#anyway I do like the idea that northerners say 'winter is coming' all the time - especially the starks -

[leupagus]

A Gale of Wolves, Chapter 16: Davos

They'd been conferring at some length over the past few days as to when to move on Winterfell. Lady Sansa and the rest of the Northern lords were all for an immediate departure; it was the king, oddly, who'd been reluctant to depart. Just this afternoon they'd had another row about it in Lord Glover's hall, the two of them at it like hammers and tongs as always.

"We lose the element of surprise every day that we linger, Your Grace," Lady Sansa had protested, when Stannis had once again said they were not ready. "I'm not a commander of armies, I don't know tactics—"

"On that at least, my lady and I are in hearty agreement," snapped the king, while all around the table the commanders of the Baratheon forces murmured their accord.

"—but winter is coming, and all the armies and tactical brilliance in the world won't save us from a real snowstorm when it finally falls on our heads. We move now or we lose months, perhaps years, waiting for our moment."

"They really do say it," Davos had muttered to himself. He hadn't quite believed it, all those years Stannis had complained about Lord Stark's favorite phrase. As though the seasons' changes were some great revelation to the simple southron folk, the king had muttered on more than one occasion.

Lady Brienne had stood next to him and heard. "What, 'winter is coming'? Constantly." They'd shared a brief smile before Lady Brienne remembered her hatred of Stannis and his men. Still, it had been something.

[olympeline]

I like the idea that the nation-people of Hetalia have an animal form as well as a human one. Like, they’ll spend most of their time in human guise, but every now and then they want to be closer to the land itself. So they’ll take the form of a beast. Either their national animal or just one that suits them best. Because I can’t see France as a chicken, lol. I’m sorry but I just can’t. Anyway, the nations put on the fur, scales, or feathers of their beast self when they want to get away from the hustle and bustle of the human world and decompress. Encountering a national personification for all but their bosses is a rare and precious thing as is it. Encountering one in their primal form is an experience reserved for only the luckiest few:

You might be travelling the plains of Spain one day: thirsty, the sun beating down on your neck, when you happen to look up from your map and see an enormous black bull in the distance. Just standing in a field, magnificent, lethal horns lowered, as it peacefully crops grass amongst the other cattle. You stop walking to admire the creature - wondering why what has to be a prize toro bravo has been left to graze unguarded with an ordinary beef herd - and it looks at you. You feel your heart skip and, all at once, you know exactly why. That’s no ordinary bull. No mortal thief could hope to take it if they tried.

Maybe you’re hiking in a forest in Italy and you suddenly catch a glimpse of two wolves moving silently through the trees. Brothers, you think to yourself. How do you know? You don’t know, but you do know you’re right. Somehow. The one with the lighter coat glances at you for just a moment as they pass by and, though its face doesn’t change, you feel warm. As if the wolf was somehow smiling at you. Then they move on and are lost amongst the leaves. You love taking pictures but you’d never dream of raising your camera at the wolves. You know this is their private time, away from the eyes of the world. You feel privileged to have shared it.

You never believed the urban legends about the phantom cats of the British Isles. Until the day you’re walking down an old, half-vanished trail in the Cotswolds of England. You turn a corner, push back some branches, and are stunned to see a lion. Yes, a real one. Unmistakably so: golden furred and larger than life, maned head lowered to lap from the cold waters of a lonely stream. You hold your breath and just watch. After a minute, the lion finishes its drink and moves away without seeming to notice you. Or did it? You don’t know. But, either way, for some reason you were calm even before that. Later, at your destination, you feel no need to report the incident to the local police. You know this particular lion would never chase or attack anyone. And, odd as it is, you’re sure it belongs here despite lions not being native to Britain for millenia. Unlike its long vanished brethren, this lion’s home is undoubtedly the Kingdom’s green and pleasant land.

Another day you’re trekking through the Northern wilds of Alaska when you suddenly hear the screech of a bald eagle overhead. Strange, you think. It’s winter so what’s a bald eagle - a summer visitor only to this part of the state - doing here? You look up and the eagle circles above, calling its piercing cry over and over. You feel a shiver but not from the cold, and know in your heart the eagle is calling to you. You watch it for a while and then keep walking. You need to reach your destination before nightfall. The eagle stays with you as you travel, your only companion in this vast, white wilderness. Then you come over a ridge and see a town in the distance. The eagle calls to you one last time - saying farewell, you know - and sails away on the icy wind. You keep waving even after it’s long gone. Just a speck soon to disappear over the far away horizon.

(Watch this space. I may add more at some point. 😌)

[starstruckunknown-princess]

Winter Market

Pairing: Modern!Robb Stark x F!Reader

Warnings: none, just fluff!

Word Count: 1067

Summary: While running your own stall at a Winter Market, you run into an old schoolmate of yours -- none other than Robb Stark.

A/N: A day late, but I had to edit this one and I was distracted yesterday. My bad. But expect either one more tonight or two tomorrow to wrap up my Fluffcember event! Hope you enjoy this one!

Fluffcember Masterlist

The Winterfell Yuletide Market was famous throughout the realm, boasting some of the most unique and talented craftspeople from all over the world. They also had a section reserved for local artisans only, which is where you found your stall. After your rocky divorce you’d taken up soap and candle making as a hobby to keep your mind and hands busy. You’d even looked into getting a hive of bees for beekeeping, but it had been too late in the season to have them shipped from Honeyholt. 

You were lucky to get the stall, which you had to keep reminding yourself as the temperatures dipped into the negatives. The sad little space heater under your table could barely keep your feet warm. Being a born and raised Northerner, though, you weren’t going to let the cold close you down like some other stalls had. 

“Hot cider, courtesy of Stark Tech?” a voice asked, pulling you from your trance. A steaming mug of cider appeared in front of you and you followed the gloved hand holding it up to the auburn curls and striking blue eyes of none other than Robb Stark.

It had been a long time since you’d seen him, having gone to school together many moons ago. Since then it had been easy to follow his meteoric rise in the Tech industry, taking over his father’s company when he passed too soon and managing to nearly double profits within the first year of his reign. Stark Tech was one of the biggest employers in the North, and the major sponsor of the Market. However, you had not at all expected to see the CEO of the company walking around, handing out free cider to the stall owners.

If he recognized you he didn’t let on, but you accepted the cider anyway. Anything to help keep your hands warm was welcome at this point. Only an hour left to stay open, but the temperature was dropping quickly. 

“Thank you, Mister Stark,” you said, not letting your voice wave from shivering.

He smiled his blinding smile, then tilted his head a bit. “Have we met before?” 

You smirked, sipping your cider that was impeccably spiced. “We went to school together.” You gave him your name and his blue eyes lit up with recognition.

“Yes! How’ve you been?” 

You gestured to the stall around you, “Alright, I guess. I got accepted to the biggest Winter Market in the North, so I’d say pretty good.” 

“Ahh, yes,” he said, picking up a teacup candle and inhaling deeply, “Oh, I’m sure Sansa would love this. Rose, right?”

“And sandalwood,” you added. “My gran collected fancy teacups all her life. When she passed last year she had left them all to me. I had no idea what to do with them until after…well, you don’t want to hear about all that.”

He smiled wide, picking up another candle to sniff. “On the contrary, I would love to catch up. You’re here for another hour, right?” 

You had to stop your jaw from dropping. You’d been out of the dating loop, but you could’ve sworn he had just asked you out. The few attempts you’d made at online dating had yielded absolutely nothing — in fact, the matches you’d gotten had made you want to throw your phone into the White River and erase all trace of yourself from the internet forever after scrubbing your eyeballs and brain with a toilet brush.

“Are you asking me out, Stark?” you asked for the sake of clarity. More than once you’d been accused of coming off as cold rather than cool. 

He smiled again, “I am indeed. Unless you’ve got plans after this, then we can pick another night.”

“Oh yeah, after this I’ve got big plans with my cat and my streaming queue,” you joked, heart fluttering as he let out a warm chuckle, “I’d love to go out with you.” 

He sniffed another candle and added it to the growing pile of teacups in the crook of his arm. “Excellent, I’ll meet you here after closing if that works. We can go to the Direwolf and Dragon?”

“I love that place! They have the best whiskey selection.” You nodded eagerly, perhaps a little too enthusiastically but you were beyond caring. This was Robb Fucking Stark, every girl’s crush in school and even though you were a fully grown adult woman with her own bank account and apartment and business, the giddy teenager within you was ecstatic.

“And she likes whiskey,” he muttered to himself with satisfaction, “Excellent. While I’d love to stay and keep chatting, I’ve got more cider to hand out. How much do I owe you?” 

He gestured to the four teacup candles in his arms and you told him the total, then wrapped each one in tissue paper and put them gently into a paper gift bag. Your stomach turned at the thought that these were for a girlfriend, but you hadn’t seen anything about his dating life recently. He’d been dating the heiress of some big agricultural company down south for a few years, but you knew they’d broken up a while back. Around the same time your divorce was happening, come to think of it.

As you wrapped, you asked, “Who are all these for? Teacups aren’t usually decor for bachelor flats.”

He chuckled again, “My mother and sisters. And my PA, Steffon, he loves anything pine scented. The fact that the cup has pine boughs on it I think bodes well, too.” 

You passed the bag over your display and your gloved hands brushed as he accepted it. Even through thick layers of material, you felt something electric pass between the two of you.

“Well, I’ll see you in an hour then?” You asked after clearing your throat and shoving down some rather naughty thoughts.

Robb’s curls fell in front of his face as he looked down and checked his smart watch. “Forty-three minutes, to be exact.”

“Then I’ll see you in forty-three minutes.” You smiled at him. He continued on his mission of handing out hot cider. Try as you might, you couldn’t help but count down the minutes as you sipped your cider.

Fluffcember Masterlist

[musicallisto]

💥find your least kudos'd fic - say something wonderful about it.

🍭why did you start writing?

💎why is writing important to you?

📡why is writing and sharing your writing important for fandom?

🧿what steps do you take to not take things personally if a fic doesn't do well, or if your writing/posting/sharing experience isn't going how you'd like it to?

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

💥 find your least kudos'd fic - say something wonderful about it. willingly ignoring the horrible horrible fics I wrote when I first started this blog, I think my fic with the least notes is for old times' sake (jaime lannister), which is a real bummer because I loved writing it and I'm pretty proud of the end result, actually. I think I succeeded in what I was trying to do with my writing, the setting, and the romance, and it's pretty evocative of a Northern winter night—and how the wilderness in the North reacts differently to Jaime (a stowaway, an uninvited guest) and the reader (a child of the woods). but alas, there seems to be no crowd for jaime lannister angst </3

🍭why did you start writing? there was no reason to be honest. I started writing the moment I learned how—probably no older than five. I used to devour children's books and my mind would swell up with so many stories and ideas I either acted out on the playground with my friends, or just wrote down exactly how people who wrote books did. When I found out about Pokémon Diamond there was no turning back, my brain had seized that fantastical world and made it its own already.

💎why is writing important to you? see answer above (i need to get it out of my system, it's my only exorcism, etc.) but also, selfishly, it's the only thing in this world that I (and everyone who's come in contact with my writing, one way or another) consider myself somewhat good at. It's quite literally my only "talent" (though I wouldn't attribute it to talent at all; like everything else, it's 99% practice), and at this point, especially being an engineering student, my gift with words and appetence for literature are my one defining characterstic among my peers. Me being a writer is quite literally the only notable thing about me tbh, and the only way I can get praised. Actually, nowadays I can feel my self-esteem deteriorating the longer I go without writing.

