on their strengths, think out of the box and possibly create a regulatory body that connects various craftsmen to designers all over the world, almost like an open source. However, it needs to have its own regulations in place to ensure that artisans and craftsmen are not exploited, and can also gain from the exposure and the innovation, giving them a reason to believe in the craft they have spent their lives mastering, again.

AM - Ana Mendes

AK - Aarushi Kalra

Aarushi Kalra is an architect and an interior designer, recently graduated from the MA Interior Design at Royal College of Art. Currently she is in the process of setting up her own design wing based in New Delhi, India, by the name of I'mX - that aims to work fluidly between multiple disciplines. One that challenges and immerses viewers into provocative, layered and experimental environments. 

[ro-visiting-the-bureau]

So, You Summoned the Ghosts of Your Ancestors... - TCR Secret Santa 2019

@deadbonessinderhellaton, I was your Secret Santa this year! I decided to go for your prompt “Ghosts are like relatives. Once you let them in, they never leave.” Enjoy, and a very Merry Christmas to you!

Haru didn’t quite burst through the door of the cafe, but she did push it harder than she usually would and was through it before it open all the way. She swiveled her head and spotted Hiromi sitting at a table by the cafe’s fake fireplace, a mug of hot chocolate cradled in her hands. The strawberry blonde looked up as Haru approached and smiled. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

“You left me a message saying ‘We screwed up’ and asked to meet me here asap,” Haru said, taking off her gloves, scarf and hat as a waitress came over to take her order. He asked for a hot chocolate and a small plate of pastries and then turned back to Hiromi when she left. “What happened?”

“Well, you know Tsuge and I have been clearing out his grandmother’s old house so we can move in after the wedding.” Hiromi played with the sapphire engagement ring on her hand. “We found a old journal in the attic, and flipped through it. It was written by Tsuge’s great-great grandfather, and he was a big paranormal-supernatural nut. Wrote down all these rituals that supposedly let you communicate with the dead.”

Haru didn’t need to hear another word to know exactly where this was going. She rested her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. “You didn’t…”

“Well, we didn’t think they were really real, and Tsuge thought it’d be funny to try it.”

“You’re best friends with a paranormal investigator and you didn’t think there was a chance it was real?” Haru shot Hiromi a glare, making her curl up a bit and give a weak smile. 

“Well…”

Haru sighed and folded her arms on the table. “What happened?”

“Well, we found one that was supposed to bring up a old homeowner, and figured, ‘you know what, let’s see if we can learn home more history about this place that Grandma didn’t know’. So we grabbed some old playground chalk, drew one of the sigils on the ground, lit some candles…

~

“Is that the right shape?” Tsuge asked, kneeling over the circle and checking the sigil drawn on the inside.

“I think so,” Hiromi said, looking from the book to the shape. IT was mostly straight lines, with a few circles, and had particular instruction on how to draw it. Next to her was a old compass and a motley collection of candles, from from the same trunk as the book and compass, the rest dug out from closets and cabinets in the house. “Do you think it’ll be effected by us using the scented candles?”

“I’m not running out to grab tea lights in this weather.” He pointed out the window, where the snow was flying, not storming, but enough to encourage people to stay indoors unless you had to go out, or were a kid wanting to play. “Besides, it’s not like it will actually do anything.”

“Yeah, guess you’re right.” Hiromi shrugged and picked up the compass, holding it over the center of the circle. She took the two white ritual candles and put them at the north and east-northeast positions, which were the most important for the communication aspect they were looking for. Then they placed a small cinnamon candle at southeast, a large pine candle at south west, and a rose-scented tea light at west-northwest. Then Tsuge struck a match and used it to light a stick of incense, which he then used to light the candles in the same order they had been placed, before blowing it out and placing it in the center of the circle with a stand. He and Hiromi stood on opposite sides of the circle, holding the book in both hands over the center of the circle. Tsuge cleared his throat and started to speak. 

