#and in a twisted maternal love she could even think she's doing him a favour because he had a mother who knew what he needed before he even

[nonokoko-draws]

Starting the year with Riddle hcs 🌹

I feel so proud that the semi realistic headshots still look good if you flip the canvas... 😤✨ More hcs ↓

Similarly to Epel he has insecurities regarding his body. Unlike him he doesn't go nuts when the spotlight goes to his feminine features, only when his age or mental maturity is questioned due his looks Floyd is an exception because anything he says makes Riddle explode.

He used to take great pride in his idea that he is mentally more prepared for adulthood than most boys his age, that he knew better than his childish classmates, before he was humbled in book 1. Post OB he still thinks he is book smart and mature but does he know how much he has yet to learn, though he still finds rather insulting to underestimate him for age or looks. Summary: call him a child and the effect would be the same as calling him short

Whilst Epel is focused on the conservative sense of masculinity, Riddle aspires to be a gentleman. To be exact, he has taken a liking to victorian etiquette on how to be proper during courtship rituals.

I think he would find tips such as "don't flirt with every lady you meet and don't assume every (young) woman is eager to fall in love with you; maintain a dignified reserve"; "be ready to act the knight if a lady in your company is attacked"; "don't get a innocent woman her hopes up" or "neither party should make the other jealous" quite tasteful. Of course, he's sensible enough to know which habits of 200 years ago he should cross out

Mr Roseheart is probably the one Riddle got his Japanese inheritance from, as it is weird to believe Mrs Rosehearts would chance her last name if she is a big name in the magical medicine industry. Unless his husband was the most prominent figure and she got more prestige with this marriage, unlikely in my opinion as controlling people like her usually take a dominant role in the relationship. So I suppose it's either a case in which each pattner keeps its surname or Mr Roseheart was who changed his

Riddle is autistic but his mother didn't make him go to any tests because she wants to believe his son is "normal". I'm under the impression she could be the type to be ableist just because (sadly many doctors are this insensitive and out of touch despite the irony of their fields) OR she doesn't discriminate neurodivergent people but doesn't want hers to be because she firmly believed if little Riddle knew he was autistic he would use his diagnosis to avoid facing the things he could struggle with or excuse "lazy" behaviour with it or she knows how ableist others can be and wanted to disguise him by making him a functional, well-adjusted neurodivergent individual.

Her reasoning? If he is capable of adjusting and is unaware of his autism he won't try to use "the easy way out of" when confronted about his struggles and he won't be bullied by his peers; don't mistake this as a kind gesture from a mother with good intentions but terrible execution. She believes if he was bullied during his studies he could drop out off medicine and she hasn't been preparing him to be a doctor like her for all his childhood to get her plans frustrated by an external factor such as how his classmates perceive him.

Therefore making him believe he is like the rest + homeschooling would "prevent" this outcome because neither he would interact with possible bullies nor he would know what's "normal" for kids his age so he wouldn't feel different because he didn't have a chance to interact with other children.

Plus interacting with adults and certain kids deemed intellectual enough would enhance his possibilities of "growing out of any annoying habits inherently from young kids" (emotional outburst and "childish stuff" she doesn't like). Which I think is way worse than if she was simply an ignorant ableist doctor, but also makes her a more manipulative and calculating character than what we know of her so far.

It could also make sense as for why she was so mad his son made friends she didn't approve of beforehand, because the only way he could have had external interactions would be handpicked by her.

Anyway that's all for today rambles, follow me if you wish to know more about my downfall in the spiral that is being a twst fan to not lose track of my delusions 🫡

[jamlavender]

Babies & bathwater: Marisa, Asriel and Lyra’s impending existence

After writing this post about adult Lyra’s relationships with her parents if they’d survived the trilogy – a piece of character analysis paired with my fic Unholy Ghosts – and really enjoying doing so, I’ve decided to write another one, to match with my latest fic Force of Nature, which tells the story of Lyra’s actual birth (this also relates to much of Silver Bullet too). So much care and analysis go into writing fics and it seems a shame not to share that! Here’s my take on Marisa and Asriel’s feelings about Lyra while Marisa was pregnant and in the immediate aftermath of her birth.

Asriel  

Aside from the logistics of having a baby with his secret lover, I think Asriel would have been very relaxed about the prospect of fatherhood – perhaps even, dare I say it, excited – because he wouldn’t have seen having a child, even under stressful circumstances like these, as any threat to his aims whatsoever. He’s a lord, richer than the king, with an almost supernatural ability to have his needs met with a simple call into the void. For the few months that Lyra is in ‘his’ care, she lives with a nurse in a different house to him (maybe even a different city most of the time, as Ma Costa and Lyra’s cottage was part of Asriel’s estate in Oxfordshire and he likely spent a lot of time in London). For Asriel – like all men of his social class – the daily drudgery and tangible, explicit love that parenthood requires would have been foreign concepts. He could have a child – as, I presume, he’d considered he might one day, should the circumstance arise – and continue his antitheist crusades. Those two things are not in conflict at all. Nor, do I think, he’d have seen Marisa as having to make a choice between her ambitions and motherhood either (if she’d left Edward and joined him) because there’d have been a seemingly endless pot of money and reams of staff to meet Lyra’s needs if her mother would rather have been doing something else.  

I also think that he’d have been pleased to be having a child with a woman that he loved, particularly when there’d no doubt been months or years of push-pull between them, about their relationship, about secrecy, about choosing to be together (or not), about ownership and love and jealousy. He’d have felt that them having a child together was yet another compelling reason she should leave her husband for him, and perhaps even have been hopeful as a result. I also think he’d have been childishly pleased that, after her keeping him and their love in the shadows for so long, there now existed some glaring proof of their relationship. He’s not a man who likes to be overlooked or ignored, after all. And, while I’m probably projecting here, I wonder if the scientist in him might have found something about pregnancy and birth interesting, because while reproduction and childbirth are common, they are also physiological marvels (my reproductive physiology course was my favourite module at university, can you tell?).

I do wonder, though, if the plan for him to take the baby was agreed in advance of her birth, regardless of what the newborn looked like, only because it’s so rare (if it ever happens?) for it to be clear within minutes of birth which of two men might have fathered the new child – unless the two men are of different races, a possibility explored beautifully in the fics The Image of the Father and this be the verse. In fact, the much greater risk would have been that, after being an indistinguishable pink potato at birth, Lyra grew up to be Asriel’s spitting image, when it would have been impossible to spirit her away or fake her death. I could believe that Marisa had decided long before the birth to give the child away regardless, both from her (lack of) personal feelings and the reasonable fear that their secret might instead be discovered years down the line, when the consequences could have been much more severe.

I don’t think Marisa’s suspicion of the child and lack of maternal inclination would have bothered Asriel, particularly relating to her work (I mean, as soon as he loses all the money that enables Lyra’s existence to have no impact on his day-to-day life, he dumps her in favour of his work without a second thought). Rather, he’d have been upset about Marisa’s rejection of Lyra because he’d see it as extension of her rejecting him over and over again. He’d never understood why she wouldn’t leave her husband to be with him – he could provide money, freedom, fascinating work, intellectual partnership, raw love and attraction – and now they’ve had a child together, and still she chooses to walk away. That’s what would have gutted him, I think, especially when it seems obvious to him that they can have their cake and eat it too: they can pursue their ambitions and raise their child, largely because someone else will do the bulk of the latter. Marisa, of course, had always felt differently about the real feasibility of that. His rage at Marisa rejecting him through Lyra would only have been intensified when Marisa surrendered the baby to the Church, which was surely the deepest and worst knife she could twist, leading “all the anger in him to turn against her.” (I forget the exact quote, but I think that’s pretty close). 

Marisa

Marisa would have resented the baby’s existence from the start (I choose to assume that she always knew the baby was Asriel’s, though if she didn’t – which is not out of the realm of possibility at all – that would have been stressful in a different way). Here was proof of her infidelity, proof of her inability to resist the cardinal sin of lust, and a person that might well grow up to have Asriel’s face, who was going to emerge from her body and either be a nightmare to spirit away and keep hidden or a burden (and a secret!) she was forced to bear for the rest of her life. Asriel’s generally blasé attitude about the whole thing would no doubt have infuriated her, as would Edward’s attempts to involve himself in a pregnancy in which he’d played no part. I think she’d have been stressed and miserable and resentful.

Pregnancy and birth must also have been a nightmare for her. The loss of control over her body as another grew inside it, the weight gain and hormones, and, surely most of all, the loss of her ability to use her sexuality to control those around her. The Church might revere motherhood, but they don’t desire it, which would have been a disaster for her, someone for whom manipulating the desire of others was her most beloved political strategy. It’s also very base, a reminder of our animal functions, and as someone who has a complicated relationship with her more instinctive feelings and seems keen to obliterate them as much as possible in favour of repression and manufactured poise, that must have been very uncomfortable. I think she’d have hated it.

Given, though, that she develops an expansive love for Lyra in the end, I did want to sow the seeds for that when her daughter was born (though twelve years is a long time, and I don’t think it’s impossible that she’d have discarded her daughter at birth and simply changed her mind all those years later, but I find it more interesting to make it a little more emotionally complex than that). I think she’d have been in shock, particularly from the pain and vulnerability of birth, but also confronted with an actual person she’d made, with a person she loved deeply, no less. She’d then do an excellent job of repressing those feelings, but I could believe that there was a short time where the fact she’d actually had a child, Asriel’s child, was impossible for her to ignore, despite the chaos, emotional or otherwise, that recognition would cause. That’s how I conceive of both Asriel and Marisa’s immediate reactions to Lyra after her birth, actually: that they’d have spent the pregnancy ignoring their impending arrival, either from glibness about its potential significance (Asriel) or repressing her fears about being discovered or saddled with a baby (Marisa), and only when they were confronted with their actual child did they realise they might have created something here that they couldn’t control as easily as they’d expected. That sums up Lyra’s role in both their lives in the trilogy, I think: she pushes them both because they can’t control her, not what she does nor the emotions she evokes in them, and they both find that unbearable.  

[allyvampirelass29]

Murder at Cripple Creek

A NOS4A2 Review By: Allyssa J. Watkins

A boomtown swimming with ghosts Dead eyes can't hide Their hedonist living Drinking, debauchery and sinning Scarlet ladies having babies But a whorehouse is not a home Trading flesh for coin Tempting patrons, at the sacrifice of your boy Little Charlie grew up in the hellish dark The sins of the mother Scarring the son's heart Murder brewing in this simmering fleshpot Oh Hateful Harlot, Mother Manx Is is to your neglect and bitter thanks Your baby boy, molested, and you can't protect Your little dreamer from the wicked world you wrought for him Blood on a beautiful boy's hands But the only thing murdered here Is his innocence. Sending his rapist and that lustful bitch Back to hell Charlie, Charlie you're not a villain You had to save yourself.......

Is...... anyone alive out there? It's been days, and I'm still sobbing, my heart desolated by the roiling emotional turmoil, my ignited rage murderous. I don't know about you guys, but...... I'm an absolute wreck. WHY are you DOING this to me, NOS4A2!?!? After the brilliant turn of last week, the sleek sophistication, and glamourous entrapment, "Cripple Creek," was a backhand strike, a blatant violation that I never saw coming, and I spent the entire episode, quivering, sobbing, pleading desperately behind my hands plastered over my face, watching between my fingers, helpless to stop the punishing abuse My Charlie suffers in two different timelines, his bruises of an abused childhood mingling with the fresh wounds of now, as he is tortured, beaten and berated by Bing Partridge!!!

I hated this episode. I HATED it. There, I said it. But I think you're supposed to, I think that was the sole purpose of this traumatizing ordeal. However, as far as Bing (GO TO HELL YOU FILTHY BASTARD) is concerned, the writer's motivation seems drastically convoluted. If this was supposed to be Bing's Big Epiphany, his "redemption," (Ughhh seriously?) This episode fails miserably in accomplishing that. And if this episode was meant to do, what I had predicted back in Season One, cement him as the actual villain of NOS4A2, making him the more immoral evil, be his rise in notoriety, his coming of age as it were, into the monster he was always going to be, giving Charlie and Vic someone to unite their hatred against, it fails to do that too. The biggest misstep of the series, after so elegant a triumph, I'm going to drown my sorrows in ice cream, and try to forget that any of it ever happened. Close your eyes, and think of Christmasland........

I audibly groaned when we opened onto Bing at the Lake House. After so much needless repetition in an otherwise FLAWLESS episode, I REALLY did not want to relive Bing's point of view of the siege, unless it was him getting shot by white knight Chris McQueen over, and over, and over........ Thankfully, the rewind didn't last too long, but I was having NONE of his, "Are you there, God, it's me, Bing Partridge," moment!!! On his knees in the graveyard, (Why...... why are we in a graveyard?) Bing appeals to the heavens, proclaiming his own innocence, asking God to show him what he should do next. I snickered coldly, the whole thing melodramatic, and absurd, as he cries, "I've been so good!!!" Secretly, I was fantasizing about Buffy SLAYING his creepster ass in the graveyard, beating him bloody, before staking him in the heart with a witty saying like, "It's been a gas, Bing, but I get the last laugh!!!" Alas, alack, no such luck. His appeal to the heavens was answered not in divine intervention, but with bird droppings splattering in his mouth, which of course, translated in Bing-A-Ling Logic to, "Kill the FIRST person that tries to help you, bury him in the freshly dug grave, and take his keys!!!" It's PRAYING Bing, you dolt, not preying!!!

While the side quest FINALLY explains how Bing was able to catch up to Charlie and Wayne, after previously believed to be on foot, not to mention shot, which would have been IMPOSSIBLE, supernatural car not withstanding, it's altogether unnecessary. It was the less than scenic route to get to last week's blood-curdling cliff hanger, and I really think we could have done without all the maudlin hullaballoo, and picked right up from there. Also, it creeped me out BIG TIME hearing Bing Partridge say, "Hidey holes," because that's what I called them last week, when Charlie was adorably telling Wayne about his hiding places. "Look at you with your hidey holes, Babe!!!" Needless to say, Bing has ruined that phrase for me FOREVER!!!

"Charlie, Charlie, telling lies, soon he will be crying cries......" A chilling foreboding that was like ice in my veins........ I was definitely crying cries...... I literally WEPT with this horrid little rhyme, and even still I was so naïve, unprepared, for the gut-churning horror that waited in the shadows of a broken little boy's murdered childhood, and the degradation of the beautiful soul that survived it. It's one of the most grueling, and disturbing things, I've ever watched, and like my Darling Boy, strapped to the chair, enduring forced interrogation by gassing, brutal beatings by Bing's homicidal, ham-fisted punches, and some....... deeply unsettling sexual innuendo, I felt like I was the one getting tortured.........

I did utterly enjoy Charlie's feigned relief, as he uses that silver tongue, in valiant effort, to slip his way out of this sickening predicament. "Bing, My Dear Fellow, thank the stars! I thought you had been done in by those wretched McQueens!!" Charlie gasps, thankfully, knowing full well he'd left Bing behind to die, and for good reason. Any other time, this would have worked, Charlie would have used his coaxing charm, and Bing's oafish gullibility, twisted them into a breathtaking manipulation, weaving the lie that he had no choice but to leave him behind, and Bing would have eaten it out of the palm of his hand, because he wants that badly for it to be true. But Bing watched it happen, his face falling, as Charlie sped off without him, and he's DONE playing. Charlie's pleas fall on deaf ears, as Bing drugs him for answers, revealing the fatalities of every single one of Charlie's former accomplices, and with the finality of one apocalyptic truth....... Bing descends into a frenzied, foaming madness.

"Cripple Creek," is the double edged sword that none of us were meant to survive. Switching between the stabbing scenes of Charlie's withering assault, his lifeline to The Wraith, cruelly severed, and the slicing violation of his childhood self, his innocence massacred before our very eyes, our bleeding hearts never stood a chance. I always knew that Charlie's childhood was going to be horrid, downright Dickensian, devoid of magic and light, unloved by his drunk, whore mother, but I had no idea the HELL this beautiful boy endured at so tender an age, forever scarred, betrayed by the one person he trusted, respected, desperately in need of a father figure, only to be exploited in the most heinous way. It's a MIRACLE My Precious Love can even function as an adult, much less still manage to find wonder and beauty in the world, clinging, clawing to hold onto his ember, his remnant of pure light that persevered in a life of darkness.

The inexplicable joy at seeing a young Charlie Manx, aged 11 or 12, tapdancing on stage, along with the giddy marvel that this young actor looks just like our leading man in miniature, is short-lived, as a stranger takes an uncomfortable interest in him....... I don't know how, maybe it was the intent way he watched him dance, or the way he touched his shoulder a little too long, but I knew........ I KNEW this man was going to sexually abuse Charles, I felt it gnawing in my stomach, instantly unnerved, and I hoped with all my heart, my first instinct was wrong....... I'm devastated to say........ it was not.

