#and while the red keep gets turned into tales from the crypt

[silver-dragonborn]

If anyone deserves vengeance, fire, and blood, it's Aemma Targaryen.

Give me fanfiction where she's a literal ghost haunting the halls of the Red Keep, shadowing Viserys's every step, and sending Alicent and Otto Hightower nightmares that keep them up all night. I want to see a situation where she makes life unbearable for the men who destroyed her. I want her curse to wrap around their necks and strangle them slowly. I want her ghostly form cradling her dead boy Baelon to appear before Viserys and say, "You have killed us, you have killed us, you have killed us." Aemma repeats herself until the words rise to a ghastly scream, jaw stretching, eyes rolling to the back of her head as she screams so loudly that Viserys's Lego land splinters and falls apart.

Just like Un-Cat hunting down Freys and Lannisters alike, let the curse of Aemma Targaryen tear the Greens apart from within. Let her rage consume those who've wronged her in an inferno until there's nothing left but ashes. Let her ghost lighten the load on Rhaenyra's shoulders so she can marry Harwin Strong and finally enjoy life with her beautiful, brown-haired boys without the Hightowers breathing down her neck.

[fluffbyday-smutbynight]

Way Too Deep (TAB rewatch)

Going back to The Abominable Bride? What is this madness?

Do not fear, I won't even dwell on the hidden meanings of the whole parallel reality set in 1895. Instead, this will be the beginning of my modest attempt (read: slightly disfunctional coping method) at making some sort of sense out of S4. I could read all the meta, and agree with it even, but at the end of the day I just have to take the raw data and digest it on my own.

Why start from TAB? If I recall correctly, it wasn't originally conceived as a bridge between the two seasons – and yet, it has such a peculiar structure that I can't justify it being just a coincidence. If you will, I'll look at the frame rather than the picture.

TL; DR: what if Sherlock overdosed on the tarmac plane... and never came back?

So, let's begin well into the third act (1 hour or so into the episode):

MORIARTY: Because it’s not the fall that kills you, Sherlock. Of all people, you should know that. It’s not the fall. It’s never the fall...It’s the landing.

Sherlock wakes up on the plane and the narrative trick gets exposed: the Victorian adventures were a creation of Sherlock's drug-fueled mind.

Sherlock's usage is not exactly news to us - hello, heartbroken Shezza in a crack den - but this time it feels different. It's not just escapism or the siren's call of addiction; he doesn't look high, not even to John Watson MD, which by the way has already seen him under the effect. This is the very intentional treading the fine line between sanity and delirium, between life and death:

JOHN: For God’s sake! This could kill you! You could die!

SHERLOCK: Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality.

...all for the sake of "solving a case" or, should we put it in plain words, going deep and deeper into his own mind.

Strap yourselves in, 'cause we're going for a ride. From this moment on, we'll bounce back and forth between reality and hallucination, the two separated by a boundary so unstable that we won't even see it.

Notice how heavily drugged-Sherlock sounds fairly coherent so far – and yet, when Mycroft speaks:

MYCROFT: A week in a prison cell. I should have realised [...] that in your case, solitary confinement is locking you up with your worst enemy.

...his mind palace fabrication unexpectedly bleeds into reality:

JOHN (offscreen): Morphine or cocaine?

SHERLOCK: What did you say?

JOHN: I didn’t say anything.

SHERLOCK: No, you did. You said ...

(As he says the next sentence, it’s Sherlock’s lips moving but we hear John’s voice.)

SHERLOCK/JOHN: Which is it today – morphine or cocaine?

What did spur this abrupt transition? What is Sherlock's worst enemy? Himself, his addiction or... Moriarty, though a figment of his imagination, trapped in his mind palace?

Victorian Sherlock goes on with his investigation, which ends with the crypt scene. Sudden plot twist: under the bride's veil there's not Mrs. Carmichael, but... Moriarty again.

MORIARTY: Is this silly enough for you yet? Gothic enough? Mad enough, even for you? It doesn’t make sense, Sherlock, because it’s not real. None of it. [...] This is all in your mind. [...] You’re dreaming.

Cue another transition to a hospital room, which looks just a bit surreal. What's up with the red blanket and the carpeted floor? Why is Sherlock just lying there in his suit?

Doesn't look very much like an overdose intervention... because it isn't. This is not reality.

In fact, Sherlock goes on all jolly to unbury Emelia's corpse (let me be pedant: just like a recent overdose patient should do), and we're given a couple lines that reinforce how much of a pressing matter all this is to him:

SHERLOCK: It’s why we came here! I need to know.

JOHN (turning away): Spoken like an addict.

SHERLOCK (straightening up to look at him): This is important to me!

Sherlock and Lestrade dig, Mycroft supervises (lazy sod, eheh), until the casket is unearthed – pay attention to what Mycroft says here:

MYCROFT: We do have slightly more pressing matters to hand, little brother. Moriarty, back from the dead?

And yes, immediately after Moriarty is mentioned, another turn into surreality takes place; the skeleton moves on its own, a spectral voice calls, and Sherlock is back to his mind palace.

VOICE (rhythmically, as if reciting lyrics to a song): Do not forget me.

... and Holmes starts violently and wakes up to find himself lying on his side on a narrow rocky ledge. Water is pouring over him as if it is raining heavily.

HOLMES : Oh, I see. Still not awake, am I?

"Still not awake" - what a peculiar choice of words. The line between reality and hallucination is feeble because it's not there; the plane, the hospital, the cemetery? All fabrications of his own mind.

Look, even Moriarty must be tired of beating around the bush, 'cause he doesn't talk in riddles anymore. He just lays it out:

MORIARTY: Too deep, Sherlock. Way too deep. Congratulations. You’ll be the first man in history to be buried in his own Mind Palace.

MORIARTY: I am your WEAKNESS!

MORIARTY: I keep you DOWN!

MORIARTY: Every time you STUMBLE, every time you FAIL, when you’re WEAK...

MORIARTY: I... AM... THERE!

MORIARTY: No. Don’t try to fight it. LIE BACK AND LOSE!

So, not only Sherlock has gone deep into his mind palace, he never got out of it and he literally can't.

John coming to the rescue must represent Sherlock finally waking up... or does it?

WATSON: So, how do you plan to wake up?

HOLMES: Between you and me, John, I always survive a fall.

In fact, Sherlock jumps and falls deeper down and while we're told he always survives the fall, we're never told about the landing. We're circling back to what Moriarty said.

At this point, is Sherlock waking up on the plane again even real? Do overdosed people just wake up like that, and go on with their day like nothing's happened?

Furthermore, if Sherlock really woke up on the plane, this should be where the episode ends.

Why, instead, go back again to 1895?

HOLMES: It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like, and how you and I might fit inside it.

HOLMES: From a drop of water, a logician should be able to infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara.

Where is this happening? What's the "Atlantic" (or Niagara, or Reichenbach) we should be able to infer?

The structure of TAB – the back and forth between past and present, fiction and reality - reminded me of this zen koan:

"Once upon a time, I, Zhuangzi, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Zhuangzi. Soon I awakened, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man. Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a distinction. The transition is called the transformation of material things."

As you may know, a koan is a paradox: for instance, you can't be both man and butterfly, but at the same time you can't be definitively sure about one or the other. This is where we're left at the end of the episode – hanging on the doubt that what we've seen so far has been imagination disguised as reality: Sherlock can't be both in present time (having woken up on the plane) and in the Victorian setting we've just seen.

So we should infer that he is still stuck in his mind palace, and his hallucination is not only about the 1895 timeline, but comprises all the scenes set in present time, too -"It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like"; also, he might have overindulged with his drugs, to the point of never coming back to consciousness.

WATSON: As for your own tale, are you sure it’s still just a seven percent solution that you take? I think you may have increased the dosage.

Notice how the overdosing incident will never be mentioned again, which makes sense if we assume that it's a point stuck in time with no foreseeable resolution – an idea which is supported by Mycroft's notebook, in the form of the Minkowski Metric we can see there:

a formula referring to special relativity, more specifically "the spacetime interval between any two events is independent of the inertial frame of reference in which they are recorded" (x)

All this, in the perspective of interpreting S4, makes for an interesting premise... but we'll look into it another time.

_____

Dialogue transcript source: Ariane DeVere

[magalidragon]

fire on ice | a crackish Jonerys drabble

Soooo... @moggett reblogged this post and well I felt compelled to write a drabble for one of those prompts so I give you this crack fic-- a funeral home meet cute!

I give you....FIRE ON ICE!  And this is also partially @youwerenevermine‘s fault, lol, because we literally had same idea for one of the prompts.

“Thank you so much Mr. Snow.”

Jon nodded politely, solemnly, his gray eyes the perfect amount of sympathetic, sad, and he hoped the right amount of ‘normal’— lest people think him a total fucking creep—while he shook the hand of the Greatjon Umber, whose son Smalljon Umber had unfortunately encountered the wrong side of a chainsaw while out trimming trees.  

Greatjon began to go into a tale about his son—who by all accounts had been a horrible person—speaking like he was the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror for all his ‘talents’ and ‘successes.’  “Hmm,” he murmured, walking him slowly to the door.  “He sounds like quite a man your son, thank you Mr. Umber, we will speak later regarding tomorrow.”

“Of course, thank you again Mr. Snow.”

The door shut loudly behind him, Jon slumping against it, relieved.  He glanced at his cousin, who had emerged from the basement, shaking her chopped bob out of its messy little knot atop her head.  “He gone?” she demanded.

“Aye.”

“I had half a mind to sew his arm on backwards.”

Jon closed the doors to the viewing room where Smalljon rested in repose until tomorrow when he’d be taken to the Karstark’s castle for the final funeral and ultimate burial in the crypts, as was custom for the Northerners.  He clicked his tongue.  “Arya, be nice.”

“Remember when his wife died, and he squeezed my arse?”

“Aye, I remember.”

“Thought so.”  Arya checked her phone.  “Your beloved texted me.  We have another on the way.  This one fell from the Wall.  Ygritte said he’s a fucking mess.”

He made a face; he hated that she referred to his ex-girlfriend as his ‘beloved.’  “Will you stop calling her that?”

“She works for the morgue Jon, what were you thinking?”

“It’s hard to find women in this line of work.”  He heard the bell ringing on the other side of the old stone house that served as their place of business and home—the five-floor monstrosity he knew people in town referred to as ‘Castle Black.’  He did wear a lot of black.  Came with the territory.  He waved off Arya.  “Just make sure you finish up with Mr. Lannister before the end of the evening.”

“The rich dude who died on the shitter?  Yeah, no thanks, that’s all yours.”

“Do you want to take this one?  Where the fuck is Robb anyway?”  Robb was the master of this shit, not him.  He was better with the dead.

Arya walked away before he even could try to play ‘Dragon, Wolf, Lion’ with her or answer as to where her eldest brother happened to have gone off.  Guess it was all him.  He caught his reflection in one of the mirrors in the hallway, adjusting his black tie at his neck and raking fingers through his curls.  It did nothing to tamp them down. He schooled his expression, solemn, and pushed through the dark wooden doors from the funeral home side of the floor to the entry way.  He let them swing back and folded his hands in front of him.  

“Welcome to Three Wolves Funeral Home, may I help you?” he asked, voice gentle; you never knew who might be waiting to speak with you on this side of the building.  He’d been accused too often in Robb’s post-services discussions of being too cold.

The woman standing in a dark red dress with long black overcoat was not someone who appeared to be in mourning, but then you never really knew, some people were good at masking emotions.  Her silver hair was in an elegant, braided knot at the back of her head and she had large black sunglasses folded in her hands, gazing at the table with various brochures for caskets.  

She turned, blinking wide violet eyes at him, her lips crimson, face pale.  “Good afternoon,” she greeted him, eyebrow arching.  “I’m inquiring as to your crematory services.”

“For yourself?” he blurted, before he realized how it sounded.

She smirked, while he flushed, thrown off by her stunning beauty.  He tried to school his expression again; she could very well have been there for her husband, boyfriend, or other, he did not need to stumbling through this.  He wished Robb was there.  “That would be interesting, wouldn’t it?  Well, I can assure you I’m not here to burn myself alive, but you know…” She inspected her hand, a couple rings on them glittering gold.  She grinned up at him.  “I have heard stories my ancestors were immune to flame.”

His throat constricted.  “Apologies.  Can I help you?”

“Your crematory services?” she wondered again, walking by him and into the showroom, running a finger over an ebony casket.  

“Ah…I am afraid Three Wolves does not offer such services.  We can, however, assist with selecting one, urns, and preparing a memorial service.”  He wondered what she was doing; she was now leaning down to look underneath a massive white casket.  No one really cared what the underside looked like.  He gestured towards the office.  “We can speak in private, if you wish?”  

The woman shook her head.  “No I’m fine, thank you.  Just doing a little bit of research.”

“For a relative?”  

“Something like that.”  She wore very high heels, which clicked loudly on the hardwood.  She glanced sideways; eyes shrewd.  “Are you one of the Three Wolves on your sign out front?”

“Yes, Jon Snow, I’m the mortician.”  It sounded so creepy like that, but it was the truth.  Robb handled the hand shaking, the business side.  Arya was their resident makeup artist—she could do wonders with faces practically taking them on and off—but he was the one who handled everything else.  

“Hmm, yes I heard of you.”  The woman offered her hand.  “Dany.”

“Jon,” he repeated, like an idiot.  He was put off by her beauty, rather disarming.  He swallowed hard again.  “Nice to meet you.  Is there…”

“This was enlightening Mr. Snow.  I’ll be back.”  Dany wiggled her fingers, waving, striding out decisively.  “See you later.”

What the seven hells was that about? He spun on his heel, about to ask her what else he could help her with, when the front door slammed shut, bell ringing on her exit.  He heard the door from the services wing open, Robb walking in.  He scowled.  “Where were you?”

“Talking with the Umbers, heard it went well, did we have a customer?” Robb adjusted his tie, eagerly seeing dollar signs.  “Where are they?”

“They left.”  

“Damnit Jon!”

He rolled his eyes, storming by.  “I’ll be downstairs.”

“With Tywin Lannister?  Better make him look good, the Lannisters are paying through the nose for this.”

“Aye,” he said idly, heading downstairs and to his ‘lair’ as Robb referred to it.  He shook his head, preparing in the locker room, putting on scrubs and his protective gear.  When he tugged on gloves, walking over to the block of freezer drawers, he rolled his eyes again, making another face.  He was better with dead people anyway.

-----

A couple of weeks later, Jon saw the beautiful silver-haired woman again, this time from the front step of the funeral home, while Arya sat on the railing, Robb in shocked horror as the sign went up across the street.  

Dracarys Funeral Home and Crematory Services

“How did this happen?  We had the run of things here!” Robb exclaimed.

Arya cracked her gum.  “Want me to get info?”

The silver haired Dany waved from the front step of her home.  “Hello Starks!”

Jon shook his head, appalled.  “I thought she was just asking because someone died…like they all do.”

“You didn’t think that she was scoping the competition?” Robb shouted.

“I told you I’m better with the dead than I am the living!”

“Oh leave him alone,” Arya chided.  She rubbed Ghost’s ears—his great white wolf—gazing across the street again, shrugging.  “Maybe we can make this work.  Jon, you were the one who met her, maybe you can get some more info.  They do crematory, we don’t.  Maybe we can make a deal or something.”

Robb nodded, poking his shoulder.  “Go over there, find out more.”

Jon sighed.  He really didn’t want to do this. “I have that Wall guy to deal with.”

“Jarl will keep, go find out more.”

He slid away from the column, clicking his tongue for Ghost to follow him, the two of them crossing the street and up to Dracarys.  He entered into the front room, seeing that everything was a shade of black and red.  He glanced at Ghost, who was scanning the space with his bright ruby eyes, white fluffy tail wagging slowly.  “What do you think?” he mumbled.

The walnut wood stairs creaked in the back, drawing him towards the door leading away from the showroom and sitting area.  He peeked into another part of the old house, just like how their business was set up, with a viewing room and seating area.  He moved to another door, which was open, leading down a set of stairs.  

A massive black cat yowled from a sunbeam near the door, hissing at Ghost and running off.  Ghost didn’t bark but took off after the cat.  He sighed, calling out.  “Please don’t kill her cat!”  

He went down the stairs and pushed open a set of swinging double doors, pausing at the sight.  It was state-of-the art and he scowled at some of the fancy equipment he’d been trying to convince Robb to upgrade to for the last year.  He ran his tongue over his teeth, arching a dark brow at the woman who had been wearing head-to-toe designer when he’d met her and now was in black scrubs and protective gear, leaning over a dead man, a kit of makeup and brushes next to her.  

“Jon Snow,” she called.

“Daenerys Targaryen.”  He used her full name.  The proprietress of the competition, he would not refer to her as Dany.  “You could have told me you were moving in across the street.”

“And you would have shown me around?  I think not.”  

He stepped closer, curious at what she was working on.  His eyebrows flew to his forehead.  “Greyscale, huh?”

“Hmm,” Dany murmured.  “Yes.”  She looked up, grinning.  “I saw you coming over, decided not to stop you from finding me.  You’re not squeamish.”

“No I’m not.”

“They call you the King of the Dead.”

It wasn’t the worst thing he’d been called.  “And you are?” he retorted.

“The Dragon Queen, I suppose you could call me.  Or at least, that’s what they called me at mortician school.”  She selected another brush, grinning.  “I’m offering a service that your busines does not Jon Snow, that’s all.”

“The North doesn’t burn their dead.”

“I know, but many in the South do.  There’s plenty of them moving up here.”  Dany stood and pushed the gurney with the greyscale man into the freezer, closing the door.  She removed her gloves and gear, walking by him, and began to wash up.  She tossed a serene smile over her shoulder.  “I think we can make this work Jon Snow.  Don’t worry about it.”

“Robb isn’t used to competition.”

“And you?”

He shrugged.  “I work better with the dead.”

“So do I.”  When she finished, she studied him for a few seconds, which unnerved him.  He tore his eyes from her, wondering what she was doing.  She approached him, hands on her hips.  “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”

He frowned, nose wrinkling, surprised.  “Coffee?”

“A hot beverage, sometimes served with milk and sugar?  Other times with various accoutrements like cinnamon or chocolate?” Dany’s smile softened.  He saw then how gentle she actually was, how soft.  It was comforting and he wasn’t even grieving.  She must be very good at her job, he thought.  He was numb, unsure how best to reply.  She patted his arm, stepping by him.  “Come on, I’ve got a lovely blend from Braavos.”

In the kitchen on the third floor of her house, where he assumed, she lived, she prepared the coffee.  He wondered where Ghost had gone.  “This how you get all the competition?” he managed to get out.  “Ply them with coffee?”

“Just you.”  Dany sat down across from him at a small bistro table in a large bay window, with a beautiful view of the mountains in the distance.  She passed him the mug of coffee and used a small ceramic pitcher to pour milk into her coffee.  Lifting it to her lips, she smiled again, warm and eyes dancing.  “You intrigue me.”

He sipped his coffee—it was very good—a small smile on his lips.  “You are an interesting one, Dany…if that is your real name.”

“Only my friends can call me Dany,” she mouthed.  

“And we’re friends?”

“Well I hope we’re not enemies.”

Jon figured he’d have to wait it out and see for certain, but he didn’t think enemies was the best word for it.  He was not good at this sort of thing, so he chose to continue drinking his coffee.  He set the mug down on the table, sighing and cocking his head, a slight furrow to his brow.  “I’m not good at this.”

“I know,” Dany shrugged.  “But I am.”

Well that was that then, he figured, smiling at her.  

-----

“So where did you two meet?”

Jon wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, as one of Sansa’s friends from King’s Landing had cornered him, trying to get info on Robb.  “Where did I meet…?” he echoed, playing dumb.

Margaery Tyrell frowned.  “Where did you meet Daenerys?  Sansa didn’t tell me.  In fact, she’s being really weird about things.  Won’t even tell me what Robb does for a living.”  Her eyes lit up.  “I like a challenge.”

“Um, well…”

His wife of the last two hours emerged at his side, looping her arm through his.  “We met at a funeral home,” she said, smiling at Margaery’s wide-eyed, horrified expression.  Dany gazed up at him, love shining from her beatific face.  “In fact, we contemplated holding the reception there, but figured everyone might think that a little weird.”  She smiled even wider.  “Also in the future, please keep the Fire on Ice Funereal Services in your thoughts for any funereal needs!”

Jon stifled a snort, glad to be rid of the odd questions.  He smiled down at his beloved.  “We didn’t actually consider the reception there or…did you?”

“No of course not, I don’t want to mix business and pleasure.”

“Isn’t that exactly what we did?”

“Nah, I came to scope out the competition and this really cute guy who couldn’t look me in the eye without blushing wandered in.”  Dany rose on her toes, pecking his cheek.  She patted her hand against his chest.  She beamed again.  “Best decision I ever made.  I could have sent Viserys.”

At the mention of her annoying older brother, Jon shivered.  He squeezed her close.  “Very well then.  Let’s at least try to figure out a better story, you’re scaring people.”

“Well it is the truth.”  

Jon shook his head, but smiled anyway, his arm around her and hers around him, both of them walking off into the crowd of guests.  He even thought that he overheard someone say the King of the Dead had found his queen.  He kissed her temple, sighing.  He certainly did.

THE END

[scapegrace74-blog]

Don’t Call It Love

A/N  With Saorsa done and dusted, it’s time to return to the Metric Universe.  When we last left Jamie and Claire in October 2017, they were sharing comforting silence and attending a Depeche Mode concert together.  Will things fall easily into place now that they have tripped over the line from being roommates to being friends?   Oh, hell no.  What would be the fun in that? 

All other parts of the Metric Universe are available on my AO3 page.

The song by Zero 7 (another guest artist!) that inspired the title is here.

Winter, 2017 - London, England

It happened by accident.  Happenstance.  Serendipity.   Fate.  The words she used to explain the fact that she and Jamie started seeing each other outside of the flat in social circumstances that would typically be characterized as dates varied, but her opinion remained fixed.  They weren’t dates.  Jamie was her roommate, a good friend, a fellow enthusiast of the culturally obscure, and a brilliant pub trivia partner.  They had both agreed that a romantic relationship between them would be disastrous; ergo, there was nothing romantic about their increasingly frequent outings.  If she could memorize the names for the 206 bones in the human skeleton, she could certainly manage to keep her feelings for Jamie inside the tidy box she had built for them.

Non-Date #1

They crossed paths inside the massive Spittalfields Market, both of them with shoulders damp from the chilly November rain.  Jamie was on his way to the fishmonger, while Claire carried a cloth bag filled with late-season vegetables, determined to eat something other than take-out on a rare day off from lectures and the hospital.

“Are ye on yer way back tae the flat, then?” Jamie asked, physically fighting the urge to offer to carry Claire’s wee sack.

“No, I’m off to the charnel house first.”

“The what, now?”  Surely he’d misheard her.

“The charnel house.  Don’t tell me you’ve been living over top of a medieval burial ground all this time without realizing it?” Claire teased.

Intrigued as much by her beguiling smirk as the opportunity to explore a bit of London’s history, Jamie followed Claire to a commercial highrise near the edge of the market.  Descending a non-descript stairwell in Bishop’s Square, they came to a halt in front of a glass wall.  On the other side was an excavated ruin, the crypt of the long-vanished chapel of St. Mary’s Spital hospital, a quick scan of a nearby information plaque informed him.

“They only discovered it was here when construction of the office tower began,” Claire said, a wistful look on her face.  “For centuries, travelers and the victims of London’s many plagues were buried around the hospital, quite literally in the Spital fields.  When the graves overflowed, they brought the excess bones here and stacked them for safe-keeping until the Apocalypse.  Imagine, forgetting something so...fundamental.”

Jamie grunted in acknowledgement, seeing the reflection of Claire’s face superimposed on the glass.  He couldn’t decide if this human tendency towards forgetfulness pleased or disappointed her.

“Tis rather...”

“Macabre?” she suggested with a grin, turning away from the display and climbing back into the cloud-roofed square.

“I was gonna say morbid, but as ye like.”

“We build our present on the bones of our past, my Uncle Lamb used to tell me.  He was referring to archaeology, but I’ve found it to be true of life itself.”

They walked back to the flat, collars raised against the hastening rain.  Jamie had bought enough hake for two, so they shared the narrow worktop, dicing fresh vegetables and letting their shoulders bump together occasionally.

Claire ate at the two-person dining table while scrolling social media on her phone.  Jamie used the coffee table to hold his plate and the gaming magazine he was flipping through.

It wasn’t a date.

Non-Date #4

Her cellphone rang as she was leaving the bathroom, thoughts bouncing between her end-of-semester exams and her non-existent plans for the Christmas holidays.  She accepted the call with one hand while starting the tedious job of separating her soaking curls with the other.  At first there was only static.  She glanced at the screen, recognizing the familiar number.

“Jamie?” she tried.

“...mac na ghalla, Hamish...” followed by muffled noises and masculine jeering.  She switched hands and started to towel off, making certain first that the video call button wasn’t active.