📡why is writing and sharing your writing important for fandom? I don't think sharing my writing specifically is important for fandom, insofar as I've always been clear about the fact I consider fanfiction a "warmup" of sorts for my personal projects. but writing in general is one of the most crucial parts of fandom and writers, as a rule of thumb, are paid dust. It infuriates me to see people copy-paste unfinished fics into ChatGPT to get a soulless AI-generated neat little ending, as if we were stuck vending machines and not actual people who spend weeks, sometimes months writing something simply for the pure joy of sharing it. Of expanding onto existing lore, of imagining characters in alternate universes and discussing possibilities with other fans, of evoking in the reader the same raw, honest emotions as we felt when we were consuming that media in the first place. Creation breeds creation, art makes art, interaction breeds community. Fandoms can only thrive as long as their artists are thriving.

🧿what steps do you take to not take things personally if a fic doesn't do well, or if your writing/posting/sharing experience isn't going how you'd like it to? I personally don't care at all how "well" my fics do on here as long as I get Approved By The Mutuals. 90% of the notes we get are likes anyway so it's not like they mean that much to me either? From personal experience it's just super puzzling to have a fic get 300 likes and like zero comments or reblogs? Like did y'all like it? Did y'all even read it? But yeah no as I said I write primarily for me and for me only. I like the interaction that comes with sharing my work, but I never wrote for audiences, hence why I had no problem stopping posting. There are super personal fics on this blog (thinking of the door to heaven and hell) that flew under the radar but I don't mind it at all bc my writing is self-indulgent and catered to me. idk sorry I can't give more insightful advice but like,,,, don't take it too seriously I think? this is tumblr this is cringe fun

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited! unfortunately I have nothing to share today </3 I mean, no that's a lie, I still have my robb stark fic that's literally been sitting in my drafts since january of 2021 and which I love very much and would love to finish someday. I think I already posted snippets of it before? but here are some more lines, if anyones still a game of thrones fan in the year of our lord 2023 or whatever💔

: ̗̀➛ “Your horse is saddled, my Lord. You may depart whenever you want now, though I must reiterate my offer to ride with you.”

Robb would have laughed if the blood in his veins had not frozen from the furtive hallucination. The grounds near Winterfell had not been as safe in centuries — it would be as dangerous for him to leave the castle than to get back to his quarters. Even less so, perhaps. All of the North was haunted, but its most virulent ghosts wandered Winterfell’s cobblestone halls and flickering torchlight shadows.

“And I must decline again. But thank you.”

She nodded respectfully and disappeared behind the door, no doubt already expecting the answer. Such a pilgrimage was to be undertaken by the King and the King only. The entire town knew as much.

Empty streets welcomed the King as he left the castle on horseback, a few minutes later. The early light of day pierced snow-laden clouds like a blade through a curtain of heavy cotton, and he tasted the wind’s gelid kiss on his cheeks before he heard his town’s eerie stillness.

Unwavering, Robb Stark guided his horse through the deserted main street, amidst drawn shutters and swirling snowflakes; and the steady rhythm of his breath and the horse’s hooves on the stones were the only sound in the whole of Westeros, their cadence an oh so lonely funeral march. ༊*·˚

*ੈ✩‧₊ writing asks!

[une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir]

random stuff on songs in Sansa I ~ AFFC

All her nights were full of song, and by day she prayed for silence.

Sansa loves songs, but in truth they are just a sanitised version of history. Sansa's role in history will be big, from her stay at King's Landing to her return to Winterfell, on and on. She's already part of a song, she's just not aware of it.

And the songs he chose . . . He sang of the Dance of the Dragons, of fair Jonquil and her fool, of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies. He sang of betrayals, and murders most foul, of hanged men and bloody vengeance. He sang of grief and sadness.

No matter where she went in the castle, Sansa could not escape the music.

This is the history she has not lived yet. We know this is true because the very first, the Dance of the Dragons, has a second equivalent that has just only started and hasn't affected her as of yet (not even in her first chapter of TWOW).

Anyway, three songs: Dance of the Dragons, Florian and Jonquil, and Duncan and Jenny.

It floated up the winding tower steps, found her naked in her bath, supped with her at dusk, and stole into her bedchamber even when she latched the shutters tight. It came in on the cold thin air, and like the air, it chilled her.

There are four moments these songs catch her in. It's the second that gives it away as to how it should be interpreted because they match 1:1. But starting from the start...

"He sang of the Dance of the Dragons" VERSUS "It floated up the winding tower steps."

The Dance of the Dragons redux has started when Young Griff outed himself as Aegon VI and invaded Westeros. He opened the "hostilities" when he refused to grovel for Daniella's favour and went to get his birthright himself. Daniella will also participate because she sees the throne as her birthright and has no problems usurping the rightful heirs (Viserys). It's likely Jon will be dragged into this, as he's Targaryen as well.

"It floated up the winding tower steps" projects the idea of an upwards movement. The dragon song is coming up North. There are two options here, Sansa will flee North because the dragon war reaches the Vale (in whatever form, even if by rumour) straight to the arms of another dragon (Girl in Grey) and / or the dragon war will eventually come North. It's my conviction that the Targaryen brothers will fight each other for a time (Aegon's Conquest meets Northern Independence) before reaching a truce, which would qualify as part of the Dance of Dragons.

"Jonquil and her fool" VERSUS "found her naked in her bath"

This is the most obvious sign that they should be paired as said, since Florian and Jonquill's story is literally that, Florian finding Jonquill naked in a pool and falling in love with her. There is more to this story (it also involves dragons), but in specific the bath part is mentioned here. BTW this is a stupid story. Nobody falls in love with another because they see them naked, at most they fall in lust. Regardless, if Sansa is up North (either way from the previous song she's already there and as of TWOW she's heading there soon), then there's one candidate, the Winterfell Hot Springs.

We can guess a male finds Sansa naked at the Hot Springs, and something that can be passed of as romance happens. Much like before, there are several ways this can come to be but there are only two characters that are associated with frisky times in the Godswood of Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy and Jon Snow. The former is too traumatised by sexual torture while the latter has fantasies of bathing naked with his woman and then have exibitionist sex in front of the Heart Tree, so the latter is the likelier candidate.

I know it's not a popular theory because it's somewhat disgusting, but it all adds up. The Stark kids bathed naked at the Hot Springs (Bran confirms this in ACOK, but this also happens at the Water Gardens until they're 12-14,). A 12-14 male teen is at that age when they start getting "interested" in the opposite sex (only worse if thy parade around naked), so imagine a teen getting "interested" in someone they shouldn't at the weekly Stark kids bathing routine and this horrifies them so much because tHeY'Re NoT tArGaRyEnS to the point of wanting to join a celibate order, sacrificing their biggest wish (family). And that's remembered by this teen, now a man, in a "take two" of this event. Truly a fool though, as he knows nothing about "tArGaRyEnS" or that they're actually not siblings.

"Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies" VERSUS "supped with her at dusk, and stole into her bedchamber even when she latched the shutters tight"

"supped with her at dusk" projects the idea of just before the night starts, which in ASOIAF also projects the idea of the Long Night and before winter. Such this all gives us the time frame, just before the dead come. You know, around the time the northern campaign happens. It's my conviction, from a number of feasts Sansa attends where she supped "trouts", that this suggests the norther campaign will likely extend to the Riverlands and may meet with Aegon's Conquest campaign (Dance of Dragons V2, congruent with song 1).

"stole into her bedchamber even when she latched the shutters" projects the idea of a thief getting inside an intimate place (where she sleeps, where her bed is) despite her best efforts not to. The simpler conclusion is rape. The most likely conclusion though, is something much more benign.

"stole into her bedchamber" in ASOIAF is associated with wildling custom of marriage. Most (if not all) accounts of this ritual involve the man getting the woman while she's asleep. I can recall three stories where it happened as such. Bael stole a Stark maiden from her bed. Yggrite accuses Jon of stealing her the night the Night's Watch raided their camp, she's the one that was asleep. Longspear stole Munda from her bed while she was asleep. Interestingly, the first is a Stark, the others are redheads. These fit Sansa perfectly.

So Sansa stolen by a wilding or someone that qualifies as one. Any will do, but in specific there's a character that has already been mentioned twice in regards with these songs and also fits into this one. Jon Snow has been accused of having become a wildling / half-wildling due to spending time with them and making peace with them. He was accused of stealing Ygritte but refused that he did it, considered stealing another to make a family but also refused to usurp Sansa's claim (we'll get to that below), so there's a third coming up for him.

"even when she latched the shutters" suggests resistance and that's also according to wildling custom, as the woman is supposed to fight against stealing. While a wildling woman fights physically, Sansa fights psychologically. As for sex, Sansa fought against Sandor with kindness and fought against Tyrion with courtesy, so neither succeeded in stealing her. However, Sansa "latching the shutters" suggests a different kind of resistance than those used before (both Sandor and Tyrion entered her bedchamber without stealing into it), as if she put barriers in place.

Sansa putting up barriers happens in ASOS / AFFC. She doesn't believe anyone will marry her for love ("It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love.") and she doesn't really want to marry again. ("A marriage . . ." Her throat tightened. She did not want to wed again, not now, perhaps not ever."). Such, "stole into her bedchamber even when she latched the shutters" suggests that Jon convinces her otherwise. The question is... how.

"Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies" Now, for the song that goes with it, is also kind of telling. The story of Jenny and Duncan is about Duncan falling in love with Jenny and abdicating so he can marry her. So someone throws away their claim, breaking through Sansa's belief that nobody will marry for love but for her claim, and will ease her into wanting to marry again.

Jon actually has two claims. The first is Robb's will, which names Jon as his heir over Sansa. Jon wanting to void the will not only follows the Jenny and Duncan song (the man throws away his claim for the woman) it also destroys half of Sansa's barrier (he protects her claim, we already know he did this once per Stannis' insistence, incidently stealing a woman was mentioned, as said before it appears it's all thematically linked).

The second is by birth, as he's Rhaegar Targarye's son. If somehow Jon is legitimate, then he's King Aegon VI's heir until he has children, and he's also a prince. If I recall, most of Sansa's allusions around a Targ union are with a Targaryen prince, not a Targaryen king). If Jon is a bastard, then he'll be considered a threat to a Aegon VI, just like every bastard is (the Targaryens are well known for bloody wars between legitimates and bastards). I would assume this will be a doozy for brothers to deal with.

Somehow, either or both claims should have a hand in convincing Sansa that Jon would want to marry her for love instead of her claim as well as convincing Sansa to marry again. Robb's will clearly covers the former but not the latter (she can't marry her brother, tHeY'Re NoT LaNnIsTeR oR TaRgArYeNs, even though they are). However, Jon's second claim is what allows that marriage. For example, if Aegon accepts peace between the South belonging to him and the North belonging to Sansa as long as Jon throws away hs claim, yeah that's it. But any that fits the Duncan and Jenny story as well as Sansa being stolen despite her misgivings, will do.