Not only does this manipulative pedophile Son of a BITCH molest my baby, he first uses him to persuade other boys to flock to his house, knowing full well how much the young ones look up to Charlie, as their leader. He wins Charlie's favour and trust by befriending him, and giving our little darling the one thing he wants more than anything else. Escape. Escape from the vulgar, gratuitously sexual environment, that no young boy should have to endure, a chance to make money, have an honest, respectable living. A chance to have a father figure, a man to look up to, learn from, and take him under his wing. The shop owner offers all of that, with a crooked smile, the charade falling dangerously away, as he knocks back a shot glass, eying our boy, and then says in the cruelest, most chilling voice. "You've earned yourself some fun........"

Thankfully, NOS4A2 was not overly graphic in this lewd portrayal, but the innuendo was enough to make me ugly cry, and seethe, as this sweet child is violated by someone he admires so much, realizing in horror, that he led all of his friends to be mishandled in this same disgusting manner, like lambs to the slaughter. But our brave little Manx was NOT going to let this sin go unpunished, and I clapped, cheering him on, as he uses his sled, now tainted by its means of acquisition, to kill the shopkeeper, dark fire flashing in his eyes, blood splattering on the shot glass, and I've never been so happy, or nervously relieved to see someone die.

His mother comes to him, and instead of crying, and taking her boy in her arms, stroking his dark curls, soothing his fear, and assuaging his guilt, she just scoffs at his accusation, the picture of apathy, and places the blame back on him. "You knew too, Charlie!!!" You WHORE-ABLE Mother!!! Your son was just sexually ASSAULTED, and YOU DARE make it his own fault, like he'd turned a blind eye, and therefore deserved to get raped!?!? Charlie might not have killed her, if she'd actually had a maternal bone in her body, if she'd done SOMETHING, shown any sign of regret or compassion, but she doesn't, and I feel nothing but proud as he finishes her off too. Her death was surprising, given the admonishing way Charlie talks about his mother, creating the impression that she'd been a bane on his existence his entire life, and yes, as a writer, I wanted to see more of a direct conflict between them to make that defining moment that much more satisfying, but as a viewer, I was just grateful she was dead, and Charlie was free. The only murder perpetrated, the only death I mourned at Cripple Creek, was that of Charlie's innocence, his childhood slaughtered.

Meanwhile, Bing continues to torture Charlie in the present day, my chest shuddering with every thrown punch, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming. What was the deafening truth spoken that sends Bing Partridge into a flailing rage, you ask?

"Christmasland is for children. We are special...... That's why we can't go......."

Charlie was never going to take Bing to Christmasland. All that this poor dope had lived for, dreamed of, for eight years, amidst his conning his way into dentists' offices, and offing mothers, and it was always a lie. I had suspected it the entire time, especially after the mention of a, "special feast," but what SHOCKED me the most, was the unimaginable heartbreak of Charlie's own deepest secret coming to light, and as Bing draws it forth, it's like drawing blood. In spite of being the architect of his lifelong dream, and greatest solace from a life full of abject misery, Charlie doesn't think he deserves Christmasland, because he sees himself as ruined........

I broke down sobbing, that pain, that anguish, that he's so long carried with him, ripping through me, and I'm tearing up even as I write this, remembering....... Charlie denying himself his own dream, seeing himself as a ruined article that might profane its pure vision, is a tragedy that I can't come back from. It's a sorrowful, aching confession, and yet somehow it explains so much, and in this, his greatest pain, his darkest secret, I felt intimately closer to him. At last........ we see why Charlie never stays long in his Christmas kingdom, why he's so focused on the next child, and the next, sacrificing time with his own daughter, because they deserve Christmasland, and he doesn't. Always the courier, never the partaker. Christmasland is for children, and Charlie Manx never got the chance to be one.

The searing pains of his past still guide so much of who he is today, placing a strict emphasis on propriety in every aspect of his person, in manner, speech, and dress, because he was robbed of his dignity as a child. I also, FINALLY, after two seasons, understand why he turns the children into vampires, a contradiction to his love of them, that has remained frustratingly elusive to my grasp. Charlie's childhood was taken from him, brought to a vulnerable, violent end, and by turning the Lost Children, theirs becomes eternal. They never have to grow up, and lose that purity, that innocence. I also realized, that by giving them their bite back, they are able to defend themselves, meaning no one can ever hurt them again.......

There was so much awful going on, so much inflicted misery, and disorienting chaos, that I was sure I'd heard wrong when Bing decides on an even more dehumanizing method of torture. Did Bing just...... call Charlie a BITCH!? I shook my head, but there it was again, and at this point I'd HAD it. Somebody give me a GUN, I will WASTE this SICK BASTARD myself!!! The skeevy sexual threat against Charlie felt like overkill to me, utterly ridiculous, a cheap shot at adding dramatic effect, especially in the face of his childhood shame. Bing has exhibited absolutely no inclination of...... swinging that way, as it were, before, and yeah they kind of threw in last minute that he'd done this to Mike's father, offscreen, but I don't know WHY he would do that, especially given his particular affinity for Mike. Charlie, himself, pointed out that there was no indication in the Graveyard of What Might Be that Mike needed saving, or that his father deserved punishing. It's awkward, and disturbing, and there seemed to me no method in this madness.

"If I'm a monster....... who deserves to die....... You deserve so much worse." BAM. Hell yeah, Babe!!! Thank GOD, Charlie's quick enough to convince Bing that he too is a monster, and we are spared any further asinine innuendo. Bing, after these series of unfortunate events, beating, berating, and threatening Charlie with rape, suddenly, deus ex machina-esque has a change of heart, and an epiphany that comes a LOT TOO LATE!!! We're both monsters, we BOTH deserve to die....... What we're doing is WRONG. Was I happy when Bing urged Wayne to go, and tell a police officer that his mom is Vic McQueen? Yes. Do I believe he did it out of the goodness of his heart, and has finally seen the light? Freaking HELL NO!!! Bing, after losing Christmasland, has nothing left to live for, and this is his way of giving up. If I can't go to Christmasland, Wayne can't go...... and he decides a bizarre murder/suicide in The Wraith is his final act of redemption.

Before they even showed the car crusher, I was already sobbing profusely, losing my freaking mind, because I had figured out exactly where Bing had taken Charlie.

"There's going to be two less monsters in the world........"

Meaning to crush them both, and kill the Wraith irrevocably, Bing puts on his mask, and presses the button. At first Wayne laughs, and thinks it's a game, his inner vampire child coming out, but when it hits him that Charlie's in actual danger, he realizes he has a choice to make....... Save Charlie Manx, or let him die, and go home safe to his Mom and Lou.

"No, My Boy, this isn't a game, it's time to play, Save Father Christmas!!!"

Charlie calls out frantically, coaxingly to his young charge, and I loved that so much, my heart overwhelmed with emotion. Yes, Wayne, PRETTY PLEASE save Father Christmas!!! A lot of people despised him for what happened next, screaming at Wayne for his choice, even calling him a stupid kid, but I, myself, felt even more love in my heart for that already dearly cherished little lad, as he smiles, and slams down on the button, halting the crusher, and saving Charlie from imminent death.

It's a profound moment, the abductee choosing to save his kidnapper's life, and many cried out strongly against it, but you have to understand....... Charlie Manx has become so much more to Wayne than the scary face in his mother's paintings. Here is a man that has shown genuine interest in his life, his hopes, his dreams, who has treated him gently, fussed over him, concerned, and who has come to love him like a father. Couple that with The Wraith's effects on Wayne, slowly tying the two of them together, it makes perfect sense to me, how this unexpected bond has formed. Yes, had Vic been there, herself, he would have chosen her over Charlie in a second, but when faced with the reality of letting Charlie die, our tender-hearted Bats just couldn't do it.

"Do think of me at Christmastime, won't you?"

CHARLIE. LIKE. A. BOSS!!!! The single greatest moment, and brightest scene in an hour of plunging darkness, is definitely Charlie, snapping back into his delectably dark, unrivaled perfection (although, I must say I still found him incredibly dashing in his distinguished grays) charging Bing Partridge, murder striking in his wild, smouldering eyes, stabbing him, with a reveling whisper, twisting the knife, with this most PERFECT line, that gave me wonderous, reverberating chills!!! I also LOVED how Charlie glowers in his lumpy face and says, "You were never special." DAMN that's HOT!!! My only grievance with an otherwise ENTHRALLING moment, was that inexplicably, yet again, CHARLIE DIDN'T KILL BING!!! Charlie has KILLED for so much less, and while he did offer a vague explanation about prison being so much worse for Bing than hell, it felt like hell frozen over that Charlie would ever let Bing live. I know this is the writers wanting to keep Bing around to creep another day, but MY GOD, hang that Partridge from a pear tree, and HAVE DONE already!!!!!

This was an especially dark episode, but there were flashes of some really beautiful, albeit fleeting moments, first with Wayne and Craig, and then with Millie and Cassie, though the reoccurring theme, the common thread, did seem to be Innocence Lost. I was startled with the The Wraith's sneaky trick of causing a child to forget their parents the longer they are in the car, and BLESS YOU, Craig for helping your son remember his mother, and fight the transformation!!! He tells Wayne that Vic's favourite movie was Jaws, and Wayne tells him that her favourite holiday is the 4th of July. (Which is really cool, because it's my favourite too!!!) This slows the Wraith's effects on Wayne, and becomes a very special moment between father and son, as they fight to keep Vic's memory alive.

"How do you know my mom?"

"She was my best friend."

More overwhelmed sobs, because apparently I haven't cried enough this episode!!! Craig decides not to tell Wayne that he's his father, but our little Bats is ingeniously clever, and I think he's going to figure it out before long!!! Another mini heart attack comes with a second lost tooth. The suspense of Wayne's slow turning, mirroring the tender emotion in this scene was fantastic.

Millie and her mother have a similar moment, and I thought that was BRILLIANT of her to introduce Vampire Millie to her former human self. The two play with dolls, and human Millie talks about how she can't wait to go on a date, and have adventures when she grows up! It's such an endearing scene, and also incredibly sad, as the pale, gaunt shell of Vampire Millie envies her bright, and bubbly human counterpart, seeing the hope and innocence that she's so long been bereft of. "She's me...... Who I'm supposed to be." Cassie explains that her father's sad fantasy is depriving Millie of the gift of growing up, and explains that there's nothing Charlie Manx fears more than a woman with her own mind, and that's the LAST thing he wants his beloved daughter to become. A woman that would eventually leave him. More tears. Poor Millie. Poor Charlie!! Can I just give everybody a hug!?

"Cripple Creek," lingers like BAD Dream, and all I want to do right now, is curl up with Charlie Manx, hold him in my arms, stroke his cheek, soothe him with the tenderest hands, and softest words, tell him he's beautiful, and that he deserves Christmasland, and the world, that he's not ruined, but PURE!!! This was my least favourite episode in the entire series, and just like, "The Gas Mask Man," will be skipped indefinitely in the re-watch, but like I said, it endeared Charlie even more to my heart, and I feel fiercely protective over him, over that goodness that still glows in his dark eyes, despite lifetimes of feeling unloved, and in ever-present pain. All I ever wanted in Season One, was a glimpse into the past that crafted my mysterious and refined vampire chauffeur, and this entire experience, My Darlings, is an exercise in, "Be Careful What You Wish For..........."

[imagine-loki]

Litklœði

TITLE: Litklœði

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 5/6 AUTHOR: Goldtrimmedspectacle ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine that Loki and you have been friends for years. Granted, he’s had his rough patches as you have had yours, but your friendship has been a reoccuring factor through the lasting centuries. However, something hasn’t been right recently. Your chest constantly aches and you keep coughing up petals - sometimes whole flowers. Loki seems none of the wiser but you just can’t hide the ongrowing illness. Surely it has no correlation with your love for the dark prince of Asgard.

RATING: M (eventual) NOTES/WARNINGS: ANGST and happy ending!

Earlier updates on AO3.

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Vines dug and scrapped at your lungs, filling your throat with wide petals and leaves, the sweet stench of flowery fragrance and dried blood filled the room. Your body twisting and wheezing under the invisible pressure.

  So much pain.

  You whimpered under the stabbing sensations filling your chest, stuttered wheezes escaping your lungs and dissolving into the silence.

  Soft shushing.

  A sweet kiss pressed to your forehead.

  You turned towards the hand, eyes squeezed shut with pain, and breathed out softly, “Loki.” The thankfulness ingrained in your words and dripping from the relief that gripped your aching body.

  The person sighed and their hand traced your chin.

  “No, my sweet. I am not the one you want. Go back to sleep. He will be here when you next awake.”

  You nodded, familiar with the voice and trusting their words. A soft hum filled the room as another kiss was placed upon your brow and their head rested against your own, hands tracing your neck with maternal intent, and they smiled against your cheek.

“Sleep, my dear. All will be well. Trust my words.”

  And a haze filled your being.

  Frigga pulled away as your head lolled once more, falling back onto the cotton pillow where it previously lay. Your eyes fluttered at the odd sensation as the golden seiðr began to diminish from your cheeks, its lines of light trailing from your temples down to your chest, where the flowers lay in wait.

  Frigga sat there a while longer, watching your innocent form sleep blissfully unaware of Asgard’s current events and its political standoff against Vanaheimr. And especially oblivious to the state that you had pushed her younger son in to, where he dismissed care and refused to display his emotions, even to herself, whilst avoiding all men like the plague.

  Her visions were never wrong, but they had never been so vague as to not foresee such dire consequences, even if they had been so early in their prophecies. And granted, the Allmother loved her husband with every piece of her heart, but his need for power and desire for protection sometimes corrupted all thoughts of happiness for his own children, and sometimes for himself.

  Men. The epitome of fools. So blind in their love for others, they became blind to their most beloved.

  It had not been easy to retreat on Odin’s promise to the Vanir kingdom. His words of betrothal, all without the consent of his son or forewarning, were outstandingly thoughtless. And to not have sought out counsel with Frigga? Completely and utterly blind.

  As much of a good ruler the Allfather appeared, his actions and political decisions having always been wise, but solely through the counsel of his wife and royal advisors. Especially before she had come along.

  Frigga was glad that the Princess Catriona had not been so unforgiving in their broken promise, her eyes wavering with caution and slight fear when they laid upon Loki’s frail figure, and had broken off the engagement without much thought beyond her own self-comfort and her kingdom. However, her advisor had been the most difficult to deal with and had it not been for Loki’s sullen mood and flared temper, the engagement may have ensued.

  Frigga could not prevent her son’s doings when she, herself, could not calculate his actions in such a volatile state.

  The advisor was lucky that Loki was unwell, otherwise Frigga was sure that his dagger would have landed in his chest rather than next to his head.

  Not the most political actions, yes, but effective in its release.

  She smiled bitterly and squeezed your hand, aware that you would not be capable in returning the favour.

  It had always been you.

  Odin was a fool to see otherwise.

  The door’s latch unlocked and in trailed her remaining ladies-in-waiting. Each carrying a bouquet of flowers or food, but all holding a look of fear and upset upon their features. Her second youngest, Maarit, was the worst off – eyes filled with ever-falling tears and her cheeks red with hollow cries.

  “Hello dears.”

  They nodded in respect and placed their presents at your bedside.

  Ona said a soft prayer and traced her open palm down your nose. The others bowed their heads and so did Frigga.

  “Do we know how long she has suffered this ailment?” Maarit asked into the open room, eyes trained on your sick form and beginning to brim with tears once more. “I had noticed something was wrong, however I did not ask upon what her ailment was. I believed that when she was ready to speak, she would. Or she would have mentioned it to the prince.” She paused and turned to Frigga, “Why did she not?”

  The question lay heavy with its own answer.

  “We already know why, my dear.”

  The ladies nodded and their grief darkened the atmosphere once more.

  “Does he not love her in turn?” Maarit asked once more, the tears beginning to spill and her voice catching at the end of said sentence.

  “You know that also, Maarit.” She nodded and wiped the tears away.

  The silence stayed for the remainder of their stay, all watching your pained body with empathy and all hoping that what had just occurred was a mere figment of their imaginations.

  “How has the prince reacted to the news?” Ona spoke up, turning towards the Queen with her steadfast expression. Ever dramatic as she was.

  “Loki is not well. He has barely left his room since the spring cotillion,” Frigga brushed her dress down and began to follow her ladies out of the room. “Food is unappealing and company is frowned upon. He did not react well to Vanaheimr’s royal advisor the day before yesterday and threw a knife at his head. And Thor has spoken of my son’s general disposition in public and private.” She frowned. “I have noticed that Loki is despondent in public, but it has grown much worse in the passing days. And in private? There is not a moment when he is not weeping for his beloved or laden heavy with guilt. Thor has been forced to make Loki eat on some days.”

  She looked back at the bed.

  “It has barely been a half turn of the moon and I have never seen my son in such a state.” The door closed and with its click, you dozed on, completely unaware of the conversation which had just ensued.

  “Is the prince to see her when she wakes?”

  Frigga nodded and smiled, albeit with a slightly pained grace.

  “I hope so. He is always so aware except for himself. I know that what ails him is not his bedridden companion, but what it means for their friendship and her future. My son is both selfless and selfish in his desires for our lady’s recovery.”

  “I hope all ends well,” Maarit spoke in a hushed tone. “I hope they end up happy.”

  Frigga did not reply, but it did not erase her agreement at her lady’s words.

  “As do I, sweet one. As do I.”