“Hal-lo.  Paging Mr. Fraser.  You have a call on line one.”

“Ach, sorry Claire.  I didna mean tae... That is, the lads were just... How are ye?”

She giggled at his discomposure.  “I’m well, thank you.  And you?”  They had seen each other that morning, as he came off shift and she was leaving for her morning lectures, so she assumed there was more to this call than a polite inquiry into her state of well-being.  She had learned over their months as roommates that sometimes you just needed to wait for Jamie to get to his point.

“Braw, thank ye.  I was... weel, I’m at the park with some o’ the lads, tryin’ tae put t’gether a side, an’ we’re short a winger, an’ I was jus’ thinkin’, ye said ye wanted tae learn tae play an’...”

Another James Fraser quirk was that he rambled in broad Scots when he was nervous.

“Jamie, are you asking me to play rugby with you?”

“Aye.  Aye, I am.  If ye wish, o’ course.”

“I did just step out of the shower...” she mentioned, already peering outside at the threatening sky and mentally assessing her wardrobe for something suitable for a ruck and maul in the rain.  “Hello?” when there was no sound from the other end in some time.

“Aye, I’m here.  Nevermind, Claire.  I dinna consider, ye must be gettin’ ready to study fer yer finals, an’...”

“Where are you?” she interrupted, opening a drawer and pulling out a pair of yoga pants.

“Victoria Park?” Jamie replied, sounding hesitant and hopeful.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

“Splendid!”  She could hear his smile down the line.

“I better not get mud in my hair, Fraser,” she retorted before hanging up, her own smile lingering on her face.

There was nothing romantic about rugby.

Non-Date #7

The flat was strangely forlorn, even with Christmas lights twinkling merrily in the living room windows and a tiny fir tree precariously balancing its five ornaments standing in the corner.  

They had exchanged their gifts on December 23rd, sipping on hot chocolate spiked with Kahlua and grinning shyly at each other.  She’d bought Jamie the next Call of Duty game for his XBox.  Nothing intimate, just something he’d mentioned in passing he was looking forward to trying.  His boyish glee upon unwrapping the package warmed her more than her drink.   Hands shaking slightly, she delicately opened the tastefully wrapped rectangle he presented to her.  Inside was a cashmere scarf, luxuriously soft beneath her fingers as she stroked it.

“Is this?” she asked.

“Aye, tis the Fraser plaid.  Ye ken there’s no’ a clan named Bee-cham, right?”

She was deeply touched, and thanked him was a kiss against his scruffy cheek.

Jamie had left for Scotland the next day, having somehow managed to secure a week’s worth of leave from his uncle over the holiday season.   As was her wont, she’d put down for as many shifts as possible while medical school wasn’t in session, but by some fluke she wasn’t scheduled to work New Year’s Eve for the first time in recent memory.

Some of her classmates from nursing college had invited her along to a “raging party in Shoreditch”, but she’d made up some excuse.  The truth was, she wasn’t in the mood for loud music and over-priced drinks with a group of virtual strangers.  If Geillis had been in town, she would have allowed her friend to coerce her into whatever mayhem she had up her sleeve, but Geillis was still in Columbia and eight months’ pregnant with twins, to everyone’s collective shock.  Especially the mother-to-be.

No, what she really wanted was a quiet evening at home, snuggled under her favourite fleece blanket on their couch, the latest Ferrante novel in her lap and a glass of Pinot Noir at the ready.  Jamie had a turntable and a surprisingly well-curated selection of vinyl in his bedroom, but she didn’t like entering his domain without his permission.

Without giving it a second thought, she rang his cell.  It was only upon hearing the raucous sounds of a party in full swing that it occurred to her that just because she was spending New Year’s Eve alone, it didn’t mean Jamie was as well.

“Claire?” he yelled over something that sounded a lot like live music.  “Are ye all right, lass?”

“Oh!  I’m so sorry, Jamie.  I just wanted to ask... never mind.  It’s not important.  Enjoy your party...”

“Wait!” the background noise mutated, sounding like a riot underwater, and then there was a wooden slam.  Jamie huffed a sigh of relief.

“Mu dheireadh.   Are ye still there, Sassenach?”

“Still here,” she confirmed, suddenly feeling sorry for herself.  She might be the most pathetic thirty-year old in London.

“Did the hospital no’ call ye in for a shift, then?”

She tucked the blanket under her feet, warding off the chill that always seemed to creep in from the wall of windows.  The Christmas lights she’d strung reflected against the glazing in alternating colours: blue, red, green, blue, red, green.

“No. By some miracle of the festive season, I have the night off,” she joked halfheartedly.   “I’m sorry for interrupting your night out.  I wanted to ask if I could borrow your turntable and a few of your albums?”

“O’ course.  Ye didna need tae ask.  An’ I’m no’ out.  I’m at home, at Lallybroch.”  He pronounced the word with a guttural flourish that made Claire think of an exotic kind of pastry or a rare tribal custom.  Any time Jamie spoke of his family’s home in Scotland, he imbued it with an otherworldly quality, like a fortress in a fairy tale, a far away land of warriors and mist.  It was strange to think of him there now, while she sat alone in their flat.

“It sounds like quite the party.”

“Aye.  The Frasers take their Hogmanay celebrations verra seriously.  Ye shoulda come wi’ me.”  Then, as though realizing what he’d said, he added quickly, “We could use a doctor.  Dougal sprained his ankle doin’ a sword dance, and Angus singed his arse somethin’ fierce jumpin’ o’er the bonfire.”

She laughed, her mood suddenly much lighter, and asked for more particulars as to how his cousin’s naked ass came to be in close proximity to open flame.  Without either realizing it, the last minutes of 2017 crept by.

Fireworks erupted outside, followed by the tolling of bells and honking of horns.  On the other end of the call, she could hear cheering and an off-key rendition of Auld Lang Syne.  They were both silent, embarrassed to have been so caught up in their trivial conversation as to have missed the arrival of midnight.

“Happy Hogmanay, Sassenach,” Jamie’s voice came soft and sure over the line.

“Happy New Year, Jamie,” she replied.  “I should really let you get back to your party.   Your family must be wondering where you’ve disappeared to.”

He hummed noncommittally.  It occurred to her that had they been in the same place, they would likely be kissing right now.  It sent a shiver of want down her spine.

“Jamie?”  Her voice sounded thready, like she had just woken from a deep sleep.

“Hmmm?”  Shivers, again.

“What’s a Sassenach?”

He laughed softly, and she had to bite her lip.  What was the matter with her?  “Tis a Scottish word for a foreigner, particularly an English one,” he explained.

“You’ve never called me that before,” Claire remarked.

“I’ve ne’er spoken tae ye while on Scottish soil.  T’wasn’t an accurate description ‘til now.”

There was a long silence.  She could hear the sound of revelry through the door of whatever room at Lallybroch he’d hidden inside.  Outside the flat there were firecrackers.   They reminded her of mortar rounds heard from a distance in Afghanistan.

“You don’t like fireworks, do you?” she guessed.  It didn’t take an advanced degree in psychology to know that bright flashes and sudden pops of sound would trigger his PTSD.  They really were a mess, the pair of them.

“Nay.  Jenny an’ Ian’s bairns love them, an’ I told them no’ tae hold off on my account, but they insisted on a bonfire instead.  It reminds me o’ when I was a lad, a’fore ye could buy fireworks along wi’ yer ham at the local Tesco.”

Jamie launched into a long account of the significance of bonfires in Highland culture, and she let herself drift on the melody of his voice, the turntable long forgotten.

“Tell me about yer most memorable New Year’s,” he prompted after his cultural diatribe wound down.

“Oh, well, they all rather blur together, actually.  Too much drink, too much spent on the cover charge.  You know how it is.”

“Nah, I mean when ye were younger.  Ye must ‘ave celebrated in some remarkable places.”

She thought back to her time spent following Uncle Lamb around the globe.  Truth be told, traditional holidays weren’t something that stood out in her memory.  They felt like a foreign custom, a series of drawings taken from a picture book that showed a mother, father and children crowded around a loaded table while snow piled up outside.  They bore no relation to her reality.  It was no wonder Christmas and New Year’s left her feeling ambivalent.

Still, she didn’t want Jamie to feel sorry for her, so she launched into one of her favourite tales.

“One year, I must have been eleven, Lamb was leading an excavation of a Berber oasis town in northern Mali.  The site closed down for the Christian holidays, but Lamb decided to stay behind rather than travel back to England.  We ended up riding camels through these enormous sand dunes, following a local guide on an ancient caravan route.  On December 31st, just as the sun was setting and we had begun to make camp, the camel Lamb had been riding let out this infernal noise, leapt to its feet, and started to gallop away.  Lamb and the guide set off after it on foot, hollering and waving their keffiyeh in the air.  It was the funniest thing.”

“They left ye all alone in the desert?” Jamie asked, horrified.

“Oh, well, they came back eventually.  The camel had been stung by a scorpion, you see.  Once it got over the fright, they were able to catch it and bring it back to camp.”

“Were ye no’ scared, tae be out there in the dark by yerself?”

“No.  Not as I remember it.  The sunset was glorious, and little by little the sky came alive with a million stars.”

“Ye brave wee thing.”  Jamie sighed.  “I wish I was there wi’ ye.”

She didn’t know if he meant with her on that sand dune, or with her at their flat.  Either way, her answer was the same.

“I wish you were too.”

They finally hung up well past two o’clock.  It didn’t count as a date if the other person was five hundred miles away as you whispered goodnight.

Non-Date #12

The Royal London was expanding its pediatrics wing, and Claire was invited to a fundraising gala held, fittingly, in the Museum of Childhood.  The invitation included a plus one, and she’d been putting off asking Jamie if he could join her all week.  It wasn’t that she doubted his suitability as an escort.  Far from it.  But the gala was taking place on February 14th, of all nights, and the symbolism made her nervous.  Still, the alternative was spending the night being hit on by a drunken internist or hedge fund investor, and that was a headache she could do without.

“So,” she began casually a few nights before the event, “any plans for Valentine’s Day?”  If he said he was working or had, god forbid, a date, she would just have to go stag.

Jamie set down his gaming controller and turned to face her desk.  The pulsing  colours from the screen lit his curls like a neon nimbus in the dim room.

“Nah, nothin’ definite.  An’ ye, Sassenach?” he asked tentatively, as though easing himself out onto a frozen lake, unsure of the depth of the ice.  The nickname he had assigned to her during his holidays in Scotland had stuck.  She didn’t correct the inaccuracy, as she rather liked the idea of having a name that was only his.

“Well, I’ve been summoned to a fundraising gala for the hospital, and I was wondering... not that you need feel obliged... it’s black tie, which is really the height of pretension, if you ask me... anyway, there’s no way to decline gracefully short of an aneurysm, so...”

“Out wi’ it, Sassenach,” he prodded.

“Mightyouconsiderbeingmydate?” she blurted, before taking a large gulp of tepid tea.

“Yer date?” he asked as though he had never heard of such a thing.

She sighed, resigned to the fact he was going to make this difficult.  “Yes.  My date.  My plus one.  My social companion.  And hopefully, my defence against spending the evening being pitied and set up with someone’s second cousin, Nigel, the chartered accountant.”

“Do ye have somethin’ against accountants, then?”  The corner of his lip was twitching with the birth of a grin.

“Oh, very funny, you bloody Scot.  Look, I need a date on Valentine’s Day and you are the only man in the Greater London Area who won’t interpret that as an opportunity for a pity shag.   The offer is on the table.  Take it or leave it.”

Something flashed behind his eyes that she couldn’t interpret.  Then it was gone.

“Ne’er fear, Sassenach.  I’ll protect ye from all the wee Nigels.”

***

She’d forgotten to ask whether Jamie had suitable attire for a black tie event.   It was too late now, regardless.  They were meeting at the museum, since she was on shift until eight.  Using the nurses on-call room to get changed, she slinked into her burgundy chiffon gown, its gauzy layers wrapping around her like millefeuille.   Her hair was a lost cause, so she slicked it back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and hoped for the best.  Silver chandelier earrings and a dab of cologne below her jaw, and she was ready to go.  She carried a small beaded clutch and her dress shoes - there was no way she was navigating the Tube in stilettos. 

The museum was a single massive space, conversation and the tympani of glassware echoing against its high-arched ceiling.  She stood in the entryway after checking her coat, spinning in circles and trying to get her bearings.  More than one lascivious glance was directed her way, but she studiously ignored them in favour of looking for Jamie.  With his height and red hair, he shouldn’t be hard to pick out of the crowd.

There was an appreciative murmur from behind her, a gust of fresh air, and then a soft tap against her bare shoulder.  She turned around.

No.  Not hard to pick out from a crowd at all.  Standing before her was James Fraser in full Highland regalia.  He wore his family tartan, a black velvet waistcoat, brilliant white dress shirt and a black bow tie.  When her gaze fell to the floor, she noticed his polished brogues and white socks pulled up to his knees.  She’d never before considered how a man’s knees might be alluring, but there it was.   Jamie had very sexy knees.

“G’d evening, Sassenach.  Ye look... weel, ye look bonnie.”  Jamie’s normally deep voice was gruffer than usual, perhaps on account of the cold night air.  Or maybe his bowtie was tied too tight.

“Good evening, Jamie,” she replied once she found her voice.  “You look, well, if you were a Jacobite, I’d say you looked regal.”

The tops of Jamie’s ears went red, and he ducked his chin, his tamed curls falling briefly forward.  It gave him the look of a bashful child receiving unexpected praise, completely at odds with the strikingly masculine figure he cut.

“No’ a Nigel, then?” he teased.

“No.  Definitely not a Nigel.  Come, let’s get something to drink before all the top-shelf liquor runs out.  You wouldn’t believe how much some of these doctors can put away!”

Jamie was a perfect date.  He stood by her elbow as she mingled and greeted various colleagues and professors, nodding at their tales of medical misfortune and smiling at their awkward jokes.  He spoke confidently about his work and current affairs, and patiently tolerated endless jibes about what a true Scotsman wore beneath his kilt.

When she politely excused them from one such conversation, he leaned over to whisper in her ear as they walked away to fortify themselves with more alcohol.

“I’ve a mind tae lift my plaid an’ moon the entire assembly the next time one o’ yer wee doctor friends asks about my underthings.  Are ye sure they arena raising funds for a new proctology department, Sassenach?”

She snorted in a truly unladylike fashion and turned to meet his unrepentant smirk.  Just then, a figure approaching from the bar caught her eye.

Oh no.  It couldn’t be.  After five years, she’d finally relaxed her vigilance, had ceased anticipating his presence at every turn, and now, here he was.

“Sassenach?” Jamie was watching her with concern.  The blush had drained from her cheeks, leaving her wine-stained lips and sintering eyes the only colour on her face.

“Claire!  Fancy meeting you here!”  Had his voice always been so nasal?  His eyes so glassy and vacant, like portals into nothingness.  He’d obviously been drinking heavily.  A blond woman half his age had her arm linked through his.

“Frank,” she uttered his name.  Jamie stepped into her side, his posture erect, somehow sensing that she needed his protection from this unheralded threat.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise.  I’d heard you’d gone into the army, or some such thing.  Afghanistan, was it?  Well, with your penchant for violence, I suppose that’s fitting.”

She breathed deeply through her nose.  She would not let him get the better of her.  She wasn’t that person anymore.  With a clammy hand, she grabbed onto Jamie’s fingers where they rested around her hip.  He squeezed back.  He was here.   She wasn’t alone.  It was all the strength she needed.

“Yes, that’s right.  I served overseas for a time, but I’m back in London now.  In medical school.   Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving.”

Focusing on each step, she turned towards the exit, Jamie’s hand now warm upon the small of her back.  Her chin wobbled, but she bit down hard to stave off tears.

“A doctor?” Frank taunted from behind her.  “Wouldn’t a demolition expert be more apropos, darling?”

She froze, spine trembling with anger.  Jamie made a questioning noise, asking without words if she wanted him to intervene.   She didn’t.

Glancing over her shoulder, she dealt her parting blow.

“Give my best to Amelia and the children.”  Without waiting to witness the aftermath of her pronouncement, she made her way out into the chilly night air, Jamie’s bulk a silent sentinel at her side.

It wasn’t a date if it ended on the floor of your bathroom, crying ugly sobs as mascara stained your cheeks, while your partner held your shoulders and made soothing noises with his throat.  

That wasn’t dating, that was survival.

***

mac na ghalla = son of a bitch

Mu dheireadh = finally

[angelsonthesideline]

Tales from the Ex-Crypt Vol. 8

Well.. This one isn't as much an "ex" as we only ever saw each other twice, but after I explain what happened on the "twice" it will likely be apparent... So consider this one of my "dating misadventures".

We met on Tinder, he was in my area for work, as he's a red seal carpenter and there's tons of trades work going on. We hadn't talked that much, but enough to know we got along and had exchanged numbers. It was a hot Saturday, he decided to call his day early because of the heat and texted me to see what I was up to, and we decided to do a breakfast date after he showered and drove out from the city.

He was much more attractive in person, and had a great personality.. We found a little hole in the wall diner and had brunch with great convo. So we decided to go for a drive, so I could show him some areas he wouldn't see just working in downtown Toronto.

We went to my favourite little fruit orchard winery and did a cider tasting of their new ciders, they were all delicious, so we bought a few to take home. Came back a different route so he'd see even more, then came back to my place and kept talking. When we went to say goodnight, he kissed me, pushing me against the wall and it went from there..

We had such a great time, we made plans to go to the Slipknot concert that was happening a few weeks later.

That turned out to be the completely opposite experience. I got stuck in awful traffic getting to his rental because Waze decided to take me downtown instead of across the north. I was late getting to his place, which didn't even end up being an issue because he wasn't ready when I got there anyways. His bff had come into town and they were partying already.

He brought a backpack and smuggled beers into the venue, had smoked a joint with his buddy and the guys who were also renting rooms at their place before we left.

He was a little belligerent as a drunk, in that he kept wanting to find seats someone didn't show up for instead of just chilling on the lawn where we had tickets to. He had a few beers, and decided to go for a wander to get more. When he came back he was super fucked up, no idea what he did or what he found, but we had to locate each other with selfies and I had to find him. He then ended up deciding he wanted in the pit. We were 4 songs into Slipknot's set when I get a call..

"Kicked out"

He was so loaded he could barely speak properly, but somehow found my number in his phone and called me, requesting I come see him. I hit the bathroom on the way to the gates, with his backpack and the smuggled beer/blanket inside. He calls me again, because I wasn't there yet.

In the 10'ish minutes it took me to walk from the venue (which is on an island), go to the bathroom, and then continue to the front gates across the bridge, he was so out of it, he couldn't even tell me where he was in the area outside the gates. Took me another 10 minutes to find him.

Managed to collect him, all 6'2 and 235-240lbs of muscle that he was. He was a veteran with two active duties behind him, who had been shot, and blown up.. and here I was slugging his ass - shoulder supporting his arm, hand holding his wrist, other hand in the back of his shorts steering him - through a CROWDED AS FUCK exhibition grounds (the CNE in Toronto is basically the biggest carnival we have here) heading to the street car station at the front gates. I have to pee again (damn beer), so I drop him off at a giant rock outside of the bathroom entrance and tell him to *stay* like a damn dog. I'm mid-stream when my phone starts ringing and he's looking for me. I finish, wash my hands and recollect him.

When we get to the streetcar station, he's so hammered he can barely find his transit pass, they don't even ask for my fare, just make me put his shirt on.. he then tries to run to the street car and wipes out, taking me with him because his fall pulled me partway down.. No blood at least on either of us, but my sandal was the casualty, stretching out the toe thong on one and making them trash.

Get him on the street car, then manage to wrangle his ass through Union Station to the subway AND get on the right subway to get back to his area (where my vehicle was, although I was stuck staying over because I was intending to and had been drinking and while shit like this sobers you up, I knew I still wasn't okay to drive).

The entire subway ride, I'm struggling not to puke and he's sleeping on my lap.. wake him up the stop before his, so he will be able to be more alert and actually able to drag his ass off the subway (keep in mind, I am still supporting him with the arm over shoulder/shorts steering maneuver at this point). We get on the escalator, and get him outside. There's a crowd waiting for the bus already, and he tries unzipping his pants to take a piss. I'm like "you can't pee here!" and he gives up trying to unzip (gets it about half undone) and just pisses himself... like Austin Powers levels of piss... everywhere...

I still have to get soggy drippy pants home now.. and we have about 2 km to walk after we get off the bus. We get about 200 feet before he walks up the grassy hill and lays down and almost passes out. I force him to get back up, we get about half a block further and he lays down on the grass outside of an old age home and won't get up.. so I finally get him to call his buddy to come get us (who he doesn't even remember at this point and I have to remind him who he is)... first call was unsuccessful, second call I took the phone and his buddy came to get us. He died laughing at the situation, and was as puzzled as me as to how he was falling down (he wiped out again on the way to the truck) drunk when the man can drink a ton and be okay and his buddy had never seen him that wasted in years of partying/friendship, including drugs.

We got him home, he showered and crawled into bed and passed out.. I shared his twin bed with him and drove home the next day, had a shower after no sleep and went into work late (which I had booked off anyways).

Was definitely an experience... and I still haven't managed to see a full Slipknot set because last years show was cancelled due to Covid. But I will definitely not be slugging some drunk ass out before the show is done next time!!

[ask-de-writer]

THE MORGRIPE REPORT : MLP Fan Fiction

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

Return to Tales to Read AFTER the Lights are OUT!

THE MORGRIPE REPORT

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

2180 words

© 2019 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved.  This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

The small cloud white mare with black mane and tail was industriously clipping the grass and weeds around the tomb of Colonel Goodheart. The marble of his monument was softly lighted by the moon overhead. Done with her weed and grass tending, she raked up the trimmings into a tidy pile, ready to gather them up and take to the tomb that she shared with the liches Zom and Junea.

Even though she had heard it before, she listened politely to the Colonel's ghost as he talked to her while she worked, “Kind of ironic, you know, Bonnie, my mare.  I fought in two Prance Incursion Wars and didn't get a scratch.  Home on leave, despite my name of Goodheart, it was my bad heart that got me!  Heart attack and here I am!  

“I am so glad that a mortal like you lives among us who have passed on. It helps to have somepony like you to chat with.”

Bonnie smiled, “It works both ways, Colonel Goodheart.  I was abandoned as a small filly because of my stunted horn.  If Zom and Junea had not taken me into their tomb, I would have died that first winter.  Since then, you ghosts and liches have taught me so many neat and useful things!”

Bonnie was just reaching her limited horn magic down to bind her tasty grass and weed clippings into a shock to take back to the tomb that she lived in, when a pony came charging up and careless hooves scattered her dinner!  

The intruder announced breathlessly, “I am Melissa Newsnose, reporter for the Ponyville's Dark Secrets magazine!  I am here to demand . . .”

Very irritated, Bonnie did not wait to hear more.  She pulled out a whistle and blew three sharp blasts!

Pulled up short, Melissa, now irritated herself, snapped, “What was that for?”

Bonnie replied angrily, “The police!  It is after visiting hours and this cemetery is CLOSED!  Whoever you are, whatever your errand, you will be arrested for trespassing.”

Drawing herself up haughtily, Melissa replied, “I am a REPORTER working on a story.  You have no right to . . .”

Return police whistles cut her off.  There were nightwatch lanterns visible at the cemetery gate.  Official voices called, “Miss Bones!  Where are you?  What is happening?”

Bonnie called back, “Over here by the Goodheart monument!  We have an after hours trespasser!”

The police ponies converged on the scene.  One addressed the reporter, “Melissa, I am afraid that Bonnie is correct.  You have no business here at this hour.”

Argumentatively she retorted, “Then what is SHE doing here?”

Bonnie waited while the officer replied in a mild tone, “Miss Bones works here as a caretaker, usually in the evenings or after dark.  She tends the graves and keeps the grass trimmed.”

Bonnie agreed, “And part of my payment from Duchess Red Hoof is the right to graze the trimmings.”  She pointed to Melissa and growled, “Clumsy hoof there just ruined my dinner trimmings.  I had some nice dandelion flowers and greens and a nice thistle bloom but she trampled them all and even scattered my grass.”

Melissa drawled, “Sorry, I am sure.  You can just go pick some more.  I am here to solve the Morgripe murder case.”

Bonnie looked up with interest.  “Oh, have you found some shred of proof that he was murdered?  Something not in the police reports on the case?  Last that I heard, he was listed as a missing pony.”

One of the police ponies nodded.  “That's what we concluded.  I was on that case.  Bonnie here, stopped Morgripe, Gabe and Chaz from vandalism by knocking both Morgripe and Gabe flat.  Chaz ran and brought us.  He was spouting all sorts of nonsense about Miss Bones dropping from the sky on them!  Gabe got up and ran too, abandoning Morgripe.

It appears that after Miss Bones picked up their tools and paint brush, that Morgripe got up and left on his own.”

Melissa pounced on that.  “How do you know that she did not kill him, then?”