It's worth noting Robb's will and it's implications (Sansa being usurped and Jon's kids being a threat to the legitimate line) are discussed at lenght between Cat and Robb at Oldstones, precisely where legend says Jenny and Duncan met (or where she came from, I cannot remember now the specifics), next to a sepulcher that represents Jon's true birthright as a Targaryen (the sepulcher is of a king with a warhammer upon his chest, which is how his father Rhaegar died, and covered with wild roses, which are a symbol of his mother Lyanna), and solves Robb's will implications (they can marry each other, so his children are hers, so they're no threat to the Stark legitimate line). As said, all tightly thematically linked and I cannot blieve this us a coincidence.

It came in on the cold thin air, and like the air, it chilled her. Though it had not snowed upon the Eyrie since the day that Lady Lysa fell, the nights had all been bitter cold.

So Dance of Dragons starts (Aegon's Conquest), some shenanigans at Winterfell's Hot Springs, then some claim throwing to the trash and a marriage. And after that comes winter. So it kind of suggests this all happens BEFORE the War of the Dawn, not after.

After the songs bit, we have the "meat" of the chapter, which is what the whole thing revolves around. Petyr and Sansa must lie about Lysa's fate to both Robyn and the Vale Lords. I would just like to point the following.

“Some lies are love, ” Petyr had assured her. She reminded him of that.

“When we lied to Lord Robert, that was just to spare him, ” she said.

“And this lie may spare us. Else you and I must leave the Eyrie by the same door Lysa used.” Petyr picked up his quill again. “We shall serve him lies and Arbor gold, and he’ll drink them down and ask for more, I promise you.”

He is serving me lies as well, Sansa realized. They were comforting lies, though, and she thought them kindly meant. A lie is not so bad if it is kindly meant.

Petyr, who's pretending to be Sansa's father, lied to her cousin Robyn about his mother, to spare him from the pain of the truth. Likewise Ned, who's Sansa's father, most likely lied to her cousin Jon about his mother, to spare him from the pain of the truth. Some lies are love, they are kindly meant.

Petyr, who's sort of Warden of the East for the time being, must lie to the Vale's lords & company about Lysa's fate, as he believes if he told the truth, he and his fake child (Sansa) would die. Likewise Ned, who's Warden of the North, must also lie to the rest of the realm about Lyanna's fate (death by childbirth), as he believes if he told the truth, he and his fake child (Jon) would die. Some lies spare innocents (Sansa / Jon), they are also kindly meant.

There's more stuff, but I don't feel like writing it now.

I always lol at Sansa's cousin being upset about his mother's death so he soughts her bed to nuzzle at her breasts and wet the bed (*shifts eyes*). This is important because Sansa bars the door to keep him out ("she latched the shutters"), yet at the end of the chapter, her cousin gets inside anyway ("stole into her chambers") because she forgot to bar the door. No idea what's that supposed to suggest, right?

[hellsbellschime]

In s8 when Sansa ask questions about food problems with Dany it's call back to Jon asking same questions with stannis. So Jon call Sansa oversmart asking same questions he asked to previous monarch. Not only that he give Dany reason for Sansa not liking her is bcoz she also hated him. How Sansa not liking him in childhood is same as not liking a tyrant? Jon has problem with Sansa undermining him but clearly not him taking Sansa for granted. D&d messed up his character.

LOL they didn’t mess up his character, they sacrificed him on Dany’s altar because they didn’t want to fully commit to the fact that she was a war criminal about to commit atrocities in Westeros on a scale that no one in human history has ever seen before. Because I don’t know if you noticed, but literally all of Jon’s shitty behavior towards Sansa makes complete sense through the lens of someone who actually does understand that Dany is very dangerous and easily triggered/offended. 

Jon was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, so he absolutely understands the math when it comes to feeding people in the North. He had to manage the most desolate and difficult to live in place in probably the entire North, and he knows how valuable food storage and basic accounting skills are. He also knows from his time on Dragonstone when he witnesses Dany’s fit over Cersei “taking all the food from the Reach” that Dany has NOT planned for her food situation in this invasion, despite the fact that she is commanding a force literally 100x the size of the Night’s Watch. He also knows that her closest adviser is a Northman who lives on an island in the far North, who is old enough to have survived at least two winters and therefore knows how desperate the food situation gets in the North in winter. And again, he knows that Dany has agreed to go North with him but no one else in Dany’s retinue has even brought this issue up. Understandably, if even her closest advisers aren’t pointing these problems out to her for some reason, he’s not going to push her when she has been so insanely reluctant to help him in the first place, despite the fact that her “throne” is entirely dependent on beating the Others anyway.  

So in a sense, he actually is correct in saying that Sansa’s being too smart for her own good. Or rather, she’s actually claiming her right as a Stark to have a say in how the Northerners are treated when a conqueror shows up and expects to be treated like a guest, but Jon knows that testing Dany’s patience is a mistake. Frankly, Sansa IS just saying what she says to be an asshole. She knows that Tyrion isn’t this dumb, she knows Jon isn’t this dumb, and she knows that obviously there isn’t any food incoming from Dany’s side of the table. She’s not asking this question in the hopes of actually getting food, she’s asking it rhetorically because she knows everyone else is thinking it and because it’s her responsibility as the Lady of Winterfell to ensure everyone in the North that she has called to retreat there and who has given Winterfell a massive portion of their harvest in exchange for the protection that the Warden of the North is supposed to be offering in exchange for everyone’s fealty. Dany rolls up with a massive sense of entitlement and expects everyone to be grateful for her arrival, and Sansa is both allowing what everyone else is thinking to be heard and explaining to Dany exactly why there wasn’t a ticker tape parade waiting for her in the North.

HOWEVER, once again Jon is correct in saying that Sansa is thinking she’s smarter than everyone by speaking out, not because she said something that hadn’t occurred to anyone else, but that she should follow everyone else’s lead and ignore it. Because while Jon doesn’t know things like the fact that Dany burned Dickon Tarly (burning both the Tarlys is important, but I think it’s really worth keeping in mind that Dany literally burned someone alive because they basically said “well I’ll die too then” and she was like “ya okay,” like can you really fathom the nuttiness of a ruler executing one person and having another person be like “I volunteer” and just agreeing to it without asking any follow up questions whatsoever), he does know that she would let the entire North die if they wouldn’t bow to her. Basically, he knows that Sansa is underestimating how little Dany values life and how little respect she has for feudal law. Like, Sansa is speaking out because even Cersei, FFS even JOFFREY wouldn’t likely execute a high lord or lady for speaking out of turn, but Jon at the absolute VERY least knows that Dany is temperamental, easily offended, and has ZERO regard for what the king or queen of Westeros is actually obligated to do or not do. He knows that she literally calls herself protector of the Seven Kingdoms but will not actually protect them unless they hand over everything to her and smile while they do it despite the fact that she’s a complete stranger. 

Jon is actually being smart by framing it in the way of “she didn’t like me either when we were children”. It’s extremely demeaning to Sansa and undercuts her intelligence and authority completely, which seems to be the point. It reframes the situation and makes it a Sansa problem instead of a Dany problem, and it implies that Sansa is that naturally prickly to everyone, not just Dany. And of course, by saying “when we were children” it literally makes it seem like Sansa is being childish and petty. Obviously none of these things are true, but after being that publicly disrespected Jon knows that Dany is going to need a lot of ego soothing, and ironically undermining Sansa is the easiest way to do that. 

I feel like the show didn’t quite know where the fuck it was going with this storyline up until the very end, however it’s very hard to ignore the fact that literally all of these behaviors and choices make sense within the context of Jon knowing that Dany is dangerous and unpredictable, and the only thing that DOESN’T back that up is that even after Dany is dead Jon never once acknowledges that she was really dangerous. I’m almost certain D&D had a specific idea in mind and just pulled the chute at the last minute, because literally EVERY character who meets Dany in Westeros has oodles of subtext acknowledging that she’s not a benevolent savior and that she’s actually scary as hell and completely unpredictable, and then at the very end all of these people who were behaving in ways that recognized that before were suddenly shocked and confused by her behavior, and conflicted about whether or not she needed to die for what she did. So yes, D&D did mess up his character, because they built up one character at the expense of everyone else (and managed to ruin her too really) and then chickened out when it came time to pull the trigger at the last fucking gasp of the series. 

[moon-ruled-rising]

hey y'all, as I'm dealing with a bit of... stuff... in all areas of my life and things are about to get very busy for me in the coming month, I thought I would offer a little something to tide everyone over until I can get this next update pounded out.

I found this little snippet while looking through some old notes for a class and doctored it up a little. It's from a very early version of as the rain hides the stars, one where Jon was King and Daenerys was more into playing coquette than just downright uninterested. This was one of the first 'scenes' that came to me, helped along by Lesley Gore's You Don't Own Me. It was later replaced by the greenhouse scene in Chapter 8.

Dany leaned against the railing of the balcony, a glass of something strong resting on the top, just within her reach, and a cigarette settled between her fingers. The red dress draped around her heated body caught on the summer breeze in flimsy streamers. The inner courtyard stretched below, its tall trees obscuring the lighted windows on the other side. Dany could just make out the passing figures of their esteemed guests as they floated by. Did anyone notice her departure? Or were they all so far into the champagne and social high to care about the aloof royal?

Someone knocked at the door before opening it. Dany grit her teeth, ready to chew out whoever dared to disturb her, then remembered who she expected.

“His Majesty, Jon of the House Stark, King in the North,” announced Ser Barristan, who had escorted the foreign monarch.

Dany didn’t speak until she heard the door close, turning her head only a fraction and taking a drag from her cigarette.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted, “Did you enjoy the party?”

By all standards of protocol she should’ve bowed but Dany, in all her Targaryen stubbornness, refused to let him think he had the upper hand.

In the dim room, the details of his face went unnoticed but his erect posture and even shoulders told her all she wanted to know. A king’s confidence and a prince’s charm.

“Isn’t this a breach in your southern decorum? Meeting with a suitor alone?”

A lithe smile spread over her face, “And what about your Northern honor, agreeing to meet me must break a few rules.”

Tapping the ash off, she came in from the balcony. The King’s face remained unmoved, though at a closer distance she saw the activity behind a pair of tumultuous eyes.

“If it makes you feel better, Ser Barristan is right outside the door.” She gestured lightly and moved to the seats around the extravagant mantle with an air of casual confidence.

“You’ve done this before, Your Highness?”

His question erred on the side of accusation but Dany let it roll like water off her back.

“Call me Daenerys, please. Your Highness sounds so… stuffy. And, to answer your question, yes. But never with a king.”

She gave him her infamous arched brow as she lowered to the upholstered armchair with all the grace she could manage in her well-fitted dress.

“You avoid me all evening, send your ladies to harass me and now you ask to meet me in a room, alone, to do what exactly?”

He came closer but still kept a wary distance. She couldn’t blame him- fire burned hot. His approach brought him further into the low light, highlighting his aristocratic cheekbones and distinct nose, the texture of his curls sculpted away from his face with precise care.

“I find it so hard to get to know someone with people around, watching me, formulating judgments in their little heads. Any idea why?”

“I’ve been told you have a bit of a reputation.”

“And I’ve spared you the worst of it. No need to have our new friends’ names sullied by association.”

“Thank the Gods for that,” he said but Dany picked up the sarcasm riddled throughout and had to keep from smiling.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t pay attention to gossip and rumors.”

“Hmm, perhaps you should, some of them are quite interesting.”

Dany knew of a few she personally planted, though it was a long time ago.

“Was marriage your idea?”

To switch topics so abruptly was a little desperate but the question had burned in her mind and she couldn’t shake it.