  “Brother, please, open the door. I have news for you,” Thor begged from the hall outside of his brother’s apartment. His hands were empty and his clothes were of a more relaxed attire, having skipped his training regime for Loki’s needs and his heartbroken state, but his heart lay heavy under the pretence of Loki’s distress.

  The door opened and in Loki’s place stood the frail image of a broken man, his eyes rimmed a dark red with blackened skin gathered under his eyelashes. The composed and snarky prince of Asgard had been reduced into a mess of anxiety and delirious want.

  Thor knew the feeling.

  “Brother, have you eaten the pallet I gifted you last night?”

  Loki stared at him, eyes glazed and vacant. They twitched and glanced back at the full tray on his lounge table.

  Thor faltered and cautiously placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  Loki flinched.

  “Loki, please, you need to eat something.” Thor allowed himself into the apartment whilst directing his brother onto a gold-accented chair. “Think of our dear blóm – “

  Loki whipped around and growled.

  “She is not yours! She belongs to no one! She is not anyone’s but mi – “ his voice faltered, body seizing up, and fell silent once more. The fire which had gathered in his stomach was diminished without a moment’s notice.

  “I know, Loki. I would be a fool not to,” Thor eased him back down and gifted the younger prince a piece of fruit. “For each food you eat, the more I will tell you about your lady’s recovery. Is that a fair deal?”

  Loki glared, annoyed at such a poorly strategized bargaining chip, and nodded. He ate the fruit with little refusal.

  “She is well now – her flowers have reduced whilst in mother’s seiðr-induced coma, however she is not cured, as you well know.” Loki finished the first fruit and began his next. “Mother has been checking on her daily and your lady has gained some of her weight back, thanks to the biometric nutrients which has been fuelled into her body.” Another fruit was swallowed. “Her conscious state is still in a considerable amount of pain but it is better than at the beginning, however mother believes she can feel your absence. Even in her sleep.” Loki paused and his stoic façade was forced to cover the pain in his heart. He bit into a piece of bread. “She woke this morning but has been in and out of consciousness from the pain and unforeseen circumstance. Mother believes you will be able to visit later this afternoon, that is if you wash and sleep beforehand.”

  “I cannot see her now?”

  Loki swallowed a slice of meat, ever placid in his monitored behaviour.

“She is asleep right now, or she may be waking up, but mother says it will take a few hours until the seiðr is fully drained from her system and she will be able to understand the full circumstance in which she has landed herself in.”

  A flash of defence flared in Loki’s eyes.

  “It was not of her accord. It is whatever man that has forced her into such a position.”

  Thor backtracked.

  “Of course, brother. We both know that Lady blóm is incredibly intelligent, but that is not the point I am making. What I meant to say is that once your lady has woken, you are free to visit and help until the situation can be eradicated. However, it is both wise and sensible to see to your own health until you seek to assist another’s.”

  He hummed.

  “Loki,” Thor began softly, “Understand that the lady – she is not well. Mother does not think she will survive the next – “

  Loki ate the last cutlet of meat and grunted. He rose and turned to retreat into his bedroom, barely sparing his brother a glance as the door swung shut and Thor was forced into his own silence. Waiting and hoping for another sign of life from his melancholic brother.

  The sound of running water came from his brother’s room and Thor winced, ashamed at his fabricated lie.

  “Remember to wear your best vest, Loki!”

  He could only hope that all would end well.

  Light tapping woke you from the uneasy sleep which plagued your body.

  Your joints moaned and creaked from the two weeks of rest, chest stabbing thorn after thorn into your lungs with each breath, and your mind blurry and weak from the unfortunate events which had occurred at the spring cotillion.

  How cruel fate was.

  You slid up the bed and opened your eyes, temporarily blinded by the sun as its rays filtered through thin curtains and filled up the room.

  The tapping ceased.

  “Blóm.”

  You turned and met the man’s green eyes, who sat watching your actions like a hawk – book in hand and a pencil tapping at your bedstand.

  Tears sprung to your eyes – shame and regret gripping your being.

  “Loki.”

  His arms engulfed you and the book fell to the floor in an ungraceful heap of folded pages and scribbled notes. Little was noticed as your body slot perfectly with his own. Loki’s comfort and scent flooded your senses and the pain worsened momentarily, but you refused to pull away from the arms which had forced you into such a frail condition.

  Loki pulled away before you could retreat back into the cocooned sheets.

  “You are foolish and entirely conceited.” The prince snarled at your bedside and grabbed your hand, clenching it tighter and encasing the skin wholly with his large palm. “How dare you hide something so dire from the palace staff. From Eir and the healers. From my mother and the other ladies-in-waiting. From me,” his voice broke and you watched, tears building as Loki stared at you, pained and bitter.

  The consequences of your actions had hit when the Allmother had awoken you, feeding you a bowl of porridge and remaining oddly silent. Her eyes had met yours, sad and all-too-familiar, and you had collapsed into sobs. Solely comforted by her maternal instincts and her motherly shushing, rocking your body back and forth until the sniffing had stopped and all tears had dried.

  You felt numb, watching as your best friend crumpled under the realisation of your fate. You had become accustomed to the concept of your death but Loki had not. And as the aching reminder of violets sat cruelly in your lungs, the tears you shed were not for yourself, but for the man holding your hand – even in your last moments.

  Much like he did when you were children.

  “Are you so ashamed of your condition that you would seek no alternative for your ailment other than death? Ashamed of loving someone so purely that you would leave your friends and family to grieve their negligence and the loss of your presence. Are you so foolish to believe that death would be better than the loss of one’s love?” The grief that crept in to Loki’s words slanted you with their cutting edge, laden with burden and sitting heavy upon the flowers of your chest.

  You were glad that the main healer had settled you in one of the more secluded healing chambers. No one would be able to hear yours nor Loki’s cries.

  “Loki please, you do not understand.” You wiped the last of your sleep away. “I cannot do that to him – “

  His lips curled into a snarl.

  “But you would do that to me.”

  It was only now did you realise the straggled state in which the prince appeared. His lips were chapped and his skin, albeit freshly washed and clean, was sunken and held a paler pallor compared to earlier days. Even Loki’s hair, which he held such great pride and vanity for, was bunched up in dry and messy bun rather than its ebony waves. His face seemed equal in its dry state, the skin around his eyes cracked by tears shed for your pain, and his cheekbones appearing extremely daunting and tight through his skin.

  Your breath heightened to a wheeze; the pain of your betrayal accompanied by the pain of vines ripping your body apart. It was the tight grasp of Loki’s hand upon yours which kept you grounded, however his wet eyes did little to gift your slights with compassion.

  “The tale of Hanahuki. When one loves another and that love remains unrequited, the fallen flower has either of three options.” Loki’s broken voice wavered as his thumb traced the indents of your fingers. The words were so familiar yet never boring. “The maiden, sire or other can die, accepting their death with pained petal-cased gasps. However, they may otherwise confess their feelings and hope that the object of their affections loves them in turn. If not, they are destined to die a much harsher and painful death – or the fallen flower can rid of their feelings through seiðr. Expelling such emotions and attachments to their unrequited lover before the flowers suffocate them.”

  “Yes,” your voice cracked, “but in removing the feelings of love, all other traces of companionship and adoration are erased from the person. It is like they never held a connection to their loved one – that they never knew the touch or smell of the other, even if they were to meet once more. Just like your mother said when were we small and young.”

  Loki smiled at the memory, but his eyes sat hollow on his features, and his lips seemed to form a pained grimace than a symbol of joy.

  Your heart lurched at the concept of banishing the friendship and love for this man. All for the sake of your life, which may or may never be happy after losing such a close loved one and never remembering why.

  “And you would rather die than abandon such connections,” Loki asked, low and angered.

  “I would rather die a million deaths and know that the man I adore has loved me and I loved him, even if our forms of love do not match and our statuses would never be accepted.” You entwined your fingers with Loki’s. “It is a pity that platonic love cannot placate the curse of Hanahaki.”

  The lost hope that was contained in Loki’s eyes broke your resolve and you hiccupped a small sob, a pained smile forced upon your lips – hoping that in your last hours Loki would perceive you as happy and content in his presence.

  “Did your mother tell you about my condition?”

  Loki swallowed and his lip curled into a wavering frown, his adam’s apple bobbing with the oncoming tears and overpowering emotion.

  “You have little time left.”

  “How much, Loki?”

  He refused to meet your eyes.

  “A week at the most, a day at the least.”

  You felt a sob rack your body. It felt so real when the words fell from his mouth, but at least you were happy to be blessed with Loki’s presence although it made the situation all the harder on your soul.

  “I want you to remember that I adore you, you mischievous God. Never has a woman had such a friend as you, Loki Odinson. I envy your next partner in chaos whence I am gone from Asgard.”

  “Do not – “ his voice tightened and the glossed sheen fell from his eyes. Tears dripped down the dark prince’s cheeks, falling down the sharp jaw that you had held in teasing gesture or tapped in playful happiness. “Please. Do not speak like that, my dear friend. I cannot fathom Asgard without your radiant presence, sentimental fool.”

  The choked air he breathed in was sharp. Barbed in its inhalation.

  “Alas, but I cannot stay. Not with my condition,” you smiled pitifully, pausing when a cough racked your body, pressing Loki’s hand upon your chest. He silenced as the steady thump of blood filtered through your body, over and over again in a cycle of life. Two small petals fell from your lips and he wiped the splattered flowers from your features. “But you can stay,” you breathed out and raised his hand to your lips, “And you can enjoy life.”

  Your eyes searched the green depth of his own desperately, trying to convey the emotion which grasped you so tightly.

  “So, I beg you to make the most of your enjoyment among the living. Perhaps Valhalla will accept me or I shall return in another form elsewhere in the realms, and we may meet once more in another life or amongst the Valkyries. I hear Midgardr is beautiful this time of year,” you joked. “Maybe I will meet Thor’s mysterious lady?”

  The hand upon your chest tightened and Loki slipped forward, running his fingers over your frail body with a rare gentleness - all which was reserved for you. His nose was buried in your neck and you rubbed the leather on his shoulders, all whilst your dearest friend wept openly into your skin, his voice jagged with agony and releasing the cracked sobs of a man lost.

  The silence was betrayed by his whisper. “Tell me who it is,” Loki begged as more tears wet your bedsheets, ignoring your jest in times of sorrow. “Tell me who it is so that I may make him pay. It is unjust that you should die for a fool’s mistake.”

  You gripped him back.

  “I cannot and I will not let him carry the burden of my death when he cannot have prevented it.”

  The God ripped himself away, eyes slanted and burning with hatred – whether that was for your actions or for himself. It was uncommon for Loki to feel inferior or at a loss of what to do.

  “You do not deserve this. By Odin, woman! You are as stubborn as you are foolish. Wouldn’t you rather live out the rest of your life amidst the palace walls and in my company, rather than pine over a man so unworthy of your attention that I have never seen such a person in your inner-circle.” His voice came out rough and pleading.

  “Loki - !”

  You went to retaliate but another series of coughs ripped from your lungs, preventing a reply to Loki’s outburst. It was with Loki’s dedication and crumbling hope that he wiped the petals from your mouth and washed away the blood splashed upon your lips.

  His tears had grown heavier.

  “I have been so foolish. I should have been able to detect the symptoms when you first fell for him. I could have prevented this occurrence. By Odin, why do you refuse my help? A chance of a longer life?”

  You smiled and slowly tugged Loki forward, resting your forehead against his own and watching his pupils dilate through the tears.

  “Why ever not? It is a heart’s job to yearn and adore, but it is a mind’s job to rationalise and seek realism. I cannot help if my heart and mind want opposite things.”

  Loki pressed his nose against yours in an effort of half-hearted comfort, “But why someone who could not love you? Could it not have been an admirer of yours? Or could not that foul prince from Innangard, whose eyes did not waver from you at the Cotillion ball last summer, have fallen with this ailment. It would have been delightful to watch him suffocate in retaliation for his vile actions towards you and the other young maidens at the event.”

  His breathing grew heavy again and the salty tears mixed with your own.

  “You are so young, my dear. So young and so loved. How I would do anything to have you live another hundred years by my side. For our positions to be swapped. You offer far more to the kingdom of Asgard than I ever could, and it would lighten my soul to see you well and standing at my side once more.”

  You laughed lowly as the tears continued to flow.

  “Indeed. I remember quite distinctly that the last time I stood by your side for a formal event, I lost my footing because someone decided to step on my dress – may I say purposefully – and he chose to then sweep me into his arms, claiming to have saved me from a demise that were his misplaced steps.”

  A shared look of warmth flooded Loki’s features.

  “You looked stunning in the green dress Mother picked out,” the prince reminisced softly, “What ever was I to do but carry you away from the ballroom and undesirable suitors? Surely, it was in yours and my best interest to stash you way for my attention only.” He kissed the heel of your hand and smiled sweetly, features alight with past embraces and laughter.

  “How I would love to see you in my colours once more.”

  Your smile weakened.

  “You will have a wife one day and she shall wear your colours every day, my dearest friend. Fret not, for there are many others who would suit green more than I.”

  Loki’s eyes locked with your own and the teasing atmosphere vanished. The sorrow of your words lay heavy in the air and Loki whimpered softly, pressing down the harsh sobs that had begun to rack his chest once more.

  “I would rather have you wear my colours than any other woman in the nine realms,” he whispered and looked at you through thick eyelashes, “But it was not in the fates plans for you to do so.” His fingers stroked another tear from your cheek.

  “What I would do to reverse time and have you fall for me instead.”

  You choked as another sob brought up a heavy mass of purple and green petals.

  Loki sat patiently as the petals continued to fall and blood was smeared over your clothes, the bedsheets and his hands. He repeated the process of cleaning and dusting the petals away every few coughs until finally, you breathing eased and the blood was removed from your bare skin.

  His profile stood so regal in the shadows of the sun.

  “Say it again.”

  Loki paused in his ministrations.

  “What?”

  “Say that you would have rather had me fall for you,” the words begged as your body shook from the extent of heart-inflicted damage laying waste upon your lungs. “Say that you would have rather made me your wife than have me in this bed, so weak and frail.”

  Your mouth leaked more blood, which Loki wiped away dutifully.

  “Say that you would have loved me eventually.”

  He paused and dropped the cloth.

  Your name was breathed between Loki’s lip and his hands held your face, eyes searching yours frantically as tears glimmered in the whites, lips curled into a teary frown. He nodded in defeat and propped his head against your own as the tears began to fall again.

  “Dear one,” he shuddered out, and you wept silently. “I would have adored you for all the realm to see.”

  “No one would have ever passed us without the evidence of my love whispered to you in soft ballads, poetry and language of the heart. The whole of Asgard would have seen us and said ‘how I wish for a love so pure and wonderful than that of the prince and his bride’,’ Loki whispered and rocked your body against his own.

  “There would never have been a day where I did not carry you to our chambers each night, hoping to hold your comforting body against mine. The servants would watch us with adoration whilst the noble men and women would glare at us with envy. There would be no one who could doubt my affections for you, and if they did, I would woo you with every romantic means possible until the whole of the nine realms understood the depths of my affections towards you.”

  Loki nudged his face closer.

  “You would want for nothing and I would greet you each morning with a kiss. And every evening we would both dress in green and I would walk you to the dining chambers where we would tease and jest with one another until dark. Then after dinner we would read and talk of our future together. Talk of marriage, of children and of my disdain for Thor and his friends.”

  Your eyes blurred with the thick tears that wet your cheeks and gifted the dark prince a laugh to his joke.

  “Our children?”

  Loki smiled impishly through his tears.

  “Yes, our children. I would hope three or four, but I imagine two would be enough if they inherited my seiðr and your influence.”

  You bit back the overflowing tears.

  “What would we name them?”

  Loki’s eyes welled with tears and he stifled a sob, hiding his face from view as he raked his hand through your hair.

  He raised his head and met your eyes.

  “Why don’t you allow the healers to remove the flowers from your chest and then you could live and bear those children yourself - rather than leave them in a dream whilst you lie dead on the healer’s beds.” His hands trembled on your cheeks, eyes so soft and vulnerable in that moment. “Why don’t you live and I could woo you? I could make you mine and you could make me yours. Then we could have those children together and name them whence the time comes.” He sobbed pathetically as you trembled – the pain stemming from the on-growing cluster of petals in your chest, charged by your desire and want of an unattainable future.

  Controlled by your unadulterated adoration for the man by your side.

  “Please, I could want no less.” You whimpered. “But I cannot. My affliction cannot be changed, Loki. I am a lost cause.”

  The dark prince paused in his weeping, eyes still red and gleaming, and his grip tightened.

  “But it would. The pain would be removed and I could woo you to love me.” The desperation hung heavy on his tongue. “To see me like you see another. Anything to have you here beside me.”

  Your eyes brimmed with tears and shook your head, “It would not, Loki. I am sorry.”

  The tears fell from your eyes once more, hoping that the prince would ignore the depths of your words and allow you peace in these last few hours. Hoping Loki would just stay and hold your hand as you stared at his charming face and the flowers overtook your system. Hoping he would allow you the peace in dying with your unrequited love by your side.