“Mortuus pacificus invocabo. Siquid erit vobis dicerem nobiscum hac nocte nos sacri.” His pronunciation was not too bad, but any Ancient Romans who might have heard it would find his accent horribly thick and-

( “Well, it wasn’t your first mistake, but your biggest is that you never do an incantation without practicing the correct pronunciation until you can be clearly understood. You’re lucky you didn’t summon a demon with that.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure…” )

The couple watched in shock as the ritual circles actually began to glow, a blue-white light that started softly, then grew until it almost hurt to look at. Then a breeze started tickling their ankles, flowing into the center of the circle. Streams of light spun with the breeze, creating a vortex over the sigil. Hiromi gasped as it started to rise and grow up, spinning faster and faster and it climbed past their knees, and almost to their waists. Tsuge quickly read the book, and recited the next line of the spell. “Mortuus: venite, et locutus est ad nos, sic fiat semper.”

The vortex stopped growing, but increased in speed, it’s light almost blinding. Then a low note, separate from the whipping wind, started to grow, louder and louder, until it was recognizable as a scream. Another joined it, soft and then louder, then another, and another, until the strident calls was so loud it was hurting their ears. Then, something slingshotted out of the vortex, just missing Tsuge’s nose, then another buzzed Hiromi’s ear, and more flew out around them and the room before impacting the walls and seeming to disappear. The vortex slowly lost power and sank down to the floor, sending out one last whip of wind which blew out the candles before disappearing completely, and the glow dimmed to nothing. 

Hiromi and Tsuge stared at each other for a long moment, before stepping back and letting the book fall to the floor. 

"That was…" Tsuge trailed off, completely flabergasted. 

"It worked. That was an actual spell." Hiromi raised her hands to her face. "Harry is gonna be so mad." ( "You're darn right I'm mad!" ) "She always says this is not something to take lightly."

"Hey now," Tsuge said, coming over and placing his hands on her arms and rubbing them soothingly. "Maybe it's not so bad. Maybe it's Grandpa, and he'll go away once we have a pleasant conversation with him."

Hiromi sighed and was about to speak when a man's voice behind her cut her off. "Kami, what are you wearing!?"

Hiromi and Tsuge turned and saw a figure by the wall. It was a man, maybe in his mid fifties, hair in a topknot and wearing an old fashioned kimono. "This is not a bathhouse, put some clothes on!"

Hiromi looked down at her sweater and jeans that covered her from neck to wrist and ankle, and then Tsuge's t-shirt and jeans (he always ran warmer than her). They were even wearing socks, so you couldn't see their feet. "Um, sorry, but these are perfectly modest clothes for these days. Can I ask your name, honored ancestor?"

"Modest indeed,” the ghost huffed, coming into the room. “I am Kaneda Fujimaro, and these are the lands of my family. We have lived here for over a hundred years, and I now ask what you are doing here?”

“Can’t you see, you old man,” a new voice said, and a woman came through the wall, maybe a few years younger than Fujimaro, holding a cane, and wearing the same style of kimono. “They’re obviously our descendants, or can you not see your jaw on that young man’s face?”

“Of course I can see it, woman, I’m not blind!” 

“Well, you could have fooled me.” The woman floated - actually floated ( “Well of course she did, she’s a ghost!” ) - over to the couple, and reached a hand to touch Tsuge’s face. Tsuge flinched, but turned his head as the woman directed him to, and she gave him a critical eye. 

“Yes, you have my husbands jaw, but these cheekbones… they look just like the Yasui family. And I had hoped Naozane was not fool enough to go through with that betrothal.” She patted his cheek and stepped back.

“Now see here, Etsuko” Fujimaro said, “Yasui Sozui was a fine man, and his son was just like him.”

“A fine thief, you mean,” Etsuko turned, raising her cane a little at her husband. “The whole village knows he only got to rich from those ‘trips’ he took to Edo and yet no one has ever gotten a straight answer as to what he did there.”