This brought a chuckle out of her curious guest, “No. Rhaegar thought it up.”

“You don’t seem too thrilled by the notion either.”

“For the same reason I’m meeting you in a secluded sitting room.”

This time he did sit, as Dany took a drag from her cigarette to hide her impression of his witty remark. She was keenly aware of the King’s eyes watching her nasty habit, so she picked up the fancy silver case that belonged to her grandmother, and her great-grandmother before that.

“Do you smoke, Your Majesty?”

“Not usually,” he said, but leaned forward to take one anyway and she offered the matching lighter as well.

“Why does your country need our help?”

“In the words of my House, winter is coming. I won’t get into the science but it looks like we don’t have the resources to survive this one without catastrophe. It’s my duty to ensure the safety of my people, even if this is the only way.”

Dany nodded, letting his brief but impactful words wash over her.

“What’s it like? In the North?”

“It’s beautiful-”

“I figured as much-”

“Especially in the winter. It almost makes you believe magic is real.”

Dany scoffed, red lips curling into a characteristic smirk, and the King shot her a look, obviously miffed at her laughter but he continued anyway.

“You’ll understand when you see it.”

“Who says I will? As far as the marriage contract is concerned I have the final say.”

A lie. A small bluff to keep herself above it all, hoping that this King was like her brother and left the heavy lifting to a committee.

The King scoffed that time, “Liar. The negotiations for this treaty are personal, happening between Rhaegar and me and no one else.”

He leaned back against the settee, taking a slow drag from his cigarette and considering her carefully. And Dany did a poor job at concealing her displeasure, stabbing the butt into the ashtray.

“Anything else you’d like to know, Your Highness?”

“How much longer are you staying in the palace?”

“A few more days, just until the treaty is finalized and we decide on a match for the marriage pact.”

That caught her attention, “I’m sorry. Decide?”

“Did Rhaegar not tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“You’re not the only candidate. With my position and the weight behind your family, we thought it best to keep the options open.”

Dany’s chest burned with his revelation, the heat spreading through her neck and face. She broke a crystal glass and raged through the hall over a half-truth, Elia probably laughed her ass off when she left Dany’s room.

Her brash confidence refused to release his eye contact, “Of course he did. But I assumed I was the best one on the list.”

“I’d certainly like you to be.”

[rigmarolling]

Historical Holiday Traditions We Really Need To Bring Back

Here comes Santa Claus, and also a bunch of annual holiday Things we do to ensure he commits a truly boggling act of breaking and entering and leaves goods underneath the large plant in the living room.

Because I’ve always got a hankerin’ for the days of yore, here are some historical holiday traditions we really need to bring back:

1. Everything that happened on Saturnalia

Saturnalia was the ancient Roman winter festival held on December 25th--which is why we celebrate Christmas on that day and not on the day historians speculate Jesus was actually born, which was probably in the spring. 

Saturnalia was bonkers. As the name suggests, it celebrated the god Saturn, who represented wealth and liberty and generally having a great time.

Above: Their party is way cooler than yours could ever hope to be.

During Saturnalia, masters would serve their slaves, because it was the one day during the year when everybody agreed that freedom for all is great, actually, let’s just do that. Everyone wore a coned hat called the pilleus to denote that they were all bros and equal, and also to disguise the fact that they hadn’t brushed their hair after partying hard all week, probably.

Gambling was allowed on Saturnalia, so all of Rome basically turned into ancient Vegas, complete with Caesar’s Palace, except with the actual Caesar and his palace because he was, you know. Alive. 

The most famous part (besides getting drunk off your rocker) was gift-giving--usually gag gifts. Historians have records of people giving each other some truly impressive white elephant gifts for Saturnalia, including: a parrot, balls, toothpicks, a pig, one single sausage, spoons, and deliberately awful books of poetry. 

Above: Me, except all the time.

Partygoers also crowned a King of Saturnalia, which was a predecessor to the King of Fools popular in medieval festivals. The king was basically the head idiot who delivered absurd commands to everyone there, like, “Sing naked!” or “run around screaming for an hour,” or “slap your butt cheeks real hard in front of your crush; DO IT, Brutus.”

Oh, wait. Everyone was already doing all that. Hell yes.

(Quick clarification: early celebrations of Saturnalia did feature human sacrifice, so let’s just leave that bit out and instead wear the pointy hats and sing naked, okay? Io Saturnalia, everybody.)

2. Leaving out treats for Sleipnir in the hopes of avoiding Odin’s complete disregard for your property

The whole “leave out cookies and milk for Santa” thing comes from a much older tradition of trying to appease old guys with white beards. In Norse mythology, Odin, who was sort of the head god but preferred to be on a perpetual road trip instead, took an annual nighttime ride through the winter sky called the Wild Hunt. 

Above: The holidays, now with 300% more heavy metal.

Variations of the Wild Hunt story exist in a bunch of European folklore--in Odin’s case, he usually brought along a bunch of supernatural buddies, like spirits and other gods and Valkyries and ghost dogs, who, the Vikings said, you could hear howling and barking as the group approached (GOOD DOGGOS).

That was the thing, though; you never actually saw Odin’s hunt--you only heard it. And hearing it did not spark the same sense of childish glee you felt when you thought you heard Santa’s sleigh bells approaching as a kid--instead, the Vikings said, you should be afraid. Be VERY afraid.

Because Odin could be kind of a dick.

Odin was also known as the Allfather, and like any father, he hated asking for directions. GPS who? I’m the Allfather, I’m riding the same way I always ride.

And that was pretty much it: “I took this road last year and I’m taking it again this year.”

“But,” someone would pipe up from the back, “there are houses on the road now--we’re gonna run right into them. We could just take a different path; there’s actually a detour off the--”

“Nope,” Odin would say. “They know the rules. My road, my hunt, my rules. We’re going this way.”

So if you were unlucky enough to have built your house along one of Odin’s favorite road trip sky-ways, he wouldn’t just plow right past you.

He would burn your entire house down--and your family along with it.

Kids playing in the yard? Torch ‘em; they should have known better. Grandma knitting while she waits for her gingerbread Einherjar to finish baking? Sucks to be her; my road, my rules, my beard, I’m the Allfather, bitch.

Above: Santa, but so much worse.

To be fair to Odin, he could be a cool guy sometimes. He just turned into any dad when he was on a road trip and wanted to MAKE GOOD TIME, DAMN IT, I AM NOT STOPPING; YOU SHOULD HAVE PEED BEFORE WE LEFT.

To ensure they didn’t incur Odin’s road trip wrath, the Vikings had a few ways of smoothing things over with Dad.

They would leave Odin offerings on the road, like pieces of steel (??? okay ???) or bread for his dogs, or food for his giant, eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, because the only true way to a man’s heart is through his pet. 

People would generally leave veggies and oats and other horse-y things out for Sleipnir, whose eight legs made him the fastest flying horse in the world and also made him the only horse to ever win Asgard’s coveted tap dancing championship. 

(Side note: EIGHT legs...EIGHT tiny reindeer...eh? Eh? See how we got here? Thanks, nightmare horse!)

Above: An excellent prancer AND dancer. 

And if Odin was feeling particularly charitable and not in the mood for horrific acts of arson, children would also leave their shoes out for him--it was said that he’d put gifts in your boots to ring in a happy new year.

If all that didn’t work and the Vikings heard the hunt approaching, they would resort to throwing themselves on the ground and covering their heads while the massive party sped above them like a giant Halloween rager. 

So this holiday season, leave your boots out for Odin and some carrots out for his giant spider horse or you and your entire family will die in a fiery inferno, the end.

3. Yule Logs

Speaking of Scandinavia, another Northern European winter solstice tradition was the yule log. Today, if you google “yule log,” something like this will pop up:

...which isn’t an actual log, but is instead log-shaped food that you shove into your mouth along with 500 other cakes at the same time because it’s CHRISTMAS, and I’m having ME TIME; so WHAT if I ate the whole jar of Nutella by myself, alone, in the dark at 3 am?

But that log cake is actually inspired by actual logs of yore that Celtic, Germanic, and Scandinavian peoples decorated with fragrant plants like holly, ivy, pinecones, and other Stuff That Smells Nice before tossing the log into the fire.

This served a few purposes: 

It smelled nice, and Bath and Body Works scented candles hadn’t been invented yet.

It had religious and/or spiritual significance as a way to mark the winter solstice.

It was a symbolic way of ringing in the new year and kicking out the old.

Common belief held that the ashes of a yule log could ward off lightning strikes and bad energy.

Winter cold. Fire warm.

Everybody loves to watch things burn. (See: Odin.)

The yule log cakes we eat today got their start in 19th century Paris, when bakers thought it was a cute idea to resurrect an ancient pagan tradition in the form of a delicious dessert, and boy, howdy, were they right.

In any case, I’m 100% down with eating a chocolate yule log while burning an actual yule log in my backyard because everybody loves to watch things burn; winter cold, fire warm; and hnnnngggg pine tree smell hnnnnggg.

(Quick note:  The word “yule” is  the name of a traditional pagan winter festival, still celebrated culturally or religiously in modern pagan practice. It’s also another name for Odin. He had a bunch of other names, one of the most well-known being jólfaðr, which is Old Norse for “Yule father.” If you would like to royally piss him off, or if you are Loki, feel free to call him “Yule Daddy.”)

4. Upside down Christmas trees

I just found out that apparently, upside down Christmas trees are a hot new trend with HGTV types this year, so I guess this is one historical trend we did bring back, meaning it doesn’t really belong on this list, but I’m gonna talk about it, anyway.

Side note: Oh, my god, that BANNISTER. I NEED.

Historians aren’t actually sure where the inverted Christmas tree thing came from, but we know people were bringing home trees and then hanging them upside down in the living room as early as the 7th century. We have a couple theories as to why people turned trees on their heads:

Logistically, it’s way easier to hang a giant pine tree from your rafters upside down by its trunk and roots. You just hoist that baby up there, wind some rope around the rafter and the trunk, and boom. Start decorating.

A Christian tradition says that one day in the 7th century, a Benedictine monk named Saint Boniface stumbled across a group of pagans worshipping an oak tree. So, instead of minding his own damn business, he cut the tree down and replaced it with a fir tree. While the pagans were like, “Dude, what the hell?” Boniface used the triangular shape of the fir tree to explain the concept of the holy trinity to the pagans. Some versions have him planting it right-side up, others having him displaying a fir tree upside down. Either way, it’s still a triangle that’s a solid but ultimately very rude way of explaining God. Word’s still out on whether anyone was converted or just rightly pissed off that this random guy strolled into their place of worship, chopped down their sacred tree, and plopped HIS tree down instead. Please do not do that this holiday season.

Eastern Europeans lay claim to the upside-down tree phenomenon with a tradition called podłazniczek in Poland--people hung the tree from the ceiling and decorated it with fruits and nuts and seeds and ribbons and other festive doodads. 

(God, who lives in these houses? Look at that. That’s like a swanky version of Gaston’s hunting lodge. Where do I get one? Which enchanted castle do I have to stumble into to chill out in a Christmas living room like that?)

Today, at least in the West, upside-down trees are making a comeback because...I don’t know. Chip and Joanna Gaines said so. 

Some folks say it’s a surefire way to keep your cats from clawing their way through the tree and then puking up fir needles for weeks afterward, which checks out for me.