  You turned and met the glistening green that formed his irises.

  He whispered your name.

  “Why would it not work?” The manner of his tone was light and held an air of desperation, passing completely undetected by your shame and fear of Loki’s rejection.

  “Loki, please.”

  The prince met your eyes again, resolve steeled and stubborn. His demeanour changed from soft and broken into something purely anger-driven and dripping with anguish.

  “Say it.”

  “Loki – “

  His face scrunched into a scowl and the words seethed from his lips, “Say it or I swear on Hel that I shall join you in Valhalla more quickly than you would prefer.” The contrast of his words to the tender touch upon your cheeks went unnoticed as the air stilled.

  You gasped.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  His eyes met yours and softened from their harsh glare.

  “Just tell me.” He pleaded.

  “And what if I do?” You snapped, overwhelmed and tired. “What would it do? All my words would fall flat. Nothing can prevent the inevitable, Loki.” You wheezed and another petal fell onto the sheets. “I could think of nothing worse to confess whilst I die.”

  Your name passed from his lips once more and your resolve fell flat.

  Bittersweet tears fell.

  “For I know that you could never – “ A hiccup. “You could never love me as I have loved you.”

  Silence.

  Your lips trembled at their confession and your arms cocooned yourself in a wall of safety.

  Shock.

  Realisation.

  Anger.

  A snarl erupted from the dark prince as the words registered and Loki moved suddenly, gripping your hair tightly and tugging you into an upright position. Eyes level and noses touching. The heavy breathes he released met yours in equal equilibrium and the tears that once flooded your features dried to salted crystals. His eyes seemed to swallow you whole with their intensity.

  “It is me.”

  You refused to reply.

  “I caused this and you refused to tell me out of fear of rejection?!” The silence swallowed you whole. “And you dare claim,” the God panted like an animal, “that I have never loved you. That I would not die for you?!”

  His roar welcomed an unsettled silence as Loki’s last words ricocheted off the surrounding walls.

  “Are you so dim-witted to believe that I do not love you, my dearest friend? My ástvinur? The woman who has been my closest companion for years,” his angered tone began to elevate into a distressed wail, “The person who I have voiced all my deepest desires and fears to for years. Who I whispered secrets to every night before we fell asleep as children and those rare evenings as adults, where we hid in the darkest swells of the library? Did you think they meant nothing to me – that – that I was incapable of calling you mine when I never let my eyes wander elsewhere? That my heart has not resided with you since we were barely teenagers?”

  His voice echoed with the insecurity of his past and heritage.

  “It should have been me. I was surprised to have never developed flowers but I suppose it is the curse of a Jötunn. But to have you hiding chest flowers – violets. Our flower.”

  “Loki – “

  “No!” His snarled deepened. “You are not allowed to cut me off, blóm. Not now – not ever. We are having a serious discussion and I will not allow you to cause my attention to stray, especially when it concerns your physical and mental health.” Loki shifted and cradled you against his chest, inhaling your scent as warmth encompassed your beings.

  “Who sat by your side during the dragon pox plague? Even though mother insisted on separating us, especially as neither you nor I had received the vaccine. And who waltzed with you every night leading up to your first ball, all so you could impress my brother and his loathsome friends?” His words spat and curled in your chest, forming the clawed fingers of an ill-used dagger. “And who insisted on your beauty each time your eyes fell upon a poorly lit mirror? When you were tired or racked with fears. By Odi - !”

  “Loki, please.” The plea fell quietly from your lips, accompanied by the painful shocks of vines encasing your chest cavity – the purple petals proceeding to land on your bottom lip. “It will only make this worse.”

  The prince’s hand tightened in your hair and he shoved himself closer.

  “How dare you never speak of your ailment, especially when I was the cause.” His voice had begun to break. “Were you ashamed to have fallen in love with a frost giant? An estranged prince of Jötunheimr. Or was your pride too swelled to accept the fate that had been bestowed upon you – taunting me with false ideals of a life that you claim to want but are too selfish to take.”

  Guilt joined the painful jolts of flowers.

  “I do want it – I want you. I have since we were merely teenagers, barely scrapping seven-hundred,” you begged and nursed the sharp lines of Loki’s face. “And I assure you, nothing changed when your true heritage came to the light. But we cannot, Loki. It is one thing to be your best friend but it is wholly different to be your lover! We would never be accepted by polite society and I would damage your reputation more than I already have.” The pain of the flowers caused you to pull away and retch the god-awful petals from your system as Loki sat by your side.

  His hand remained steady on your back.

  “And what? You believe that your position as my mother’s lady-in-waiting immediately diminishes our hopes of happiness and marriage. That your years of advanced tutoring and close relations to the princes of Asgard did not hint at other opportunities rather than my mother’s ward?” His husked voice taunted you, anger still flooding the prince’s system but overcome by remorse as more petals fell from your lips.

  “I have pined and wished and begged for your attention for centuries,” he whispered and settled a hand on your chest, wishing away the blossoms that resided in your lungs as his tears fell once more. “During my younger years, you were all I could think about. Your presence filled my dreams and captured my attention in thoughts that were not of my own will, but my heart’s.”

  “I have adored you since we were children and I fear I will adore you forever, blóm. Wherever you go, I will be quick to follow,” he whispered and your eyes filled with tears which were reciprocated in Loki’s deep green irises. “Whether that is Hel, Asgardr or Vanir. So please, say you love me. Let me kiss you and proclaim my love so that your body may heal. Let the healers aid you – let me court you properly and we shall wed during the summer when the apples are ripe and the flowers are in full bloom, just like you have always wished. I will even allow Thor to attend.”

  “Your father – “

  “Forgotten. The damned engagement? Broken. It is never to be mentioned again. I had not consented at the time of the announcement and I will not consent now or ever. In the end, Odin is forgotten. His opinion is unnecessary and unwanted. But know that my mother and Thor would want nothing more than for you to live and bless our lives. Bless mine.” The prince grasped you tighter and shook, breathing in hard and broken gasps through the waves of heartbroken pain. “Bless me with your presence every morning and every night. Bless me with the honour of your first dance at every ball and your first kiss each day. Bless me with your hand in mine when we take our vows and I claim you as my wife and eternal lover. Bless me with the children we always dreamed about, even if those specific dreams were kept quiet from one another.”

  “You are my darling. My kærasta. My beloved. I have never strayed from your side in our lives and I have vowed to protect you with every fibre of my being, such was the promise when were children. So, please. Please just say you love me so that you can be cured. None of this absurd fear of disapproval from my parents or from society. We could go live wherever you like, as long as you just accept my love and take my being as yours. Any doubt of my dedication – my adoration for you – I will diminish with every step I take with you by my side.”

  “I am so entirely and deeply in love with you. And I know that I could never love another as I have loved you. No other Asgardian. No Jötunn. No Midgardian. No elf. No one but you. So please, just say you love me and allow me the reprieve of kissing your aching lips. To still those growing flowers and have them shrivel up and die. To let you live.”

  “Loki.”

  His eyes begged you – pleaded for your attention and love. For your life and fate. For your future and his.

  Tears swelled once more.

  The suffocation of flowers was nothing compared to the suffocation of your love for him.

  “I love you.” Loki’s eyes met yours firmly and the words fell from his lip like a prayer. “I love you now and I will love you forever more. Those cruel flowers can curse themselves from existence because this love – it is not unrequited. I adore you. I love you. My existence is nothing without you by my side. Whilst I would not cease to be if you died, I would cease to live. Nothing would be worth my time besides seeking out your body to hold once more and joining you in whichever realm you may return in.”

  He leant against your forehead.

  “Please.”

  “Loki.”

  The silence no longer felt suffocating as you gripped your object of affection.

  “Kiss me.” You whispered the plead softly and watched as realisation sunk into the prince’s features. “Please. Please. Please, just kiss me. Make it stop. Marry me. Love me. Have me bear your children. Have me as your wife to love and to hold. Never leave me whilst I live. Please, Loki. My love. My darling. The man who has been mine for the past seven hundred years. You’re right,” you laughed pathetically, “You are always right. So, by Frigga’s command, kiss me.”

  Loki barely allowed you the grace of finishing the sentence.

  You were overwhelmed by the heat of the kiss – the coolness of Loki’s skin, the desperation on his lips laden by years of pining and secret glances from between handwritten pages and ballroom dances. The bittersweet taste of salted tears and the sugary relief of finally accepting the entirety of your feelings.

  Your hands sunk deep within the rich waves of your beloved’s hair and Loki moaned. His hands had come to rest on the side of your neck and the other squashed between your back and the bedsheets. They refused to remain still as Loki traced the entirety of your being – treating this like the first and last time he would ever touch you. He could not quieten his noises and aimed to elicit the same reactions in turn.

  You noticed as the kiss proceeded that there was a sudden ease to your breathing and a comfort which stemmed from laying in Loki’s arms. Your chest ached slightly but nothing like it did moments ago. There was no phantom tickling at the back of your throat and your lungs no longer felt as if they would tear themselves apart. The sinking sensation that often overwhelmed your being when asleep was absent also, and you rejoiced at the gorgeous freedom from your curse.  

  With this realisation, you tugged harder at Loki’s hair and pulled him onto the bed, failing to hide your amusement when he moaned lavishly and tumbled over his own feet to avoid missing the mattress. There was a slight bounce as Loki made contact with the bed and you failed to hide your relief and desire at the sudden turn of events – turning to lavish his jaw with kisses and drawing him into a deep and heartfelt kiss that left both of you breathless.

  Loki looked at you with lidded eyes, both surprised at your dominance but not unhappy, as shown by his self-satisfied smile.

  “Better, my love?”

  You kissed his cheek. “Always, my prince.”

   “Wonderful.” He panted and squeezed your hand, just like he used to do as children. “Again?”

  You smiled, tears brimming with joy, and kissed Loki once more, just as he asked.

  “I love you, Loki.”

  His tears joined yours.

  “I love you too, my dear blóm.”

  And you smiled.

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Family

After a long, looooong week, Chapter 23 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time is up on AO3.

In which many family-related interactions take place.

Read on AO3 instead; ~7800 words.

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

Hawke gave Isabela a wheedling look. “Are you sure you don’t want to join the Inquisition? We’re fun, I swear.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “Are we?”

“We aren’t, really,” Carver said.

Hawke tutted and flicked Carver and Varric’s earlobes. “Of course we are! We’re lots of fun.” She turned to Isabela with an earnest expression. “Sera loves pranks as much as I do, and Solas is… well, he could honestly use a break from his books to stare at a gorgeous pair of breasts once in a while. And I think Blackwall could use your special pirate’s touch.” She leaned closer to Isabela and lowered her voice. “He hasn’t had sex in years.”

“Rynne,” Carver hissed. Varric snorted and Donnic cleared his throat uncomfortably, but Isabela ignored them all and waved dismissively. “Oh please. I’m not running a charity for lonely cocks here.”

Hawke widened her eyes. “What, you don’t think Blackwall is good-looking?”

“Oh, sure,” Isabela said. “But he’s so... sad.” She wrinkled her nose. “I am not interested in that.”

Hawke recoiled slightly in surprise. “Sad?” She looked askance at Fenris. “Have you noticed that Blackwall is sad?”

Fenris shrugged. “A little broody, perhaps. But that is not unexpected. He is a Grey Warden.”

Isabela snickered. “You obviously haven’t watched him chopping wood out by those stables of yours. He cuts every log like he wishes he was cutting off his own head.”

Hawke grinned. “So you’ve been watching him chopping wood, then.”

Isabela grinned in return and bumped Hawke with her hip. “I never said I didn’t think about it, sweet thing. The man’s built like an ox. I bet he could go for hours.”

Hawke laughed raucously and slung her arm around Isabela’s neck. Carver grimaced, then turned to Aveline and Donnic. “Guard-Captain. Lieutenant,” he said, and he bowed slightly to them. “Safe travels back to Kirkwall.”

Aveline smiled and patted Carver’s shoulder in a maternal manner. “Take care of yourself and your sister, you hear?”

“I always do,” he muttered. He shook their hands, then turned to Isabela. “Captain–”

She sidled up to him and planted a loud kiss on his cheek. “Take care, big boy,” she purred. “Do yourself a favour and make good with that sweet little Josephine, will you? Do it for me.” She winked at him.

Carver hunched his shoulders and rubbed the back of his swiftly reddening neck. “Hmph,” he said. “Well. Templar duties. Commander Cullen, er, needs help…” He turned on his heel and strode away.

Hawke and Varric laughed as Carver hurried off. Aveline sighed wearily before turning to Fenris. “Thank you again for having us,” she said. “It was a wonderful wedding. And it’s a good cause you have here – you seem to be doing very good work.” She gave him an approving look. “You’ve certainly come a long way from squatting in Hightown, haven’t you?”

Fenris huffed. “You could say that. Somehow I have gone from breaking the law to being asked to lay it down.” He glanced at his glowing left palm, then closed his hand into a fist and looked at Aveline once more. “Care to trade positions with me, Guard-Captain?”

She chuckled. “Don’t kid yourself, Fenris. You couldn’t handle Kirkwall.”

He laughed. “You are not wrong.” He shook her proferred hand, then shook Donnic’s hand in turn. “Thank you for coming, my friend. It is good to see you so well. All of you.” He smiled at Aveline and Isabela.

Isabela stepped forward and kissed him on both cheeks. “You too, handsome. Take good care of my girl here.” She playfully chucked Hawke’s chin.

Hawke laughed. “He always does,” she said, in a very suggestive tone.

Isabela snickered lewdly, and Fenris shook his head in exasperation. Aveline rolled her eyes, then patted Hawke’s shoulder. “Behave yourself, you hear?”

Hawke placed a hand on her chest and batted her eyelashes. “Me, behave badly? Perish the thought.” She hugged Aveline tightly, then hugged Donnic as well.

Varric smiled at Aveline and held out his hand. “Wave to the Twins for me when you get home, will you?”

Aveline smirked as she shook his hand. “I will. And I’ll pass on your greetings to Bran, as well.”

Varric barked out a laugh. “Don’t do that. He’ll just send me more letters if you do.” He shook Donnic’s hand as well. “Better luck next time, buddy.”

Donnic laughed ruefully, and Aveline primly lifted her chin. “That’s what you get for placing such a large bet on a terrible hand,” she told him.

Isabela tutted. “Go easy on him, big girl. Just because you’re not allowed to play...”

“I didn’t want to play anyway,” Aveline snapped. “I have better things to do.”

Donnic pulled an apologetic face and soothingly rubbed her back, and Fenris rubbed his mouth to hide his smirk while Hawke snickered into her hands.

Varric waved dismissively. “Ah, don’t worry about it,” he said to Aveline. “You’re not missing out.”

“Then why you lot are always playing all the time…” Aveline muttered.

Hawke laughed out loud. “Maker’s balls, I love you all.” She threw her arms around Aveline’s neck once more. “Come and visit us, okay? Please? It’s so nice having you here.” She released Aveline, then hugged Isabela tightly once more.

Isabela patted her back. “The offer to join my crew still stands, you know,” she said. She looked at Fenris. “I mean it. Send me a raven and I’ll pick you up anywhere you like along the Waking Sea.”

Fenris smirked and bowed slightly to her. “We will consider it.”

Hawke squeezed Isabela for a moment longer, then pulled away and briskly wiped her eyes before smiling at them. “All right, you three, go on,” she said cheerfully. “We barely have enough room for you, anyway.” She gestured grandly at Skyhold’s enormous walls.

Donnic and Varric chuckled. Isabela kissed Hawke’s cheeks, and Hawke laughed and haphazardly waved her off. With a last round of goodbyes and handshakes and hugs, Aveline and Donnic and Isabela took their leave.

Fenris glanced at Hawke. Her hands were tucked in her pockets, and she was watching with a smile as their friends strolled along the drawbridge and back out into the cold mountain air.

He placed a hand at the small of her back. “Are you all right?” he murmured.

“Of course!” she said brightly. “It was great to see them! Some things never change, do they? Aveline and Donnic are as ridiculous as ever. Although I swear Isabela’s breasts have gotten plumper. I should have asked her if I could feel them myself to confirm. For research, you know.” She wiggled her eyebrows salaciously.

She was smiling as always, but her eyes were suspiciously bright. Fenris soothingly stroked her back. “Hmm,” he said. “Research, indeed. The dimensions of Isabela’s bosom are rather lofty academic goals.”

She threw her head back and laughed. Then she pulled Varric close and hugged him around the shoulders. “You and your whole ‘the Inquisition isn’t fun’ thing,” she scolded playfully. “I’m surprised you didn’t go running back to good old Kirkwall with the others.”

Varric patted Hawke’s hip. “Ah, I know you and the broody one couldn’t live without me,” he said. “Besides, someone needs to document all the shit that happens around here.”

Fenris folded his arms and smirked. “We do have official historians, you know. And Leliana’s people are constantly taking notes–”

He broke off as Hawke pinched his arm. “Of course we need you, Varric,” Hawke said loudly. “Historians are all fine and good, but we need someone who will tell this story right.”

Varric chuckled. “And that is why I stick around. I need you to inflate my ego for me.”