He replied, “Easy.  The grass and sod where he and Gabe fell made excellent impressions.  Besides, the spilled paint marked the spot beautifully.  If he was killed, his body would have to have been dragged off or carried.  She is too small to have carried him. Likewise, there were no deep tracks made by a heavily laden pony and no drag marks.  There were some hoof prints going back to the gravel path.  QED, he left on his own.

“I suspect that he finally actually saw Miss Bones during and after she flattened him.  He was always liar and braggart.  For years he and his buddies were saying that there was a monster in the graveyard.  I think that he realized that his monster was a filly way smaller than any of them and knew that the truth would get out.  Embarrassed, he just sneaked off and left town.”

Melissa snorted, “I saw the police reports.  Very unsatisfactory.  How could such a little wither horn as her possibly take on three ponies, all bigger than she is?”

Before Bonnie could respond to the insult, one of the police ponies cut in, “That last entry in the Morgripe file was made by constable Crager. That report came about because he saw Bonnie get ambushed by both Gabe and Chaz.  

“She flattened both of them and put a sleeper hold on Gabe, knocking him out for ten minutes or so.  Her involvement in the Morgripe case came up in conversation.  She then provided a statement which gave us better detail but changed nothing basic.”

Bonnie acidly pointed out, “This LITTLE WITHER HORN will be happy to demonstrate how I flattened those evil ponies.  All that you need to do is agree that I am not responsible for your injuries in front of these nice police ponies.  Once you do that, the demonstration can begin at once.”

Melissa turned to the police ponies and demanded, “Are you going to just stand there and let her threaten me like that?”

Calmly one of them replied, “Ma'am, you have been nothing but rude and unpleasant since we arrived.  We were called to deal with your trespassing in the cemetery after closing, which IS a crime, if a minor one.

“Bonnie did not threaten you, either.  You asked a question that was very rude and contained a direct personal insult.  She offered to answer it by a physical demonstration, which I gather, from your response, you have refused.”

The other put in, “Bonnie has been most forbearing in not demanding your immediate arrest and removal.  However, that is why we responded and what we must do.  Will you come to the station house, or must we put you in manacles?”

As they led her off, Bonnie heard Melissa expostulating, “But I am trying solve the Morgripe murder case!  She is a witness!”

Bonnie turned back to her work and found a pleasant surprise.  The ghost of the Colonel had been busy.  All of her clippings had been regathered. That was not all.  There was a nice sized helping of dandelion flowers to replace the few that had been ruined by Melissa's hooves.

The old warrior's ghost smiled down at her from where he was sitting on top of his tomb.  “Gathering that together and finding you more dandelions was pretty tiring, Bonnie.”

She smiled up at him and, gathering her meal with her weak magic, ghost floated up to his level to eat it.  Her legs folded comfortably under her, as if she were resting on a nice cushion, instead of empty air, offered, “I know that was hard for you do do, Colonel.  Here, even if you can't eat any of it, at least you can share the scent of it.”

They completed her meal in companionable silence.  Taking her leave politely, Bonnie went home, walking into Zom and Junea's crypt through the door.  As usual, she did not bother to open it, but simply passed through the solid oaken panels like she had been taught to do so long ago by the many ghosts who shared the graveyard with her adoptive parents, Zom and Junea.  There were other liches of several sorts and a few vampires too.  They all had good things to add to the education of an abandoned foal like she was.

She settled herself on the empty coffin shelf that had been her place since Zom and Junea took her in.  The attentive liches that she loved so much, carefully tucked her in before retiring to their coffins to wait out the passing of the day.

The next evening they arose as usual and shared a quiet breakfast. Technically, only Bonnie ate the fried hay twists but her loving liches took pleasure and emotional nourishment from watching her eat.

Since ponies rarely look UP, Bonnie floated ghost-like, up and put her head through the stone roof of the crypt to look about.  The way being clear, she floated over to the gravel path and trotted quietly towards the gate.  She floated up to peer cautiously over the wall.

Sure enough, there was Melissa Newsnose sitting in the omnibus weather shelter, keeping an eye on the cemetery mail box.  Bonnie went to the corner of the cemetery closest to the forest and emerged from the brush there, making it appear that she had come out of the Everfree. She trotted up the street to check the mailbox.

She was removing a letter and a note when Melissa spoke up.  “I wish to apologize for my behavior last evening, Miss Bones.  Would you be willing to show me where you encountered Morgipe, Gabe and Chaz?  I really am working on a story for Ponyville's Dark Secrets magazine.”

Bonnie chuckled, “You are new there, aren't you?  Your first story? Right?”

Melissa nodded as she got up.  “Yes, it is.  They told me that it was an important unsolved case.  Why do you ask?”

Bonnie produced a key and opened the gate for them to enter.  “Because PDS pulls that on just about all of their new staffers.  Seeing how fast they catch on that is a missing pony case rather than a murder is part of their testing new hires.”

“You just blew their game, didn't you?”

“Why not?  They aren't paying me.  Besides, you can still make a good story out of his disappearance.”

Carefully locking the gate behind them, Bonnie escorted Melissa into the cemetery.  Shortly she pointed, “I was doing some mortar repair on that tomb.  Since I was behind it and down almost at ground level with the work, they did not notice me.”

Bonnie crouched behind the tomb.  “When I heard enough of their plans, I jumped from here to the middle of the path, right between them and gave a Morgripe double buck.  I followed that with a forehoof strike at Gabe.  Chaz ran like a rabbit.  While I was gathering up their hammers and prybars, Gabe got up and ran too.  Morgripe just lay there blubbering.  I got his paint brush.

“Since I had seen him, his tools were gone and his paint all spilled, I figured that he wasn't going to do anything more and left to get ready for a Nightmare Night party.  When I got back from that, it was nearly dawn.  I looked, but there was no sign of him or any vandalism.  Went home.”

Melissa looked everything over carefully.  “I see.  That was quite a jump, but nothing impossible.  No wonder they thought that you fell from the sky!”

She made copious notes.  “I have two more things to ask, Bonnie. First, what do you think happened to Morgripe?  And second, would you please look over my story draft before I turn it in?”

As they were approaching the cemetery gate, Bonnie gave a cheerful laugh.  “Sure.  I will be happy to look over your story.

“As for that other one, I see three possibilities.  First, it was after the Nightmare rose and was sharing the sky with Celestia.  At such times, according to witches, the border between here and Nightmare Lands is thin.  He may have wandered into Nightmare and vanished from this Equestria.  Second, he may have gone into the Everfree, which is close by, to try finding my place to get even for being stopped.  He was like that.  Bad things can happen to any pony who does not know what he is about in the Everfree.  Third, the police version.  He left out of shame when he found out that the monster that he was talking up for years was a filly, smaller than any of them.”

As Bonnie was re locking the gate, Melissa said, “The Everfree angle was not in the police reports.  Thanks.  I think that I will use that one.  As for your first one, do you really believe that?”

Bonnie gave another giggle.  “I spend most of my time in a graveyard.  I just had to say it!”

~THE END~

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

Return to Tales to Read AFTER the Lights are OUT!

[moviesrotbrains]

George A. Romero Day

I was nine or ten when I first saw Tom Savini’s NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD (1990) remake. It wasn’t my first horror film. FRANKENSTEIN (1931) was an early memory, and a giant life-sized poster of his monster1 protected my room from nightmares. I’d often dream of Freddy Krueger despite never having seen any of his films at that point. Horror was everywhere in the 1980s.

I was in awe of LIVING DEAD ‘90. The idea of being trapped in a house with evils lurking outside. The paranoia that brewed among the humans… how the humans became monsters long before they were even bit. It was heavy stuff at the time. I don’t know if I drew parallels to all of this or simply thought, “Wow, those intense zombie fights that would make a cool NES game!”2

Savini’s redo was probably my first actual zombie experience. Again, I had seen zombies in other media, most like Scooby Doo or whatever other Saturday morning cartoon cribbed and remixed the undead concept to sell toys or comicbooks.

It was a few years later that I finally got to see George A. Romero’s original NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD (1968). I can’t recall if I first saw it on TV or an actual repertory screening of it. Memory is weird that way. I do remember being thoroughly blown away by it, despite more or less having memories of the plot from that remake.

I never had a problem with Black & White movies, having already been a full on film-junkie at that point, but somehow that black & white depiction of old school zombies felt hyper real. Unsettling. Fucking cool as hell. Unerving. Or maybe I was just a dumb kid. Oh, I definitely was a dumb kid, and still am, but that moment cemented George Romero in the pantheon of cinematic greats. Didn’t matter what else he did, he made NOTLD. He made a weighty zombie film full of social commentary and subtext.3 He popularized zombies. He didn’t need to do anything else.

Oh, but he did. He so did. 

It was around the time I was starting to consume more horror4 that a classmate had cut some scenes into a film project we were working on. My jaw was on the floor when I first saw the gory display of gritty carnage.

“This is from the 70s?” 

I knew so little. I definitely didn’t know those effects were also by Tom Savini, but everything was coming full circle, and that was one of the key moments that I fell in love with Savini without even knowing.

“You never seen this? Here, man, I’ll loan you it.”

And that was when I first saw Romero’s DAWN OF THE DEAD (1978). Take some people of various walks of life and have them take refuge in an empty mall-- only to find the Zombies have returned to the place they frequented most.

“WHEN THERE’S NO ROOM IN HELL, THE DEAD WILL WALK THE EARTH!”

DOTD ‘78, The brutal and hilarious takedown of consumption and mall culture. Social Commentary, Zombie Gags, and Sick Kills. A film that’s loved by both critics and horror junkies. A film that said something and also entertained. George Romero in a nutshell.

A film that also became my gateway drug to Good Horror. And to Bad Horor. Again, I already loved horror. I loved the aesthetic, the vibe. Always drew monsters. Always collected weird monster toys. If a film was playing on a movie channel, I’d watch it. 

But Romero’s DAWN OF THE DEAD was THE film that made me WANT to actually seek them out. The film that made me want to rewatch my older brother’s old worn Betamax tapes of classic 80s horror flicks. A film that introduced me to Dario Argento.5 A movie that got me into the music of Italian Horror Prog Rock legends, GOBLIN. The life changing event that made me a nut for Savini and every 80s fx guru around. A story that made we want to watch every zombie film I possibly could. Good or Bad, and there’s a lot of bad out there. But there’s also a lot of good. So much good.

Romero’s DAY OF THE DEAD (1985) is one of those good zombie films. I saw a midnight screening with my dad at that same repertory cinema.6 This was Romero’s third DEAD film and took place on a military base. It introduced the concept of the military studying, training, and weaponizing the living dead. It also has one of the freakiest scenes involving hands and walls that still rattles me to this day. It has a stomach churning scene involving a ripped stomach. It’s wonderful, largely in part to once again utilizing Savini’s talents, as well as Greg Nicotero and Howard Berger-- who years later brought THE WALKING DEAD to your homes. Romero’s legacy still felt to this day.

That being said, Romero’s legacy was far more than just Zombie films, of course. He made a film, that’s rather timely now7, about a plague that made people crazy called... THE CRAZIES (1973).  There was another about a vampire wannabe named MARTIN (1978). A spectacular 80s horror anthology film series called CREEPSHOW8 (1982 & 1987). And a wonderfully bizarre film about a homicidal monkey named, appropriately enough, MONKEY SHINES (1988). I saw that last one before I even knew who he was but I never really forgot it. And those are just a few. 

He revisited his LIVING DEAD films with additional sequels in the 2000s and 2010s and was working on another up until his death. I was very lucky to briefly thank him during a convention, a year or so before he passed. Thanked him for the films. For everything.

He didn’t just impact me, of course. He impacted the people he worked with, who’ve gone on to impact other people in turn. He’s impacted the fans who got into horror because of him. He’s impacted the horror fans who weren’t even fans of his, because they most definitely liked something that was made by someone who was inspired by George Romero. 

You’ll see it with a DOTD’s actor cameo in a Rob Zombie film, or a gruesome creature effect in a micro-budget classic. You’ll see it in a modern classic like TRAIN TO BUSAN (2016) or while laughing your guts out at SHAWN OF THE DEAD (2004).

We aren’t just talking about movies, we’re talking books, music, and video games. 90s SIMPSON’s references. We’re talking art, tattoos, and comics. RPGs, Board games, Toys, and Funko Pops. Those Halloween decorations you keep in your home all year long . The clothes you wear. Your creepy and kooky badass goth aesthetic. A lot of what we love about horror today is thanks to George A. Romero.

He didn’t create zombies… but he certainly gave them life. He did more than that. He made horror important again.

I can’t do justice to George A. Romero with words. His work speaks for itself. So today, on what would have been his 81st Birthday, watch some Romero. If you’re out there quarantining, staying at home, under a curfew, and fearing the unfathomable, infectious dangers lurking outside your door… definitely watch Romero. 

This decade is off to a weird start, luckily we have Romero’s influence to get us through it.

Happy Birthday, George! And thank you for infecting me with horror.

-Theo Radomski, MOVIES ROT BRAINS

photo via Global News

---------

ENDNOTES FROM THE GRAVE

1. And you know what? I still call him Frankenstein. Because he’s essentially his son. That’s his creation. And Victor would have had the hubris to name his creation after himself if he had not abandoned that poor schlub. But I digress… 

2.  Actually, that’s exactly what I thought. And about 30 years later, Zombies are still a staple of modern video gaming, from Resident Evil and Doom still going strong after three decades, to Call of Duty and Red Dead Redemption still having Zombie mods. To every friggin’ game out there that has any undead horror creeping about. The nine-year-old me is having a blast right now.

3. I had definitely caught on the subtext and themes by that point that I may have missed while watching the remake as a kid. Still a dumb kid, though.

4.  Thanks in part to HBO’s TALES FROM THE CRYPT reruns on FOX. Expect another nonsensical rambling piece on that show and the 50s comics that inspired it sometime in the future.

5.  And that opened the doorway into Giallo, Fulci, and a whole slew of Italian Exploitation and American Slasher films and that’s a whole other long screed for another time.

6.  My dad was another reason I love this genre. He loved horror movies. I still hear his voice in my head saying, “Ooooh, It’s a Scary Movie!” in his German accent.

7.  Actually, aren’t they all?

8.  Which has also had a revival in the form of Shudder’s excellent new CREEPSHOW anthology series made by Romero’s DAY OF THE DEAD Alumni Greg Nicotero! See how it’s all connected?

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 4

Thanks for your patience, guys.  Been dealing with Real Life Bullshit and it’s not been fun.  But this piece has been my refuge.  Hope you guys feel the same.  :)

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Four: The Downfall

“Ours, she’d promised.  But it’s getting harder and harder to see the Stark behind all that Targaryen.  (And maybe this is her own fault.  Maybe this is her thinking too well of people again. Maybe this is what all naïve, self-righteous girls get for their wanting hearts.)”  -  Jon and Sansa.  Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

“And who will your brother be squiring for?” Aegon asks Sansa from across the table.

           She sets her wine glass down, smiling gratefully at his interest.  “My father has not yet found a position for him.”

           “Not yet?” Daenerys asks coolly, cutting into her ham.  “Your wedding is in a fortnight.  Your family is to return North shortly after, yes?”

           Sansa sags with the remembrance.  “Yes.”

           “Then arrangements should be made rather quickly, don’t you think?”

           Sansa nods stiffly, looking down to her plate. “I’m sure my father is looking into it.”

           She’s grown used to these dinners with her future husband and siblings.  Sometimes King Rhaegar joins them.  Sometimes her father or brothers.  Sometimes she takes her dinners back in the guest wing, with just the Starks and Theon and Margaery.  There’s much more laughter then.  Her smiles come more freely.  And she does not miss the way Robb and Margaery glance at each other across the table.

           Sansa smiles to herself at the recollection. She cannot blame her brother. Margaery is wicked charming, after all, and even Theon has warmed up to her, grudgingly admitting to Sansa once during their stroll through the gardens that Robb could hardly find better and Sansa had swatted his arm good-naturedly for the low compliment before Theon was laughing at her, surrendering, granting his reluctant admiration for the lady. Sansa had beamed.

           She wonders if it’s too soon to hope for a sister, rather than a friend, in Margaery.

           The thought reminds her suddenly – “Lady Margaery recommended Bran squire for her brother Ser Loras.  He is a rather renowned knight, after all.  And Margaery’s word gives me hope that the Tyrells would be in favor of such an arrangement.”

           Rhaenys scoffs softly across from her.

           Sansa swings her gaze over to the princess, catching the way Jon reaches for his wine glass beside her.  “Is there something strange about it, Lady Rhaenys?”  She cannot help the soft bite that echoes after the words.  She still remembers how the other woman had humbled her at tea several days past, the memory unpleasantly sharp and vibrant.

           Sansa clenches her jaw.

           Ice, she tells herself, breathing deep.  

           “That woman will sink her claws into anything once she gets a whiff of power,” Rhaenys says.

           Sansa’s brows furrow.  “Lady Margaery?”

           Rhaenys takes a bite of her buttered turnips.  “The very one.”

           “I don’t see how – ”

           “Tell me, Lady Sansa, does your brother Robb take kindly to her?”  Rhaenys offers a close-lipped smile, chewing carefully.

           Sansa bristles at the insinuation.

           “Come, Rhaenys,” Aegon interrupts, “You’re being rude to our guest.”

           “I’m only giving her fair warning,” Rhaenys says, spearing another vegetable with her fork.  “Lady Margaery wanted you first, brother, and when she couldn’t have that, she went for Jon – ”

           “Rhaenys,” Jon warns lowly, and it’s the first Sansa has heard him speak all night.

           “ – and when that didn’t happen, she went for the next best thing: the heir to Winterfell.”  She takes a vicious bite of her food.

           Daenerys reaches for her wine glass, an amused smirk at her lips.  “You’re simply mad that Mace Tyrell has offered his son Willas for your hand.”

           “And why shouldn’t I be?” she snaps.  “Bunch of vultures, the whole lot of them.”

           “Lady Margaery has been nothing but sweet and considerate towards my family and I, and I don’t think it right to besmirch a lady based on assumptions,” Sansa gets out breathlessly, hardly believing the words have left her.

           Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Jon’s fingers twitch over the stem of his wineglass, drawing it toward his perpetual frown.

           Her cheeks heat instantly, fingers tightening over the cutlery in her hands.

           “And you’re absolutely right, my lady,” Aegon agrees gently, sending a warm smile her way.  He glances to Rhaenys then, a flicker of warning to his violet gaze.  

           The subtle shift is somewhat jarring, even if his agreement has tempered her bout of sudden vexation.

           Rhaenys sends a baleful look toward her brother but doesn’t argue further.

           Beside her, Jon shifts in his seat, setting his glass back to the table.  Sansa feels acutely aware of every minute movement he makes, anxiety from this maddening silence of his rooting her to her seat.

           She’s tried accompanying him in the library, sharing the quiet with him as they each devour their chosen books in turn, hoping to draw some sort of conversation out of him regarding his reading, and yet he offers little more than acknowledging grunts at her attempts.  She’s tried sharing stories from home, enlightening him about the North, and Rickon and Arya back at Winterfell, the godswood, the crypts, the hot springs, but he hardly even meets her eyes let alone grants her any seeming interest in her tales.  They’ve been riding, they’ve walked the gardens, they’ve shared a meal nearly every evening for the last fortnight she’s been in King’s Landing, and still, he is no more known to her than the first night he swung her about the dancefloor and slated her honest questions with quiet anger.

           She’s never been spurned so.  It smarts, she finds – when she’s brave enough to admit to it.

           “Rhaenys is right though, you know,” Daenerys says over the rim of her wineglass.  “In some respects,” she finishes.

           Aegon gives a decidedly unprincely eye-roll and throws a smirk Daenerys’ way.  “Seven, but you do love to disagree with me, don’t you, wife?”  Even as an urge for caution, there’s a fondness to his words that startles Sansa somewhat, the quiet intimacy of it warming her with embarrassment at being present for the exchange.

           Daenerys lifts a brow at Aegon, setting her wine glass down.  “I’m not disagreeing either way.  But you have to admit that the woman certainly isn’t letting the opportunity pass her by.”

           Sansa frowns, eyes drifting down to her plate. She stares resolutely at her half-eaten ham, taking a deep, calming breath.  Her eyes prick with a stinging wetness she hates.

           She does not want to think that her time with Margaery has been disingenuous.  It is too cruel a thing to consider.

           Sansa curls her hands tightly along her fork and knife, hovering at the edge of her plate, blinking back the wetness.

           Maybe she thinks too well of people.  Arya’s berated her for it before.  Robb’s consoled her because of it, as well.  It hurts her more than it helps her, she finds.

           But she’d rather think too well of people than too ill of them.

           Sansa glances up fleetingly at Rhaenys.

           (No, if thinking too ill of people likens her to Rhaenys Targaryen’s sort, then she doesn’t want it.  She doesn’t want it at all.)

           She can’t have imagined the hidden quirk of Margaery’s lip when Robb had kissed her hand for the first time in greeting, eyes alight on hers as he bent into a courteous bow, and she’d thought Sansa wasn’t looking. Or the unhindered laugh she’d let loose, hand clamped suddenly over her mouth, when Bran tried to tell the story of how he caught Theon kissing Jeyne Poole in the kitchen pantry before Theon nearly vaulted over the dinner table to stop him.  Or the way her face had gone slack with tender disbelief when she’d taken the hand-sewn silk handkerchief Sansa had offered her just the other day, beaming proudly as Margaery fingered the edges with a fond reverence.

           There are many shadows in the Red Keep, but some things Sansa still sees clearly.

           She swallows thickly, straightening in her seat, missing the way Jon watches her with muted, grey eyes.

           “And is this the norm in the capital?  This rank suspicion?  Is it not tiring to always assume a second layer of meaning to what people say and do?” she asks.  It’s a barb, of course, a frank observation, but there is also a genuine need to the question.  She clamps her mouth closed at the tail end of the words, feeling suddenly small and naïve and childish.  But even still –

           Surely it can’t be all shadows in such a sunlit place.

           Daenerys and Rhaenys offer piqued brows at the question while Aegon graces her with a consolatory smile.  Beside her, Jon smothers a rueful chuckle into his wine glass.  Sansa nearly glares at him, but reins the instinct in, cutting into her ham instead, perhaps a touch too forcefully.

           “You’ve a kind heart, Lady Sansa,” Aegon says, leaning back in his seat as he watches her.  “Be careful with.  It seems too beautiful a thing to break.”  His violet gaze is steady, candle-lit and searing.

           Sansa swallows thickly at the look, setting her cutlery to her plate.  Daenerys takes a large swig of wine across from her, eyes averted.  Jon sets his glass down loudly, a gruff exhale leaving him. Sansa nearly startles at the noise.

           “Your brother would do well under Ser Loras,” he says to her suddenly, voice low and tight, a gravelly quality to the words – the most he’s said to her in days.

           Sansa blinks at him, only to find him watching Aegon intensely.

           Aegon hardly notices, having returned to his plate with a gingerly swipe of his knife into his meat.

           Sansa opens her mouth, closes it, finds her voice finally.  “Thank you, my lord.”

           Jon grunts his acknowledgement, dragging his wine glass back to his mouth.

           “What about Jaime Lannister?”

           Sansa looks up at Daenerys’ question.  “My lady?”

           The Targaryen heiress settles back in her seat, her finished plate abandoned atop the table.  “I daresay your brother wouldn’t find a better knight to squire for, and a Kingsguard at that.  I’m certain Rhaegar would approve the arrangement.”

           Sansa does not miss the way Jon stiffens beside her, but it’s Aegon who responds.

           “Yes, that makes perfect sense,” he drawls dismissively.  “Let the Stark boy squire for the man who killed their father’s dear friend and helped end his people’s uprising.”

           Sansa startles at the blatant way Aegon says it, her mouth parting, her gaze fixing to him.  Something brews in her chest – something Northern.  Something winter-hewn.

           Jon leans his weight to one armrest, scowling at his brother.  “Robert Baratheon got what he deserved,” he snarls.  “If only Stannis had shared such a fate.”  The words are too full of bite to truly be called a lament.

           That incessant winter, tugging at her veins – it batters around her chest now.

           “And Ned Stark took a knee for it,” Daenerys muses, “So the North may live on.”  She scowls softly at her husband.  “I see no reason to dismiss the suggestion.  Ser Jaime squired under Ser Arthur Dayne, after all.  Any lord would be overcome to have their son squire for such a knight.”

           Sansa watches as Rhaenys goes stiff with the mention of Arthur Dayne.  Jon lets out a near growl into his slowly emptying wine glass.  Sansa’s skin feels tight, uncomfortable, her eyes blinking furiously, lungs clenching in her chest.

           To speak so casually about her people’s independence, their failed rebellion – Sansa finds the words tart and smarting along her tongue.

           Robert Baratheon got what he deserved.  And Ned Stark took a knee for it.

           Sansa’s chest heaves, her cutlery clattering to her plate.

           Jon glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

           “I’m sorry, but I…”  She trails off, eyes fixed to her plate.

           Aegon leans toward her, a concerned look on his face. “Lady Sansa?”

           Jon takes a long gulp of wine.