5. Incredibly weird Victorian Christmas cards

So back in the 19th century, the Christmas card industry was really getting fired up. Victorians loved their mail, let me tell you. They loved sending it. They loved getting it. They loved writing it. They loved opening it. They loved those sexy wax seals you use to keep all that sweet, sweet mail inside that sizzling envelope. (Those things are incredibly sexy. Have you ever made a wax seal? Oh, man, it’s hot.)

The problem, though, was that while the Victorians arguably helped standardize many of the holiday traditions we know and love today (Christmas trees, caroling, Dickens everything, spending too much money, etc.) back in 1800-whenever, a lot of that Christmas symbolism was, um...still under construction. No one had really agreed on which visual holiday cues worked and which...didn’t.

Meaning everyone just kind of made up their own holiday symbols. Which resulted in monstrous aberrations like this card:

What the hell is that? A beet? Is that a beet? Or a turnip? Why is it...oh, God, why does it have a man’s head? Why does the man beet have insect claws? 

What is it that he’s holding? A cookie? Cardboard? A terra cotta planter?

And then there’s this one:

“A Merry Christmas to you,” it says, while depicting a brutal frog murder/mugging. 

What are you trying to tell me? Are you threatening me with this card? Is that it? Is this a threat? How the hell am I supposed to interpret this? “Merry Christmas, hide your money or you’re dead, you stupid bitch.”

Also, why is the dead frog naked? Did the other frog steal his clothes after the murder? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS?

Victorian holiday cards also doubled as early absurdist Internet memes, apparently, because how else do I explain this?

Is this some sort of tiny animal Santa? A mouse riding a lobster? Like, the mouse, I get. Mice are fine. Disney built an empire on a mouse. And look, he’s got a little list of things he’s presumably going to bring you: Peace, joy, health, happiness. (In French. Oh, wait, is that that Patton Oswalt rat?)

But a LOBSTER? What’s with the lobster? It’s basically a sea scorpion. Why in the name of all that is good and holy would you saddle up a LOBSTER? I hate it. I hate it so, so much. Just scurrying around the floor with more legs than are strictly necessary, smelling like the seafood section of Smith’s, snapping its giant claws.

This whole card is a health inspector’s worst nightmare. It really is.

I gotta say, though, I am a fan of this one:

Presumably, that polar bear is going in for a hug because nothing stamps out a polar bear’s innate desire to rip your face from your skull than candy canes and Coke and Christmas spirit.

This next one is actually fantastic, but for all the wrong reasons:

I know everyone overuses “same” these days but geez, LOOK at that kid. I can HEAR it. SAME.

If you’ve ever been in a shopping mall stuffed with kids, nothing sums it up better than this card. This is like the perverse version of those Anne Geddes portraits that were everywhere in the late 90s. “Make wee Jacob sit in the tea pot; everyone will--Jacob, STOP, look at Mommy; I said LOOK. AT. MOMMY--everyone will love it.”

Actually, you know what? Every other Christmas card is cancelled. This is the only card we will be using from now on. This is it. 

Wait, no. We can also use this one:

Merry Christmas. Here’s a fuckin’...just a dead fuckin’ bird.

[jungwooisms]

gekokujō | k.dy | official teaser

pairing: kim doyoung x female reader members: suh youngho (johnny), lee minhyung (mark), nakamoto yuta, lee jeno, kim jungwoo, jeong jaehyun genre: historical au (early 1900’s)/historical fiction, angst, fluff warnings: smoking, language, alcohol word count: 13k/? summary: kim doyoung left his home in search of himself; yet when a collection of both familiar and unfamiliar faces surface, he finds that he may just be a a part of something much larger than he anticipated.

| this will be a part of @puppywritings’ historical collab |

[1909.04.01. Boston, MA] ‘John,

I feel enough time has adequately passed to allow me to write to you. Although, there is not much news from home to tell you of. 

The snow is fast disappearing now. I came across an article in the paper the other day about Boston and it said that 14 or 15 years ago bears used to roam around the northern end of the city, but there seems to be nothing around now except the wild fowl, and an uncountable number of deer. 

How are your hands now? I know that the winter air dries yours as it does mine. Mine are very cut, so scattered with paper trails that I fear I should bleed ink from all the books that you left me. Have you been able to acquire any more on your travels? I find that the supply you gave me is running rather low now. 

You left for Munich inquiring after Daniel Lim if I recall the name correctly, I hope you found him in good health on your arrival. I also hope he does not overwork you, you said as much happened the last you worked under him in London.

I am very pleased to say I am keeping very well, and I trust you are the same. If anything happens, know that I will gladly storm my way across the sea and give your wrongdoers what for.

I miss you, John. And I hope you return soon, you know I love to hear about your travels.’

A short chuckle to yourself as you pull the pen away from the paper after signing your name, ink stains settling into the grooves of your fingers as you aren’t cautious enough with the writing implement. Short blows over the thin paper as you try to dry the ink as quickly as possible, although this isn’t the sweltering heat of the summer you’re unsurprised the ink hasn't run but so much. Carefully standing from your seat you begin your search around the room for an envelope, fingers brushing over various stacks of papers and novellas lying around your workspace. Eventually you find a weathered, but perfectly usable one underneath a dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. You address the letter to his newest residence, some boarding house in Germany, but you aren't sure if he was even staying there anymore. If that doesn't work out and one of your letters was stamped “Return to Sender” once more, you’d just have to wait for him to send you something first. It seemed like you were always waiting after John. Not that you mind much, you had been as thick as thieves as teenagers and that had hardly ever changed, even after he’d decided to go abroad and study, then go onto some teaching stints wherever the wind blew him.

As you return to your seat you hear a gentle meowing outside, head peering over your desk and out of the glass panes into the garden below you spot a small black and white tabby looking up at you. A sigh escaping your lips as you move to grab your pen once more, beginning to write a post scriptum,

‘p.s. Your lovely feral cat has now decided that I take ownership of her in your absence. Is there a name you prefer I call her?’

You hope he can understand your tone, it’s an issue of yours that the words you write sometimes don't hit their mark. Regardless, you’d send the letter and hear his thoughts on it whenever he has the gaul to write back. You straighten your back from your hunched position and move through the house, your fingers tracing along the smooth walls until you reach the door leading into the garden, it lay nestled in the corner of the kitchen. There’s a faint scratching as you approach, only opening it to find the same tabby waiting for you, it barrels inside once it sees an opportunity.

“You wretch,” tsking as she begins brushing up against your leg. “What am I going to do with you?”

[1909.04.30. 今出川, 京都] The ground crunches underfoot as Doyoung walks; the pavement, covered with a thin layer of grit from a small windstorm that had picked up an hour or so prior, feeling as if it’s shifting as his leather soled shoes move over it. Storm having left its mark and not going to disappear until a rain shower decides to wash it away, he breathes in the particles still floating through the balmy weather. A small frown as he fans his jacket, allowing some air to circulate under the thick fabric. Had it not been impolite, he would have shed the garment as soon as he stepped out of the train station only minutes ago. His hand still wrapped around his bag he looks to the signs adorning the tops of businesses along the road. Doyoung was never great at learning hanja, so when it came time for him to begin learning the already different kanji and further hiragana and katakana that would come along with his trip abroad, he thought he might set out to find a tutor during his time here. Hand moving to rummage around the inside of his jacket, he procures a worn letter from its depths. ‘今出川 居酒屋,’ it is the only thing foreign to him within the contents of the scripture, the sender had asked to meet him there for lunch on the second day of Doyoung’s arrival to Kyoto.

Doyoung finds the bar after walking a few more blocks, north from the station and hidden away behind a bookstore in a back alley. Before he enters, he pauses. His grip on the letter tightening, the parchment creasing from the increased pressure as the slight tingly pervasiveness of guilt begins to wrack him from the inside out. A look to his left, and then to his right, a ghost of a figure in his peripheral, deterring him from running from the drinkery. It drives him closer, away from an inevitable future and towards the uncertain present. 

A haze of smoke blankets the air as he enters, that of tobacco intermingling with the small fire stoking in the back of the bar. It invades his nose rather viciously, itching the back of his throat and causing tears to form in the corners of his eyes as he greets the hostess with a small ‘Hello’ and ‘A table, please.’ She guides him and he settles down at a chabudai towards the front of the building, almost with enough of a view so that he can peer past the two small curtains at the entrance and into the street.

The letter now resting atop the table and his bag by its side, he reaches into his jacket yet again to procure an almost empty pack of cigarettes and a newly bought lighter. He had run out of fluid during his journey across the sea and he thought that buying a new one would be a novel idea to commemorate his trip. Doyoung’s eyes wander around the enclosed space as he scans the faces of the patrons. Most were men but there was the occasional woman mingling among the crowd as well. Cigarette placed on his lips, lighter spewing to life and igniting the end as he takes a deep breath in. Doyoung hates smoking, hates the way it pierces his lungs with its inky black vapors. It leaves his breath smelling awful, but it is just something people do to pass the time. Fingers finding the cigarette, he removes it for a moment, tapping it against a small silver dish atop the table, the ashes pooling at the bottom as he continues to look for someone he hasn’t met yet.

“Did you want to order anything else?” A voice to his right calls out, he jumps slightly before turning, only to find the kimono clad waitress at his side. She sets down a tray of dishes, some foods he recognizes, and some he thinks to be the local cuisine.

“Oh, no thank you.” As his eyes look over the food he moves to rest his cigarette in the ashtray to come back for later.

The woman gives a short smile and brief nod before speaking again, “Please let me know if you need anything.” Even after she had walked away, Doyoung could feel her eyes lingering on him like a child seeing some sort of marvel for the first time. This is not to say that he thinks that highly of himself, just that he knows that he is an outsider in a foreign place, his accent could tell anyone as much.

“I think she likes you.” A voice speaking up when Doyoung goes to take a bite out of the onigiri on his tray.

Mouth half full and brow furrowed in confusion, Doyoung turns to face wherever the voice had come from, “What did you say?” Chewing his food and swallowing rather harshly, he almost chokes as he thinks he’s going insane after hearing what sounded like Korean. This time it was a man who spoke, he was sitting at another table across from him, a shifty grin on his face. Something about him seemed different from everyone else in the bar, but the man couldn’t quite put a finger on it in this dimly lit room.

“She’s still staring at you.” The other man answers, now standing up and proceeding to walk over to him. “But it’s not like she’s hearing me say that anyway,” He laughs, brushing his hands against the lapels of his jacket.

Now in a better light, the man can get a better view of this stranger. “Are you Korean too?” He asks in his native tongue, feeling much more relieved that the burden of speaking a different language is momentarily sated.

“No,” Another laugh as the man settles down in the seat adjacent. “Just familiar with the language, is all.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes staring into Doyoung’s as if he’s trying to memorize his facial features. “You wouldn’t happen to be Kim Dongyoung, would you?”

“Doyoung, actually.” He clears his throat. “I am,” Eyes glancing at the letter still atop the table, Doyoung comes to a realization, “Are you Nakamoto Yuta?”

“I am,” A smile as he extends his hand. Less practiced with western formality Doyoung looks at the greeting for a moment before raising his own to formally address him, “It’s nice to meet you.” After a moment they drop their hands away from each other, Yuta’s gaze shifting to watch the hostess move his food from his old table to the one he now shares with Doyoung. “With an accent like that you must be from the south, Daegu, maybe?”

“Guri, actually.” He returns to his food for a moment, Yuta taking this time to also take a few bites from his own bento. “Where did you learn Korean?”