Hawke laughed again, then slung her arm around Fenris’s neck and pulled him close as well. “My favourite men,” she said fondly. “You and Carv, of course. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Be bored forever, probably.”

“You’d find some way to entertain yourself, I’m sure,” Varric said.

Hawke tilted her head thoughtfully. “You’re right. What was I thinking? You’re all imminently replaceable.” She released them both, then kissed Varric on the forehead and Fenris on the cheek before stepping away. “Off to find Solas and Fiona. Wicked grace later?”

“You got it,” Varric said. Fenris nodded to her, and with a final smiling wink, she left.

They waited until Hawke was out of earshot. Then Varric looked up at Fenris. “She’s upset.”

“She misses them,” Fenris said quietly. Privately, he knew that Hawke was also upset that there had been no word at all from Merrill. He was starting to wonder if they should ask Leliana’s people to search for Merrill, purely for Hawke’s sake. But he was also worried about what Leliana’s spies might find. Whether Merrill was in trouble or actively shunning contact, both options would only distress Hawke even further.

Varric twisted his lips ruefully. “Well, Isabela did agree to send intel and goodies back to the Inquisition. Maybe she’ll bring herself along for a visit once in a while, too.”

“Yes,” Fenris agreed. “Or we could simply abandon this endeavour entirely and join Isabela’s crew.” He smirked wryly at Varric, who chuckled in response. Both men knew there was no way for Fenris to leave the Inquisition now – not while Corypheus was still alive. And if Fenris wasn’t going anywhere, then neither was Hawke.

They turned away from the main gates and wandered slowly toward the stairs. Varric tucked his hands in his pockets and gave Fenris an appraising look. “Aveline is right, you know. You’re doing good work with the Inquisition.”

Fenris shot him an odd look. “So are you. So is everyone here.”

Varric smiled faintly. “Always so modest. All right, I’ll go easy on you.” He patted Fenris’s elbow. “Going to see if I can finish another chapter for Cassandra before we head out tomorrow. If she has something to read for the road, she’ll spend less time glaring disapprovingly at me.”

Fenris smirked. If Varric wished to pretend his and Cassandra’s contentious relationship wasn’t gradually softening, then Fenris wasn’t going to press him on it. “A solid plan,” he said.

Varric nodded in farewell, then made his way up the stairs toward the Great Hall. Once he was alone, Fenris sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. They were leaving for the Western Approach tomorrow, and he had to meet with Josephine and the other advisors in a few hours to discuss what tasks they should prioritize while Fenris was away.

He sighed again and turned around, then immediately bumped into someone – a short someone: a boy with brown hair and brown eyes, who looked to be about ten years of age.

Fenris took a step back. “Pardon me,” he said.

The boy smiled. “You’re the Inquisitor,” he said. “Mother didn’t tell me the Inquisitor was an elf.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. The boy’s expression was curious but calm; very calm, in fact, for a boy so young. There was something about this boy’s stillness of manner that seemed oddly incongruent – almost as though the look on his face didn’t quite match his youthful age.

Fenris studied the boy a bit more carefully. He didn’t think he’d ever seen this child before, but that wasn’t saying much; there were so many people residing in Skyhold now that Fenris was certain he’d never recognize everyone within their ranks. The boy was wearing Orlesian clothing, so perhaps he and his parents had been recruited during their trip to Halamshiral.

Fenris tilted his head. “Who is your mother?”

The boy blinked up at him. “Mother is the Inheritor: she who awaits the next age.”

Fenris recoiled, then frowned at the boy. What did that mean? What kind of child said something like that?

“Kieran, are you bothering the Inquisitor?”

Fenris turned around. Morrigan was approaching, and her lips were curled in a fond little smile as she regarded the boy.

“Of course not,” Kieran said. He smiled up at Morrigan as she came to stand beside him, then pointed at Fenris’s left hand. “Did you see what’s on his hand, Mother?”

Fenris tucked his hands into his pockets. Morrigan shot him a quick look, then smiled at the boy once more. “I did see,” she said. She brushed her hand over the back of Kieran’s neck. “‘Tis time to return to your studies, little man.”

Kieran sighed, and for a moment he seemed like an average ten-year-old boy. Morrigan gave him a reproving look, and with a resigned little bow to Fenris, he turned and trudged away.

Morrigan smiled at Fenris. “My son,” she said. “Never where you expect him to be, naturally.”

Fenris eyed her suspiciously. “You did not mention you had a son.”

“No, I did not,” she agreed. “I take great pains to not let my own reputation affect him in any way.” Her gaze drifted in the direction Kieran had gone, and her usual matter-of-fact expression softened slightly. “In the Imperial Court, he was known only as a quiet and well-spoken lad – perhaps the heir of some distant family. But he goes where I go.” She returned her gaze to Fenris and folded her hands behind her back. “Fear not, Inquisitor. Kieran is a curious boy, but seldom troublesome.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “He said something odd before you arrived. He said you were… the Inheritor. ‘She who awaits the next age’.” He folded his arms. “What did he mean by that?”

Morrigan laughed lightly. “From the mouths of babes. The fanciful words of an imaginative child, Inquisitor. Nothing more.”

Fenris’s sense of ‘offness’ increased. Morrigan’s response was casual and calm, but quick – far too quick.

He folded his arms. “Your son is unusual. You cannot deny that.”

Morrigan’s smile remained, but her odd yellow eyes hardened slightly. “He is a very special young man, yes,” she said coolly.

“Special in what way?” Fenris asked.

“In every way,” Morrigan replied. She pursed her lips and looked away briefly, and when her gaze returned to Fenris’s face, it was soft once more. “At first, Kieran was a means to an end. but as he grew…” She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly before speaking. “I never thought of myself as a mother. I had no good example to follow. I… I find myself becoming something I can barely recognize.”

Fenris eyed her thoughtfully. Her response was strange, particularly the comment about Kieran being a means to an end. There was clearly more to Kieran’s story than she was choosing to share, and Fenris couldn’t decide whether he thought Morrigan wanted to speak further of her son or not. Furthermore, the more Morrigan spoke, the more something about her seemed to tug at his memory: something about her words or her mannerisms, perhaps.

“Remind me where you are from,” he said.

Morrigan huffed in amusement and folded her arms. “Ah, yes. Whence comes the mystery woman, slinking her way into the Inquisition’s ranks?”

“Exactly,” Fenris said flatly.

She smirked, and Fenris gritted his teeth against an instinctive rush of annoyance at her supercilious expression. “Once I was an apostate, living well away from the banal influence of the Chantry in the Korcari Wilds,” she said. “Then came the Fifth Blight with its darkspawn, and I left Ferelden for the Empress’s Courts.” She shifted her weight casually to one hip. “‘Tis certain the nobles of Orlais breathe a collective sigh of relief that I am now here.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe the Empress permitted an apostate to stand openly by her side for so many years.”

Morrigan scoffed. “Ah, let me guess. You believe I enchanted Celene? Placed her under the influence of some malevolent spell? Dreaded blood magic, perhaps?”

Her tone was snide. Fenris narrowed his eyes and didn’t reply.

Morrigan smiled faintly. “Rest assured, Inquisitor, my influence required nothing so brutish as that. Most people expect apostates to cower and hide. I stand boldly before them and demand to know why I need some Chantry mage to teach me to control my power. They would put me on a leash so they can feel safe at night?” She scoffed again and imperiously lifted her chin. “I am uninterested in their comfort.”

Fenris studied her with growing mistrust. Then he suddenly remembered exactly why Morrigan seemed so familiar – her speech, her arrogant posture, even her strange lemon-coloured eyes.

The realization struck him like a hammerblow. “I have heard of you before,” he blurted.

Morrigan twisted her lips wryly. “Yes, I’m sure my reputation–”

Fenris interrupted her. “Your mother is the Witch of the Wilds,” he accused. “The Korcari witch, Flemeth.”

Morrigan’s expression instantly slackened in shock. She regained her composure swiftly, straightening her posture and smoothing her expression back into a look of cynical boredom, but her eyes were hard as marble. “Of course. Your dear spymaster likely told you of my… unfortunate provenance,” she said quietly.

Fenris watched her carefully as he replied. “No. In fact, Hawke and I met the witch a number of years ago. She… emerged from an amulet. The result of some cursed Dalish ritual, it seemed.” That was the first time he and Hawke had met Merrill, in fact, and the first time Merrill had dragged them into something better left alone. He was annoyed at himself for not recalling the incident sooner, and for not having a clearer memory of what Flemeth had said about her daughter at the time.

Morrigan’s lips flattened very slightly as he spoke. Then she looked away. “Unfortunate for you,” she said. Her tone was sharp with bitterness. “Flemeth does not show herself without some ulterior purpose, whether you are aware of it or not.”

“That was my impression as well,” Fenris said. He couldn’t recall Flemeth’s exact words to Hawke, but he remembered finding it odd that the witch had focused so much of her attention on Hawke when Merrill was the one who had unlocked the cursed amulet. Now, in the context of everything that had happened to Hawke in the ensuing years, not to mention their current predicament, Flemeth’s interest seemed particularly ominous.

Fenris and Morrigan eyed each other in silence for a moment. Then she narrowed her eyes. “You have accusations, Inquisitor. ‘Tis clear as day in your face. Rest assured that I am not my mother, and my appearance does not herald terrible misfortune for you.” She bowed slightly to him. “You do not want me here, I know. But I will do my best to aid your cause with all the knowledge at my disposal. This I swear to you.”

Fenris blinked in surprise. This sudden humility was not what he’d expected.

He folded his arms and eyed her impassively. Her words might be humble, but her actions in the coming days were what counted. “How have you aided us so far?” he asked. “What can you tell us that we do not already know?”

Her expression remained neutral, but he saw her shoulders relax at the change of topic. “Currently, my efforts are focused on determining what Corypheus is, and from where his power comes,” she said. “The elven orb he carries is what draws my attention. I wonder if the power he used to tear to tear open the Fade came from the orb. Perhaps it is even the source of your anchor.”

Fenris frowned. “It is,” he said. “Solas said as much. Perhaps you and he should pool your efforts and work together.”

Morrigan pursed her lips. “I see,” she said slowly. “I will… consider your suggestion.”

Fenris raised one eyebrow. She seemed very put off by the idea, and he wasn’t sure why.

He shifted his weight restlessly. So far this conversation had given him nothing but further misgivings about both Morrigan and her unusual son.

“Corypheus has a dragon,” he said. “Some say it is an archdemon. You fought an archdemon during the Blight, Leliana says.”

Morrigan nodded brusquely, and Fenris expectantly raised his eyebrows. “Well? Is Corypheus’s beast an archdemon? Is that what we are dealing with?”

Morrigan shrugged elegantly. “A true archdemon is supposedly the corrupted form of an old god. Has Corypheus actually dug up one of the ancient prisons of the old gods? If so, why has a new Blight not begun?” She shook her head. “His dragon is something else. Something connected to his blighted nature as well as his magic. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

Fenris grunted. That was some comfort, at least. “I would advise you to check in with the other apostates,” he said. “Share what you know, and learn what you can. Perhaps they can provide insight.”

Morrigan pursed her lips once more, then bowed slightly. “Inquisitor.”

Her tone was perfectly polite and perfectly flat. Fenris eyed her for a moment longer, then nodded in farewell. “Morrigan,” he said. He turned and walked away.

He made his way toward the stairs to the southern parapet, intending to visit the mage tower and speak with Hawke. He knew she was busy conferring with Fiona and Solas prior to their departure for the Western Approach, but the encounter with Morrigan – and the memory of having met her mother almost ten years ago – was disturbing somehow. He wanted to know what Hawke remembered of it, and what it might mean for Morrigan’s presence at Skyhold now.

Before he could make it to the tower, however, one of Leliana’s scouts ran up to him. “Inquisitor,” she said breathlessly, “Sister Nightingale asked me to fetch you. We have a visitor from Tevinter: a Magister Halward Pavus–”

Fenris stared at the scout in shock. “Magister Pavus?” he demanded. He’d sent a letter to Qarinus weeks ago, before they’d left for Halamshiral, but he genuinely hadn’t expected a response. And he certainly hadn’t expected Dorian’s father to actually show up.

The scout nodded, and Fenris frowned. “Where is he now?”

“In the dungeon,” the scout reported. “His entourage waits outside of Skyhold’s walls. Sister Nightingale said the dungeon would be the most secure and private place for a… sensitive discussion.”

Fenris curled his lip. Sensitive discussion, indeed. A private fight to the death, more like, if Dorian’s father turned out to be associated with the Venatori in any way.

“Is Dorian aware?” he asked.

“No, Your Worship,” the scout said.

“Find him,” Fenris said. “Tell him to meet me at the entrance to the dungeons. And ask him to be… discreet.” Fenris did not want to alert the rest of Skyhold to the magister’s presence unless it was strictly necessary.

The scout saluted sharply and ran off, and Fenris changed his route and headed for the courtyard entrance to Skyhold’s dungeon. Already his blood was pumping faster in anticipation of a fight.

Five minutes later, Dorian was striding toward him. “He’s here, is he?” Dorian said. “Or is it some simple thug dressed in magister’s robes waiting to abduct me? ‘Surprise, surprise, it’s all a trick! Let’s see if we can drag Dorian away more times than we can count on two hands!’”

Dorian’s scowl and the sharpness of his voice undercut his attempts at humour. Fenris raised his eyebrows. “Has your father abducted you before?”

Dorian laughed. It was an extremely bitter sound. “Fenris, you have no idea what my father has done. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard. Ah, but I suppose you have been out of the Tevinter gossip circuit for some time – lucky you.”

Fenris grunted. He glanced at Dorian’s empty hands. “You came unarmed,” he said.

“Unarmed, perhaps, but never unprepared,” Dorian retorted. “You did say to be discreet. Believe me, I can fight without a staff if need be.” He eyed Fenris’s unarmed form in turn. “And you? No large phallic implements of death for our dear Inquisitor?”

“I bear the weapons I require in my skin,” Fenris said quietly. “As your father no doubt remembers.”

Dorian’s scowl softened slightly. “Ah. Of course,” he said. He gestured at the door with a flourish. “Shall we?”

They descended the stairs to the dungeon. At the base of the stairs, they immediately spotted their guest: a tall older man, guarded by three of the Inquisition’s mages and two of Cullen’s men.

Magister Halward turned around at their approach. “Dorian,” he said quietly. His eyes snapped to Fenris’s face, then darted to his tattooed neck before rising back to meet his gaze. “Inquisitor,” he said. “I apologize for the deception. I confess, I was surprised when I received your letter.”

“Surprised by a letter written in a slave’s own hand?” Fenris said flatly.

Halward bowed his head. “No. I simply… I never intended for you to be involved.”

Involved in what? Fenris thought, but Dorian spoke before Fenris could ask. “Of course not,” he said sarcastically. “Magister Pavus didn’t want to be seen with the dread Inquisitor. What would people think?” He took a slow step closer to Halward. “What is this exactly, Father? Ambush? Attempted kidnapping gone wrong? Warm family reunion?”

Fenris raised his eyebrows slightly. If the magister’s visit truly was a personal one, he wasn’t particularly keen to get involved in their personal matter. But he had to admit to some concern. Dorian could certainly be dramatic, but Fenris had never seen him this angry before.

Fenris folded his arms. ”Dorian, do you want me to stay? What is my purpose here?”

“By all means, stay,” Dorian snapped. “I want a witness. I want someone to hear the truth.”

“Dorian,” Halward said sharply, “there’s no need to–”

Dorian spun toward Fenris. “I prefer the company of men,” he said loudly. “My father disapproves.”

“Ah. I see,” Fenris said. It was not particularly surprising for Dorian to confirm this, but Fenris instantly saw the problem. “Less than ideal, given the bloodline you were meant to carry.”

“Precisely,” Dorian bit off. He glared at his father as he spoke to Fenris. “You know how it is back home. Families intermarrying to distill the perfect mage: perfect body, perfect mind, the perfect leader. Every perceived flaw, every aberration, is deviant and shameful. It must be hidden.”

Halward frowned sternly, but his nervously twisting hands gave him away. “This display is uncalled for,” he said.

No, it is called for,” Dorian retorted. “You called for it by contacting that sanctimonious Chantry hen behind my back!”

Halward sighed and rubbed his forehead. “This is not what I wanted.”

Dorian took another step closer to him. “I’m never what you wanted, Father,” he said acidly. “Or had you forgotten?”

Halward took a step back as though Dorian had shoved him. Dorian turned away from his father, and Fenris watched him shrewdly in the ensuing awkward silence. Dorian’s lips and jaw were tight with anger, and as Fenris studied his thinly-veiled distress, a memory rose to his mind.

It was a thought of Varania and Danarius, and of the bystanders during that confrontation in the Hanged Man all those years ago: far too many bystanders observing Fenris’s terrible moment of vulnerability.  

Fenris glanced at the wide-eyed mages and guards who’d been supervising Halward. He jerked his head toward the dungeon stairs to dismiss them, then folded his arms and looked at Halward once more. “Dorian has other tasks to attend. If you had nothing more to say–”

“No,” Halward said. He took a step toward his son. “Please, Dorian, if you’ll only listen to me…”

“Why?” Dorian demanded. “So you can spout more convenient lies?” He looked at Fenris. “He taught me to hate blood magic. ‘The resort of the weak mind’: those are his words.” He took a deep breath and faced his father once more. “But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life? You tried to change me!”