           Sansa steals a breath through her nose, hands going to her lap.  “Robert Baratheon may be a traitor to the crown but he was – ”  The words stall in her throat, thick with unspoken meaning.

           He was her father’s brother, in truth, as much as Uncle Benjen ever was.  As much as Uncle Brandon, too.

           Her hands curl into fists atop her lap.

           “You’re not about to defend him, are you?” Jon asks quietly beside her, still as the grave, eyes dark, even by candlelight.

           Sansa glances up at him, mouth parted.

           Daenerys trails a slender finger slowly up and down the stem of her wine glass as it rests atop the table.  “Careful, Jon,” she says, eyes glinting, “Your soon-to-be wife seems to have wavering allegiances.”

           The panic is instant, throat closing around spent air.  “I’m not – ”

           “The Baratheons are a gutless sort,” Jon sneers. “No honor amongst them.”

           Rhaenys is uncharacteristically silent, dragging her fork across her plate almost disinterestedly.  But Sansa hardly has a mind to notice.  She’s too overcome with a new, threatening ire.  “And thus my father, by association?” she asks on as ladylike a scoff as she can manage, teeth rattling behind her heated exhale.

           Jon narrows his eyes at her.  “That’s not what I said.”

           “You may as well have,” she argues, chest heaving.

           Jon rolls his eyes, but he’s turning in his seat, facing her now, the brunt of his attention fully trained on her.  She shifts to face him in return.

           “Lord Stark knelt to save his people, aye, but only when the rebellion was truly lost.  That hardly fosters good faith, wouldn’t you say?”

           “I’d say burning your lordships alive hardly fosters good faith,” she quips back instantly, brows furrowed sharply, tongue smarting with her indignation.

           Daenerys smothers her amused laugh into the rim of her wine glass.  Aegon intones his wife’s name warningly, stiff and unblinking.  Sansa’s eyes prick with a heated wetness, frustrated and helpless. She keeps her gaze fixed to Jon.

           He blinks at her, mouth curling into an aggravatingly familiar smirk.  “Citing past grievances won’t help you now, my lady.  This is a new era – a new dawn.  Our father is a fair ruler, but you can be sure, he will not tolerate treason.”

           Sansa smarts at the admonition.  “’Past grievances’?” she asks incredulously.  “The mad king murdered my grandfather and uncle in open court,” she hisses, voice rising.  “Your grandfather and uncle,” she reminds him, the accusation as much a plead as it is a damnation.  She blinks furiously at him, the anger rising easily.  

           Jon swallows tightly, eyeing her with a searing gaze.

           “There is no excuse for what our grandfather did,” Aegon says suddenly, voice low and practiced.  “No one denies that such an act was atrocious, and certainly un-kingly of him.”

           Sansa does not even spare the prince a glance, her eyes still fixed to Jon.  He stares resolutely back at her.  Neither seems able to relent.

           “But you’re looking for villains now where there are only men,” Aegon finishes, and this does draw Sansa’s attention finally. She stares at him, mouth a thin line, hands curling tightly together over her lap.

           She hears Jon’s scoff beside her, catches him in the corner of her eye, dragging his wine glass back to his mouth.  She swings her hardened gaze back to him instantly. “And I suppose ‘villains’ are all you see when you look at Starks and Baratheons, my lord?” she prompts, voice hard, lip curling into a sneer.

           Jon does not wilt beneath her gaze.  “I stand by what I said,” he says lowly.

           “Am I to assume honor and brotherhood mean nothing to you?”

           “Am I to assume fealty means nothing to you?”

           Sansa huffs, an incredulous breath drawn through her rattling lungs.  “My father is a good, faithful lord.”

           “No one is denying it.  I’m simply warning you, in hopes that it stays such.”

           She feels her nails digging half-moons into her palms.  That splinter is back – but oh, how it digs.  A stinging reminder beneath her skin.

           She wants to claw it out, now.

           A seething cold settles over her.  “Then tell me you would have done differently,” she gets out in a low voice.

           Jon’s gaze shifts between her eyes, brows drawn down in a confused furrow.

           Sansa licks her lips, breath raking from her.  “If it had been your father and brother murdered so, tell me you would have done differently,” she challenges.

           The silence is deafening – a sundering weight between them.

           Sansa catches, just barely, the flicker that passes over Jon’s face when the words leave her, before it’s shuttered away, a dark look overtaking him.  She watches as he leans back from her, arms going slowly to his armrests, never taking his gaze from hers.

           It’s static between them, frenzied air, a heavy draw in her lungs.

           She can feel the hammering of her own heartbeat at her ears and wonders – frantically – if he can hear it, too.

           She drags her gaze away eventually, eyes fixed to her hands.  It seems terribly unfair, this frustration he brews in her.

           Because he is so agonizingly still, even now.

           She wants to shake him for it, wants to rattle this silence clean out of him, bring back the disparaging remarks, the heated admonishment.  But her pride still smarts.  And she won’t admit to the hidden, spiteful part of her that revels in being able to reduce him to such silence.  So, she sits, and she breathes, and she tries to steady her thunderous heart.  She takes his quiet, searing stare as a notion of victory, even when it tastes like chalk on her tongue.  Even when the triumph languishes beneath her wounded Northern pride.

           Someone clears their throat across the table and Sansa finally glances up, catching Aegon’s violet gaze.  It’s closed off, giving nothing away, his mouth a thin line, one slender, poised hand stilled over his wineglass.  “Lady Sansa, I would advise you to abandon the topic.”  His fingers glide around the rim, slow and measured, and the motion is startlingly lulling to watch.  “I do not wish to ruin dinner any further.”  He offers a light quirk of his lip.  The expression lights a strange mix of comfort and forewarning, and Sansa’s gut clenches, remembering herself suddenly.

           “Of course, my lord.  I apologize,” she answers, shifting slightly in her seat, decidedly away from Jon, reaching for her own glass and taking a distracting gulp.

           Daenerys chuckles ruefully.  “All this because of a squire?”

           At her side, Jon grunts his displeasure at his aunt’s remark.

           Daenerys sighs dramatically, ignoring him.  “I still say Jaime Lannister.”

           “Gods, Daenerys,” Rhaenys snaps, “You have absolutely no tact, do you?”  Sansa finds she is as eager for the princess’ silence as Rhaenys seems to be, though she finds the comment rather hypocritical herself.  

           But Daenerys only gives the other woman a piqued brow in response.  “Training under Ser Arthur Dayne is no common feat, after all.  You of all people know the value of that,” she intones meaningfully.

           Rhaenys glares at her, jaw quivering.

           Jon throws his napkin to the table.

           “I beg pardon, but I think perhaps…perhaps it’s time I excused myself,” Sansa says suddenly, drawing her napkin from her lap as well and setting it primly atop the table.

           Aegon notes her half-eaten plate with a raised brow. “You’ve barely finished, my lady.” The words are not unkind.

           Sansa’s gut churns regardless.  “I’ve no appetite tonight, it seems,” she says in apology, looking to him with almost pleading eyes.

           Almost, but not quite.

           (She will not plead for such a low thing – to be excused from the table like a child.)

           “Of course,” Aegon says, nodding to her.

           She stands swiftly, hands smoothing her skirts over as she offers her farewells, before she retreats from the room as quickly as she can.

           She’s partly through the door when she hears the scrape of a chair behind her, and Rhaenys’ startled “Jon!” before her heart slams up into her ribcage and she’s stalking as fast as she can through the corridor without breaking into a dead run, her hands bunched in her skirts, her chest heaving, eyes stinging with humiliation and ire.

           “Lady Sansa.”

           She comes to a halt in the torchlit corridor, her back to Jon.  “Please,” she says, hating the way the word falters, a quake of air past her lips.

           He says nothing behind her at her heavy exhale, says nothing as her hands fist in her skirts.  The line of her shoulders is a trembling, vulnerable thing.  She swallows, tongue heavy, words rasping as they leave her.  “Please, just…let me go, my lord.”

           Still, he says nothing.  And Sansa hasn’t the patience to turn to him, to humor whatever argument or censure he wishes to sling at her.

           Ours, she’d promised.  But it’s getting harder and harder to see the Stark behind all that Targaryen.

           (And maybe this is her own fault.  Maybe this is her thinking too well of people again.

           Maybe this is what all naïve, self-righteous girls get for their wanting hearts.)

           After many moments, she finds he still has no answer for her but silence.  Not even the rustle of his leathers, or the familiar expel of his aggravated breath.

           She doesn’t wait around for him to change his mind. She stalks from him, never looking back.

           She feels the weight of his stare all the way down the corridor, even still.

* * *

“Come on, Stark, you’ve got better than that, don’t you?”

           It’s the cocky way the words are spoken that catches Jon’s ear when he makes it to the end of the opening hallway, turning past a column where the courtyard opens out.

           “Any better and you’ll be wiping that mouth off the ground,” Robb taunts back, barking a laugh.  A clattering, steely sound follows.  Jon rounds the bend into the training yard, looking out in time to see Theon parrying a blow from Robb.

           Jon stops to watch the spar.  Robb is clearly more disciplined in his training, but Theon is agile, swift. They’re a fair match for a time, but Jon can tell Robb’s endurance will win out.  There’s no wasted energy, no move without purpose.  Robb conserves himself, doesn’t move without purpose, no mind for theatrics or flashy tricks.  There’s a single-minded determination to his motions, his face pensive even in the midst of the fight.  He is thinking three moves ahead already, Jon can tell.

           A smirk streaks across the Stark’s face.

           It is not the pleasure of the spar itself, but the inevitable victory.

           Jon watches as Robb delivers the final blow, bashing Theon into the ground, his back hitting the dirt, Robb’s sparring sword stopped just at Theon’s throat, a gleam in his eye when the Greyjoy curses his loss.

           Robb steps back, smirk spreading into a full-on grin, reaching a hand out to help Theon up.

           Jon blinks at the motion, at the way Theon grunts in reluctance as he takes his hand, even as his own grin is tugging surreptitiously at his lips.  He thinks of his own spars with Aegon, the heated fervency of them, the deadlocked resolve.  There are never laughs, never out-stretched hands in the wake of victory.

           You pick your own self up out of the dirt, Jon reminds himself.

           “You were saying?” Robb taunts him.

           “Oh shut it, Stark.  No one likes a boastful ass.”

           Jon’s brows dart into his hairline with his surprise.  The heir to Winterfell lets a Greyjoy speak to him thus?

           Robb’s laugh fills the courtyard and Theon punches at his shoulder half-heartedly. Robb only laughs louder.

           “I’d heed your own words if I were you, Theon,” someone says from across the yard, a feminine giggle lighting the end of the words, and Jon swings curious eyes to the other side of the courtyard, catching along Lady Sansa watching from beneath the veranda.  She stands arm in arm with Margaery, the Tyrell lady smothering a laugh with her palm. Sansa arches a challenging brow to Theon, her lips quirked up into a fond smirk.  The expression is unguarded, affectionate even in its taunting.  Jon’s jaw clenches at the look, chest tightening without warning.

           He’s never seen such an expression on her face before – certainly never directed at him.

           He thinks back to the other night when they’d argued about Northern fealty and Baratheon treason.  The remembrance brings a sourness to his tongue.  If only she knew, if only she –

           But she doesn’t know.  And how could he expect her to?

           Seven years ago, when Stannis had –

           Jon stops that train of thought, burying the memory instantly, hands clenching into fists at his side.

           “You wound me, Lady Sansa,” Theon says dramatically, drawing Jon’s attention back with a hand braced at his chest in mock offense.  “You know I mean everything I say.”

           “And that’s the problem,” she says back, laughing.

           Theon offers her a roguish grin.  Jon curls his lip at the sight.  “You think I can’t beat your brother?  Have you no faith in me?”

           “A very little,” she says teasingly.  Margaery shakes her head beside her, clearly entertained by the banter.

           Theon hoists his sparring sword to rest along his shoulder, chest puffing out at the challenge, but when he turns to face Robb once more, he catches sight of Jon at the edge of the courtyard, their eyes meeting on a halted breath.  His grin falls instantly, replaced by a tight-lipped frown, very near a sneer if Jon thinks too long about it.  But the Greyjoy seems to have just enough deference not to keep the expression long, straightening, a short bow of his head accompanying his greeting.  “My lord,” he says stiffly, all hint of his earlier amusement bled out from his voice.

           Robb turns at the address, finding Jon easily, bowing himself with a similar greeting.  When Jon finally drags his eyes back to Sansa, she purses her lips, curtseying politely, eyes falling to the floor.  Margaery settles a hand along her arm at her side.

           Her clear disinterest rankles him, nostrils flaring beneath his heavy breath.  “Do continue,” he says to the men, turning back to them.  “Don’t stop on my account.”

           Robb seems about to say something, before he thinks better of it, tapping his sparring sword in the dirt in apparent contemplation.  It’s Theon that speaks then.

           “Join us, my lord.”

           Sansa’s head snaps up at the words.

           Jon raises a brow at the offer.  Robb glances to Theon, a cautionary look to his features.  But Theon ignores Robb, chin hitching high, lips settling into a self-satisfied smirk.  “That is, if your lordship would deem to cross swords with a Stark.”

           “You’re not a Stark,” he says without bite, only bluntness, but he sees the way the words strike him regardless.

           Theon’s face goes dark, lips twitching, the hand at his sword tightening over the hilt.

           It puzzles him, how Theon Greyjoy could take such offense.  Is it such a grand thing, to be a Stark?  Does it mean so much?

           His chest constricts at the thought.  It used to mean much.  He can hardly recall the feeling now, though.  But even still…

           A Greyjoy.

           Jon finds himself sneering at the other man.  

           “I’m sure Robb could accommodate that,” Margaery calls out from her place beside Sansa. The other woman turns to her, eyes wide, clutching at her arm.

           She only shrugs a shoulder, an impish grin to her features.  “Though I daresay it should be rather hard for our dear Lady Sansa to choose who to pledge her favor to,” she says slyly, grin turning devilish.

           “Margaery,” Sansa hisses beneath her breath.

           Jon is already stalking forward, unlacing his leather jerkin, possessed of something he hasn’t a name for.  Sansa swings wide eyes back at him, catching the way he’s staring at her all the while, shrugging out of his jerkin to just his cotton tunic beneath.  She swallows thickly, mouth parting as her breath hitches. He doesn’t admit to the rush that overtakes him then.

           So she isn’t so unaffected by him, is she?

           “I think a spar is an excellent idea, Lady Margaery,” Jon says.  Margaery excitedly pats at Sansa’s arm linked through hers with the affirmation.  “Assuming Lord Stark here is up to it.”  He glances to the man finally, buttoning up his sleeves over his forearms and reaching for a sparring sword along the rack of blades beside them.  Theon moves out of the way grudgingly when Jon circles round to the center of the yard with the Stark heir.

           Robb nods, an amused smile tugging at his lips.  “It would be an honor, my lord.”

           “Don’t take it too hard when he knocks you flat on your ass, Targaryen,” Theon mutters off to the side.

           Jon flashes him a condescending grin.  “You and I are not the same, Greyjoy.”  

           Robb can’t seem to help the bark of laughter that breaks from his mouth at the words, though he smothers it quickly, offering an apologetic look to Theon as he stews angrily at the dismissal.

           They get into a ready position quickly.  Robb rolls his shoulders, eager and focused.  “I do hope you will be entertained, Lady Margaery,” he calls out teasingly, “even if I should lose.”

           She chuckles prettily, head cocked as she watches the men slowly start to circle. “Then I will cheer for you, my lord.”

           A singled raised brow, a saucy smirk gracing his lips.  “Will you now?”

           “It only seems fair,” she muses, glancing at Sansa beside her.  “I suppose it would be improper for your sister to grant her brother favor above her betrothed, so I shall have to do, my lord.”

           Sansa gives a sidelong glance to Margaery, a barely discernible huff passing her lips.  Margaery’s smile broadens at the tease.

           “I think I can live with that, my lady,” Robb says, fingers flexing over the hilt of his sword.

           The comfortable, playful teasing stirs something in Jon.  It’s a strange sort of yearning, a coil in his gut.  He glances to Sansa over his shoulder.  Her smile wilts instantly.

           It grips at him suddenly – a thunderous need.

           That coy smirk she had graced Theon with.  That flutter of a laugh.  That easy, endearing crinkle at her eyes, shoulders shaking lightly in her mirth, red tendrils of hair brushed back with fine-boned fingers.

           (A need he doesn’t recognize – not fully, not yet.)

           She stares back at him, face a blank visage, a sheen of ice overtaking her.

           She has no such smiles for him, especially not since he’d berated her so condescendingly at dinner the other night.  No more walks in the garden or accompanying him in the library.  He’d grown used to her presence, even when he’d kept a purposeful distance.  He’s been too forceful with her, too familiar with his touch.  She’s to be his wife, yes, and touch is inevitable, touch is…

           Jon swallows, his skin tingling with the anticipation he won’t admit to.

           Touch is the least of what will occur between them come the wedding night, but even still, until then, he will not take such liberties with her.  She’s clearly not amenable to such intimacy, not yet at least, and Jon is loathe to think she considers him a brute.

           But has he given her any reason to think otherwise?

           And why should it matter in the first place?

           Jon snarls, looking back at Robb.  His opponent seems to recognize the shift, the signal, because his face hardens, all mirth leaving him, and then the game begins.

           Jon is the first to strike, and Robb parries his swing easily, foot bracing back in the dirt.  He pushes off, swinging low.  Jon dances out of the way, circling round, eyes trained on Robb.  They meet again, a stinging clash of their mock blades, and Jon shifts left, knocking Robb off balance with an elbow.  Robb stumbles back, righting himself immediately, just in time to parry another swing from Jon, this one almost vicious in its intensity, and his arms buckle slightly, locking at the elbow.  He grunts beneath the force of it.  Jon hears the sharp intake of Sansa’s breath, the hushed murmur of her brother’s name issuing forth in concern.

           The sound coils something hot and unrelenting in his gut.  He shoves off of Robb, panting, circling round again.

           Robb circles similarly, a weary smile gaining on his face.  “Not a leisurely spar then?” he chuckles, already winded.

           Jon scoffs, but it isn’t a scornful sound. A dark mirth fills him.  He thinks he might have liked this Robb Stark, had he known him before.

           (Before – when Jon had once yearned for his mother’s family like a stupid, lost little boy.  Before – when he’d been a stupid, lost little boy.)

           “You don’t fight for leisure, either,” Jon muses, breath raking from him.  “You fight to win.”

           Robb shakes his head, still chuckling.  “Aye, but at least I’m not so dour about it.”

           Jon raises a brow, smirk tugging at his lips, unbidden.  Another clash of their blades, a parry, a missed swing, a shove to the shoulder, grunting, feet shuffling across the yard, a kicked-up cloud of dust when one stumbles back, chests heaving, tunics soaked through with sweat.  A clang, metal ringing sharp in the courtyard.  Again, and again, and again.  Neither knows how to relent.

           Yes, he’d have liked this Robb Stark.  If he thinks too long about it, he likes him even now.  But Jon knows well enough to be wary of wolves.

           Sansa’s image floods his mind, for she is a wolf, too, even in all her silk dresses and pretty courtesies.  There is a flash of teeth behind that primly, pursed mouth, Jon knows.  A bite as cool and cut as winter.

           And he wonders suddenly – wildly – what that bite might taste like, whether that cool ice of hers would persist against the hot press of his tongue, what sounds she might make when he’s spreading her milk-white thighs apart to sink inside her.

           Would she howl for him, as wolves are wont to do?

           Jon’s chest heaves, a maddening heat suffusing him, and he blinks the image back furiously, barely managing to avoid Robb’s incoming swing.  The edge of his blade swipes close to his chin, and Jon stumbles back at the near miss, ears catching the sudden intake of breath from the watching ladies, as well as Theon’s whoop of satisfaction.  Jon steadies himself, wiping a hand across his sweat-slicked brow, dark curls plastered to his skin.  He growls lowly, shifting his sword into an overhold, advancing on Robb. He is waning, he knows, but he will not lose.  Not here, with her watching.  Something about the thought lights a flare of resolve in him.

           Jon feints right, parrying Robb’s blow and swinging round, blade coming at his side, and Robb barely manages to swing his sword back in time, but the force of Jon’s strike, caught at an awkward angle, trips him up, and he’s stumbling back, hand going out instinctively to brace his fall before righting himself just in time.

           Except, not just in time.

           Jon swings hard, sweeping Robb’s legs out from under him, and Robb lands back along the dirt with a rough grunt, breath winded from him, looking up to find the tip of Jon’s sword at his throat, a mirror to his earlier victory against Theon.

           They stay staring at each other, breathing heavily, Jon’s eyes dark and focused, his hand never lowering.

           “Well,” Margaery says with a smack of her lips, “That was a riveting win, wouldn’t you say, Lady Sansa?”

           Jon blinks away the heady battle haze, arm lowering, stepping back a pace. He glances to her, still panting, tunic stuck to his chest with his sweat.

           Sansa lifts her chin.  “Valiantly done, my lord,” she says tightly, a hint of a scowl gracing her features, “For a man with royal training against an opponent already flagging from previous spars.”

           “Sansa,” Robb admonishes from his place on the ground, looking up at her aghast.

           Theon smothers his laugh in his fist, but not enough for Jon to miss it.

           Margaery raises both brows at her friend in surprise, her amused smirk still steadily put.

           Jon lets out a rueful laugh, voice rough.  “It seems not much impresses you, Lady Sansa.”

           She doesn’t answer, keeping her chin high.  Theon steps toward them, picking Robb’s fallen sword up off the ground.  “I think it’s one of her many virtues, actually,” he says smugly.

           Jon throws a disdainful look his way.  “I’m not particularly interested in what you think about my betrothed,” he warns.

           Theon opens his mouth but never gets the chance to retort.

           “Alright, Targaryen, you’ve had your fun.  Now, are you going to help me up or not?”

           Jon looks down at Robb leaning back in the dirt with an expectant look and a hand held out.  He catches the laugh that threatens to escape at the image.  His throat tightens, an unfamiliar ache settling in his stomach.  He reaches out and grabs his hand, hauling the man up. Robbs dusts himself off, groaning softly when he stills with a hand to his side.

           “Are you wounded, my lord?” Margaery asks, voice lilting gently, though the subtle thrum of concern is apparent even to Jon.

           Robb scoffs, straightening.  “Aye, at my lady’s complete lack of appreciation for my battle prowess, even considering such a brutal defeat.”  He flashes a grin at Jon.

           The expression is jarring in its ease.  An honest grin, goading and friendly.  Jon’s frown deepens, that soft, unexplainable yearning battering around his chest.

           These damn Starks.

           “I was breathless for the whole affair, I assure you,” Margaery promises, a charming smile accompanying the words.

           Robb glances back to her, brow raised.  “Is that so?”  His voice is breathy, labored.

           Sansa rolls her eyes.  “Oh, go take a bath, Robb, you’re utterly filthy.”

           Robb looks down at his muddied tunic and then narrows his eyes at Theon’s guffaw.

           “You too, Theon Greyjoy.  You’re worse than Robb.”

           Theon’s laugh cuts off abruptly, glancing back at Sansa with a petulant frown.

           Jon stares at her at the edge of the courtyard, eyes boring into hers.  He doesn’t miss the way her gaze rakes quickly over his form, and he wonders if she will give him the same kind of fond tease, if she will remark on the way his tunic is fitted to his chest with sweat, or the way his curls are disheveled and damp from exertion.  But she only purses her lips after her brief appraisal, turning fully to Margaery beside her.  “Shall we go for a walk?”

           Margaery links her arm more surely through Sansa’s, turning them already.  “Yes, let’s,” she agrees.

           With a duo of curtsies, Sansa and Margaery leave the courtyard, skirts swaying in their wake.  Jon watches her go for long moments.  When he looks back, he finds Theon staring at him, a deep furrow to his brow, not even bothering to hide his scowl.

           Jon cocks his head at him, inviting whatever scathing comment is languishing on his tongue.  But Theon only shakes his head, hefting both his and Robb’s swords over his shoulder, turning to the Northern heir.  “I should go find Bran.  Reckon he’s dodging his lessons with Ser Rodrik.”  

           Robb nods, clapping him on the shoulder in farewell, and Theon leaves without a backwards glance.

           “You know,” Robb says, once they’re left alone in the training yard, “You don’t seem to be making much headway with my sister.”

           Jon arches a brow at him, unsure whether to laugh or groan or sneer at the jab. A disbelieving scoff leaves him. That curl in his gut, it doesn’t seem to leave these days.  Certainly not when he’s surrounded by maddening Starks.

           “She can be…”  He stops, considers, rolling the words along his tongue, “Difficult.”

           Robb snorts a laugh.  “And you haven’t even met Arya, yet,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

           Jon gives him a questioning look.

           He sobers up easily, gaze going to the space Sansa had occupied.  “The thing is,” he says, tone disconcerting and inexplicably low, “Sansa generally gives people the benefit of the doubt.  Looks for the good in them.  And she’s never discourteous.”  He looks to Jon sharply then, eyes probing.  “Which makes me wonder what the hell it is you’ve done to make her so.”