“Did Youngho not tell you?” Youngho is their mutual friend, he’d given Doyoung Yuta’s contact information to inquire if he had any availability to tutor him. “I studied with him when we were in college, I moved back here a year after we graduated, my mother fell ill and wanted to come back from living in Hanseong.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Doyoung frowns, shifting as he sets his chopsticks down. The two must have met after Doyoung had left his schooling to return to his family, per their wishes. 

A smile, “She made a perfect recovery, but now that she’s home she never wants to leave again.” Yuta reaches for the porcelain flask of sake the hostess had brought over, pouring himself a small glass then offering one to Doyoung. The younger politely refuses, still not accustomed to the savoriness of the drink, as Yuta nods and knocks back his own cup before speaking again. “When can you start classes? We typically meet for an hour or two every day if we can.”

“We?” Doyoung’s caught up on the word, he thought these would be private lessons, not an actual class. He leans forward, somewhat anxious at the thought of his abysmal language skills to be put on show for more than one audience member.

“Just a handful of other students from all over the place,” Shoulders shrugging Yuta leans backwards, hands placed atop his knees as he stretches his back. “We have a few Korean and Chinese kids, even a Canadian student as well. Not everyone’s at the same level so you shouldn’t worry too much about it.” He smiles, toothy and carefree as if there wasn’t an unhappy thought that had ever crossed him, Doyoung somewhat resents the uncertain assumption he made. “The schoolhouse isn’t too far away from here actually; did you want to stop by?” Hand motioning towards the doorway, Yuta’s head tilts inquisitively.

“I actually have to check in at the hotel I’m staying in, my parents told me to write whenever I got here and I’ve been putting that off for a while,” A sigh escaping him. Doyoung had been thinking about what to pen for the past day and a half but couldn’t muster the strength to go through with it. He’d left on rocky terms and was expecting to be hounded whenever they responded. “I’ll stop by tomorrow when you have class if that’s alright?”

“Fine by me,” He’s now searching his own pockets, finding a pen and reaching out for the letter near Doyoung. Yuta scribbles down something, a few kanji that Doyoung can’t decipher, and hands him the paper back, “Classes start at ten, when you’re in the area just ask someone if they know where this is and they’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks,” Doyoung looks down to the paper, seeing in his periphery that Yuta was already on his feet, straightening his jacket as he begins to head over to the waitress.

Doyoung sees him say something but can’t make out what, it’s only when Yuta turns to him and speaks that he can ascertain the meaning, “Don’t worry about paying this time, you’ll have to treat me to lunch some other day.” And with that Doyoung finds himself alone once more in the tavern.

 [1909.04.30. Boston, MA] The letter had arrived early in the morning, but you had been out in town with your mother attending some group function that you didn't want to be a part of in the first place. So, when you walk into your own little study and see it lying atop your things you race over and tear open the seal adorning it.

‘When I arrived in Munich, my work left me so urgent that I could not write in time before I left again. I thus deferred it to a point where I once again found myself with solid footing. It rains heavily in Seoul today, my travels have taken me here instead of crossing the Atlantic.

Currently I am holding a tutoring position for the American consulate’s son. I expect to hold this position for some time before I return home to Boston. 

Tell my mother not to fuss over me too much, if anything I implore her to look after you. Of all people, other than your own family, she knows of the antics you pursue.

I was able to sneak out a few books from Munich, upon my return I swear to you that you will have the greatest library in all America- no, the world, even.

If I were a better artist, or wealthy enough to photograph, I would show you how beautiful my journey across the world has been. Although, so much has changed in Seoul since I held my studies here. I cannot help but have the inklings of melancholy eat away as I recall the memories and compare them to what I see now. This will come to pass, I hope. 

I hear the boy calling for me now— My writing will have to cease here, I fear. Send my affection to your family, I know they miss me as much as you do.

With all the love I can muster,

x John

p.s. I think I have decided to call her Minnie, please refer to her as that accordingly.’

While scattered with his familiarities and humor, the letter seems all too short, all too hurried. Your lips purse as you read over it, brow furrowing as a small knot in your stomach begins to form. Thumb rubbing over the x marking his name the worry only grows ever more prevalent, you pull your eyes away from the words and begin to rummage around for your own writing implements and paper, wanting to respond to him as quickly as possible.

‘John,

Your letter left much to be desired. Seoul? Your mother anxiously awaits your return any day now, before you left you said you would only be gone until early May at most. I hope that nothing unsavory has happened, God knows you find yourself in trouble more than any other man I know. 

Please let her know that you are safe, I fear that she may follow after you should you be gone any longer. A son should never burden his mother with his absence for an extended period, I can only keep her company for so long before her weariness sets in and she longs to see you. 

She also knitted you a pair of gloves, seeing as you left your moth-eaten ones behind. I know the air is growing warmer, but it is somewhat endearing to see how doting she is over you. Please, ease her mind by writing.’

[1909.04.30.-1909.04.31.  今出川ホテル, 京都] Doyoung eventually finds himself standing at the small entrance of a hotel, the name written in cursive English on a wooden sign above the doorway. Youngho had recommended the inn, saying that it would be one of the more accepting places to stay at as a foreigner. It has a somewhat Victorian looking façade, contrasting the traditional Japanese styled buildings around it, he wonders why that is as he ascends the handful of steps to the door, struggling ever so slightly while lugging his bag behind him. As the door swings open, he’s greeted by an elderly woman with a rather round face, “Good evening,” she smiles and ushers him inside. “Did you need a room for the night? Or do you have a reservation?”

Mind fogging as he struggles to keep up, “Apologies, my Japanese isn’t—” The stone floor clicking underfoot as he follows her to the main desk.

“Ah, Korean?” It’s accented, but he appreciates it nonetheless. “Do you have a reservation?” Her hands dance along a worn leather book atop the desk, flipping it open as she looks down a list of names, some of those which are crossed out and some of which are not.

“I do,” He nods his head with a short smile, “It should be under Kim.”

Humming as she runs her finger down the list, as her head turns upward it causes Doyoung to return his attention to her, “Kim Heesung or Kim Doyoung?”

“Doyoung,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, mentally hitting himself as he should’ve been more specific. Eyes scanning the list, Doyoung takes a short look around the interior of the inn.The space is smaller than he imagined, but rather cozy. A glowing fire going to warm the chill of the night, large armchairs beside it and the largest bookshelf he’s ever seen built around the hearth.

“Wonderful,” She smiles, turning her back to him to find his room key from a small drawer behind the desk. Before she faces him again fully, she shifts through a small stack of papers atop the desk, “This also came for you,” The woman reaches to pull out a thin card from the stack, it has both hangul and kanji printed on it so it was easy to assume it’d come from his homeland.

“Thank you,” He smiles back before taking the telegram and tucking it into his jacket pocket. She hands him the key and he’s off to find his hotel room. It lays up the staircase and down a winding corridor, as he passes by some of the rooms, he can hear the muffled voices of a few of the other patrons, speaking languages he can mildly understand and others that sound alien. Once he finds his room, he’s all too giddy to throw himself onto the bed. Door locked, shoes and suitcase strewn aside he falls onto the plush bed, his eyes watching the ceiling as the weight of sleep begins to take over his vision.

Broken sunlight filters into the room, the shades drawn enough only to allow sharp slants of light to come through. The city outside is bustling whereas the hotel room seems almost vacant of any form of noise, save for the sound of soft breathing as the occupant sleeps. Kim Doyoung continues to snore  softly, dreaming of something sweet enough to add a slight curvature to his lips. He rolls in his slumber, the telegram received in the night folding under his weight, unbeknownst to him.

Three swift knocks awake him from the depths of slumber. He bolts up, raising a hand to run through his hair as a frown of confusing forms on his lips, wiping away whatever essence of his dream remained. “Are you awake?” A voice rings out seconds after the rapping. It’s the woman from the night before, Doyoung was too tired to connect the dots quite yet.

“Yes,” He responds groggily, moving to allocate his footing onto the floor. He hears soft footsteps leading away from his door, he supposes his wakeup call is completed. Rummaging around his wrinkled jacket-pocket he pulls out his timepiece, the clock reveals that it is seven forty-five in the morning, he has two hours before his lessons begin. Letting out a soft groan, he places the watch away and pushes himself onto his feet. His knees creaking and cracking as he rises and stretches out his arms, signaling that his sleep must’ve been docile. Once again, his hand moves to his jacket as he recalls the telegram, now crumpled in the crevasses of his pocket. Doyoung pulls out the letter, walking to draw open the shades to allow more reading light in.

“Kim Dongyoung,” He mumbles out, reading over the first, short line as the sleep is rubbed from his eyes. ‘Mom and Dad are going to kill you if you continue to ignore them. For my sake, please write. - Donyun’

An audible scoff after he’s finished reading, he can almost hear his brother’s tone. Doyoung does care about his family, but his brother is as much on his parents’ side as he is against it, it is a giant rift in their already teetering relationship.

The telegram tossed onto the bed as Doyoung takes off his jacket, he’d been avoiding his familial issues for a while now and it seems as if they’re coming back to bite him in the ass. It wasn’t entirely his fault for doing so, his father was never a good listener and Doyoung’s ideas were always pushed asunder.

A few moments later he finds himself in a fresh set of clothes, ready to face the day. In truth, he is dreading his lessons but at least it will provide some relief from thinking about the drama happening back in Guri. His shoes drag along the wooden floor as he steps out of his room, locking it with the small gilded key behind him. Once in the hallway, his posture straightens as he begins to make his way towards the staircase that would lead him into the main lobby. The crushed emerald green velvet railing runs under his fingers as he descends, swiftly moving into his pockets once his feet land on the granite tiles splaying out an ocean of deep gray below him.

A thin beam of light shines in through the slit in the door of the entranceway, the windows attached to the door are covered in the same crushed velvet encasing the staircase via curtain. It feels like he is in a black hole with how dimly lit the interior of the building is. Eventually he makes his way through the lobby, past the plumes of smoke belonging to the lackadaisical men resting in overly decadent armchairs smoking out of their kiserus.

Doyoung shuffles his way to the front desk, a younger woman manning it instead of the elderly woman from the night prior. “Can I help you?” Voice sullen sounding, or maybe tired, Doyoung still isn’t awake enough yet to dissect it fully. 

Reaching into his pocket, pulling out the letter from Yuta with the name of the school, “I’m looking for this?”

The girl leans over the desk, it’s easy to tell the yukata she wears is inhibiting her from her full range of motion. Eyes reading the characters carefully, “Whoever wrote this has awful handwriting,” She mutters under her breath and Doyoung can’t understand it entirely. “It’s about a fifteen-minute walk that way,” Hand raising to motion southward, “When you see the sweets shop you should turn right, and it will be a few buildings down on your right.”

A nod of his head as he thinks he caught most of her instruction. He takes the paper back and tucks it away, thanking her as he makes for the door. The heat greets him with a gentle breeze, an inkling of warmth as to what’s in store for later in the day. Doyoung looks to the sky, to see where the sun is positioned so he is able to gauge the direction he was supposed to go. He sets off, pace not brisk or lax, merely at a stride to absorb what’s around him. It’s still early in the morning, plenty of time before the school day begins to wander the streets for a bit.