His voice cracked, leaving his words to echo through the dungeon. Dorian bowed his head and drew a deep, tremulous breath.

Fenris stared at Dorian in shock for a moment. Then he speared the magister with a venomous look. “You did what?” he hissed.

Halward ignored him. “I only wanted what was best for you!” he said plaintively to Dorian. He took a step toward his son, then stopped short as he met Fenris’s gaze.  

Dorian glared at his father. “You wanted the best for you,” he shouted. “For your fucking legacy. Anything for that!”

Halward opened his mouth to speak, but Fenris cut him off. “You attempted blood magic on your own kin?” he demanded. “Controlling slaves was not enough for you, it seems. You needed to control your son as well?”

Halward shook his head. “No. It wasn’t–”

“Blood magic is poison. It brings nothing but ruin and corruption,” Fenris snarled. “You would poison your own son because he refused to bow to your wishes?”

Halward buried his face in one shaking hand. In the ugly silence that followed, the only sounds were Fenris’s own heartbeat in his ears and Halward’s slow, careful breaths.

“Tell me why you came,” Dorian said suddenly.

Fenris looked at him. He was studying his father with a surprising degree of calm.

Halward lowered his hand and stared pleadingly at Dorian. “If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition–”

Dorian wilted in exasperation. “You didn’t,” he said. “I joined the Inquisition because it’s the right thing to do. Once, I had a father who would have known that.” He broke off and pressed his lips together, then turned on his heel and strode toward the stairs.  

Fenris silently followed him. But before they could leave, Halward spoke again. “Once, I had a son who trusted me. I trust I betrayed,” he said softly. “I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To… to ask him to forgive me.”

Dorian stopped short with his hand on the banister. He took a deep breath, then another, then looked at Fenris.

His eyes were bright with tears, and with disbelief and hope. Fenris frowned slightly. “You believe him?” he said, very quietly.

Dorian swallowed hard. “I… don’t know.”

They stared at each other in silence for a long moment. Then Fenris speared Halward with a hard look. “I will be upstairs. If I detect a hint of malice from this room, I will tear your heart from your chest.”

Halward’s eyebrows rose. Dorian huffed in amusement and briskly wiped his eyes. “I always knew you cared,” he quipped half-heartedly.

Fenris scowled at him. “Be cautious, Dorian. I do not trust him.”

Dorian nodded. “Fair enough.” He stepped back into the dungeon and slowly approached his father.

Fenris pursed his lips, then made his way up the stairs alone. When he stepped through the door back into the courtyard, he was surprised to find Hawke waiting there.

She pushed away from the wall and reached for Fenris as he emerged from the dungeon. “What’s going on?” she asked worriedly. “Leliana told us that Dorian’s father is here. Is Dorian all right? What’s happening?”

“A father-and-son heart-to-heart, it seems,” Fenris said snidely. He came to stand against the wall beside her.

Hawke widened her eyes. “Really? Shit.” She leaned back against the wall. “His father must have said something really good to get him to stick around for a chat.”

“He asked forgiveness,” Fenris said. “He is not deserving of it.”

Hawke grimaced. “I take it you heard the whole blood magic story, then.”

Fenris snorted in disgust. “It is a vile tale,” he said. “An example of the worst kind of corruption among the magisterium. That need to control everything, to – to have power over everything and everyone…” He shook his head. “And Dorian is considering forgiveness. To forgive such a thing is to give tacit permission for it to recur.”

Hawke sighed. “I don’t know if it’s as simple as–”

“There is no forgiveness for the use of such abhorrent blood magic,” Fenris hissed. “Even if his father did not perform the ritual. It is… there is no forgiving that kind of abuse.”

Hawke was silent for a moment. Then she slipped her hand into Fenris’s. “It’s complicated,” she said quietly. “Family is always complicated.”

“Ah, family. Something I do not have. No wonder I don’t understand,” Fenris snapped. Then he immediately sighed and squeezed her hand.  

“I do not mean that,” he said. He gazed at her apologetically. “I am sorry, Hawke. You know I didn’t–”

“It’s okay,” she said softly. She reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. “I know what you meant.”

He nodded, and they leaned back against the wall in silence for a moment. Then Hawke spoke in a very quiet voice. “Do you… Have you thought about trying to find Varania?”

“No,” he said bluntly.

Hawke nodded, and they fell quiet again. But Fenris was fairly certain what Hawke was thinking, and if he was being completely honest, he was thinking the same.

Of course he’d thought of having Leliana’s people search for his sister. He still thought about Cole’s words sometimes: She lives in a place that’s not her home, toiling as a tailor like she told you before. If that meant Varania was still in the south somewhere, perhaps she could be found.

He shook off the thought. It would be an abuse of his position to ask Leliana to search for Varania. Besides, Fenris was famous now – more famous than he ever wanted to be. Even if Varania was living in some small secluded town, she would have heard by now that he was the Inquisitor. If she wanted to get in touch with him, she had ample means to do so.

All of this was moot, though, because Varania had betrayed him. She was his sister – his family – and she’d tried to sell him to Danarius for the cursed power it would afford her. Fenris wasn’t going to search for her, because he wanted nothing to do with her. Who would want to reconnect with someone like that? Who would want someone like that for their family?

He sighed quietly. Then Hawke leaned against him and stroked his lyrium-lined arm with her free hand.

Fenris looked down at her. She smiled up at him, and he smiled back at the undiluted affection in her gaze.

Then he remembered his earlier conversation with Morrigan. He straightened up slightly. “Hawke, I meant to tell you. I was speaking with Morrigan in the courtyard. She–”

“Oh yes, she’s interesting, isn’t she?” Hawke said. She snickered. “Smart, but smug as hell. And bloody gorgeous, which goes without saying. Her son is even more interesting, though. At first I wondered if he was a spirit-boy or something, like Cole.”

Fenris stared at her, diverted from his original thought by this alarming notion. “I – what?”

“Oh, I don’t really think he is,” she said reassuringly. “He’s probably just spent too much time around his weird mother. But he said some strange things to me. Something about ‘a hawk flying into its destiny’. And he said your blood is very old.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “My blood?”

She scratched her chin. “Yes, when I mentioned that we were married. But I think he meant elves in general, not just you.”

Fenris wrinkled his nose. Kieran really was an exceedingly odd child. Then he shook his head and grasped her arm. “Hawke, do you remember when we first met Merrill? We followed her up that cursed mountain and she performed that Dalish ritual–”

“–and that Flemeth dragon-witch-woman came out of the amulet?” Hawke interrupted excitedly. “Maker’s balls, yes. How could I forget?”

Fenris studied her unsuspecting face. So she didn’t quite remember, either. “Flemeth mentioned a daughter. Do you recall?”

Hawke frowned. “Oh. Yes. She said a lot of weird things, but… yes, that’s right.”

“Morrigan is her daughter,” Fenris said.

Hawke’s jaw dropped. “Wh-what? Oh. Oh shit, you’re right. Shit.” She trailed off, and for a moment they just stared at each other.

She licked her lips nervously. “Bit of a weird coincidence, that. So… so you think her being here has anything to do with her mother?”

Fenris shook his head. “I don’t know. Can you recall what Flemeth said about her?”

Hawke pulled a face. “She and Morrigan didn’t get along. That was pretty clear. Something about Morrigan not trusting her? I’m… I’m not sure.”

Fenris nodded. “That fits with what Morrigan said. She seemed shocked when I mentioned Flemeth. And considerably displeased.”

Hawke hummed an acknowledgement. “If Morrigan was shocked to hear of her, then maybe it is just a coincidence.”

Fenris shrugged. It was possible. But what were the chances of such a coincidence?

Probably the same chances as myself getting marked with this cursed anchor, he thought resentfully.

The dungeon door opened. Fenris and Hawke immediately pushed away from the wall as Dorian stepped out.

He smiled as he caught sight of them. “The newlyweds are waiting just for me? Bored of each other’s company already?”

Fenris frowned. Dorian was smiling, but his eyes were quite puffy and red. “Where–” He broke off as Dorian stepped aside, allowing his father to step out into the courtyard behind him.

Dorian’s expression grew somber. “Magister Halward is leaving,” he announced to Hawke and Fenris. “If someone wants to advise darling Leliana of his departure…”

“You can let her know,” Hawke interrupted. “I’ll escort the dear magister to the gates.”

Fenris looked at her. Despite her sympathetic words about family being complicated, the look she was giving Dorian’s father was downright hostile.

Dorian smiled faintly. “You’re not going to murder my father between here and the front gates of Skyhold, are you?”

“That depends,” Hawke said. “Do you want me to?”

Halward frowned, and Dorian chuckled. “Such a charming, sweet-natured girl. No, thank you, I think he can survive for now.” He turned to his father, and his expression grew serious once again. “Father. I…” He trailed off, then nodded brusquely. “Farewell.”

Halward shot his son a pleading look. “Dorian…”

Dorian shook his head and took a step back. “That’s enough for now,” he said quietly.

Halward sighed. He nodded politely to Fenris. “Inquisitor,” he said.

Fenris jerked his head in a pale imitation of a nod. With a last lingering look at Dorian, Halward turned away and made his way toward the gates, with Hawke hovering threateningly at his elbow.

Dorian released a gusty breath and folded his arms. His eyes were on his father’s back as he walked away. “He says we’re alike. Too much pride,” he said. “Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now… I’m not certain.” He leaned back against the wall. “I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

“I would not blame you if you didn’t,” Fenris said. “To meddle with your mind using blood magic…” He shook his head in disgust. “Vishanta kaffas.”

Dorian smiled faintly at him. “I know. Foolish, really,” he said. “Perhaps it would have worked. Or perhaps it would have left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “Part of me has always hoped he didn’t really want to go through with it,” he said softly. “If he had… I can’t even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn’t like that Dorian.”

“You were wise to leave the Imperium,” Fenris said. He glanced dismissively at Dorian’s departing father. “You escaped before the corruption sank into your soul.”

Dorian was quiet for a moment before speaking again. “You know, Fenris, I… I don’t hate Tevinter,” he said. “I love my country, despite its laundry list of shortcomings. The Imperium is still my home.”

Fenris huffed and didn’t reply. When Dorian’s silence stretched on for longer than usual, Fenris looked at him.

Dorian was studying him with a thoughtful look on his face. Fenris frowned. “What?”

Dorian tilted his head. “You would never go back, would you?”

Fenris folded his arms. “No,” he said firmly. “There is nothing for me there. There is nothing of substance there for any elf. We are naught to your kind but slaves. Owned slaves in your homes, freed slaves selling goods in your markets… it is all a variant of ownership. Of conquering.” He gave Dorian a hard look. “That is the legacy of Tevinter. Your father’s attempts to control you are more of the same.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes, and Fenris steadily returned his stare. After a tense moment, Dorian looked away and exhaled slowly, and they stood in silence for some time.

Finally Dorian pushed away from the wall. “Well, I suppose we should inform our dear spymaster that the threat to Skyhold’s security is gone. I can only hope Hawke didn’t make too much of a mess of the paving stones if she decided to bump him off after all.”

His tone was light and airy once more. Fenris fell into step beside him as they made their way toward the nearest stairs. “Do not worry about that,” he said. “Hawke wouldn’t risk the mess if she had to cleanse the stones herself.”

Dorian shot him a half-smile. “I suppose that’s something. In any case, thank you for being there.” He chuckled softly. “Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.”

Fenris shrugged. “I think no differently of you. I am well aware that you enjoy putting on a show.”

Dorian huffed in amusement as they made their way along the parapet to Solas’s rotunda. “I’m so pleased to provide you amusement.”

“I suppose it is only fair, after the so-called amusement I provided for you at the Winter Palace,” Fenris drawled.

Dorian threw his head back and laughed. “Ah yes, how could I forget? The Inquisitor scales an Orlesian garden wall in his bare feet. I can only imagine the cleaning staff’s faces the next day. ‘Andraste’s blessed bosom, are those footprints on the trellis?’”

Fenris scoffed. “They were likely too busy extracting the cakes you threw into the fountain to notice the footprints.”

Dorian laughed merrily. They made their way to the rotunda, then up the stairs on their way to Leliana’s rookery, and the awkwardness of their conversation about Tevinter melted away as they picked on each other about their respective behaviours at the Winter Palace.

Dorian stepped into the library on the second floor of the tower. Then Mother Giselle hurried over. “You,” she said sharply. “If you think–” She stopped short as Fenris emerged from the stairwell behind Dorian.

“Your Worship,” she said. She bowed to Fenris. “Might I have a word?”

“About what?” Fenris said in surprise.

Dorian scoffed. “About the scandalous rumours, of course.”

Giselle pursed her lips in displeasure, and Fenris frowned. “Rumours? About what?”

Dorian chuckled and folded his arms. “You truly are living that newlywed life, aren’t you? How nice it must be to float about the castle in such a soft and fluffy cloud of bliss.”

Fenris shot Dorian a reproving look, then turned to Giselle. “What rumours do you speak of?”

Giselle lifted her chin. “There has been talk among the people, Inquisitor. About Master Dorian’s presence at your side. His being from Tevinter…”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “But I am from Tevinter. We discussed this before.”

She nodded. “Yes, Your Worship. But–”

“Cremisius Aclassi is also from Tevinter,” Fenris added. “The Chargers’ second-in-command. Have there been rumours about his presence, as well? Are you worrying about some form of prejudice within the…?” He trailed off and scowled at Dorian, who was leaning against the bannister for support. “What is the matter with you? Why are you laughing?”

Dorian wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. “Ah, Fenris, I had no idea you were so precious,” he chuckled.

Fenris scowled more deeply, then turned to Giselle. “These rumours pertain specifically to Dorian, then? Because he is a mage? He fights the Venatori as viciously as I, if that is the concern. He is no Venatori.”

Giselle opened her mouth, then closed it and bowed slightly. “I see,” she said slowly. “I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor, only to ask after this man’s intentions. If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both.”

Her tone was certainly humble, but Fenris noted that she didn’t look at Dorian as she spoke. She bowed deeply to Fenris once more, then turned and wafted down the stairs.

Dorian smirked at Fenris. “You aren’t even curious what the rumours were?”

Fenris curled his lip. “I am uninterested in rumours or gossip unless they interfere with this cursed job I’ve been dealt. With any luck, this will quell any further rumours regarding your place in all of this.” He cast a disgruntled look at the stairs where Mother Giselle had gone, then jerked his chin at the stairs to Leliana’s rookery. “Now come. We should–”

“Fenris,” Dorian said.

Fenris looked at him, then raised his eyebrows at Dorian’s oddly soft expression. “What? What is it?”

Dorian rubbed his chin. “I… I may have said this before, but… you should know I think of you as a friend. Truly. I have precious few friends, and… I didn’t think to find one here. Certainly not in you, given our, er…  history, shall we say.”

Fenris grunted. “It is an unlikely partnership, I’ll give you that.” He shrugged and folded his arms awkwardly. “But… yes, I suppose if pressed, one could say–”

“Stop right there,” Dorian interrupted. “I detest confessions, and I’d like to get this one over with.” He straightened and regarded Fenris with an unusual degree of gravitas. “Allow me to say I’ll stand beside you — against Corypheus, my countrymen, or spurious rumour — so long as you’ll have me.”

Fenris studied Dorian’s earnest face for a moment. Then he unfolded his arms and smirked. “Good. You will join us for the trek to the desert, then. I hear it gets extremely cold at night.”

Dorian grinned as they headed for the stairs. “Of course I’ll come. I wouldn’t dare deprive you of my scintillating presence. But I’ll need you to carry the chest containing all my finest fur blankets–”

“No,” Fenris said flatly. “Absolutely not. You can wear extra layers.”

Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Extra layers covering my beautiful body? Are you mad? Then I’ll look as puffed-up as that brutish Blackwall.”

Fenris scoffed and rolled his eyes, and they continued to bicker good-naturedly as they ascended the stairs. There were serious issues to think about: the impending journey tomorrow, and Morrigan’s somewhat disturbing presence, and what exactly they would find when they finally arrived in the Western Approach. But for now, Fenris could take a moment to relax.

For now, Fenris could enjoy some time spent with a friend.

[toevenexist]

Lights Pt. 9

Hello, Here’s the next chapter! thank you all for waiting and for your continued support! PLEASE REBLOG! I received some anons asking me to reblog more and I realised how important sharing work is so would love for you to share mine if you can!  Let’s spread our art so we can get more feedbck!! REBLOG REBLOG REBLOG!!! ALSO Your feedback means the world to me so please let me know what you think!!!   This has a prompt included, ‘About Amelia fainting in the elevator’. 

I have received another prompt about Amelia needing a drip at home (as suggested by the photo) and am going to do a separate fic about that!!

Here are the two spoiler pictures I’ve done for this chapter; 1 and 2

Check out my masterpost for any previous chapters, or any other fic!

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Enjoy!!:

“Mmmm, Owen, don’t you need to get to the ER?” Amelia said, leaning back in her chair, sitting side on to her desk. She paused her pen against the paper she was noting on.