           Jon sucks a breath through his teeth, gaze never relenting on Robb.

           Just a common brute, he imagines her thinking, remembering the heat of her glare when he’d dragged her into his arms.

           (And why should it matter?  The thought pesters at the edge of his mind, insistent.)

           “I’ve not harmed her, if that’s what you’re implying,” he near growls.

           Robb considers him a moment, cocking his head at him.  “No,” he muses softly.  “No, she wouldn’t allow that.”

           You will unhand me, my lord.

           It’s not a line he means to toe again.

           “And I don’t believe you would,” Robb says finally, eyeing him still.

           It shouldn’t make him feel like this – grateful and relieved and seen. Least of all, by a Stark.  And yet here he is, greedily taking in his words, that recognition.

           A tendril of copper hair just out of reach, a glance of frost-blue eyes, throat pale and slender and gulping beneath his calloused touch.

           The searing impression of her earnestness, frail and genuine.

           No, he would not hurt her.

           The realization is startling in its sincerity.

           “Forgive me, my lord, for my bluntness,” Robb begins, face grave, “But Sansa is a tender sort, too tender for her own good sometimes, and whatever it is that’s between you two, whatever it is that’s…hardened her, I do not care for it.”

           Jon blinks at Robb’s sudden fervency, mouth parting, but no words coming forth.

           “As a brother yourself, I think you can understand that,” Robb says.

           The bile is ripe at the back of his throat, and Jon has to swallow back that slice of shame.

           (Not how one is supposed to love.)

           His head feels too foggy, his chest too tight.  The words sink, weighted, along his tongue, until his throat is rife with them. “I’ve no intention of hurting your sister.”

           No intention, it’s true, but he thinks he might have already, all the same. He grinds his jaw, hand curling over the hilt of the sword still in his grip.  “She’s to be my wife, after all.  And I take care of my own.”

           I don’t want anything from you.

           He pushes the words from his mind, the remembrance carving a place between his ribs to anchor there.

           Because what could he possibly mean to her outside of duty?

           “Then take care of her,” Robb says, the hint of a demand coloring his words, “Properly.”

           Jon gives an incredulous chuckle, rueful and unexpected, hand tightening over the hilt of his sword.  “From one brother to another?”

           “Aye.”

           “She’s not been an easy sort to live with, has she?”

           Robb barks a laugh.  “Aye, I’ll give you that.”

           Jon flashes a knowing smile at Robb, the ease of it unfamiliar and jarring. It’s not an unwelcome feeling though, and perhaps this is where it begins.  

           The blur.  The downfall.

           Robb’s smile wavers somewhat, a hesitancy marring his charm.  He takes a breath, his sudden frown thoughtful, his eyes a soft-hued blue.  “Do right by her, my lord.  I promise, she will always do right by you.”

           It’s not said as a demand or a warning or a compromise.  It’s said like a promise, knowing and comforting.  Like an embrace.

           Like a brother.

           She’ll always do right by you.

           Somehow, he believes it.

           Jon glances to the spot Sansa had previously occupied, his recollection of her playing like shadow on his mind.

           “Valiantly done, my lord.”  A paltry concession.

           And why should it matter?  That thought – that plaguing, insistent thought.  He thinks he understands now, loathe as he is to admit it.

           It matters because suddenly, inexplicably, Jon finds he cares what she thinks of him.

           It matters because her opinion of him means something now.

           Jon swears beneath his breath.

           Fucking Starks.

           He’s going to regret this, he knows.  He’s going to regret every bit of this.

[revengeisalwaysanoption]

FICS: PROPOSTE INDECENTI + AMO GIA’ IL FINALE

I posted these on AO3 back in January. And I really wanted to have something brand new for today, but I am trying as hard as I can to have the fairy tale AU finished by tomorrow, so... Hope you’ll like them! They are BOTH IN ENGLISH ;) !!

PROPOSTE INDECENTI Seconds  

10 - 9

The longest ten seconds of his whole fucking life. Maybe Niccolò really is considering turning it down, given the time and setting.

3 a.m. McDonald's. Sitting on plastic chairs. Lazily eating cold fries and a hamburger that tastes like cardboard with one hand, stroking each other's thumbs with the other. Feeling like the last men on Earth, in a deserted place that would normally be buzzing with life in the daytime.

He should have sticked to his plan, given him his scripted speech this Sunday at the Bioparco. But he didn't, and now...

 8-7

… now he's screwed, isn't he? He fucked it up, and Niccolò is going to carry on and pretend this has been nothing but a bad dream.

He couldn't help it, though. Not when Niccolò was glowing with pride and elation as he showed Martino his first - published, finally!! - illustrated book.

The one Nico had lovingly renamed 'our baby' - and damn if Marti's heart didn't skip a beat at that -  even though all he didn't do much but offer his moral support.

How was he supposed to resist?

 6-5

He looked more beautiful than ever, in an old tracksuit and with a ridiculous headband holding his wild curls at bay. Buzzing with enthusiasm, while he told Marti about how Naima the giraffe who had her head too high in the clouds learnt from Mabel the red panda that she shouldn't fear what's in her heart. That her feelings are never too much, like so many others have been telling her.

Niccolò had always been very secretive about the plot, saying 'It's a surprise' with a mischievous glint in his eyes whenever Martino asked for more details… and right in that very moment he could see why.

"Children emotions tends to be heightened, and therefore often dismissed. I hope this can tell them that they matter, you know? That they're gonna find someone willing to listen, someday. Just like I found you."

It was their story. Edited, tweaked but still the same at its core. Shared to offer some hope to whoever might need it.

How could he not stop Niccolò right there and fumble for the box in his bag?

 4-3

Flinging it into his hands and dropping on one knee felt too predictable and cheap, however.

"I… I think I'm gonna get a milkshake. Would you like me to get you anything? An ice-cream cone? A Flurry?" Then, raising a voice a couple of octaves to make it sound childlike he adds "A Happy Meal?"

"Ahah. You're so funny, have you ever considered a career as a stand-up comedian? Get me a Happy Meal, you ass." And he would have sucked on that raised middle finger, without any shame, had it been a night like any other.

But it wasn't.

 2

Niccolò kept on gloating, until he opened the Happy Meal. His face fell, indeed, when he found the giraffe and red panda wooden figurines connected through a red silk thread and carrying a ring.

Ebony black, like his hair. Adorned with amber and aventurine, which both reminded Martino of his eyes.

Eyes which were now boring into him with a mixture of confusion and… disappointment?

Not exactly the reaction he had been wishing for. The silence between them felt a bit uncomfortable, for the first time in maybe ever, but Martino forced himself to speak.

"I know that I told you, so many times and in so many ways, that nobody knows a fucking thing about what's gonna happen tomorrow but... I am certain about ONE thing and ONE thing only: that I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, as your HUSBAND. Don't you wanna spend the rest of your life with me?"

"That's two things, Marti. Maybe even three. I believe so… but let me just have ten seconds to think it through, okay?"

 1

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. " He finally says. Each yes said before a kiss, his smile getting brighter and brighter as they both start crying. Tears they brush away with gentle fingertips, with soft lips.

"A thousand times yes, Marti." Niccolò reiterates, resting his forehead against his fiancé's. Not an old fashioned to say 'boyfriend' when you significant one is not exactly a boy anymore, but the real deal now.

Fiancé. Betrothed. Soon to be husband. He can't wait to refer to Martino using those term with friends, colleagues, guests, relatives. With all those random people he ends up talking to while queuing up at the post office - on the bus, on the train, on the subway. The whole world needs to know, and he is certain that Marti feels like the same.

"Once is more than enough."

-----------

   Minutes  

It still doesn’t feel real, even though he has had some minutes to let it sink in. Despite the weight of the ring dangling from his necklace - "how very Frodo of you…" "Are you calling your future husband a fucking hobbit, Mr Rametta?" - and his proposal still echoing in his ears, he fears he might wake up any minute now. Alone.

He has to take refuge in Marti’s arms, grounding himself in his warm and tight embrace. Nothing can touch him, when he’s there. Nothing can reach him, apart from Martino’s smell and the palpable solidity of his body.

"I can take it back, if you’d like." Marti mumbles, against his helix piercing.

"Don’t you dare!" Niccolò protests, first jabbing his ribs with his forefinger and then flicking his nose.

"I mean… you don't sound positively thrilled about it…" He points out, puzzled to hear Niccolò chuckle.

"Well, we're talking about spending the rest of my life with the most boring gay I've ever met…" Nico sighs dramatically, but then he gets dreadfully serious. He is so overjoyed, so full of love he could burst, and Martino better not end up thinking otherwise. "I couldn't be happier… You know that, right? I simply wanted to be the one to propose."

"Well, maybe you still can. Fifteen or twenty years from now, when we'll feel like renewing our vows or some shit…" Martino suggests, standing up and cleaning their table. They must go now, if they want to have some time left to spare to celebrate home before heading out again to work.

"Sounds lovely. You have such a way with words, Marti." Niccolò shoves him playfully, but files that piece of information into a secured corner of his brain. Might come in handy, in the future. "And how do you know about renewals, anyway? Don't tell me you've been bingewatching 'Say Yes To The Dress' on RealTime!"

"Whaaat? Me? Nope. Never. Must have heard something from Filo. Or was it Edo?"

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

AMO GIA’ IL FINALE

Hours  

Hours have gone by. It took them twice longer than usual to reach their flat, unable to walk more than a few steps without stopping for a quick peck. Or a full on make out session against a couple of closed, sturdy, doors.

Clothes were discarded on the floor as soon as they stepped inside, and they had made love until dawn. Exhausted, by then, they had fallen asleep.

Fear has had time to come knocking, and with it the painful reminder that people always leave. Or get sick of each other, and stay together only to keep up appearances.

No. That's not gonna happen. Not to them. Not when they are perfectly aware that gonna have to make a promise to each other not only on that day… but every second, every minute, every hour they spend together. Or apart.

Not necessarily with words. Which little gestures, too. Cherish their love. Never take it for granted.

"I promise you that we can make it. From now, to infinity." Martino says, softly, as he lays a kiss on Niccolò chest. Right where his heart is, just like Nico did so many years before under those red lights.

"To infinity and beyond."

"Don't start quoting Toy Story when I'm trying to be deep, Ni."

"It doesn't suit you. Now, up up up. Put something on and come with me... I don't want to miss watching the sunrise and cuddling with my betrothed on my cozy balcony."

"You are unbelievable."

"And you love that."

"I sure do, don't I?"

   Imagination  

This is absolutely not what Niccolò or Martino had in mind.

The unnecessary opulence, the stifling atmosphere in spite of the marvelous outdoor venue.

"It's not like you had a clear picture of what you wanted, anyway." Anyone would argue, and they would be right.

It had been easy enough to picture it back in Milan, where having a wedding in their birthday suits had sounded like the coolest idea he had ever had… But now Nico can't really see how that would go down, can't imagine it wouldn't be a complete catastrophe.

Like any other scenario they came up with. Some are too over the top, and would make Martino feel uncomfortable. Some are too dull, and would be an ill match to Niccolò's eccentricity.

Someone had to take the matter into their hands, and it wasn't like Silvia had done a bad job with the very little input she had from the grooms.

Maybe they could settle for this?

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

   Instinct  

Or maybe not.

Martino refused to make this day, their day, about anyone else but themselves.

His in-laws were probably going to hate him for this, as firm believers of a time and a place for spontaneity, and their own friends were surely going to hold it against them for the next fifty years or so… but who cared?

Not him. Not when he was witnessing the first real smile of the week from Niccolò, merely by showing up on his old bike.

"Get on." It took him some fumbling, since a tight fitting tuxedo wasn't really the best attire for riding a bike, but eventually he managed to sit comfortably behind Martino.

"Where are we going?" He asked, presuming to be filled in about Marti's plan for the next few hours.

"Wherever the fuck we want." Martino said, instead, refusing to tell Niccolò anything concerning their destination. Or what they would do, once they reached it.

It didn't take too long to get to a church that Niccolò knew all too well. He had often joked about getting married in its crypt, surrounded by skulls and chandeliers made of human bones. Too bad it was hardly ever opened to the public, and totally unavailable for any kind of celebration.

"And how exactly are you planning to get in?" He inquired, walking over to the locked door.

"I might have asked Filippo to make me a copy of the key, when he got one for his photography project. Off the record." Because he knew Niccolò would love to stroll through the building undisturbed. Taking in its macabre allure, appreciating the fleeting nature of his own existence.

"Uh… Martino Rametta breaking the law by owning something he's not supposed to? A man after my own heart, I must say."

"I thought I already had it. Your heart, I mean." He commented, offhandedly, as he cursed and kicked against the rusty old door. "Oh, come on! Jesus! You were working just fine last time!"

"And this wonderful hint of blasphemy, right in front of a church. Wow." Niccolò reached out for him, then, pinning his open palm onto his own chest. "You're not mistaken, by the way. This has been yours for years."

"Same here." Marti turned to take his hand, and l let him feel how fast his heart was beating.

And then, as Marti was leaning in for a kiss, Nico moved back and brazenly snatched the keys.

"You know I've got the magic touch. Don't know whether it's in the fingers on in the wrists…"

"You better leave those innuendo at the door, Ni."

"Or what? You'll punish me, Father? You'll drag me into one of the confessionals and…"

… and he might had been tempted to do that, to drop on his knees and worship this man… Before he was basically challenged to reign in his wildest fantasies. Oh, he knew Niccolò wouldn't even try to play fair but still… He was so going to win this.

******

   Memory  

"... and then?" The kids asked, trying to get Mr. David's attention.

"Mh?" He had been distracted by an old lady coming to congratulate him on finally tying the knot a couple of weeks before. Shoelaces were a challenge for anyone, indeed, so it made sense he got praised for achieving that goal… Even though it took him so many years.

And that hadn't been the only interruption. For same weird reason their parents kept butting in to tell them shouldn't bother Mr. Fares. Or his 'partner'. They don't say 'husband', for some reason. Despite it being the word David uses for Michelangelo.

Grown up are so, so dumb.

"You ran away from your own wedding, got to a spooky church… and then? What happened?"

"Did you find a body and have to solve a murder?"

"I'm afraid not. We walked inside, and I read him my vows. He gave me his. I can show them to you, if you'd like? I always carry them in my pocket." Most didn't quite understand what was so great about two stick figures on a badly drawn giraffe, but the words written on the side sounded nice. Especially the closing line.

 Per quanta strada abbiam fatto, e per quanta  ancora ce n'è da fare… Amo già il finale.

"Booooring! I bet you went back to the ranch for the actual ceremony, after that?"

"Wrong. Remember that I started telling you all about this day because Meni asked what was the biggest prank I've ever pulled on my friends and family… That's it: making them all believe they would see US getting married and then have two other people saying 'I do' that afternoon. And this day I'm still quite proud I could pull that off. And so is my husband. I mean, our old folks were THIS close to believe we had been kidnapped."

Impressive. Kind of. Perhaps grown up can be cool, once in a blue moon?

"Ni? Nico? Earth to Niccolò Fares?" Not fair! He was a grown up! Why was he getting sweets before dinner?

"Yeah yeah, I can hear you loud and clear Marti." He gulped down his candies in a heartbeat.  And then gave him a quick kiss, saying "Thanks, love."

Huh? Nico? Marti? Then why their moms - and a couple of their dads - referred to him as Michelangelo's David?

Grown ups are so, so weird.

[commandertheory]

Throne of Eldraine Commander Set Review

For each new set, I write an article discussing the new legendary creatures and the nonlegendary cards that I think will be relevant in Commander.

The Commanders of Throne of Eldraine

He’s a more interesting political commander than most existing options because he has so many tools to work with. Notably, the last ability goes infinite with a Composite Golem and any one of the following effects:

Something that triggers when an artifact or creature enters the battlefield

Something that triggers when an artifact or creature is put into the graveyard

Something that reduces the cost of activated abilities

Sample decklist: Kenrith, the Returned King

In terms of tech, there’s Well of Lost Dreams, Dawn of Hope, Angelic Accord, and Resplendent Angel. But that’s about it, and if you don’t draw those four cards, you’re left with a commander that gives you a small boost in the least important resource in a color that can’t use that resource for anything.

While it’s not great as a commander, it’s probably good in the maindeck of Karlov decks.

This seems quite bad. In contrast, Pianna, Nomad Captain does basically the same thing for two mana cheaper.

This is a very neat self-mill combo commander. The absolute best pieces of tech for the deck are Mirran Spy and Chakram Retriever, which allow you to cast as many artifacts as you have the mana for. If your deck is full of 0-mana artifacts and cards like Sol Ring and Mana Crypt that net mana when you cast them, you can really combo off with Emry.

Some of the more notable combos:

0-mana artifact creature + Thornbite Staff/Intruder Alarm/Mirran Spy + Grinding Station/Ashnod’s Altar/Phyrexian Altar/Krark-Clan Ironworks/Blasting Station

Basalt Monolith + Mesmeric Orb

Basalt Monolith + Rings of Brighthearth

Mirran Spy/Chakram Retriever + Lotus Petal/Lion’s Eye Diamond

Emry + Mindslaver

Walking Ballista is your outlet for infinite mana, generally.

The rest of the deck is mostly tutors and self-mill cards to help you assemble your combos and counterspells to help you protect it.

Sample decklist: Emry, Lurker of the Loch

He’s a better outlet for infinite mana than Ambassador Laquatus and he synergizes extremely well with Verity Circle. Unfortunately, I’m not seeing great uses for those guy aside from those two possibilities. Not being able to tap your own stuff means you can’t abuse Winter Orb/Static Orb (or even fun/fair stuff like the untap symbol or inspired) and having such a restrictive color identity prevents you from doing cool stuff like running Urborg, Tomb of Yawgmoth and Spreading Algae.

High Tide and blue’s untap spells (e.g., Frantic Search, Time Spiral) are also good non-infinite ways to generate tons of mana for your commander.

I am not super stoked about this card. While it could potentially have 7 or more power, that’s not an insane rate for 5 mana and it’s lacking the evasion, haste, and effective protection against removal needed to make it a good Voltron commander.

Thornbite Staff turns this into an unrestricted card draw engine, and she combos with Phyrexian Altar + Gravecrawler + any zombie to cause infinite life loss for your opponents.

Not only does it provide a discard outlet for the 8ish decent madness cards in monoblack, but you can usually get a free discard by dumping Bloodghast, Reassembling Skeleton, Gutterbones, Bloodsoaked Champion, etc. before you start recurring them to pay for the sacrifice ability.

It’s also worth noting that there are some fantastic death triggers in monoblack; Mindslicer and Corpse Augur are some standouts.

Shared Trauma, Dread Summons, and Mesmeric Orb are good ways to mill your opponents in monoblack, and Heartstone will greatly increase the efficiency of his activated ability. You can also try farming the ability with powerful discard effects like Mindslicer, Capital Punishment, Cabal Conditioning, and Myojin of Night’s Reach, and Black’s efficient removal will also help you get triggers.

I’ve also seen takes on this deck that combine the activated ability with Lantern of Insight to set up a soft lock where you prevent your opponents from drawing anything relevant.

With Syr Carah, the name of the game is cheap spells that hit multiple opponents. Fortunately, Red has a ton of these that are relatively cheap and so Carah makes it so you can draw a ton of cards for relatively little mana (spending 2 to draw 4 is a pretty common occurrence). If some of those cards net mana (e.g., rituals, moxes), then you can keep the combo going.

Sample decklist: Syr Carah, the Bold

Aside from boosting your creatures’ damage output, he also combines extremely well with Group Slug effects like Manabarbs and Spellshock; in fact, he’s probably the best Group Slug commander of all time.

Sample decklist:  Torbran, Thane of Red Fell

Bubble Matrix and Fog effects make it so that your creatures can’t take damage in combat but they can still dish it out.

You can also run Viridian Longbow and Thornbite Staff to make use of this guy’s deathtouch. Other than that, there’s not a whole lot of direction to build around this guy; bog standard Voltron package, I guess.

I wish this card had more power. +2/+2 is nothing and while I can think of creatures that could use a buff effectively (Infect creatures), I feel like I need to buff Syr Faren in order to buff them more. If that’s the case, why am I even using Syr Faren? Why not just buff the creatures directly and cut out the middleman?

You can get a bunch of counters with cards like Deranged Hermit, Deep Forest Hermit, etc, but 5 mana for 5 power isn’t even that great compared to some of the better auras and equipment.

Also, give that Yorvo’s reward is making himself bigger, the only way to build around him is Voltron; which he’s not well suited for. His base stats are a 4/4 for 3, which isn’t insane, and he doesn’t have haste, evasion, or resistance to removal.

Although I don’t like him as a commander, he could be good in the maindeck of Ghave decks.

This guy combos really well with sac outlets and creatures with persist, offering you infinite of whatever your sac outlet generates. Unfortunately, there’s only about 6 unrestricted sac outlets and 6 persist creatures in these colors, which is far from enough stuff to fill out a deck, so there’s a lot of room for token generators, proliferate effects, interaction, and a generally more straightforward aggressive game plan.

Sample decklist: Grumgully, the Generous

I tried building Alela a few ways before I settled on a build I liked. Initially, I tried running a bunch of cheap (3 CMC or less) anthem effects, because they were essentially “lords” when they came with a 2/1 Faerie attached. The issue with this build was that there wasn’t much card flow, and although I often ended up with a huge scary board, I didn’t have many cards in hand and I was very vulnerable to board wipes.

The second build I tried used a ton of 2-cost artifacts and enchantments that drew a card when they entered the battlefield; essentially, my deck was full of flying Silvergill Adepts. This has been working pretty well, as I can commit a bunch of dudes to the board while maintaining a respectable hand so I can rebuild if something goes wrong.

In addition to my card-drawing eggs and Auras, I’m also running the most efficient anthem effects in these colors, such as Favorable Winds, Shared Triumph, Intangible Virtue, and Konda’s Banner.

Combat damage triggers are pretty good when you have a bunch of flyers, so I’m running Coastal Piracy, Bident of Thassa, Larceny, and Kindred Discovery.

There are a few sac outlets that are powerful enough to justify diverting a few Faeries away from the beatdown, such as Attrition, Mind Slash, and Skullclamp.

Sample decklist: Alela, Artful Provocateur

This guy is a powerful combo commander centered around chaining cheap creatures together. He has very strong synergy with effects that subsidize or eliminate the cost of cheap creatures, such as Earthcraft, Aluren, and Tangleroot and he loves self-bouncing creatures like Shrieking Drake.

Sample decklist: Chulane, Teller of Tales

Works well with fetchlands, so a good Korvold build will likely have a solid land package. That being said, the heart of this deck is creature sacrifice, and this color identity has some great sac fodder in the form of token generation and self-recurring creatures, as well as some of the best sac outlets in the format. He also works well with creatures that really, really want to die, like Protean Hulk, Mindslicer, Seedguide Ash, and World Shaper.

Sample decklist: Korvold, Fae-Cursed King

I think Syr Gwyn is worth comparing to Kestia, the Cultivator. Both of them reward you when you attack with a narrow subset of cards. The main differences are that Kestia is significantly cheaper, is in a better color identity, and the things that trigger Kestia only require the commitment of a single card, whereas Syr Gwyn (generally) needs you to commit both a creature card and an equipment card to assemble a card-generating unit.

There are some exceptions to this rule: Living Weapon equipment come with a creature attached, as do the two equipment from M20 with a similar ability. Bloodforged Battle-Axe copies itself so you don’t have to commit as many real equipment to the board.

While there are a few low-casting cost high-equip cost cards like Colossus Hammer and Blackblade Reforged that really reward you for committing to Knights, most of the best equipment costs 1-2 mana to equip. I’m not sure saving 1-2 mana is worth committing to the Knight creature type.

Instead, I’d probably run the cheap doublestrikers in these colors (many of which are, admittedly, Knights) and a bunch of cards that synergize with equipment (not just Stoneforge and Puresteel; I think I’d also run Kor Duelist). In general, I want the deck to function without Syn Gwyn on the battlefield, since she costs a bunch of mana and isn’t very resilient to spot removal. Slapping a Mask of Memory on a Fencing Ace seems like a solid plan A in case Gwyn can’t get it together.

Sample decklist: Syr Gwyn

The Maindeck Cards of Throne of Eldraine

In this set review, I’ll be using two five-point rating scales to evaluate the nonlegendary cards, one that measures how many decks a card is playable in (we’ll call that “spread”), and one that measures how powerful it is in those decks (”power”). Here’s a brief rundown of what each rank on the two scales means:

Spread

1: This card is effective in one or two decks, but no more (ex: The Gitrog Monster).

2: This card is effective in one deck archetype (ex: self-mill decks).

3: A lot of decks will be able to use this card effectively (ex: decks with graveyard interactions).

4: This card is effective in most decks in this color.

5: Every deck in this color is able to use this card effectively.

Power

1: This card is always going to be on the chopping block.

2: This card is unlikely to consistently perform well.

3: This card provides good utility but is not a powerhouse.

4: This card is good enough to push you ahead of your opponents.