The street’s crowded, thinning in places where it seems more residential than not, it reminds him of home. Different feel, different language but it has a strange nostalgic aura about it. A sweetness hitting his nose as he approaches a small wooden building, he can’t read what it is but by the smells emanating from it he supposes that it’s the sweet shop the girl at the hotel had told him to turn at. Head tilting to peer down the street, it looks like nothing of note. As he stands there, presumably looking more confused than the average local, he feels a finger gently tap on his shoulder, “Are you lost?”

The voice comes as a surprise, turning Doyoung on his heels to come face to face with a stranger. Eyes wide as he looks the boy over, “A little bit... I’m looking for,” reaching into his pockets as the other stops him.

“Are you Kim Doyoung?” It seems as if everyone here knew of him before he could introduce himself. Before he can speak, a nod of affirmation rattles through him and the other smiles, “Yuta said that we’d be getting a new student in today.” Hand outstretching, Doyoung’s a little more practiced with the greeting now, “My name’s Lee Minhyung, I can show you the way to the school if you want?”

“It’s nice to meet you,” He gives a brief smile before another nod of his head, “I’d really appreciate it.”

[1909.05.05. San Francisco, CA] If anything were to be your downfall, it would be that of your impatience. You’d been sitting down with John’s mother, a woman you likened to your own family when the one back home was too involved in her own business, when the news broke. She was kind, offered you tea and as always had the little tin of biscuits you loved when you were a child sitting atop the tea tray, and then graciously divulged to you that her son was currently under police custody in Tokyo when the last you’d heard he’d been in Seoul. It would explain the absence of letters, or inability to write. Upon questioning her further you realize that maybe he was in far greater a circumstance than he left you off thinking.

It isn’t a matter of asking your parents to ship you off to a foreign land, it’s a matter of when and how soon you can leave. The money sitting in the dank vault of your late grandmother’s account had laid in wait for some sort of use, and she had wanted you to use it to fulfill some sort of errant dream of yours after her passing. You couldn’t find it within yourself to touch it, seeing it as too prized and too treasured a thing to take away from for some frivolous means. But your grandmother had liked John, the late one on your father’s side and not the vile one from your mother’s. She had treated him kindly whenever he had stopped by, sometimes even saying that she had wished him her grandson more than the monsters that were your cousins. You think that is reason enough to pull from your funds and splurge on a rescue mission to Japan. There were several people you’d known that had been there before, detailing it as a curious place but had neglected to tell you why; you don’t think of the language or cultural barriers separating you until you’re standing on a pier in San Francisco, waiting for your ship to dock.

The brine of the sea had never settled well in your stomach, salty on your lips and your cheeks as the coastal winds torrent towards you. Your ship doesn’t leave for a while yet but the queasiness felt on the decks of other ships returns to the pit of your stomach with a ghostlike vengeance. Perhaps it is anxiousness that riddles you instead of the fear of the sea.

 “Im-a-de-ga-wa Gai-ko-ku-jin Ni-hon-go Ga-kko” words falling from your lips in strange and oblong vowels and consonants that were almost completely incorrect. John had mentioned it in the letter to his mother, detailing that should she not hear from him for another month to contact the school and ask for the aid of a Mr. Yuta Nakamoto, a friend that he’d talked about in passing a few times. Apparently, he is a persuasive sort that would most definitely help him out should the occasion arise. Or so John had put it, you aren't really sure what to think of him.

John’s mother had insisted that it had been a mix up at customs but a bitter taste in your mouth and gut wrenching feeling in your stomach told you otherwise. He was a rebellious spirit and had probably said a few choice words that had gotten him in trouble, he had said his Japanese wasn’t great but he had learned a handful of colorful phrases from the aforementioned friend in University that could definitely be taken the wrong way by unknowing ears.

If the seas were steady and your luck good, maybe you can reach him within a month. If not, a week or so longer but you’re not sure if the anticipation of it all would let you, you might jump ship and hope to swim there faster should such a situation arise. Again, impatience being your downfall you can barely stand just watching the large metal steamship land at port and empty its passengers before you were to board.

The air is salty, the gentle spray of foam from the shore landing on your cheeks carefully as you look towards the ship that is to be your dwelling for the next portion of your life. Maybe you shouldn’t have come alone, taken a chaperone or a friend with you, but you were worried, too crunched for time to even entertain the thought as you packed your bags and told your mother you were taking the first train out of town. Your face still stings with the remembrance of the slap she’d given you in her frenzy, calling you something along the lines of a girl too thoughtless to know her role. By no means a heartfelt way to leave her, but your father had said to go, knowing a little more than your mother how much John means to you.

Your bags, brown leather and worn from the days when your father was still youthful enough to travel, lay at your feet as the thin paper ticket folds under your grasp. The chatter from the crowds around you mixing in with shouts of vendors and merchants lining the docks over the squalls of seagulls overhead. It’s all too much when your mind is racing with concern, not too much though to deter you from a gentle tapping on your shoulder.

“I think you dropped this?” Deep voice causing you to turn on your heels and face the perpetrator. When you do, you’re greeted with your passport being held out to you and a dimpled smile to go along with a rather dashing face.

“Oh,” Eyebrows raised as you reach out to gingerly take your own booklet from the other, you hadn’t realized its absence since you had thought it stowed away in the depths of your handbag. “Thank you—?” A pause as you wait for an introduction.

“Jaehyun, or Jeffery, whichever is easiest for you,” he nods and then you offer your name before he speaks again. “It was really no problem,” he continues with a smile as he looks down to the bags at your feet, “Did you just get back or are you going somewhere?”

The innate curiosity of the stranger mildly perplexing, “I’m off to Tokyo.”

“Tokyo,” his tone faltering as his hand drops down to his side after you begin stowing the passport back away in the small purse slung over your shoulder. “What business is taking you there?”

You pause as you think, it isn’t exactly family troubles or business matters that are taking you across the Pacific, stubbornness, and inability to take your friend for everything he said, more like it. “A friend settled there a little while ago,” a nod after a moment of silence, “it seems that he has gotten himself into a little trouble so I am going to make sure everything is alright.” Absentmindedly patting the bag as you can see the other mull it over in his head, “What about you? Are you heading in or out?”

“Out,” The answer is almost immediate, a shift on his feet as he straightens his posture. “I’m heading to Korea; I haven’t seen my family in almost seven years.”

“Seven years?” The most John had been gone was the three years he spent studying abroad; you can’t imagine someone gone from your life for that amount of time. “What were you here for?”

“I was staying with a group of missionaries as I went through college,” Hands in his pockets as he turns to the blue horizon overlooking the ocean you were both meant to traverse, “Now that I’ve graduated there’s nothing keeping me here.”

“What will you do when you’re-” you begin to speak when a loud whistle blares from the port your ship had saddled up to. Growing quiet as you begin to hear the general buzz of the people around you grow as they begin to shuffle towards the bridge that linked the port to the steamship. “I guess it’s time,” Reaching to pick up your bags, the leather against your palm somewhat soothing your nerves, “are you boarding too?”

A shake of his head, “My ship doesn’t leave until the afternoon.”

“Ah,” the sound leaving your lips as the thought of, perhaps, having someone to accompany you on your journey was swiftly diminished. “Well,” A small smile gracing your lips, “It was nice to meet you, Jaehyun.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” smile returning, “Safe travels.”

“And to you,” You nod as you begin to walk towards the front port, looking down to your hand to make sure that your ticket is still in hand.

[1909.05.16. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都] “It’s not kūremashita it’s agemashita.” writing on a chalkboard, the dust from the small white stick clinging to the ends of Yuta’s jacket as he scrawls out the hiragana. “Unless you’re thankful that Doyoung’s parents give him money?” A smattering of laughter echoing the room as he tries to teach the handful of students how to show appreciativeness and the reporting of it to others. “Try one more time.” Doyoung sits back in his chair and looks at a pink-cheeked Jungwoo who leans over his notes in an attempt to reconcile his verbal mistake.

There’s another try from the dark-haired man, it sounds good enough to Doyoung but apparently, the structure of the sentence needs more tweaking, as seen by Yuta giving out a small sigh before walking to Jungwoo’s side. Doyoung takes this time to look around the small, confined classroom. It was in no means shabby, but one could tell this building wasn’t meant to be a school, Doyoung thinks Yuta told him that it had been some sort of distillery prior to the deed falling into his hands.

From eleven in the morning, when the sun slants in through the two glass windows of the classroom just enough to see the dust flying through the air, to noon is when Yuta teaches the native Korean speakers basic Japanese grammar and vocabulary. It’s only a handful of students; Minhyung, whom Doyoung had met on his first day, Jungwoo, who is somewhat timid but roaringly confident at times, Jeno, a kid on some sort of exchange trip who hopes to build up his language skills before his university classes start in the fall, and of course, Doyoung himself. It is an intimate learning experience, perhaps that’s why Doyoung now feels miles more confident in his speaking ability now than he did a month prior. Hell, he could now converse freely, albeit somewhat confined in his topics, to the front desk woman at the hotel he still resided at.

There’s a knock at the classroom door, pulling the attention from the room’s occupants away from their work and now to the dark wooden door that leads out into the small foyer where the next group of students is presumably waiting for their lecture. “The next class doesn’t start until noon,” Yuta looks to the clock placed atop his desk, “You’ve got five minutes.”

The door opens with a small creak, shadows from the entranceway spilling in as Doyoung catches a familiar face standing there to greet the class. “I was actually hoping to sit in?” A voice Doyoung hadn’t heard since his university days accompanied the creak of floorboards underfoot as Youngho strides into the room. “I think my Japanese is a little rusty.”

A small laugh from Yuta as he recognizes his friend, “There’s the jailrat.” Yuta returns to the front of the room to stand in front of the taller, no doubt feeling the confused gazes of the students behind him staring past him and to the stranger. “I’m surprised they let you out that early.”

“You know I’m persuasive,” Smile lingering on his lips as his head turns and he catches sight of Doyoung looking at him quizzically. He is still caught up on the word jailrat and the connotation behind it, when had Youngho been incarcerated?  

“Well,” Yuta turns on his heels to address the class, “Why don’t we end early today?”

Minhyung’s already leaned over his desk to get Jeno’s attention, Doyoung thinks he hears him say something about grabbing lunch at the nearby market, but his interest is far too deterred to be paying full attention to the younger men. The class packs their bags, Doyoung taking the longest time of all as he tucks away his books into his makeshift bag. In all earnest it was a bag he’d borrowed from the reception at the hotel, he’d neglected to bring or buy a suitable bag for school when he left home and arrived in Japan. The worn canvas of the thing almost wearing through at the bottom, he slings it over his shoulder and makes his way towards Youngho and Yuta, who look to be in deep conversation.

Youngho spots Doyoung approaching in his periphery, turning to greet him with a jovial smile. “I see you made it here in one piece?” His eyes looked tired, his face gaunter than the last time he’d seen his elder, but he wasn’t going to question, it was neither the time nor the place.

“Mostly,” Doyoung replies, “Yuta’s been a great teacher.”

“Thanks for the ego boost,” Yuta’s fingers dance on the lapels of his jacket in mock vanity, only then moving into his jacket pocket for a lighter and his infamous pack of Chūyū cigarettes. He offers one to Youngho and then to Doyoung, to which they accept, pulling their own lighters out of their pockets and lighting the butts of the sticks.

“God, these are shit,” a grit through Youngho’s teeth after he pulls in a drag. “They confiscated my Lucky Strike back in Tokyo.” Doyoung’s brow furrows as the other begins to speak again, “Let me know when you’ve got a free night. I’d love to grab dinner and catch up; it’s been a while.”