She felt Owen’s warm breath against the bare skin of her bump, he was crouched beside her, with her scrub shirt pushed up. “I do…” he sighed, heart swelling at the feeling of his babies fidgeting inside her, Amelia’s breath hitched at the sensation.

“Okay….” Owen hummed, kissing her bump, unmoving.

“Owen… I’ll see you later” Amelia said, resting her arm over the top of her bump, pressing her fingertips to her side. Owen nodded, pulling her shirt down as he stood, he looked at his watch. “You should have a sleep soon” he spoke breathily.

“I will… just finishing these charts”

“Okay, right, I’ll see you later, I’ll get some food at five and bring it here?”

“Yes thank you, go... “ she smiled up at him, putting down her pen and reaching up for his face. Their kiss was warm and firm, deepening slightly, before Amelia pulled back.

“Amelia, can you have a look at this, I’m sure it’s clear” Alex’s voice pierced the silence, pulling Amelia was her soft slumber, “Oh god… I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were sleeping”.

“No, it’s fine… pass me the tablet…” she sighed, moving to rest her head in her hand, still lying on her side on the sofa. Alex nodded, sitting on the coffee table, handing her the tablet.

“How old?” Amelia said, running her eyes over the CT.

“Seventy”

Amelia nodded “Little old for you?”

He smirked, “I’m doing Kepner a favour,” Amelia nodded. Alex ran his eyes around her as she lay, analysing the scan. At twenty seven weeks, she seemed to be struggling with the weight of the pregnancy, she was uncomfortable every time he saw her, or sleeping.

“It is clear, but I want to just do an exam to be sure. A woman of her age having a fall, we can never be too careful” She handed him the tablet and pushed against the arm rest until she was sat up. She groaned in a sigh, puffing out her lips. Alex held his tongue, knowing how sick Amelia was with people’s overprotectiveness, she only allowed Owen to fuss over her.

He pursed his lips and held out his hand, “Thanks” she took it and stood up, holding his hand for a moment as she gained her legs under her.

“Right…” she stated, letting go of his hand and waddling unsteadily across the room, she paused again at the door, leaning there, taking a deep breath.

“Are you alright?” Alex asked her, furrowing his brows.

“Yeah” she uttered, letting go of the door frame and continuing out.

“When are you going on leave?” Alex asked as they made their way to the elevator. She groaned, eyeing him, enclosing her large bump in her arms. “Probably soon, that’s what my OB says anyway”

“And what do you say?” Alex smirked, pressing the button for the elevator.

“She’s probably right” she answered, twisting her lips. Alex chuckled, stepping into the elevator with ease as opposed to Amelia’s tired amble.

She’d taken on step into the elevator when she bent at the waist, grimacing, closing her eyes. The doors closed behind her as Alex stepped forward, taking her shoulders in his hands. “Amelia?” her hands franticly grasped at him.

“Dizzy” she uttered, feel a hot flush rolling over her. Alex lurched forward and caught her as her knees gave out, pillowing her fall. “Okay…. Okay, Amelia… Amelia” he cradled her, running his hand up and down her side. Her eyes slowly flitted open, and she began to shudder softly, gaze flicking around the ceiling. She squeezed them shut.

“Amelia, just breathe… okay....” he felt her stomach tighten under his palm and she whined softly. Finally the doors slid open revealing an oblivious Jackson, his face instantly morphed to one of panic, “Oh my god, what happened?”

“She passed out… and now she’s contracting”

“No….” Amelia cried weakly, shaking her head.

“Get a gurney” Alex stuck a leg out to stop the doors from closing as Jackson sped away. Amelia’s breathing evened out, though she continued to shake, feeling a chill overwhelm her.

“Owen…” she muttered, and Alex nodded,

“I’ll get him, we’ll get you to OB and I’ll call him”

She nodded, squeezing his hand. Jackson re-appeared then, pushing a gurney, followed now by Richard Webber. Slowly Amelia began to gain back her bearings, able to get up with the three mens support and lie on the gurney. She sighed, relaxing into the bed, closing her eyes, feeling the air move over her as they pushed her back into the elevator.

Richard laid a blanket over Amelia and pressed on the right side of her bump, prompting her to turn onto her left side. “Do you have low bp Amelia?” Richard asked her, brushing her hair behind her ear. She nodded, gripping the beam at the bedside as her stomach tightened, she huffed, feeling the babies fidget frantically. “She’s having another contraction” Richard stated, meeting Alex and Jackson’s gaze.

“It’s braxton hicks” Amelia muttered under her breath and the men all nodded, running their eyes over her. She felt Alex’s hand rub up and down her lower back and sighed, finding relief.

“Where is she… where is…”

“Owen!” Alex called from the door to Amelia’s room. Owen ran over and brushed passed him into the room, finding Amelia there surrounded by monitors, laying on her side facing the door.

She smiled and Owen stopped where he stood, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

“Hey…”  she spoke breathily and reached out to him.

“Hi… are you… what happened?” he moved to her, taking her hand.

“My blood pressure is too low, and my iron levels too…” Owen nodded, sitting down on the bed beside her. “I’m going on maternity leave” she told him, inhaling deep and pressing her lips together.

“I’ll take some time off” Owen said, nodding, already decided on the idea.

“No, I’ll be fine Owen”

“I don’t care, I’m not leaving you home alone” Owen said, soothing his hand across her bump, feeling all of the transducers against her skin. He looked to the monitors and watched as their babies vitals flashed across the screen. Amelia relented, knowing Owen wasn’t going to back down, and really not wanting to be alone at home either.

“When can I take you home?”

“If nothing changes... this evening” she told him, holding his hand and closing her eyes. Owen worried his gaze around her, uttering “Okay” he brushed his finger tips against her side, up her arm, sweeping her hair back from her face.

“I’ve got some things to finish up in the ER and some charts to do, I’ll talk to Bailey about both of our leave and I’ll come back later okay?” Amelia nodded without opening her eyes and yawned. “You sleep, and I’ll see you later” he spoke softly, observing her lovingly. Amelia hummed, squeezing his hand gentle, drifting off still holding it.

Owen sighed softly, feeling his eyes well with tears at the sight of his beautiful wife, suffering through this pregnancy. She lay on her side with wires tangled around her, running under the blanket and her shirt, and a drip running into the back of the hand she had beside her face on the pillow.

 He pulled a chair over and sat down beside her, deciding he could stay for a few minutes. “I don’t know how I could ever thank you enough for this Amelia” he uttered quietly, pulling the blanket down, revealing her round stomach, two bands wrapped around it holding transducers in place. Amelia hummed in her sleep and Owen cooed, placing his warm palm against her naked waist. Her eyes slowly opened again and she found his eyes downcast and tearful.

“Owen?... is it time to go?”

Owen smiled, shaking his head, eyes still shining. “No, I haven’t left yet…” he said, sweeping his hand up and down her side. She exhaled lengthily and closed her eyes again. “Are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that” he said, sniffling, forcing away the tears.

“I’m okay”

“Hmmm”

“Owen, this is just part of pregnancy for some women, it’s nothing to be too worried about… or guilty about” she spoke huskily, fatigue shredding her quiet words. Owen nodded, inhaling deeply and letting out the breath. “I just hate seeing you like this.”

“Pregnant? I thought it turned you on?” she smirked, caressing his arm. He chuckled bashfully.

“Oh trust me, there’s so much about you pregnant that turns me on. You not feeling well is not part of that” he said, and Amelia huffed, understanding him.

“I know… but Owen, none of this matters because our babies are in here…” she smiled heartily, eyes still lidded from exhaustion, stroking the back of his hand where it rest against her. “And they’re healthy, Owen, they’re so healthy” she beamed, cheeks dimpling. Owen smiled too, leaning towards her and pressing a kiss to her lips, dusting another against her forehead.

Her eyes drooped shut then and she yawned again, fidgeting where she lay. Owen pulled the blanket up and over her shoulder and stood straight checking the drip bag seeing it was on a two hour release and was only about a third of the way through.

“I’ll be back in an hour and a half, okay?” he said, sweeping her hair back from her face. She hummed, nodding slightly. He pressed his lips together, watching her for a moment longer before making his way out the room, heading to the ER.

After an hour and a half the nurse came and removed Amelia’s drip, and untethered her from most of the monitors, leaving one attached to her until she was about to leave.

“Stop your bouncing baby girl” Amelia uttered softly, sitting up and swinging her legs off of the bed, lowering slowly until her feet met the floor.

“At least until I’ve peed” she said, pulling the monitor along with her to the toilet, the wire between her and it, dragging on the floor.

Amelia paused half way across the room once she’d been to the toilet, contemplating whether she really wanted to get back into bed. Owen would be here to get her soon. She looked down at herself, seeing only her round bump, her feet were foreign territory.

Her hospital gown tented over her middle mass, “I’m a whale ladies, and you’re not even fully grown” she sighed, twisting her lips. She looked around the room for her scrubs, coming up empty. She pulled the monitor closer and made her way to the door, finding little strength to suppress her waddle.  

The hallway was empty when she stepped out, and she paused at the door, looking up and down. “Well I guess we’ll just have to find some scrubs ourselves” she muttered, encircling her stomach and ambling along the hall.

“Amelia?” A female voice called from behind and she stopped, turning slowly until her eyes met Carina Deluca’s. Carina grinned, moving towards Amelia. “Hello, are you okay?” she said, eyeing her up and down, eye’s lingering on Amelia rounded center. Amelia smiled tightly, feeling suddenly very exposed.

“I am… I’m just looking for some scrubs, mine have gone walkabout” she told her, letting go of her bump and pressing her open hand into the small of her back. Carina smiled sweetly and nodded, “It seems they aren’t the only ones on walkabout, why don’t I take you back to your room and then I’ll get you some” she offered.

Amelia pursed her lips, casting her eyes down, wanting to refuse Carina’s offer of an escort back to her room, deciding instead to hold her tongue,  she didn’t fully trust her legs anyway. Amelia nodded, pulling the monitor with her. Carina walked slowly along side her, “Is everything okay? With you and the babies?”

“Sort of, the babies are fine, I just have low blood pressure and iron”

“Aww that’s not good, but it’s good that it’s not too serious”

“Very true, I’m starting my leave early though”

“I bet Owen is pleased, he’s very protective of you” she smiled sweetly, letting Amelia head into her room first. Amelia chuckled, nodding in agreement. And as if he could sense that he was being talked about, he appeared behind them, bustling in as if he’d jogged there.

“Hey?” he stopped at the door, observing as Carina helped Amelia to sit back onto the bed, repositioning her monitor beside the bed. “Talk of the devil” Carina laughed, taking a moment to watch the monitor. “Oh?”

“Carina was just pointing out how protective of me you are”

“Oh” he grinned, cheeks flushing as he moved towards Amelia.

“For good reason, Amelia is carrying very precious cargo” she said, warmly squeezing Amelia’s shoulder. “I’ll get you those scrubs” She continued, nodding once to Amelia before leaving the pair alone.

Owen pouted, slowly looking back to Amelia, “Where have you been?”

“I went looking for scrubs, I feel humongous in this gown and I want to go home without a breaze sweeping over lady town” she stated, huffing, leaning back on her hands, her stomach jutting out in front of her. Owen laughed, shaking his head, flopping down beside her.  

“What do you want to do when we get home?” Owen said, turning and leaning against the end of the bed.

“Mmm, get into bed with my maternity pillow and Jilly and watch some trashy baking shows” She dreamed allowed, watching the monitor. “Oh and I really would love to eat some pizza, ooh, with pineapple and pickle and extra cheese… oh and mushrooms” she continued, eyes bright. Owen chuckled, but grimaced at the food combination. “Okay, that sounds like something you should eat alone”

“It does doesn’t it” she said, smiling wide, nodding.

“I hope there’s going to be room for me in bed, with all the pizza, and pillows and Jilly” Owen quipped, brushing her hair back.

“I’m sure there’ll be a corner for you” she told him flopping onto her back, feet still hanging over the edge of the bed. Owen addictively ran his eyes over her bump, amazed at its size. Carina re-entered then, carrying scrubs.

“Here we go, step down”

“Owen, I know there’s a step” she said, holding his hand as she stepped down from their drive.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just…” he shook his head, swinging open their front door.

“Mmmhmm” she said, grinning at Jilly as she sped to meet them, circling their legs, panting excitedly.

“Hello babygirl, we’re home” Amelia cooed, groaning and stopping beside the sofa, leaning on it. “You shouldn’t talk to Jilly so excitedly and loudly”

“I know…” Amelia smirked, sitting on the arm of the chair. “I thought babies liked to be talked to like humans” she said, soothing her hands around her bump.

“They just think you’re singing” Owen said, crouching and pulling off Amelia’s shoes.

“Yeah and they’re trying to get away!” Amelia said, eyes glittering. Owen shook his head, disagreeing with Amelia’s recurring statements of having a bad singing voice.

“I’m sure they will love you singing to them” he told her, standing up and walking with Jilly to the back door, letting her out.

“I’ll call for Pizza” he yelled to Amelia from the kitchen, pulling out his phone.

“YES” Amelia cheered from their bedroom, pulling off the scrubs, tugging one of Owen’s t shirts over her head.

Jilly scrambled up onto the bed before Amelia could even think to call her. “Hey bubi” she ruffled the soft fur atop Jilly’s head and climbed slowly, into bed beside her, pulling her newly acquired maternity pillow into position behind her. Jilly army crawled up the bed and spread out against Amelia’s side, softly licking Amelia arm. “Oh you’re a cutie” Amelia said, running her fingers through Jilly’s fur. Jilly snorted and rolled onto her back, mouth agape, tongue hanging out, making Amelia giggle.

“Pizza’s ordered” Owen entered the, breathing out his words. “You comfortable?” Owen asked, turning on the TV as he crossed to his closet. “Yep… look at her” Amelia beamed, rubbing Jilly’s stomach. “She’s so cute” Owen said, smiling too as he leaned against the end of the bed to stroke their chocolate lab.

“We need to start sorting the house out” Amelia suddenly blurted.

“Okay…” he nodded, “you feeling the need to nest.” Amelia sighed at this, pouting and nuzzling her face into her pillow. Owen smirked and she replied, “Yes” into the fabric of the pillow.

“Why are you hiding? It’s okay Amelia” Owen chuckled, sitting down beside her.

“Mmmh” she groaned, turning her face back to him so she could breathe. “So mumzy”, she moaned, pouting. Owen laughed, shaking his head, leaning over Jilly, draping his arm over her.

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked her, getting as close to her as possible with Jilly in between them. Amelia shrugged, meeting his eyes and remaining within their depths.

“I think it’s beautiful”

“Oh shut up Owen!” she rolled her eyes, throwing her head back slightly, ruffling her hair.

“No, I do, you should embrace it in every form that it arises.”

“We can make a plan tomorrow?” she probed, with an innocent tone.

“We could start one now?”

“Food and a nap first” Amelia stated, closing her eyes.

“I’ll wake you when the food gets here” Owen said, leaning forward and uttering the words against her lips before pressing a kiss there.

“Please…” she muttered, smiling tiredly.

The light of the TV flooded the room, the curtains were open, letting dusk edge in. Owen looked down to find Jilly asleep on her back, her paws were flopped at the ankles. He leaned down to the pup and dropped a kiss against her snout. Jilly huffed and opened her eyes, twisting up towards Owen and slobbering against his chin.

Owen relaxed against the headboard, with a content and lingering smile, eyes falling upon the TV. He slid his hand beneath the covers, settling it against the warm taught skin of her stomach. A baby rolled languidly beneath his palm, and a warmth filled his chest, heart fluttering. The lines of his smile deepened and he closed his eyes to revel in the feeling.  

LINK TO CHAPTER 10

Let me know what you think!! 

[immerlein]

Okay, so I have some problems. I don't know how to start, for example I have a lot of faith and hope for my life and my mom is like "Don't be too hopeful, don't have faith that much. They will give you nothing. Look at me, I prayed for 20 years and I got nothing. They don't care about you and you are not one of their favorites, so you will never have anything and first of all you are dumb, you don't have any friends and don't go out, so you'll never have a boyfriend". - part 1

“Why does she have to do that? It seriously affects me. Even if they do not give me what I pray for. It kinda plays with my faith, because then after hearing her words, I kinda lose faith and hope and think They will really not listen to my prayers and help me out. I have told her this before and then she is like “Oh, well don’t listen to me, maybe They will give you everything you want”. Yes, well first you play with someone’s mind and then you are like “oh, don’t listen to me”. - part 2″

Dear Marija (what a lovely name!), I believe you are the anon who asked me about God’s favour recently? 