5: This card has a huge impact on the game.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

The -3 will never be bad, but spending six mana for this effect is not great. His 0 ability does synergize with sacrifice decks like Mazirek and Savra, but I’m still not sure he’s worth the price of entry in those lists.

Spread: 5 Power: 3

Shutting down someone’s commander is a big game, and the potential to activate him multiple turns in a row makes this a very big threat for just three mana.

Spread: 1 Power: 1

1st ability is weak, 2nd is a blank, ult will never happen and won’t even win you the game if it does. Don’t play this card.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

Given that it only works in a deck with a critical mass of Knights, I think this guy is relegated to Aryel and Syr Gwyn. It’s def good in those lists, though.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

This costs one more mana to activate than I was hoping it would, but the opportunity cost to run it is basically nil, so I guess I can’t complain much. I think this is the narrowest of the five, though.

Notably, out of 23 cards in Magic that produce Human tokens, 9 are legal in Throne of Eldraine standard. This seems like too many to be a coincidence so this could mean that Human is now going to be the default white token type or we’ve got Human tribal coming up in the near future.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

I’m not a huge fan of cards that require you to jump through multiple hoops, as they pull a deck in two different directions. In this case, there’s not a big overlap between the decks running lots of legendaries and the decks running lots of Knights. There are about 10 playable Knight legends that you can stuff into a Syr Gwyn deck, but that’s barely a critical mass so I don’t see you consistently getting many Knight tokens off of this. Decks like Kethis and Sisay can trigger this way more frequently, but they probably don’t care about the reward; it’s not like they were running Primeval Bounty.

Spread: 1 Power: 3

Incredibly meta-dependent.

This is a super-powerful hoser for storm-y decks. The main problem with a silver bullet like this is that White doesn’t have many great ways to dig it out of your 100-card deck; you’ll need additional colors to help you find it. Like, side from Enlightened Tutor and Idyllic Tutor, how are you finding this early enough for it to save you?

Spread: 1 Power: 2

The removal spell will find targets in an average game of Commander, but they’re not always going to be the most important creatures. If we ever got human tribal, I’d consider running this as a value dude similar to Big Game Hunter. Or Peasant Tribal, I guess.

Spread: 1 Power: 1

This is never going to trigger and the ETB gives away 3 cards and 15 life. Don’t run it!

Spread: 1 Power: 2

Kicks ass in Oros, the Avenger.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

It’s better than Tocatli Honor Guard in White hatebear lists, but it’s very meta-dependent. I think Green decks are going to be hit harder by the Torpor Orb effect and Black decks will be hit harder by the death trigger prevention.

Spread: 2 Power: 3

If you’re running a deck with Black in its color identity and you could easily recur the creature half of this card, I’d seriously consider running this card, even if it’s one more mana relative to Wrath of God and Damnation; the potential for recursion is seriously that powerful.

And of course it’s really really good if your commander is a White Giant.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

It’s unfortunate that there are no white commanders that grant haste (well, I guess there’s Odric), as Commander does not take too kindly to 6 mana cards that have to wait a round of turns to start generating value. However, as we noted when Aryel was released, there was an embarrassing shortage of playable Knight token generators, so this may see play in Knight tribal decks.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

This type of card (land with expensive activated ability) is arguably better in Blue decks since you can hold counters up and activate it if your opponents don’t cast anything worth answering. As with all the other Castles, the opportunity cost to run this is extremely low in 1- and 2-color decks.

Spread: 0 Power:0

Wish effects currently don’t work under the official Commander rules; hence the ratings for this card.

However, it’s worth noting that Wizards has printed a wish effect in each of the last three Standard sets. These types of designs are clearly going to be a part of Magic going forward, and it doesn’t make sense that Commander’s rules don’t align with modern Magic design. You’ve probably heard me advocating for a rules change before, but I want to do more than theorycraft; I want some experience.

So, I’m planning on testing wishboards over the next few months to see what the pros/cons are and whether a rules change would be feasible or whether it would break the game. Now, I want to make a distinction: The wishboard will be used solely as a place for cards that I’ll search out with cards like Fae of Wishes; I’m not going to be testing a sideboard and I will not be switching cards between my sideboard and maindeck between games. I didn’t really want to test that because I think it will slow down games and sideboarding doesn’t matter that much unless your deck is really good at tutoring; a silver bullet sideboard card with no redundant effects is only 1% of your deck.

Expect a report back sometime at the beginning of 2020.

Spread: 4 Power: 2

I don’t think it’s particularly difficult to hit the cost reduction over the course of a multiplayer game, but it’ll be tricky to pull off early and there are lots of alternatives that have no such timing restrictions.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

I’m really underwhelmed by this card. This is uncastable unless you’re running a spellslinger deck, and if that’s the case you can probably win by spell combo looong before this accrues enough knowledge counters to be good. Also, spellslinger decks can refill their hands instantly with a single card that actually synergizes with their deck’s strategy of casting instants/sorceries, such as Windfall, Time Reversal, Reforge the Soul, etc, etc. How much effort and how many turns will it take for Magic Mirror to draw you as many cards as a Windfall? How many opponents have to choose not to Vandalblast or Krosan Grip or Return to Dust the Mirror over that time period?

Spread: 3 Power: 2

Great card! It’s not hard to build a deck with plenty of mana rocks and utility enchantments that are good in multiples, and your opponents are likely to have some good targets, as well.

Spread: 2 Power: 3

If you’re in monoblue, and your commander can bounce lands, and you’ve got a critical mass of extra turn effects, this thing generates infinite turns.

That may sound unlikely, but there are a surprising number of monoblue commanders that can bounce lands; Uyo, Silent Prophet, Meloku, and Kefnet the Mindful all combo off with this thing, and there are 5 extra turn effects that don’t exile or shuffle that you can slot into this combo (6 if you’ve got Rogues).

Spread: 2 Power: 3

Very good with commanders with “cast X, get token” abilities, like Sai, Master Thopterist, Alela, Artful Provocateur, Kykar, and Talrand. Many of those commanders build around cards of the chosen type that cantrip, so you can use this ability to loot away lands and chain relevant cards into each other and continually trigger your commander.

Also, it goes infinite with the Locust God.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

This seems good in less-competitive Urza and Jhoira 2.0 decks as a means to get more gas off your Darksteel Relics and such. The good builds don’t have time for a 6-mana dragon, though.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

With the introduction of Syr Gwyn, there are now two Knight tribal decks in Commander. Run it in those decks and nowhere else.

Spread: 4 Power: 2

Life is, of course, worthless, but I’d still be wary of activating this when I had more than two cards in hand.

Spread: 1 Power: 4

Incredible combo piece in Grenzo, Dungeon Warden decks. All you need is a sac outlet and you can start juggling creatures between the library, graveyard, and battlefield, farming ETB and death triggers.

It also seems good in self-mill decks that can easily drop its cost down to two, but the bottom-of-library drawback is much more significant in those lists.

Spread: 2 Power: 3

This will often create 4 bodies for four mana, which is a great ratio. Black has a ton of sac outlet commanders that will be happy to run this card, including Torgaar, Whisper, Bontu, and Yawgmoth. Marrow-Gnawer lists may also be interested, as it’s one of the few Rat token generators that can make many at once.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

Hero’s Downfall sees play in almost 15,000 decks on EDHREC. While this card has some weird drawbacks (exiles itself, then buries itself on the bottom of your library), there are a lot of powerful things you can do with it because it’s stapled to a creature, like recurring it with a Phyrexian Reclamation or Volrath’s Stronghold in response to the death trigger. It works even better if you have access to Blue’s bounce engines.

I know it seems a little goofy compared to a Ravenous Chupacabra, but the instant speed on Swift End should not be underestimated, as there are a ton of situations where you need to interrupt something to keep from dying.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

Upping your Rat count and snatching commanders seems solid in Marrow-Gnawer lists.

Spread: 3 Power: 3

If you’re running a combo deck, the drawback is basically negligible, since your deck can probably kill your opponent before they can use it.

Thanks to @ceta-maelstrom for pointing out that this works pretty well in Aminatou, since she can blink it back under your control.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

Probably the best in the cycle. It’s useful in the many, many red token decks and the rate on the activation is not bad.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

There aren’t a whole lot of Red decks capable of going wide that are interested in double strike for their commanders; most decks don’t go both wide and tall. Maybe Wasitora or Gishath can use this effectively?

Spread: 1 Power: 2

The Crush effect will never be irrelevant in Commander, so this is a solid card for Syr Gwyn decks that lean into Knight tribal. I probably wouldn’t run it in other decks, however, as Red has better artifact destruction than this.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

This guy is too inefficient for me to be excited to run him in most go-wide decks, but tribal lists always have a lower barrier to entry because their creature type is so valuable. In Syr Gwyn tribal Knights, I’d give this anthem effect a shot.

Spread: 1 Power: 1

This effect just seems too hard to break to be worth running. Let me know if you figure out a deck in which it’ll be good.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

This is a generally useful reward for something few decks can pull off. It’s tricky to find commanders that can reliably trigger this a bunch without straight winning the game in the process (i.e., Jhoira Weatherlight Captain, Anje Falkenrath). I think Arjun, Jori En, and Korvold could be good fits for this card.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

In order for this to be good, your commander has to be able to trigger this and make use of the reward. Lyzolda can do this by sacrificing the Rats to draw cards, potentially triggering Mad Ratter again if you activate her on your opponents’ turns.

Korvold behaves similarly, as you can feed him two Rats to draw two cards and trigger the Ratter again.

Finally, the Scorpion God can eat the Rats for cards, thereby creating more Rats.

Spread: 4 Power: 3

Sure, it’s got a drawback, but it offers a relatively unconditional instant-speed kill spell in a color that has far from a critical mass of them. This is one of the best Red spot removal spells, beaten out only by Chaos Warp, Lightning Bolt, and Abrade. This kills 14/21 of the most popular commanders on EDHREC and the vast majority of the most popular creatures.

Spread: 2 Power: 1

Casting exiled cards on later turns is a big benefit, but Robin Hood still has a ton of drawbacks relative to Grenzo, Havoc Raiser.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

I run Tormenting Voice in a LOT of monored decks, and this is strictly better. Excited to see Red getting more and better variants of this effect.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

Heavy Green decks tend to be creature-focused, so the restriction isn’t that significant. It feels a lot better if you think of this card as a Temple of the False God that can still tap for mana when you have fewer than five lands.

Spread: 1 Power: 1

I can’t see where this fits into the format; even Derevi birds would want this to have at least one power. Let me know if you think of a deck that can use this card!

Spread: 3 Power: 3

This is pretty comparable to Guardian Project or Beast Whisperer if you can reliably get a 3+ power creature on the field (perhaps from your command zone?), as the ability to tap for two means this effectively costs 2 less than whatever the reduced price ends up being.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

It took me a minute to notice the “one or more” clause, after which my interest in this card plummeted. However, it is a Cat that draws you a card every turn, so Arahbo with gladly welcome him into the pride.

Spread: 4 Power: 3

It doesn’t hose commanders as hard as Darksteel Mutation, Song of the Dryads, or Imprisoned in the Moon, but the cantrip more than makes up for it.

Spread: 3 Power: 3

Big fan of these effects, and I don’t think the non-Human restriction is very relevant.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

The existence of Bane of Progress (and the dozen tutors to find it) in Green makes this card a lot less appealing. However, the Hydra type makes it a great utility creature for Gargos decks.

Spread: 3 Power: 3

Anyone who’s played Gruul Ragebeast can tell you that this is pretty powerful creature control; if this goes unanswered, you’re going to eat all of your opponents’ threats. I would happily run this in monogreen decks looking for ways to remove multiple creatures, especially if my meta was light on spot removal.

Spread: 1 Power: 1

Never before have I seen an Impulse that was this hard to cast. Bird decks don’t run enough artifacts/enchantments to make this reliably hit, but if there was ever a commander in these colors that rewarded you for playing artifact creatures, I’d consider running this guy.

Spread: 2 Power: 3

This looks like a one-sided Open the Vaults to me, and there are lots of commanders that will be happy to run this, including Hanna, Breya, Tuvasa, and Kestia. I think this card was intentionally designed so that you can easily avoid animating your stuff if you don’t want to, as making your hard-to-remove artifacts and enchantments vulnerable to creature removal is not ideal (as anyone who’s played with Opalescence or Starfield of Nyx can attest).

Spread: 2 Power: 3

This is pretty close to drawing five cards for five mana, provided your curve isn’t too high. I think I’d run this in Gruul or Naya decks with a low curve.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

Fyndhorn Elder and Greenweaver Druid are not good cards, but Llanowar Tribe and Somberwald Sage are. If you’re running 3+ colors, I would happily run this card, as 7 mana on turn 4 is no joke and can really launch you past your opponents.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

Its color identity precludes it from being used in Aryel, so Syr Gwyn is the only home for this card.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

I like this effect way more than a typical anthem, since it scales to multiple opponents. I’d run this in tribal Knights, but don’t get your hopes up about firing off that activated ability when none of the Knight decks are in ramp colors.

Spread: 3 Power: 2

This is one of the best 2-drop mana rocks, but not every deck needs those. Best when used with non-Green 4-CMC commanders.

Spread: 1 Power: 3

This is quite good in Arcades, the Strategist. The rate isn’t terrible and granting all of your creatures haste is very powerful in a deck that can vomit out five 4-toughness defenders in a turn.

Spread: 2 Power: 1

There are a couple lists that are very excited for new Eggs (cheap artifacts that draw cards and sacrifice themselves), such as Gerrard 2.0, Teshar, and some Breya builds.

Spread: 3 Power: 3

I generally do not like anthem effects that only buff for a single point of power, especially when they cost three mana. I also generally do not like mana rocks that cost three and only produce a single mana. However, the combination of these two effects is kind of attractive. Tapping for mana means your anthem essentially only costs two mana, and producing a mana every turn thereafter is a significant bonus. I really like this in Alela since it also triggers her token production ability, but I’d consider testing it in other go-wide token decks as well.

Spread: 1 Power: 2

It’s a 2 CMC scarecrow, which means Reaper King is interested.

Spread: 2 Power: 2

This seems like a solid draw engine for monowhite decks, and maybe monored and red/white decks. As long as you have a commander that doesn’t mind attacking, this’ll probably act as an Underworld Connections.

Spread: 4 Power: 2

Even monocolor decks now have a ton of options for fetches; we’re at the threshold of a critical mass of fetches so you can more consistently assemble an engine with Crucible of Worlds. I’d run this in 3-color decks, 2-color decks, and monocolor decks with Crucible and Scroll Rack. 

Wrapping Up

Please let me know if you think I missed any relevant cards or if you disagree with any of my ratings. Thanks for reading!

[ghostladyofwinterfell]

The Lone Wolf (Jonsa AU)

Chapter One: Dark Words

Summary: The new King in the North sent men to begin colonising beyond the Wall. Five years later, new towns are being added to the map, settlements are growing larger and crops sustaining more people.

Now it is time for women to sail to the Frozen Shores to join them. They are known as the Maids to make Wives. Sansa has taken the place of one of these maids who had fallen before she had the chance to even set sail.

She unfolds the scroll again, her intended was her only chance at escape and he would not even know it. She whispers his name like a prayer, “Jon Snow”.

Sansa's new life began at the end of another's. She should be used to it by now. The numbness should be a known friend, the dark shroud of death should be a familiar comfort as she loses another that had once been close to her.

 But she was a woman now, so she had put away childish things like dresses and dolls, her useless tears and the idea of love. 

She was as icy as the bitter fortress that would soon be her new home. But then again she had always been a bad liar. Even to herself. It was still there, buried deep down and lost like a stone statue in the never ending turns of Winterfells crypt.

She felt it again, that flicker of pain at the mention of her lost family home. She was still weak, still a stupid girl.

"It's a sad sight to see. Don't matter how sweet or young, death will still come for 'yer", Yoren spoke breaking her of the trance she was under.

Strange thoughts always went through her mind when death touched her closely. She had been wondering how long it would take for her friend to look dead and not just sleeping and if she would see her lips turn blue or the flesh of her cheeks sink into her face.  

Sansa thought back to just last night, her and Jeyne were still reacquainting themselves with one another again, when they met by chance upon the Kingsroad. They stayed together, perhaps because the feeling of their old comforting childhood resurfaced between them and Sansa didn't want to feel alone anymore.

The lone wolf dies.

Jeyne had offered to share her room, had even used her own gold to pay for food to warm Sansa's belly for days now. And the dye in her hair to keep her identity hidden while they were in Moles Town. 

Even after all the years that they had been absent from each others lives, since she had left the North and then the months since she had fled the South, she had helped her. Jeyne did not owe her a thing, but she had risked her life and her own future all the same. And she knew she did not deserve it, but she took the help anyways even with the guilt eating her up.

"Maybe it's a blessing".  She remembered the ravens that had come to deliver news to several of the women waiting at the inn in the early hours of the morn. It had squawked at Jeyne when she took the parchment and she had heard her mothers voice then, 'Dark wings, Dark words'.

Where Jeyne was heading was no place for her. She was still a sweet girl just like Yoren had said. Too sweet and soft for beyond the wall. She had heard the stories over the years while she was held captive with the King in the Stormlands and had garnered bits and pieces as she travelled further North. The King in The North had wanted to expand his hold and rule even further. He had sent men who were willing to go beyond the Wall to start that venture,  different groups had been gone for near on five years now.

New towns were being added to the map, settlements grew larger, crops sustaining more people. He called the men who fought in his name heroes and said songs would be sung of their glory and bravery. And that it was time for many of his Winter Knights to have wives now, to start sowing seeds for future generations.  

But Sansa knew that they were just that- stories.   Who knew what kind of life one would have that far away from civilisation and what kind of husband. Wildings still inhabited beyond the wall and if reports were true still proving to be trouble.

That's where these women were going , a new life- a hard life. The King was giving gold to those willing to sweeten the venture, she supposes its the least he could as the women were bargaining with their lives.

And poor, sweet Jeyne would could have actually been safer for her to go there. The North was no longer a haven for those who had supported her family. Her family, her fault. The guilt made her bite at her lip.

"Aye, maybe you're right. Still, bad luck I reckon to be going one short on the first carriage there. Someone's gonna be disappointed", he grasped at his quill dipping it the black ink and went to cross out her friends name.

"Wait"- the words tumbled out quickly, too quickly for her mind to even catch up on the plan that was still forming. She paused for some time mulling it over, a part of her trying to talk herself out of it, it would never work.

She turned to Yoren whose hand had remained still. He raised an eyebrow at her then, as though he were reading her mind and curious to see which road she would travel. There was no choice really. A hard life beyond the wall or uncertainty. The only reason she had even made it this far was with help. The Hound, Tyrion, Ser Dontos, Baelish, Lord Royce, Jeyne. She had no one now. She looked down to her poor, dead friend again whispering a sorry in her mind as she reached for the scroll and bag of gold from her cloak pocket and turned to Yoren.

He gave her smile that seemed wicked to her then, "Didn't think you had it in you. Perhaps I was wrong about you Jeyne, you may survive beyond the Wall yet". He stepped to his side revealing the carriage of women waiting and ticked off Jeynes name.

She tried to give him a small smile in return, thankful for his mercy upon her. She stepped into the carriage as Yoren climbed up the front to steer the horses. The carriage jolted forward, one of the women letting out a surprised gasp but she didn't turn towards the sound. Instead she pulled the corner of the curtain up and watched as the men came to take the body to her newly dug gave. She kept watching still, even after she lost sight of the buildings of Moles Town. She kept watching as her old life disappeared.  

*          *          *          *          *

Sansa tried to hide her huff of annoyance as discreetly as she could. Her mothers lessons on courtesy still ingrained in her, but Lolly Stokeworths complaining was getting on her last nerve.

The winds were blowing harshly on the fourth night as they settled to camp and as a Southernor, Lolly was not used to its fierce bite.

Once the men had built the lean to, Yoren had rescued them by presenting wine he had bought from a farmer in the Gift to share. They had one cup to help warm their bellies and to help loosen their tongues. They would all be living in the same small town together but it seemed as if they had all been stunned silent, perhaps at the sense of foreboding of their fates that hung heavy in the air. Sansa made sure that she sipped the wine slowly until she felt a warmness in her cheeks. Then moving a patch of snow, she carefully poured a river of red upon the grass with the rest. Sansa had seen first hand the different ways that wine affects the body and she needed to always have her wits about her if she was to survive.

She kept reassuring herself that it would be fine. Sansa knew Jeyne, had grown up with her, so pretending to be her wouldn't be hard. She had gotten better at pretending with the years of practice. Sometimes it was a struggle, particularly tonight, when the women had finally begun to commune with one another.

She tried to keep it short. She hears Cersei's echo, Only lies have detail . Say too much and you'll start to forget and trip yourself up on a tall tale you have spun. She knew there were people still looking for her.   And being out of the North for so long, being cut off from any news of its plight as another form of punishment from Joffrey, left her in the dark. Like when they talked about yet another poor Lords family that had met a gruesome end to the Prince. Ramsay Bolton had a bloody appetite.

Sansa stands still on the last few steps, halting her and Gilly. Even if she was eager to be in a building with four walls and a roof instead of the open road, there was always time for information to be listened to. Gilly Craster and her sisters Morag and Sissy had met them at Shadow Tower to join them onwards, they all appeared a miserable trio to look upon.  

"Wait- you're not going there to become a wife?" she only spoke to Gilly, who seemed much more agreeable than the other.

"No. My father owns the tavern their, so me and my sisters are joining him. Meera's going their to meet her brother as well and not a husband". Lucky people. They still have family to meet, she thought on sadly.

She nodded, burying these findings away to think upon later. Right now she was hungry, tired and her muscles had been aching for days. 

They all ate together in the old Nights Watch castle, dining on fish as they supped in the Great Hall were they would also sleep.

She stayed close to Gilly and Shae, liking the quiet calm that surrounded them. Gilly was sweet like Jeyne, but she saw it in her eyes, a certain hardness to withstand a cold and tough life. Shae was agreeable. Brazen, but not unkind in the way she asked Sansa lots of questions and not in the nosey way that Violet had. She would stay away from that one.  

Gilly had found it all odd. That all the other woman baring Meera it seemed, were intended to marry men they had never met. It wasn't to Sansa, who when she was still a princess knew she would marry another King or Lord she had never met, if her father had wished it.

This situation held another aspect that would be an advantage to her. The intended brides and men had never met, had never wrote to each other, all each of them had was a slip of parchment with one another's name. Sansa could play this game and be someone else.

She settles in for the night, snuggling beneath her fur and pressing close to Shae to share warmth. Pulling the parchment out again from her cloak she opens it, smoothing out the crease and whispers his name like a prayer, "Jon Snow".

They travel for another week by ship, captained by Ser Davos to the new towns along the Frozen Shores. The town this ship was destined for was named Boltonspoint, in honour of the King.

In that week when a storm had hit, when the waves had reared up as high Winterfells walls and crashed down upon them, a fever had fallen upon her. Many of the women had clung to whatever was sturdy for dear life as they swayed, some with their heads in buckets with sea sickness. Shae had tended to her, used to a long voyage when she made the journey over many years ago from Essos.

She'd been delirious with it. Seeing ghosts walking about the ship and not just in her dreams but even when she was awake. She felt a cloth wipe at her brow, so she grasped the arm and stared at Shae trying to anchor her eyes to something that was still. "I'm going to die out here".

"Don't worry, the storm will pass", Shae tried to soothe her.

But Sansa could not be soothed, not when she was being haunted. "I will die and then I'll go to hell for what I have done."

"What is it Lady Jeyne?"

"I had to get beyond the Wall, away from those who hunt me in the south. That is why I'm here. It is why I'll surely die. I do not even deserve this second chance" -she paused seeing the body of him standing across the hull of the ship, those wide and young blue eyes bore into her soul- "I killed a boy".

Shae stilled then shushed her quietly, stroking her hair until the blackness swallowed her whole.

"Land ahead". Sansa jolted awake at the shouts up on the deck, disorientated for a moment, until Gilly came into view handing Sansa her bag.

All the women began rushing up the wooden staircase with wide eyes then and she felt the rush of curiosity urge her as well.

She slotted in the middle of Shae and Ros as they gazed out at the horizon. It was there. A small mass seeming to arise in the distance. It all seemed to meld into one, the greyness of both the sky and the land. There was not a flash of colour in sight, no banners blowing in the wind. Sigils and houses did not matter here, and she was glad for it.

Nobody spoke, they all just stared at what would be there new home growing larger. After tightening her bag over her body, they all struggled with as much dignity as they could, down the rope ladder and into small row boats.  She could not help the hard stare she gave Violet who sniggered at Lady Walda Frey, who had needed some help getting into the boat.

She would stay away from that one.

She dipped her hand into the water breaking the swell of waves that threw the head of the small boat up at such a high angle. The waves seemed to rise rougher the closer they got to land, which only added to the swaying sensation in her stomach brought on by the fact there was no turning back. She would have to navigate this as best as she was able.