“A man’s financials are not the business of other men.”

“They are when your granddaughter will marry into that man’s family!” 

Etsuko and Fujimaro started bickering, and Hiromi and Tsuge glanced at each other, growing more uncomfortable and awkward by the second. The movement in the doorway caught Hiromi’s eye, and she looked to see another ghost, a younger man maybe in his thirties, waving from the doorway. He made a “come here” motion, and with the only other option being to remain next to the old couple until they remembered they had an audience, the young couple quickly did so. 

Once they were in the other room - the younger ghost having moved back to give them room to enter - the ghost breathed a sigh of relief. “I am so sorry you had to deal with my grandparent’s first. They love each other, and the family, but in their old age they constantly got on each other’s nerves. Or at least, I was told by my father, I was only a child when they both died.”

“And who was your father, honorable ancestor?” Tsuge asked. 

“Yasui Taroemon, his father was Yasui Sozui. I am Yasui Norio.” He turned and a woman about his age seemed to just appear at his elbow. “And this is my wife, Kaneda Hisae. We’re your… four times  great-grandparents?”

“Six times,” Hisae said, and when she smiled, Hiromi could see her fiance in it. “Tetsuo told us he’d had a newborn great-grandson the last time we talked. Tsuge, right?”

“Y-Yes, Nashito Tsuge. And this is my fiance, Takanori Hiromi.” He and Hiromi both bowed, and Norio and Hisae bowed back. 

“It is lovely to meet you both,” Norio said. “Though it could have been under better circumstances.”

“I’ll say,” Hiromi said. “You two don’t seem surprised by this.”

“Oh, we’ve done this plenty of times,” Hisae said. “Tsuge’s great grandfather Kentaro loved to talk with us all the time. We had several visits with him, sharing family stories and such. He wrote quite a lot of them down, they should all be in his journals.”

“Mother always wondered about that,” Tsuge said. “She and everyone else assumed he was transcribing for another family, but kept the journals for some reason.”

“Well, you see, when our son Sotan was a baby, we were all here visiting my family when a fire broke out. We were all trapped, but we managed to hand Sotan to his sister and the two managed to escape. Unfortunately, Naoko died from her burns a few days later, and Sotan was adopted by a lovely couple who you know as your ancestors.”

Hiromi suddenly remembered. “Wait, there are four of you here right now, you two, Etsuko and Fijumaro. But I know at least five ghosts were thrown past me from the vortex, and more past Tusge so where are they?”

“Scattered over the neighborhood, probably,” Norio said. “Most of this valley used to belong to either the Yasui or Kaneda families, so they could appear anywhere on the lands. But they’ll all come back here soon, since this is where the summoning happened.” He narrowed his gaze. “Though with how you messed it up, I don’t know the state they’ll be in. The ritual is supposed to only bring back those who were at peace when they died, like Hisae and I, but the different candles might have causes a change to it. They might even be stuck here.”

Hiromi and Tsuge paled at the thought of over a dozen potentially angry ghosts appearing in the house they were going to move into, and the couple looked to each other. 

“Call Haru.” 

“Right.”

~

“...And here we are,” Hiromi said, giving a very strained smile. “Tsuge is trying to hold down the fort with Norio and Hisae, but I don’t know how well that’s going.”

Haru pinched the bridge of her nose between her hands, taking a deep breath. “Okay, this is going to be way too big a job for just me. I need to call in the whole team.”

Hiromi’s eyes widened. “You think it’s that bad?” 

“Ghosts are like relatives, Hiromi. Once you let them in, they never leave. And you have the unfortunate case of them being actual relatives.” Haru drained the last of her hot chocolate and stood, putting her coat back on. “Come on. You’re gonna be the one to explain to Baron why we need to pull Sephie and Louise off the Osaki case.”

Hiromi gulped, and Haru felt a little pity for her best friend, but it was overruled by irritation. This was not how she wanted to spend her winter vacation.