You have sent me a very large ask but I hope that I can cover everything and offer you some kind of solace. I will address each part separately. When I first read everything you shared (and I hope you are okay with me publishing it, because I do want to answer you!) I could sense your hurt and pain, and your mother’s hurt and pain as well. I do not think it is right of her to discourage you from prayer. It sounds like she has a lot of pain inside her own heart and she may be taking out that hurt, frustration, and anger on you. I know how she is feeling in some ways; recently, with the loss of my first child, I have felt anger and pain and thought, “why, God?”. A friend of mine is looking for a new place to live and she asked me to pray for her, saying, “when you bought your house, it had everything you had been hoping for” and it reminded me that yes, not even a whole year ago, I was so worried about finding a house to live in, and God provided for me. I was so grateful when we moved in, and I thanked God every day, and yet, as soon as misfortune befalls me, I think “God does nothing for me!” and I instantly forget all the many, many blessings I have received. I wonder if this is the same for your mother, when she says “I prayed for 20 years and I got nothing”. “She did the same before. I didn’t really care about having someone, I always thought I will not worry until I am 25, after 25 I will start worrying, but then she started talking a lot about how I will never meet anyone, because I don’t go out, I don’t have friends to introduce me to someone and all that and it kinda got to me, it has affected me. Now I really do care about having someone, I feel super lonely and sad, but now the damage is done, so nothing she says/do can help. - part 3It is really easy to play with someone’s mind/feelings and then be like “Oh, you shouldn’t have listened to me”. Oh and yes, by They I meant God, Mother Mary and The Saints. And another thing, let’s say I had some kind of heartbreak. I mean I wasn’t in a relationship with this particular person, we had something, how to say it was complicated. - part 4And I would go to church to ease my pain, and my mom would be like “Stop praying to God, to give you that man. He will not.” First of all, I wasn’t praying for that man! I am just going in church to ease my pain and to cry and to tell my Father, Mother, Brothers and Sisters my pain. How does she make such assumptions. Like I am not going to tell her everything that lies in my heart, because I am a very private person and keep things to myself. So I don’t even tell my mother some things. - part 5″I am so sorry that she has said these things to you. I would encourage you to continue to turn to God and go to church to ease your pain, as you say. Our Lord tells us that whatever we ask for with faith, we shall receive. Sometimes it does not come in the way we expect it to, but God knows all things, and knows what is truly best for us. “I know she has went through a lot in her life, but can she please let me live and not project her thoughts/views/opinions on me. She has been divorced from my father since I was a baby, and I understand that she wished for someone, or for a job, or to have some decent friends to go out a bit and forget everything and 20 years have passed, she has lost her youth. But it is still not late, I believe that God has something in store for her, so what if she is 40 now, anything is possible. - part 6Yesterday we got in a fight and she said something like in the sense of “I don’t care if you get anything, what is important to me is for me to see some light now and get married and put my life in place” and I said “well if I am supposed to not get anything, then you don’t, you are older and I am still young”. I know what I said was wrong, and I didn’t mean it. But her words hurt me. - part 7″What she is saying to you here (which breaks my heart to read), and with what you have shared about her relationship with your father, does give me the impression that she is wounded in her own soul and that is coming out in the way that she treats you. We are commanded to love our neighbour as own self (and to honour our mother and father) and I know I have struggled with that in regards to my own parents. Sometimes our mothers and fathers abuse us (physically, mentally, emotionally, and/or spiritually). I really do recommend you speak to your spiritual father about this (especially as you are feeling contrition to responding to her that way). 

“Of course I do want to see her happy and find a nice man, who will give her everything my father couldn’t, but you know I have my worries too. I am only 20 and I think will I get married, what kind of man will my husband be, will I have kids, will I have a job. Also I don’t have a lot of family either, just my mom, maternal grandparents and my uncle and like time is passing, what will I do all alone when they are gone. - part 8″

As you say, you are only 20; please believe me when I tell you it is nowhere near too late (if there even is “too late”!) for you to find someone to marry. Truly! Try not to worry about that, and entrust it to God (I know it is easier said than done!). And share your feelings, your concerns, your pain with Him.

“I just hate it, that turned out that I don’t wish my mom well, when I do. I do hope the best for her. I want the best for her and for me too, obviously. I do not want only me to put my life in place and then be like I don’t care about what happens to my mother, but if she gets remarried and is happier than now (which I hope she will be), of course I want to get married too, or have some decent job, or some friends, even one good friend. - part 9″

You seem like you are a compassionate person and I am glad that you wish your mother well. And it is understandable that you also have hopes for your own future, and desire to be married, have a good job, and friends. 

“She twisted my words and made it sound like I am a bad person and do not wish her well and she said that now Our Father will never give me anything I pray for or experience joy, because I have a dark heart. Another issue I have is, she always says how she went to church as a little girl all the time, and during her teenage years she used to go to church all the time. - part 10I used to go to church as a little girl too, but then during my teenage years I didn’t really kinda go nor pray, as much as in recent time. But she makes me feel like I am less of a Christian, or that I am not worthy enough, or that God doesn’t/will not favour me as much as He favors her, because I just started last year to pray more, try to go to church every week at least once. - part 11″

Perhaps my friend (and I do not know your mother, I am making assumptions based on my own experiences and what you have written), your mother feels like her own faith is lacking (as she advises you not to pray, saying there is no point) and is projecting that insecurity onto you. I do not get the impression that you have a “dark heart”; you come across to me as a sensitive person who desires to be close to God and is struggling. God loves you and He sees your efforts, truly. And perhaps you did not go to church much as a teenager; what matters is you are going now. You may have fallen, but you got up again. And you chose for yourself to go to church and to pray.

“And I don’t like it how she makes that sound, because I think God has so much love and place for everyone in His Kingdom and is so merciful, that even if you start believing in Him even when you are 50, He will still love you and accept you with open arms in His Kingdom. I am sorry, this turned out super long, maybe it was going to be better if I messaged you privately. But thoughts just kept popping in my head and I had to tell them here. - part 12″

I think you are right about that :) I am reminded of Saint John Chrysostom’s Paschal Homily:“If any have wrought from the first hour, let him today receive his just reward. If any have come at the third hour, let him with thankfulness keep the feast. If any have arrived at the sixth hour, let him have no misgivings; because he shall in nowise be deprived thereof. If any have delayed until the ninth hour, let him draw near, fearing nothing. If any have tarried even until the eleventh hour, let him, also, be not alarmed at his tardiness; for the Lord, who is jealous of his honor, will accept the last even as the first; he gives rest unto him who comes at the eleventh hour, even as unto him who has wrought from the first hour.”

“I am sorry again for sending you so much asks. Thank you for your time, patience and kindness. You have a beautiful name. My name is Marija too! But with a “j”, because I am Slavic. I hope that the Holy Spirit and Our Most Holy Mother are with you though out everyday of your life and help you in every field, and bring you joy and peace. God bless you. I love you. - part 13″ 

It is no problem at all! Please feel free to message me anytime; I hope what I have written is of some help to you. God bless and keep you. I will remember you in my prayers. With love in Christ,Maria

[tea-and-procrastination]

Please can you write a berena fanfic where they help Dom after all of his abuse? X

[In this the accident still happened as in canon butEllie was checked over by someone more senior than Jasmine so couldn’t wriggleout of any tests, meaning her symptoms were picked up sooner and she thereforesurvived.]

Bernie visits Dom while he’s onKeller, a patient on his own ward, has to swallow down guilt and bile when shesees him.  She realises she’s been socaught up in supporting Serena while Ellie is in rehab and Jason is recovering,in running their ward alone and leaving exhausted only to go home to be metwith Serena’s fury at Edward’s knowledge of their daughter’s drug habit andgrief at not having known anything was wrong, that she didn’t realise how badthings were with Isaac.  But Dom’s eyesplead with her not to pity him so she says nothing, just asks him what hisplans are for when he’s discharged.

‘Zosia’s offered me their sofa,’he says with a slight shrug.  ‘Not sure Ireally want to enter the love shack though.’

A nurse comes to do his obs then,so Bernie just smiles tightly and tells him she’ll drop by again soon and goesback down to AAU to finish her shift, unable to stop thinking about how she’sfailed her friend.

She’s still thinking about him atthe end of the day when she goes to Serena’s (she still thinks of it asSerena’s and not yet theirs, for all that she spends almost all her nights anddays off there).

Serena is doing better now, withtime and therapy, with both Jason and Ellie improving and Bernie still besideher.  She watches as Bernie’s hands twistand makes herself ask what the matter is, even though despite all Bernie’sassurances that she’s not going anywhere she still fears the answer.

‘It’s Dom,’ Bernie says quietly.  ‘I want to help him.’

Serena feels filled with relief,feels her heart melt a little.  ‘Ok,’ shesmiles.  ‘How?’

‘Um, well,’ Bernie hesitates.

Serena moves closer, touchesBernie’s arm and looks at her steadily until Bernie glances up from behind herfringe.

‘Do you think,’ Bernie sayscarefully,’ do you think maybe he could come and stay for a bit, once he’sdischarged?  If Jason agrees too, ofcourse.’

They talk about it together whiledinner cooks, talk about it with Jason once they’ve eaten.  And the next morning Bernie slips up toKeller again, and the next evening when she and Serena leave Dom walks betweenthem to the car.

*

He hears them arguing, theevening after he’s moved in.  Or ratherhe hears Serena’s raised voice and the smash of a plate against the wall, andflinches.  He can’t hear Bernie, feelsthe urge to pelt down the stairs and check on her, check Serena hasn’t hurther, but he can’t move.  Instead hecowers on the bed, draws his knees up to his chin and hugs them tight, screwshis eyes shut and waits for it to be over.

He’s still there when there’s atap on his door, and Jason calls to him that it’s time for dinner.

‘But they were fighting,’ hesays, wishing his voice was less small, wishing he sounded less scared.

‘No,’ Jason says calmly.  ‘Auntie Serena had to speak to Edward – herex husband, cousin Elinor’s father – today. He always makes her angry.’

‘And Bernie?’

‘Auntie Serena would never hurtBernie,’ Jason says surely, and even this quickly Dom has learnt that hedoesn’t lie.  ‘She loves her.’

‘Dinner’s on the table,’ comesBernie’s voice up the stairs.  It soundsutterly normal, and Dom manages to uncurl himself and follow Jason down.

Bernie offers them both a smile,waits until Jason has gone into the kitchen and murmurs, ‘Sorry,’ under herbreath.

‘It’s fine,’ Dom replies, but shecan clearly see the lingering fear and worry in his eyes.

‘She wasn’t aiming for me,’Bernie reassures him.

Serena sticks her head around thedoor then, and he can see that she’s been crying.  Bernie reaches out to her, catches at herhand and at her eye.

Dom glances between the two ofthem.  There’s no malice there, no fear,nothing but love and trust, and with a tremble his shoulders drop a little.

‘I’m sorry, Dominic,’ Serena sayssoftly.  ‘I’m afraid my ex husband is notin my good books, and my crockery is bearing the brunt.’

‘Jason said,’ he replies.  ‘Not about the crockery, about Edward.���  He makes his lips curve up in a facsimile ofa smile, knows he isn’t fooling either of them but they let it go, head intothe kitchen still hand in hand leaving him to follow.

*

Serena takes care of him, in away that should feel smothering but instead is a comfort; he wonders if she’strying to compensate for all the things she thinks she did wrong with her owndaughter.  Bernie takes care of him too,in a way that is far more maternal than he would ever have expected, but thenhe thinks of her relationship with her children and thinks she’s probablycompensating too.  

He’s a terrible patient, heknows, but in the face of their combined power mostly behaves himself.  He’s a terrible houseguest too, knows he’sriling Jason, which in turn riles Serena and then Bernie, but can’t stophimself.  Eventually Bernie hands him hertherapist’s card with a look that strongly recommends he use it.

‘You go to therapy?’ he scoffs indisbelief, even though he’d been desperate to go with him.

‘Working wonders already,’ shesays with the slightest of smiles, and he huffs but calls the next day.

It can only last so long, though;it’s clear this isn’t a workable long, or even medium, term solution for any ofthem but for Jason in particular, and no one doubts that he will always comefirst for Serena.

‘Maybe he could stay in my flatfor a while,’ Bernie suggests nervously, hands shoved deep in her pockets.  ‘Could live there while he sorts himself outand finds a place of his own?’

‘Small flat,’ Serena says.  ‘Doesn’t have a guest room from what Irecall.’

‘No,’ Bernie mutters, looking ather toes, fingers fidgeting with the lining of her pockets.  She thinks the implication is too much,thinks she’s mucked up, pushed too far.

‘I think that’s a wonderfulidea,’ Serena smiles, and Bernie gazes at her in disbelief.

They talk to Jason first, andthen to Dom.  And then Bernie packs upsome more of her things and takes them to Serena’s, takes Dom and Zosia to boxup all of his things and leaves him to settle in, tells him to call if he needsanything, makes sure he has the landlord’s number in case the boiler plays up.

And then she goes back toSerena’s.  She’s at work, so Berniespends time with Jason and cooks dinner under his watchful eye, makes sure shefollows the instructions to the letter. It feels odd, even though she’s done this countless times since NewYear.

It feels odd getting into bedwith Serena too.  She feels like maybethis is too much too soon – too fast, too much commitment, too clichéd.  But Serena just snuggles close and presses akiss to her clavicle and says how nice it is to fall asleep like this, andBernie doesn’t feel itchy any more, finds she can unwind and kiss the crown ofSerena’s head and close her eyes without being overtaken by panic.

*

Dom doesn’t have anyone to movein with, with Arthur gone and Zosia and Ollie together.  And he finds he likes living alone, likesthat there’s no one to complain about his mess, his magazines, his habits.  He looks, he does, but can’t find anything asnice and as reasonable as Bernie’s, nothing worth considering moving for eventhough there’s a constant niggle that maybe Bernie is missing her space, herbolt hole.  

Sometimes he thinks he’s doingher a favour, forcing her to live with Serena, to confront any problems ratherthan running from them.  Other times he thinksmaybe he’s causing there to be too much pressure on her, on them, that thingswill come to a head and the happiness they’re both clearly feeling, despiteeverything, will end and it’ll all be his fault.  But when he tries to finagle anything out of Bernieshe just smiles softly and says that everything’s fine, tells him not to worry.  And when he mentions it to Serena on a rareoccasion when she’s up on Keller she says much the same, pats his shoulder andtells him to take as long as he needs.

They have him over for dinnermost weeks, when their schedules will allow. He and Jason became friends, of a sort, even if they couldn’t surviveliving together, and Jason likes seeing him for bounded periods of time.  Sometimes Morven comes too, or Zosia, or Jasmine,even Cam on the odd occasion he’s in Holby. Dom sees for himself how comfortable they are together, how they havebecome sickeningly domestic so quickly but without losing that spark (he walksinto the kitchen one evening to find them pressed against the sink snogging,Serena’s hands sunk deep into the back pockets of Bernie’s jeans, turns on hisheel and beats a hasty retreat without the beer he came in for).

*

And then they have a fight.  Dom doesn’t know what it’s over but it sends Bernieup to the roof for a fag despite the fact that she’s quit, sends Serena into arage that scatters juniors and porters, rumours flying around the hospital withthem.  Dom fully expects Bernie to call,to tell him she needs her bed back, or at least her sofa.  

She doesn’t.

At the end of his shift he daresto leave via AAU, finds the ward subdued but not terrified.  Finds the two of them in their office inawkward but not hostile silence, watches unobserved through the open blinds asthey glance up at each other with hesitant, apologetic smiles.

He leaves without saying a word.

*

‘I know it’s probably too soon,’Serena says one Sunday morning as they’re sitting drinking their tea.  ‘And I don’t want you to feel trapped oroverwhelmed or like you have to run,’ she adds, one hand wrapped around her mugand the other toying with the short hair at the nape of her neck.  ‘But I can’t fathom you not being here.  Can’t fathom you not living here.’

Bernie stares at her silently,taken aback.  Grips her own mug a littletighter and blinks.  Serena’s eyes flickup to hers, then down at the scattering of toast crumbs around her plate.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–‘

‘I can’t fathom it either,’Bernie interrupts, voice found.

Serena exhales, a relieved little‘oh’, meets her eye again, reaches to meet the hand Bernie offers half way.

‘Are you asking me to move inwith you, Campbell?’ Bernie asks playfully.

The Serena of before would havethrown back some witty, sassy, teasing comment. But despite her job, that Serena didn’t fully understand how fleetinglife is, how quickly happiness can be wrenched away.  Hadn’t lost her love to the other side of thecontinent, hadn’t almost lost her daughter and her nephew in one terriblenightmare of a day.  So instead all shesays is, ‘Yes’.  Says it with a gentlesmile and a rub of her thumb across Bernie’s knuckles and a warmth in her eyes.

‘Well then,’ Bernie smiles inreturn.  Because Bernie has always knownhow fleeting life and happiness are, has spent her life being fleeting, running from things that are too big and meaningfuland permanent to comprehend, running to places where all there is isimpermanence.  But now she’s foundsomething she longs to keep tight hold of, has found she longs to put downroots here, with this woman.  They’vebeen through hell together so far this year, are starting to come out the otherside with the support of each other and their colleagues and therapy.  Bernie knows she would rather face anythingthe world throws at them together, would rather walk through hell all overagain with Serena’s hand firmly clasped in hers than take the easy, cowardlyoption she always used to favour.

When Dom comes out of theatre andchecks his phone it’s to find a text from Bernie, asking if he’s interested intaking on the lease.

‘Only if I still get a standinginvitation to dinner ;),’ he replies. ‘And if you take that hideous throw with you.’