It was in reach now, the wooden dock they would step onto, the many bleak faces of men lining the town and his face was most likely among them. It was not just some fantasy of escape. She would not be afraid. She would be steadfast like father, fierce like mother and strong like Robb.

The question of who Jon Snow was had been swirling around her mind for sometime now. It was true, that she was no longer bothered about her old dreams of a handsome knight, all she wanted was a kind man.  But she was desperate for something on him, to know something about him so she was prepared.

She already knew somethings. She was to marry a bastard. At least he was a Northern one, and one clearly legitimised by a Lord to carry the official bastard name. She wanted to know more. Information is power.

Her head whipped around to their Captain, he was a good man she could tell, and a man who lived at Boltonspoint. Someone who knew all about these men.

"Ser Davos, tell me- these men have not seen a woman in many years. They will outnumber us 4 to 1, as a good man, will we have assurances that we will be safe", she stared at his face hard, hoping to catch more than just words in his response. The few woman on the row boat took notice at her inquisition as well.

"Aye m 'lady. Though many of these men have questionable morals, there are many there that are honourable men." He gave his verdict with conviction that she did not doubt his statement. But she needed to know more.

"Many men. What are some of those men's names?" she was being obvious and she was sure he knew it to.

"Rest assured, your husband is one of those men. The best of the sorry lot of them really". He picked up the pace of his oars, eager to get their sooner in case all the women started to ask questions about their intended.

"Truly?" she heard the soft innocence in her voice and steeled herself to take a moment before replying. She was not a girl whose whole life depended on a man, if he was not so honourable she would survive. She was strong, strong enough to have survived many traumas.

But knowing he had honour warmed her, although with the pool of such few men there the example set of what honourable was here must be low.

"Aye, the white wolf they call him." She didn't know how to respond to that, not without calling him a liar. For he was not a wolf. Only the Starks were wolves.

She took Ros' hand to help her up and off the boat, turning to give Shae hers to help her up onto the platform as well. If her younger self knew she would be helping these types of woman, sleeping close to them, eating and conversing with them, she would have shocked herself into an early grave.

Yoren, Davos, his son Matthos and Will escort them from the dock and into the fray.

The men are a wall of blacks and greys. They look to be as bleak as the town they inhabit. Some look at them as though they have no idea what creatures they are, others look blankly at them. It's the ones that have hunger in their eyes that make her look down nervously, they stare hard making it clear they have not seen a pair of tits in five years.

She hoped Jon did not stare at her like that, as if she would only be good for one thing here. She looked down at herself then, milky white skin adorned with raven coloured hair, dressed and cloaked in the same shade. Perhaps she would fit in here more than she first thought.

They all formed a line leading up to a portly man with dark hair who stood behind a stand with paper and ink. He wasn't in charge though, she could tell. He was nervous, barely looking at anyone in the eye. He was not a leader.

"Samwell, all 17 ladies here safe and sound", Yoren handed over the parchment that had the ticks next to their names. She looked at hers, Jeyne Poole. She was Jeyne Poole now.

"Daughters", an ugly man bellowed who looked half into his cups as he swayed forward a little. Gilly and her sisters left the group and joined their father. Craster, his smile was too strange for them, a little too wide and toothy. After getting their names mixed up he gave them a one-handed, half-hearted hug, the only reason for that seeming as though everyone had their eyes on them.

He turned to all the townsmen then with a fiendish look on his face. "I know, some of you empty handed fuckers would love one of my daughters here because all you've got to go to tonight is yer own hand. But I see you look at 'em in the wrong way- I'll take 'yer eye. An you even think about touchin 'em- well, I'll take more than yer hand".

She felt sorry for the Crater daughters growing up with a man that crass. He walked off his arms around two Gilly and Sissy sloshing his ale between them. He had his arm a little too tightly around their necks looking more like he was dragging them off rather than guiding them to his tavern.

Sansa felt as though she had a rock on her chest as Gilly would not or could not even turn her head in Crasters arm to say goodbye.

She turned to the quiet sounds of joy to see Meera and Jojen hugging each other tightly. She pictures that it would be the exact same hug she would have given Robb had he won the war and saved her from the Stormlands or Casterly Rock.

Samwell looked off to a man at his left who nodded at him to begin. Samwell started taking the ladies scrolls and shouting their intended over. The higher born ladies that had been travelling with them had the honour of going first.

They had all donned their best gowns the last morning on the ship. The six of them had grouped together showing off their fabrics in an array of green, blue and red hues complementing each other on their choices. They helped braid each others hair and giggled like young girls about their future husbands, some even blushing when their wedding night was whispered about.

She had been one of them once, years ago, when she was betrothed to Prince Joffrey heir to Stormsend. She had swooned, and giggled and blushed. She had been a little bird then and not a wolf and she had paid for that dearly.

Lady Roslin Frey was to be wed to Ser Beric Dondarian. Lady Walda Frey to Ser Alliser Thorne. Lady Lolys Stokeworth to Ser Endrew Tarth. Lady Serene Florent to Lord Waymar Royce. Lady Wylla Manderly to Lord Axel Mooton. Finally, Alys Karstark to Lord Cley Cerywn.

Sansa would have to answer to these people. If any of these Lords or Ladies ask for her to attend any of their needs here, then it was her duty as a low born townsfolk to see it done.

Their greetings were all proper, bowing, curtseying and kissed knuckles. She supposed the rest of the greetings may be different. The low born girls intendeds were not Lords who had grown up knowing how to treat a lady.

She imagined some of the men taking some of her companions she was lined up with, over their shoulders and straight back to their home like  beasts. In her mind they would not even wait until the ceremony to bed them because they were bought and paid for. In there eyes that meant they could do as they pleased and Davos had already stated most of these men had no honour.

Maybe that is why the Ladies got to go first. Everything between them looked sweet and respectful as they floated away escorting the women around a tour of the town. They would get them away before they let the savages loose on the rest of them.

She had dawdled in the line until she was one of the last few girls before handing over her scroll to Samwell. The scroll that she had looked upon every night before she slept, to smooth out its crease and speak his name for a lullaby. Samwell paused, staring at her hard and swallowing nervously.

"Jon Snow". He didn't quite shout the name, not like he had the others.

There were a few murmurs from the men close around them, the spectators who had not bought a wife but stayed to watch until the end. She supposed this may be the most exciting thing to ever have happened in this town.

Sam cleared his throat realising he needed to speak up. "Jon Snow", it came out louder but with a bit of a squeak this time.

The men who were watching parted for the man who came through.

Black was his colour, the leathers wrapped around his body like a glove. He had dark and  wild hair that blew in the breeze, she watched the muscles on his arm twitch as it ghosted over his sword. The sword in question  at his hip looked good at his side, she wondered if he knew how to use it.

She knew why the men parted from him some of them murmuring his name in respect. As he stood near her in front of Sam she could see with his physique it was clearly that he trained with that sword.

He was handsome. More handsome than all the Ser's and Lord's that had come before him. She felt that thirteen year old girl squeal inside of her about how good he would look on HER arm, before she shoved her back down again to be buried away. Looks and breeding did not matter anymore, it was all about his values and how he treated those lower than him.

"Sam, what are you doing". He softened as he looked upon Sam but with no less confusion as to why his name was being called and why this girl could do nothing but wait and stare at him.

"Th-this here is Lady Jeyne. Or- or just Jeyne actually. She's not actually a Lady but a Stewards daughter. A late Stewards daughter", he winced  and turned to her "Sorry".

She smiled sweetly in reply. Jeyne would have smiled sweetly if her late father was mentioned.

He turned back to Jon  seeming to let his words run away with him, "She'll could be very useful here, growing up learning from her father how to run a huge castle and she's very pretty". Both her and Sam blushed at his own admission.

"That's nice. Now what's this got to do with me." He wouldn't look at her, not until she cleared her throat his eyes flicked down to her quick and sharp. He had a  hard stare that could cut you down if it was swung your way. But she found he could not part her eyes from him.

She found she would not mind if he wanted to throw her over his shoulder. But he looked at her blankly, why was he acting like he was not ready to receive her.

She gave a pointed look over to the scroll with his name on and then at Sam in hopes he could clear up her intendeds obvious slowness. Had he forgotten they were arriving today or was he stupid and did not even realise this was why all the men were here waiting. She was going to be married to a simpleton, at least he was easy on the eye.

"Jon, she's to be your wife", Sam spoke slowly almost to calmly gauge any response.

"I don't- There's been a mistake. I did not pay and send for a wife".

Authors Note- I’ve written many first drafts of stories (like way too many) and this is the first one I’ve ever actually posted! I’m very nervous, so please be gentle. I feel like once this is posted I need to run and hide.

[metalchick19-blog]

The Bowers Gang: Ship #8 - Belch Huggins

Request: I’m really tiny like REALLY. I’m 5’ feet (or 154cm I don’t know if the inches are correct). I’m redhead but not a true one because I dye them. I wear a lot of bands shirts or horror movies ones, and a lot of high waist skirts or dresses with belt and chains and a black hat all the time. My shoes are platforms from the new rock brand and sometimes I wear Santiag but it’s really rare. I always have a leather chocker around my neck with spikes on it. Peoples call me dog because of that but I don’t care because I feel good with it. I wear A TON of makeup (only because I love makeup so fucking much), and that’s usually black lipstick with red eyeshadow and eyeliner that’s all. I also have tattoos on my right tight and on my left arm. I literally can’t live without music and my favs bands are Aerosmith, Guns N’ Roses and Slash. That’s so basic I know, but I love them and I always want to dance and sing when I listen to their song, because they makes me feel so happy. I also love witchcraft and paranormal. I do believe so much in magic and ghosts and I love to walk around old abandonned places and talk about ghosts, aliens, demons ect, because for me it’s so fascinating and interesting. I’ve already played Ouija and it worked and I freaked out but loved it. Peoples think I’m a witch actually but I’m ok with that. I love watching horror movies so much, but I hate blood and gore, wich is pretty contradictory I know. I’m also scared easy even if I love all theses witchy/paranormal stuffs. Last thing is : I’m getting angry REALLY (too much) fast, and that’s a big problem because I have so many issues because of this. I do cry so much too because anger makes me cry and shake but I do love cuddles so much (not all the time but that feel good sometime to have someone who can give you hugs, that warm your heart). I do a lot of sex jokes too and my friends hates me for that but hey, it’s funny.

All the guys were attracted to you at some point, because they’re each turned on by different aspects of your style (Henry by your makeup, Patrick by your red hair, and Victor by your skirts/dresses)

But Belch (who knew he had to have you the second he saw just one of your epic band t-shirts) wound up coming out on top, because he’s the only member of The Bowers Gang with a proper respect for the greats

The greats being Axl Rose, Saul Hudson, and Steven Tyler 

All the other guys might pretend to be metal-heads (because bad boy aesthetic), but Belch is the only one who legitimately deserves the title

Seriously - he’s never more confident than he is when he’s talking about his music obsessions (i.e. rock, metal, and the development of those genres), and you’re one of the very few people in the world who ever gets to see him like that

Belch dominates the floor talking-wise, and his entire body language changes; for just a few minutes, he seems to lose all pretense of being meek or uncertain 

Aka: You get to meet confident Belch who knows what he’s talking about, and that’s a friggin’ miracle 

You guys have insanely long, thorough debates as to which current bands should be considered “real” rock bands 

These talks can last for hours at a time (because you’re both just passionate like that), and tend to take place around Belch’s kitchen bar 

The two of you just sit on your stools (next to each other, like the adorable humans you are) and crack open beer after beer, completely losing track of time listening to each other’s rants 

Usually neither of you notice how long you’ve been talking until the sun starts to set through the kitchen window - you’re just that into what one another is saying 

Belch shows you his vinyl collection (over 500 records, all alphabetized) 

This is great because 1.) that collection is Huggins’ pride and joy, which means you’re definitely his person if he wanted you to see it, and 2.) because everything sounds better on vinyl, and you never knew it until he showed you 

You come over to Belch’s place almost every day after initially finding this out, because you need that ear-sex feeling of the music pulsing all around you (*Steven Tyler’s voice pulsing all around you* - definitely a mood)

... And Belch honestly loves it, because watching you dance around his bedroom is literally the highlight of his life 

It was hard to get him to dance along with you the first few times you asked (he would just do a few awkward, timid movements before laughing and sitting down) but he now does it with you almost all the time

And when Huggins dances... he dances hard

We’re talking the robot, the sprinkler, everything 

... Which you’ve explained to him are not moves that should be done when listening to death-metal, but he just keeps saying he “knows you love it,” and persists in doing those moves

... You do kind of love it, though 

What can I say? You’ve led the man to his free spirit (and the world thanks you for doing so)

Belch also takes you to some well-known sites around town that are famous for tragedy (The Black Spot, the Ironworks Factory, etc.) so you can do paranormal investigations there

He actually almost took you to the Neibolt house once on Patrick’s suggestion, but decided to back out at the last minute because it was a Hockstetter idea

... Yeah, even Belch knows better than to trust Patrick with his physical well-being

Typically all the guys tag along for these paranormal activity trips though, because even though Belch wants to look tough for his girl, he doesn’t like the idea of scrapping with ghosties by himself 

... It’s truly a hilarious sight to see

Ghost-hunting missions typically entail you and Patrick being at the front of the pack (you trying to “make contact” as Patrick actively fucks with your process) while the rest of the guys trail lazily behind you 

Henry complains at least once every 3 minutes (”my fuckin’ legs hurt”/”why are we still out here” x10), Victor looks quietly at the scenery, and Belch just tries to look brave (but can’t hide how hard he’s listening to whether or not anything responds to your prompts - he’s silently praying nothing does)

Sometimes things do come through though, and it changes the atmosphere for everybody

... that is, everybody except for Patrick (who would refuse to believe in the occult even if he was levitated by Casper)

All arguing/off-handed banter comes to a stop, and the guys act way more on edge for the rest of the night

Typically involves a lot of mildly nervous looks around on Victor’s part, and flinching in response to loud noises on Henry’s - Belch is a combination of both

After close encounters like these, you all tend to walk back to the car in a much tighter group than before

Henry and Victor press in on the sides, and no one says a word

... Except for Patrick, who makes joke after joke about how big of pussies you all are, and challenges all demons in the near vicinity to fight him 

He’s never been fought, but it sends you all into a frenzy of “shut up!” every time

All the guys love that they don’t have to change their regular movie aesthetic for you

Literally everything they ever watch is some type of horror, so you’ve never been more well-suited to a group of people  

They don’t sit down and really watch things together very often, but they usually have a horror movie and/or violent TV show on to serve as background noise for their conversations (”Tales from the Crypt,” ”Friday the 13th” re-runs, etc.)

Regardless of whether or not you’re with the guys though, Belch always covers your eyes when he knows the next scene of the movie that you’re watching is about to be especially gory

...Seriously.

The dude physically covers your eyes.

He even flung himself across a room once (in front of the gang and everything) just to child-proof your vision before you could see the fish hook scene in “Hellraiser”

Mostly because he knows you don’t like gore, and he tends to remember when it’s about to happen at the very last second - it’s all our teddy bear can think to do to save your innocence

Now, bro - it’s totally fine that you have a temper

I can’t imagine where that would be less of a problem 

Even though Belch tries hard to keep you feeling calm and collected (because he just cares about your inner peace), he’s low-key enthralled by the way you look when you’re angry

... And all the other guys just find it entertaining as hell, because they’ve never met a 5-foot powerhouse such as yourself

You get into arguments often, though.

...Often. 

So often, in fact, that the guys eventually stopped letting you finish.

They tend to let you go back and forth with people you’re arguing with for a while, but if it becomes obvious that you’re not really going to fight the person, they eventually decide to move on with their day...

... at which point either Henry or Patrick will pull you away by your choker.

... Yes, by your choker. Like you’re a little dog. 

Patrick did it first (”Come on, killer! We’ll find you some other crotch to bite later.” *Annoyingly satisfied Hockstetter cackle*), and Henry just followed suit afterwards.

It’s a thing now; you’ll have to accept that. 

Belch gives you the best cuddles that have ever been cuddled 

Seriously - because of your size, you can curl up on his gargantuan male body like a cat 

Pick any cuddle position - you guys can cuddle it better than hibernating bear cubs 

And you’re high-key cuter to watch, too, because your love for one another just rolls off of you both in waves 

Just so wholesome, and so very adorable

Overall, you fit into the group well, and cultivate a refreshingly genuine connection with Belch

He gets to be who he really is with you, and that means more to him than anything 

[cinetia]

A Marionette Doll

It was almost as if the raven-haired woman was being pulled by invisible strings; a master puppeteer controlling his marionette doll from a distance. Cinetia’s movements were fluid, graceful animations as she was stirred from her slumber. To say she was ‘awake’ wasn’t necessarily accurate. That would imply that her thoughts and actions were her own. Instead, it was as if the woman watched herself from a distance with nothing more than subtle curiosity, yet unable to form any concrete ideas, concerns, or thoughts overall. 

Due to the recent events surrounding the woman’s newest acquisition in the form of a book gifted by her father, Vynathius chose to assist when the torn parchment was dropped on his bare chest, having woken when she’d stirred moments prior, nothing more than a location scrawled on the thing in handwriting that didn’t belong to the woman. There was unease there, a touch of danger, but also that curiosity that was perfectly mirrored between the two. Any question the Ren’dorei voiced went unanswered.

His concern was heightened, however, as he noted that absolute blank expression on her face. Features that were often laced with humor, adoration, or even embarrassment and anger were now completely void of any emotion whatsoever. It was her eyes caused him some alarm, and solidified his decision to travel with her. Instead of the glimmering emeralds that he often lost himself in, the orbs were now a milky white, with a single circle of crimson lining the iris.

If he hadn’t known how much his beloved trusted her father, then his actions would have taken a different course. Instead, a simple spell was murmured and armor now covered their nude forms before the portal was created. 

Neither of them spoke. 

They found themselves outside of a crypt, the night sky above holding thick, heavy rain-clouds that blocked any illumination that would otherwise be offered by the moon. Those same clouds threatened to break at any moment, thunder booming and rolling  across the sky up above as arcs of lightning shot through here and there. Wind whipped around the couple, causing the raven locks to whirl around Cinetia and slightly right, looking much like a blackened halo. 

It was fleeting however, and the woman finally began to descend down broken and cracked stone steps, that book of hers held tightly to her chest. Blackened vines and dead, withered flowers grew along the ruined walls of the place. It was unsettling here, to say the least. While nothing could be pinpointed, a heavy tension hung in the air, and the unmistakable sense that they were being watched. 

Vynathius kept his distance. He’d be able to intervene if Cinetia were in true danger, but otherwise, he simply followed; a silent guardian and curious scholar. Luminous eyes tracked this way and that, and that unmistakable energy of the arcane hummed against his skin, prepared for anything. 

Deeper the woman went, into an opening the far end of the crypt itself. She ducked beneath a broken stone wall, and began to descend into what was now covered with dirt, and the tell-tale sign of old, ivory colored bones that were visible. 

What had begun as an open, vast area of nothing more than dirt and bones began to morph and change the deeper the two went. They traveled down blackened stone corridors, with small openings seen here and there that led to empty rooms and distant memories. Those memories almost haunted the place, emotions lingering of hate and rage that would be easily felt by anyone with even the smallest ability of being able to do so. 

But finally… the woman came to a stop in the center of a medium-sized room. Lining the stone walls were metal rods each with candles of varying sizes impaled on the top of each. The sound of water dripping nearby echoed here, a slow but steady pattern. The floor, however, remained nothing more than dirt. In the center, a blackened pool that looked more like a puddle than anything else, a thick substance similar to black glass.

The moment Cinetia stepped into that small pool, a rush of power surged through the room, felt by Vynathius as he lingered in the open archway. The armor that the Ren’dorei had placed over her form disappeared with a cloud of energized smoke, rising up towards the ceiling before dissipating, and left her nude, much like the night had started. Even then, he remained back, his gaze not leaving his beloved as he watched… and waited, prepared for anything.

It was then that Cinetia got to her knees and sat back against her legs. The substance came up only an inch against her legs in this seated position. The book was set in front of her, just outside of the pool itself, and her icy hands rest against her thighs. 

For several moments, nothing happened. The dripping ceased. The howling winds that were felt even down here came to a sudden stop. It was as if the world stopped spinning, and for a moment, every inhabitant stopped breathing. 

The rush of the candles flaring to life was heard in rapid succession, whooshing around the room until each and every one held a flickering flame. It was almost picturesque seeing the woman in such a state, a memory to keep, for certain. This was the start of… something. 

Without her assistance, the book opened, pages beginning to turn rapidly and with enough force that raven locks that hung just over the woman’s breasts began to gently brush against her skin and framed the sharp, expressionless features of her face. Whispers began to rise, spoken in a tongue that couldn’t be defined even by an elf with as much knowledge and experience that Vynathius had. 

It sounded as if several voices were speaking at once, brushing over exposed skin much like a lover’s kiss. There was longing heard in the unknown words, but there was anger and excitement, as well, along with anticipation and desire. Overall, each and every voice held a touch of darkness, a touch of undeniable power, and it caused Cin’s body to jerk, and take in a sharp, deep breath. Her hands shot out to the sides, fingers curled, and her head tipping back to face the ceiling.  she leaned back slightly as if ready to accept what was going to be given to her, with no question or concern to what that might be. Where her eyes were once that glassed, milky color, were now entirely swallowed by an inky blackness. There would be some familiarity for Vynathius as those blackened veins began to appear, starting from the outside corners of the woman’s eyes, and branching out much like that of a tree, though it wasn’t to the same degree that the scholar had seen before. 

In that position, the woman froze. The pages of the book stopped turning, the echoed whispers ceased, and a steady stream of crimson mist began to rise from the center of the book itself.

With her body partially arched and suspended in a way that one wouldn’t assume she could keep up for long, naturally, the raven strands of her hair brushed against the surface of the pool Cinetia remained in, and it looked as if she wasn’t drawing a single breath. As the mist began to rise from the book, Vynathius moved along the far wall, but kept his distance. The guardian could see the profile of the woman’s face, and the book itself, but for the moment, he didn’t interfere. His hands were curled into fists, having to fight against wanting to intervene, to voice his concerns, to tell her to be careful.

Blood began to leak from the inner corners of her eyes, joining that life essence that dripped from her nose now. It trickled down against her pale face, and even escaped past parted lips as she continued to stare up at the ceiling. Those ribbons of blood traced down the curves her body and disappeared into the puddle she continued to kneel in. 

The whispers returned, fierce now, determined. Where they were once soft and gentle, they were demanding, and they all spoke in unison in that unfamiliar tongue. From the pool Cinetia lingered in, blood began to rise, gently trailing in the air in small wisps until a sphere formed over the book itself. 

It hovered there, the mass turning and rotating in slow fashion as the whispers got louder, and they began to scream. Winds swept through the area, much like a whirlwind within the room. It kicked up dust and debris, and flames from the candles flickered angrily, but surprisingly didn’t go out. But like a flip had been switched, everything stopped, from the winds to the voices, and every candle went out at the same time with a loud whoosh. Only a single flame remained against the far side of the room…. As if by design, allowing the woman’s lover to watch what was taking place. An audience, perhaps? 

Finally, Cinetia’s voice sounded in a husky, raspy whisper, breaking the silence of the room. 

“Ni am yours, ar tye are mime guardian. Bime your kamba, ni indóme learn, ar o- emme indóme sanye.” 

The sphere suddenly exploded, sending a misty rain of the woman’s life essence over the book, where it was absorbed the book itself. With that absorption, words and drawings began to appear in a dark red ink. It began to levitate, rising in the air to hover for a moment as if feeding off the energy given to it, and the gem in the cover’s center lit up much like a bulb would during Winter Veil. 

It slammed down to the ground just as Cinetia's body fell backwards as if those strings that held her in place were suddenly snipped to free her. Her form slammed into the puddle, sending splashes of a red substance into the air. She did't move, didn't wake, even when Vynathius came rushing towards her. The woman didn't hear the concern and panic in his voice as he tried to get her to come to, holding her limp, bloodied  body in his arms even as he created a portal to take them home. 

With his focus on the woman in his arms, he didn't bother to grab the book. Her safety and well-being was his concern, and it was simply... overlooked. 

However, possibly unknown to him, the book was on the shelf in it's original position once they returned to the safety of Cinetia's home. Where the gem was once clear, it was now varying shades of dark red, each ribbon of color intertwining with one another.

[rebelsofshield]

Panels Far, Far Away: A Week in Star Wars Comics 10/3/19

It’s October which means it’s time to return to Mustafar for another series of creepy shenanigans! Also, Doctor Aphra tries her best to survive as an official employee of the Empire and Greg Pak’s sprint towards the end of this volume of Star Wars continues.

Star Wars #72 written by Greg Pak and art by Phil Noto

Look. I’m sure you’re tired of hearing me say it, but Rock People. I never would have guessed that a story where C-3PO and Chewbacca team up with sentient stone men to thwart the plans of Darth Vader would be one of my favorite stories in the seventy five issue run of Star Wars, but here we are. If this whole arc was simply this storyline, I would be throwing out “A” grades every issue. Between the humor, brilliant art, playful action, and one of the best character beats for C-3PO in years, each installment of this story twists what came before while also just being damn fun.

The same, unfortunately, can’t be said about the other two stories. Han and Leia’s noir love triangle has a fun character moment for Han, but we’ve been stuck in the same ballroom set piece for three issues now. There’s a lot going on in this particular narrative, but the pacing over these last several installments has all but halted. Hopefully things pick up next chapter.

Luke suffers the most though. While the idea of Luke meeting up with a young thief who learned the Force from the Guardians of the Whills is an interesting one and has the potential for all manner of character and hijinks, writer Greg Pak’s handling of Luke here can’t help but feel poor and misguided. It is unclear at this point why Luke has any trust for Warba, who has repeatedly used and lied to him while offered little in return. Young Skywalker is still in his good natured farmboy phase of his character development, but after over seventy issues one would think that his naiveté would have worn off just a little. It’s a disappointingly simple character turn that hopefully will improve in future issues.  

Score: B

Star Wars: Doctor Aphra #37 written by Simon Spurrier and art by Caspar Wijngaard

It all ends where it began. With just four issues left in her long winding journey, Doctor Aphra once again finds herself working for the Empire and just under the shadow of Darth Vader himself.

Bringing Aphra and Vader together again after all this time is a logical jump for the final story arc of this comic. Aphra’s scheming and leverage over Darth Vader always made her the perfect foil for the galaxy’s most iconic villain and seeing Simon Spurrier get to fully dig into this dynamic makes for some fun storytelling opportunities. The rapidly approaching end to this long strange voyage is likely to spell nothing but doom and sadness for our good doctor, but the journey still proves fun and filled with humor.

Spurrier has a particular knack for finding creative spins on existing Star Wars concepts and twisting them to fit into the bizarre corner of the galaxy that he has carved out for Doctor Aphra. Having a full Imperial task force focused on weeding out old temples that may serve as rebel bases is the perfect blending of this particular story’s concepts and such an obvious fit for Aphra, even if it goes awry incredibly quickly. It leads to a twist that is sure to personalize the upcoming issues in unexpected ways. It may feel a little convenient, but the emotional fallout is sure to make it worth it.

Caspar Wijngaard is a welcome addition to this book. I did not make my frustrations with Wilton Santos’s pencils subtle, and I’m glad to see that Spurrier’s frequent collaborator has taken his place and is back on board for another story. Wijngaard’s pencil style lends itself well to motion and character design and while this issue is light on action, it does offer ample opportunity to show off his creativity. Wijngaard’s work still looks best when he handles his own colors and it’s hard not to be a little disappointed that Lee Loughridge has stepped in. Loughride’s work is serviceable and does a great job at capturing mood and environment, but Wijngaard’s faces lack definition and it does a disservice to some of the weightier moments

Score: B+

Star Wars Adventures: Return to Vader’s Castle #1 written by Cavan Scott and art by Francesco Francavilla and Megan Levens

The original Tales from Vader’s Castle remains my favorite project put out by IDW’s tenure on Star Wars. Cavan Scott, Derek Charm, and a host of other artists were able to churn out a series of fun Star Wars set horror stories without ever sacrificing the book’s decided audience of younger readers. Giving the anthology stories of Adventures a solid frame narrative to work with added a fun level of consequence and continuity and it built to a finale that contained some of the best visual storytelling in a Star Wars comic of the last year.

When IDW announced that we would be returning to Mustafar for another round of macabre tales from the Dark Side, I could not have been more excited. Even with Derek Charm sitting this anthology out, Return to Vader’s Castle still looks to be a delightfully creepy continuation of what is hopefully a holiday tradition.

Scott switches up the framework this year and has the different stories being told by Darth Vader’s mysterious servant, Vanee, to an unfortunate listener. Vanee is an underdeveloped but suitably unnerving character so his place as our Crypt Keeper for this anthology works well. While I won’t spoil the reveal of who Vanee’s audience is, it comes as a fun piece of continuity to last year’s event, but it may be lost on many of the comics younger readers who may not have been keeping up.

Francesco Francavilla nails these framed sections, with shadowy pencils and sinister character designs. Each frame is colored in dark blues, reds, and greens and it gives all the segments in Vader’s castle an air of dark magic and playful scares.

As for the actual tale, the decision to make the mysterious monster at its center Spider-Maul is an inspired one. This insane, monstrous version of the fallen Sith Lord makes for the perfect haunted house villain and Scott sets up a fun plot that sees young scavengers happening upon his trap. The art for this segment disappoints however. While Megan Levens draws a suitably creepy Maul and the scenes concerning the young scavengers function fine, Charlie Kirchoff’s pencils prove misplaced. The comic is rendered too bright and colorful and it robs the story of its eerie atmosphere. The result feels divorced from what is a surprisingly dark tale on the page.

All in all, I am happy to be back in the walls of Fortress Vader. I’m a sucker for Halloween and fun seasonal scary stories set in the galaxy far, far away could not be more my jam. I look forward to future weeks.

Score: B

[marybeatriceofmodena]

Magnum Opus

@reylomonsters My contribution for Day 1 of Reylo Monster Week! I might continue this, later on, since this was a lot of fun to write. Long story short, this is the American Horror Story: Coven & Dark Shadows mashup literally no one asked for, because I hate myself. Tell me what you think! 

Read on AO3 here. 

*

It was like the beginning of a terrible old horror film: the rain falling hard, but since there wasn’t enough of a budget for convincing enough lightening, they’d have to do without that. Rey’s umbrella was barely enough to keep her from getting wet, but it was still something. Whatever manuscripts or books she’d find in her quest were too precious for her to spoil them with rainwater.

The wind was however merciless, and Rey’s all-black raincoat, dress and boots weren’t enough to protect her against the weather while she held onto her hat. The only thing that seemed to hold on was her backpack, and she could hear Beebee-Ate meowing in distress. Thankfully for her familiar, the long-abandoned manor’s silhouette finally drew itself on the horizon, and Rey sighed in relief.

“We’re almost there, Beebee-Ate, don’t worry,” said Rey as to encourage him, although the sole response he gave her was the cat equivalent of an exasperated groan. Rey hurried, not wanting to have him wait any longer.

The old manor had been abandoned for two centuries now – ever since the Skywalker clan had faced a blight so terrible no witch or warlock dared to speak of it back in its time: nowadays, it was a forgotten legend, almost a story you’d tell children to scare them into obedience. There were whispers of forbidden blood magic, lurid details about human sacrifices, with blood too copious and scarlet in every single tale, and silhouettes of the undead creeping behind your back, sending a chill down your spine.

Rey was afraid as she pushed the door to the old Skywalker manor, but bravery, she mused, was all about doing the brave thing and hoping bravery would follow. Closing her umbrella and leaving it near the door, she quickly put her backpack on the ground, unzipping it to let Beebee-Ate spring out of it and proceed to groom himself right away. Rey, on the other hand, had no time for such trivial matters: she needed to be back by dawn, before the coven would notice her absence.

She lit up a flashlight she had brought with her and, with Beebee-Ate in toll, she made her way through the manor. The floor creaked beneath her steps, and the cobwebs and dust made the whole setting truly look like a haunted house. What Rey needed to look for was anything that appeared to hide some secrets: Luke Skywalker would have never left his findings in a place where anyone could steal them forever.

As she walked into the long-abandoned study, with quills, ink and a few sheets of paper still on the desk, the sight of the many shelves full of dusty books made Rey sigh at the sight of the work awaiting her: for all she knew, perhaps clues for her quest were lying somewhere in them. It probably meant she’d have to come many more nights in the creepy old manor: the pain was worth it, but she could only hope no one would notice her nocturnal escapades: it was the last thing she needed right now, among all her troubles.

As she walked towards the back of the study, Beebee-Ate head towards the carpet between the desk and the shelves, meowing with eagerness.

It didn’t take much for Rey to understand what her familiar was trying to tell her: kneeling, she swiftly removed the carpet from its spot on the floor, a large cloud of dust going up at the same time and making her cough. But it was worth it: a trap door was encased in the wooden floor.

It was too good of a discovery for Rey to leave it there unexplored. When she pulled it up, it seemed so much lighter than she expected it to be. Grabbing her flashlight and gathering what little courage she still had in her, she made her way down into the deeps of the manor.

The stone walls and arcs surrounding her reminded Rey of an old, abandoned church, imprisoning prayers and pleas uttered long ago, but which hadn’t reached the ears of their Maker yet as they were trapped underground. Sensing her nervousness, Beebee-Ate strutted ahead of her, as if he was ready to face whatever demon would be awaiting them at the end of the corridor.

There was, thankfully, no monster awaiting them: the corridor led to what appeared to be a crypt, with what seemed to be a large, rectangular wooden chest in the middle. Coming closer, Beebee-Ate hissed and headed back towards the end of the crypt, frightened, urging Rey to follow him. In another situation, Rey would have probably trusted her familiar’s always reliable instincts, but this time… this time was different.

A soft melody, never heard and yet so familiar, played gently in her mind. It was an old lullaby she remembered singing to herself, back in those days where she was alone, to make up for the oppressing silence: Mirrorbright, she remembered with a smile, and, as if she couldn’t control her legs anymore, she slowly made her way towards the large chest…

… which appeared to be, in fact, shaped like a coffin rather than rectangular.

In a trance, Rey didn’t hear Beebee-Ate mewling behind her, begging her to come back. Putting her flashlight on the ground, she pushed the lid open, and she gasped in surprise as she saw what – or rather who was inside.

It was a young man, but in his peaceful slumber, he almost looked like a boy.  

He was dressed all in black save for his white tie, in a similar fashion as the men from the period dramas Rose and Paige loved so much. He wouldn’t have been considered handsome by many, but there was something, something about his large nose, angular face and lips perused in a childish pout. His eyelashes were long, and for a split second, Rey wondered how his eyes looked like when they were open, how his voice sounded when he spoke…

The lullaby somehow became louder, and more seductive, and in a near trance, Rey found herself lowering her head towards the young man’s and, unable to control herself, she kissed him, oblivious to how ice cold his lips felt against hers.

The cold contact brought her back to her senses. She quickly got up, taking a few steps back, her cheeks red and her ears burning in embarrassment, trying to make sense of what had just happened despite the daze. As she looked down at the young man again, she noticed his eyes had opened, and he was staring right at her.

Fuck, Rey thought, but this wasn’t the last of her troubles that night.

His half-opened mouth as he stared at her, still aghast, let her see two white canines way too long for the average human: it didn’t take long for Rey and her quick reflexes to associate the fangs with the ice cold lips she had kissed earlier, the near trance she had been before, to remember those myths she had heard about in the coven.

Vampire, Rey whispered to herself, and she knew it was a matter of seconds before the monster would lunge towards her, draining her of her blood, and either kill her or enslave her. Neither alternative was appealing, and Rey needed to get out of the crypt – now.

Without thinking for even a second, a fireball materialized in Rey’s hand, which she threw at her opponent. The vampire deflected it just in time, letting out a muffled cry. Rey, meanwhile, had already started running out of the crypt, and back upstairs, a panicked Beebee-Ate in toll.

They rushed out of the study, heading for the entrance. Rey could only hope the vampire had been frightened enough by the fire not to not bother following his almost prey.

As she came in front of the doors in the main hall, they closed in front of her, and despite pushing them as hard as she could, her efforts were useless: she was imprisoned.

She turned around in a panic, seeing the vampire only a few feet away from her, his gaze neither threatening nor reveling in her fright. There was—curiosity. And perhaps a hint of amusement, but nothing menacing about it.

There was no time, however, for her to figure out if it was genuine or just a facade. With a feral scream as an attempt to appear a tad more intimidating, Rey threw yet another fireball at him. This time, he didn’t escape it – rather, with a wave of his hand, the ball of fire became ice, crashing on the ground into a million pieces.

So the vampire was probably a warlock before being turned. Things were just getting better and better.

“For an intruder, you certainly act like you’re the mistress of this house,” he said, his voice deep, almost warm. But Beebee-Ate’s aggressive hissing stopped Rey from being distracted.

“I’ll fight my way out if it’s necessary,” she replied, defiant.

“I have no doubt you would, but I’m not particularly keen on the idea of you burning the manor down with those fireballs of yours,” the vampire dryly said. “But I suppose I have a right to ask why a young lady such as yourself would come here alone at night.”

“None of your business,” Rey hissed.

“All right, then,” he replied, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll ask the questions. If you persist to remain silent, I will get the answers from you regardless. And while it seems like you want me to suffer your trespassing, I do wish to spare you the pain of me intruding in your memories.”

Rey crossed her arms, scowling at the vampire. “Fine. But you let me go after I answer your stupid questions, Dracula. Deal?”

“You have my word as a gentleman,” agreed the vampire, curtsying. “First, who’s Dracula?”

For a moment, Rey started at him in disbelief. How long had that guy been sleeping? Judging by his clothes, he probably last walked around in the 19th century. Perhaps he had been in that coffin even before Bram Stoker was born.

It was a miracle he wasn’t so bloodthirsty after sleeping for so long… unless he was toying with her.

No. No, don’t panic. This is not the right time to panic. You need to figure out a way to get out. Don’t do anything stupid.

“Cultural reference,” Rey finally replied, praying whatever gods out there for strength. “It’d be too long to explain.”

“Fair enough. What year are we?”

“2018… I mean, how long have you been in there if you don’t even know who Dracula is?”

The vampire didn’t reply: instead, he stared at nothing, his lower lip slightly trembling as if he was holding back tears. He gulped, clenching his fists.

“I’ve been asleep since 1821,” he muttered. “And during all this time… who knows what happened?”

So many questions pressed themselves in Rey’s mind: the matter of how his place of rest was the old Skywalker manor, and, on a broader scale, what was his life before being frozen in time? Those were all mysteries that would have to remain unsolved – that is, if she wanted to get out of the manor alive.

“What happened to the people who lived here?” he asked. “Do you know?”

Rey hesitated. “Nothing much. There have been so many stories over the years… Luke Skywalker disappeared all of a sudden. No one knows what happened to him. All I know is that something... bad happened. I don't know what it was.”

“He had a family, didn’t he?” he insisted. “A sister? His sister had a family as well.”

“Yes. I—I know Leia Organa was Supreme for a time. But—no one dares to talk about her. I know she and her husband died, and their child, too—but I don’t know how. The circumstances didn’t seem too pleasant at least.”

“You don’t know how? What do you mean, you don’t know how?” For a moment, his eyes were flaming, and his fangs became a tad too visible to Rey’s liking. He made a visible yet difficult attempt to calm down.

“And you?” he asked. “What’s your name?”

“Rey.”

“Rey. Rey who? Of what clan?”

“None of your business.”

“It becomes my business when you enter my manor like a thief,” he growled. “I suppose you came here because of Luke Skywalker’s quest, am I wrong?”

Rey didn’t reply, biting her lips and staring at the ground.

“Of course you did. You’re not the first trespasser to come here, you know. I’ve had thieves come here over the years, waking me up. I could never get a word out of them because I was too thirsty to care. That was my curse. Waking up with an insatiable bloodlust every time a trespasser came by and going immediately back to sleep after feeding. Only someone with magic could save me. And you came. But why?”

He started pacing around her, but Rey forced herself to not look at him, afraid of letting him see any weakness of hers. Beebee-Ate hissed again, but Rey shushed him softly. Now was not the time to attack - at least, not yet. “So what was Luke Skywalker’s quest all about? ‘I don’t know’ won’t do, by the way.”

“The One Ring.”

“Oh please. I have no idea what this One Ring is, and I know the correct answer. Playing smart won’t help you.”

Rey sighed in frustration. “Fine. The Philosopher’s Stone. He was trying to figure out the secrets to immortal life.”

“Ah. Finally reasonable. And why the Philosopher’s Stone? How can one be so foolish to still search for it, unless—”

Rey’s head shot up, her gaze pleading. She didn’t need to hear the word, especially not from him.

“—unless you have to prove yourself,” he continued, nonetheless. “Unless you’re clanless.”

She had heard that word so many times, sometimes mocking, sometimes pitiful, sometimes disdainful. This time, somehow, it was the worst of them all. Not because of anger, nor shame: but she felt… naked, as if she was left without any kind of protection against the rest of the world.

A slight cough brought her back to reality: looking up, the vampire was handing one of those old-fashioned handkerchiefs everyone had a long time ago. She huffed in embarrassment, shaking her head, straightening up in a poor attempt to toughen up.

“I’m not crying,” she muttered, her throat tightening anyway despite herself.

He rolled his eyes. “I was just trying to be helpful.”

Rey sighed, crossing her arms. “So what are you going to do now? Do I become lunch, or do I become a scantily-dressed bloodsucker?”

He stared at her for a moment, probably holding back a biting reply – biting as in “snarky”, of course. Or perhaps not. As Rey was getting tense again, he sighed.

“I’m not especially keen on your familiar attacking me,” he replied.

“You’re scared of Beebee-Ate?” asked Rey, mocking.

“No,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If you think I’d ever come to hurt your familiar, you’re wrong. I know what it is to lose your own.”

“So you were a warlock before?”

“No questions,” he snapped, tense enough to have Rey not want to insist. “But I do owe you a favor. You broke the curse.”

“So you’ll let me go?”

“Better,” he replied, with what almost looked like a smile, something a bit rusty due to how seldom it was used. “I know you’ll trespass here again. And since I can’t stand trespassers, I suggest you be my guest instead.”

Rey narrowed her eyes. “I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he said bluntly, taking Rey by surprise. “But your research will be a lot easier if I help you.”

“How?”

“I know which books will be useful for you. I also know where Skywalker’s writings are, and I know how to translate them. He used a mix of Ancient Greek, Hebrew and Latin that can be quite hard to decipher. Unless you know all three languages thoroughly, of course.”

His help was almost too good to be true – Rey almost wanted to ask him how “thorough” the research would be if he selected whatever information she’d come across. Translating Luke Skywalker’s journals, if they really were the way he described, would be an impossible task for her. Rey had learned Latin, like every witch or warlock, but the other languages were all mysteries for her. And of course, she couldn’t allow anyone else to know what she was up to.

The vampire really was her best chance, whether she liked it or not. And in any case, if she noticed over time he was hiding knowledge from her, she’d investigate by herself, all the while hoping he wouldn’t find out.

There was another matter, though.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “And how do you know all this?”

His features darkened. “Those are two questions I will not answer. And it’ll be my sole condition. Do we have a deal?”

Rey held back a sigh of frustration. There was something up, perhaps even more intriguing than Luke Skywalker and his mysterious quest for the Philosopher’s Stone. But all those secrets would unveil to her in due time, no matter what obstacles would come.

“Deal. But I’d like to know your name.”

He had another of his almost smiles. “Kylo Ren,” he said with a bow, and Rey had to refrain from giggling. It probably wasn’t the only old-fashioned quirk he had…

From that moment, against all logic, it seemed to Rey all of this might just work. Or perhaps it was just her curiosity boiling within, whispering to her that there was more to Kylo Ren and the manor, and that if he remained obstinate in his silence… she’d find out soon enough.

[vas-ncrmandy]

“You get any sleep?” Emery/Raleigh

Witheach step Emery takes, death swirls like water on the tide, ebbing and flowing insmall, gray, smoky tendrils. Its comforting; like an old friend has come to keephim company on the walk from Blackstone to Inanna Zabini’s sprawling Garden. Hecan see her soaring towers from here, bright marble and gold trimmingshimmering in the late afternoon light, and as he lifts his gaze to their zenith,the echoes of suicides long past begin to form – little star falls spiraling totheir aged deaths in slow motion. Even from here, their eyes lock to his,forcing him to bear witness to their final moments. He obeys, his hands signinga benediction for a peaceful rest, as their long dead spectral forms collapse intothe now verdant land below.

Hispace slows as he signs, and he allows himself to rest. As he stands, watching,a small, shadowy tendril loops up his wrist and curls around his ring finger.He smiles down at it, running his thumb along the inner curl - an old friendindeed.

Heremembers emerging from the darkness of the crypts beneath Blackstone andseeing the world covered in Death for the first time – remembers his panic andfear, struggling to see through the mistsand fog instead of seeing with them.It took him a long time to learn to love Death. He had always thought the hardestthing to lose would be his voice – turns out the hardest step was learning tohow to see again.

Anothertendril, darker than the light gray ones on his hands, slides along his cheek,and he nods, picking up his pace again.

Walkingalways felt better to Emery than apparating. He was already half in the physicalworld and half out – apparating felt wrong to him, awkward and uncomfortable ina way that he’d never experienced, even during his time in the After. He’dapparate in emergencies, of course, but walking or flying was always infinitelypreferable in his mind.

Heturned along the well-worn path, and the doors to the Garden loomed before him.They were his favorite part of Inanna’s impeccable and distinctive decoratingstyle. Where the old owner had settled for simplicity – leaving the oak doorsplain – she had hired a particularly gifted magical woodworker to create scenesfrom several old fairy tales within two sides. Being magical, of course, thecarver had managed to have each tale moving and playing. In constant motionthey moved, clockwise and counter clockwise, all spinning to the center of the doorswhere the Zabini crest was laid, resplendent in gold and iridescent pearl.

Emerywatched one of his favorite tales play along the third row in, waiting forInanna to send Raleigh to let him in. He could feel when he’d stepped onto herland the invisible ripple in the magic that told her he was on his way.

Asthe prince fought his way through tangled thorns, the Zabini crest cracked intwo, and the right side of the door cracked open, “We weren’t expecting you,”Raleigh leaned against the open door, the hint of a smile in his lips, but onlyever a hint.

I found anorchid Ms. Zabini lacks, Emery’s hands flow one word into the other,Raleigh’s eyes watching closely, I wantedto let her know where to find one, and how to cultivate it should she desire.

Raleighnods, and moves to the side to let Emery pass into the hall, “She’ll like thatyou didn’t just bring it.”

Half the fun isthe chase,Emery signs the words with one hand, letting the other slide along the petalsof a small bouquet of roses standing by the door.

“She’sbeen out since last night,” Raleigh shrugs, “You can wait with me, if you’dlike?”

Emerynods. He would like to spend time with Raleigh. The man was nearly as coveredin Death as Emery, though the deep red tinges in the tendrils that spiraledalong Raleigh’s forearms and down to pool at his feet on the floor showed hispenchant for fresh kills, where Emery’s own pale, and dark black tendrils werea product of his penchant for the long dead and the dead to be.

Raleighturns, heading back to his quarters in the house, and Emery moves to follow. Inbetween each step, Emery see’s Raleigh die – one death, not a thousandpossibilities as so many believe him to see. People often asked him if theirdeath could be changed, prevented, perhaps, in some way; but those were thepeople who had never known death – not truly. The death a necromancer bears silentwitness to is the culmination of every choice that has been made, and everychoice that will be made in a life. Its not for Emery to know how the eventtranspires, or what decisions lead to that moment, but the death he see’s isfinal and utterly inevitable.

Emerywatches Raleigh die in the shadowy tendrils that twine around the man’s body,then allows himself to take in the beauty of the Garden. As they descend intothe deeper fathoms of the eastern estate, the cool comfort of being undergroundsoothes him. He’d always been grateful that Raleigh’s home was in what was oncethe ‘servant’s’ quarters – though his role in Inanna Zabini’s life was far morethan servant, comfort was found in the warmth of the stones that soaked inlight from day warmed earth.

Somethought the layers underground to be cold and devoid of life. People like Emeryand Raleigh knew better.

“Have a seat,” Raleigh gestures to one of themany armchairs in the sitting room of his underground wing (Emery far preferredthe eastern estate to the western – with its many windows and tendency to marbleinstead of warm wood and far superior dark stones).

Emerysinks into one near the fire, and watches Raleigh ignore the chairs completelyand pace towards the clock. They were joined, Raleigh and Inanna, closer thanany other pair Emery had seen before. Raleigh felt her absence keenly when shewent out without him, and clearly she had been gone longer than planned.

You get anysleep?Emery asks.

Raleighshakes his head, “She said she was going for dinner with the …” he glances atEmery apologetically, “With someone. But its far past dinner and its not likeher to not send a note if she’ll be out late.”

Emerynods. He is not offended by Raleigh’s caution. When the world is descended intowar, people like him were an unknown factor. Bound to neither side, and foundin both camps frequently, he came and went as he pleased. He could not, willnot, interfere should he even have wanted to – which frequently he does.

Caution;however, especially when speaking on meetings and dinners with people someone,perhaps, should not be seen with by the faction they are currently pledged to,is only common sense. While Emery is certain Raleigh knows Emery could not tellhe and his mistress’ secrets, one never knows who could be listening – even inthe Garden, with all its extra safeguards.

Tell me whatyou did instead then,Emery sings, How did you spend your night?

Raleighgrins then, teeth bared and eyes glinting. He settles into the chair across fromEmery, a predator at rest, and slides his palms down impeccably clean blackjeans.

“Let’sjust say I had a guest last night as well,” he beings, the reddish tint in thetendrils of ash and bone pulsing as though the heart Raleigh spoke of stillbeat, “And this one was … expected.”