“I should have time this Saturday?” Doyoung thinks of his schedule, it’s not that he had massive time commitments here, but he was making a point to travel around the city in his free time. “If that works for you, of course.”

“It sounds doable,” A nod as Youngho moves his hand to tap his cigarette against an ashtray atop Yuta’s desk, the wood around the tray stained with the ashes of past smoking ventures. “Are you still staying at that hotel I told you about?”

Doyoung shifts on his feet, “I am, are you staying there too?”

“Yuta has offered me residence in his home until he is sick of me,” Youngho nods to the aforementioned, “I can meet you in the lobby around five then?”

“Sounds good,” Doyoung agrees, looking at the clock hanging on the wall, “I think Jungwoo wanted to go over the homework together so I should go and help him out.” It’s something of an excuse but Doyoung could feel as if there was some sort of pregnant secret looming over the heads of the other two.

“Would you mind sending Sicheng and the others in?” Yuta asks as Doyoung snubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and makes his way to the door.

Metal knob in hand, Doyoung turns and gives him a brief nod, “Of course.”

There’s something that doesn't sit right with Doyoung. Youngho had noted that he’d planned on staying in Hanseong for a while in the letter he’d sent to Doyoung a few weeks ago. It’s not as if plans can’t change or anything of the sort, yet he’d seemed vehement about it, detailing something about a someone he was going to visit before heading home to America. He isn’t one to question where questions aren’t due, if his friend was to stay in Kyoto for the time being, he’d be nothing more than appreciative of having a familiar face around.

[1909.05.18. 今出川ホテル、京都] When Doyoung ascends the staircase, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, he can immediately tell that Youngho sits in one of the large armchairs by the hotel’s unused fireplace in the lobby. Although his face is obscured by the wings, with the way his hand taps in rhythm with the song wafting through the air, the excitedness of the movements are a telling sign that it is his friend. 

A glance to the victrola that lies in the corner of the room, the audio scratchy and soft as it emits a tune that Doyoung does not know. He strides over to the plush chair, glancing down to its occupant before speaking. 

“Good afternoon,” the words escape him and Youngho turns to him with a jump and widened eyes before he realizes who it is. 

“Dongyoung!” Youngho smiles from the armchair, rising to his feet to greet the other with a quick embrace, “Long time no see.”

“Actually I go by Doyoung now,” he nods awkwardly as Youngho steps back from him, his hand rising to scratch the back of his head, “helps me forget myself for a bit.”

“Still having family issues?” Youngho’s brow furrows as they break their embrace, “I thought you wrote that you had sorted that mess out?”

“More or less,” another awkward smile, “But enough about me— I thought you were supposed to be in Hanseong?”

“Change of plans, there was someone I was meant to meet in Tokyo, but they left during the time while I was imprisoned.”

“Yuta mentioned something like that when you first came in, what happened?” Youngho’s holds out his hand, motioning to the door, as Doyoung questions. The latter begins to walk forward, towards the entrance of the hotel as his friend trails behind him, “Were you really taken into custody?”

“They thought I had ties with Homer Hulbert,” A laugh as the two make their way out the front door, trapezing down the steps and onto the sidewalk, “Which is correct, but they had no grounds to imprison me on the idea that I know him alone or had one of his books in my possession.”

“Hulbert— is he the one that—?” 

“The very same,” he nods, “But that is more than contrived at this point, let me know how you are. It sounds like things are the same with your family the last I saw you.”

“If things were okay then I would have stayed home,” A huff of heated breath leaving him in something of a passive laugh. “My father is still trying to set me up with that girl, the past runs deep, I suppose.”

“I cannot agree with you more,” Youngho agrees with a nod, “Have you even met her yet?”

“The last time I saw Seungwon was when I was thirteen, even if I saw her I cannot say I could point her out in a crowd if you asked me to.” Doyoung's hands find purchase in his pocket, hidden away from the sunlight that falls onto his head and burns the back of his neck as Youngho and he walk further down the street, through the masses of people.

The older nods solemnly, almost as if he understands the situation, "I have a friend who's nearly in a similar situation as you. Although her parents haven't found her a match or approved of anyone she's liked, I'd say her feelings mirror your own."

"Is that right?" Doyoung questions rhetorically as Youngho digs through his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes, "Is that the girl who you spoke so much about during our classes together?"

Youngho sputters, his hands failing to ignite his lighter at Doyoung's words, a cigarette dangling from his lips, "Did I really talk about her that much?"

"So much so I feel like I know her," Doyoung smiles and shakes his head, a familiar pang hitting his stomach once he looks back to the street before them. "Do you want to grab something to eat? I don't think I've eaten since lunchtime yesterday."

"Too busy studying?"

"Something like that..." In actuality, he'd received yet another telegram, this time from his mother, scolding him for staying away again.

"You always were more studious than me," the other nods and looks to a small restaurant they begin to pass on their left before stopping in his tracks, "What about this place?"

"Soba?" The intensity of the sun once again baring down above him as he looks to the sign on the door, he nods quickly, "Sounds great."

The pair make their way inside, settling down at a small table in the back corner of the shop as they wait for their food to arrive. Doyoung moves his hand to unbutton a few fastens from the front of his jacket to allow some of the shop's cooler air to hit him. His hands then move to rest atop the table, his long and slender fingers tapping as Youngho smokes the last of his cigarette, snubbing it out on the ashtray settled at the end of the table.

"How's your family doing? Is your father's business going well? I saw a few copies when I was in Hanseong.” Lackadaisical in question, Doyoung can hear something edging behind his friend’s tone that tinges upon suspicion. 

“It’s going well,” a silent nod as a server comes to their table, the two order quickly, leaving little room for questions before Doyoung asks, “What about your family?”

“Willfully ignorant as ever,” Youngho frowns, shifting in his seat. It looks as if bitter words reside on his tongue but he swallows them down with a redemption of a smile. 

“About what?” Doyoung pauses as he reaches for the pot of tea the server had brought on her arrival, his hand hovering over the handle. 

“Everything.” Youngho’s shoulders shrug as Doyoung eventually pours himself and his friend a cup of tea. “Korean politics, American politics, hell- even the politics of their own inner circle. I refuse to believe they aren’t intelligent, they refuse to accept anything that isn’t affecting them personally.” 

“I see…” He winds off his acknowledgement with the abating of his words, woefully aware that his parents are of the same mindset. His own father being the worst of all of them, claiming that any interaction or deals with unsavory business men were for the benefit of the family, not to the detriment. 

“My father’s own brother died in ‘07 and he seemed unfazed by it at all,” Youngho huffs out, “At the hands of the Imperial Army, and yet, still, he said nothing.” 

Doyoung’s eyes widen and he raises a finger to his lips as if to tell the older to lower his voice, unknowing if anyone within the shop understands Korean. “Even if he did, there would be nothing your father could have done about it. Not only is he in America, he holds no authority in Joseon.” 

“No one wanting to do a damn holds any authority in Joseon anymore, you know better than me what the yangban have gone through, what everyone’s gone through.” Youngho leans in closer to Doyoung, ceding as he lowers his tone, “It may be easier said than done but I believe we have the ability to change that.” 

“How would-” Doyoung begins but is interrupted when the server comes back with their food, carefully setting each dish atop the table before retreating back into the depths of the kitchen. “How could ‘we’ possibly do that?” 

“There are ways, I know there are. I just need time to think of a proper solution,” Youngho nods as he reaches for his chopsticks, eager to sate his own hunger that had risen during their conversation. “If you’re interested I’ll tell you more when I have an idea.”

[1909.05.27. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都] Doyoung’s mind doesn't return to that conversation with Youngho until a Wednesday afternoon about a week later. The sun begins to sink down in the sky as Youngho, Minhyung and himself were cleaning off some blackboard tablets in the main room of the school. Yuta was busy teaching a class and Doyoung’s fingers were pruned from what felt like endless scrubbing with a rag and vinegar ridden water.

“You know,” Youngho speaks up after what feels like an eternity of silence, brushing his hands on his pants after setting down a board onto the floor below. “I think we can really change something here.” His shoes quickly tapping on the floor in some sort of anxious apprehension, “Yuta and I have been talking and the resistance effort in Korea seems to be strengthening again.”

“What are you implying?” Doyoung asks, confused at the sudden statement. His brow wet with perspiration, even having the windows cracked open doesn't allow for much wind to travel throughout the building.

“I am saying that we can try and do something to change the… trouble happening back home,” Youngho shows no anger but a passion resides in his voice that remains hard to mask. “Do something before something more is done to us.”

“That is…” Minhyung begins, looking up to Youngho from his task of drying off the boards.

“Idealistic?” Doyoung interjects, biting his lower lip before continuing, “Youngho you do realize if someone hears you talking about that you’ll get thrown in prison again?”

Eyes trailing around the space as if he hadn’t already known they were alone, “Every one of us are sitting ducks. You know that,” a point to Minhyung and then a point to Doyoung, “and you know that. Is fighting back against that such a bad thing?”

“How do you propose we do that? Drop everything now, hop on a ship back to Korea and just roam the countryside looking for this supposed group?” Blood rushing to his ears as it sounds like waves crashing on a beach’s shore. 

“Not at all,” A shake of his head. “There are ways of resisting that do not rely on fighting, think peaceful, diplomatic.”

A nervous laugh escapes Doyoung, it’s involuntary but he can’t help it. “Suh Youngho I knew you were insane, but this is another level.”

“I— uh— I’m going to get some chalk refills from the storage room,” Minhyung excuses himself from the conversation, a glance at him as he walks away tells Doyoung that he doesn’t know how to interact with the situation and was looking for an easy escape.

“Doyoung if you would just listen to me and get that stupid doubt out of your head you might just be able to make some sense of it all.” A sigh from Youngho as he stands, reaching into his jacket to rummage around for a pack of cigarettes. “Can I bum one off of you?”

Cheek bitten as he grabs his pack out of his pocket and tosses it to the other, “Do you have any idea what they would do to my family if they knew we were having this conversation? Your family and Minhyung’s are across the world and have no worries about what they say or do. The other student’s and mine are not privileged with that.” Cigarette carton tossed back, the sound of a lighter igniting and the smell of smoke pervading through the air as he tucks the pack away into his pocket.

Youngho thinks, an exhalation of smoke through troubled lungs as his outward breath intermingles with the dust thick in the air. It dissipates without a sound, quietly invading the space as Doyoung is overcome with a sense of trepidation from the other, he picks his words meticulously, trying to string them together as carefully as possible, “This is not just about you or me or my family or yours. It is the fate of a nation on the line, is that so hard to understand?”

It causes the younger pause for a moment, his hand falling to his pocket, hovering there before he pulls on the fabric as if he’d meant to straighten the coat all along. His throat clears, thinking of his parents and brother he’d left behind in Guri, what any actions that Youngho’s ideals cause may entail for them. Even if he was trying to get away from his obligations back home, he’d never want to intentionally put them in any sort of danger. 

Doyoung opens his mouth to speak, before catching a bright glimpse of color passing by one of the front windows, followed by the school door opening with a large slam against the wall. Silhouette standing in the setting sun for a moment, not looking at all familiar to Doyoung. An equally confusing circumstance when the words, “John Suh,” spill from your lips.  It’s a confounded expression that crosses your face, standing in the front door of the school as the taller leans leisurely back against one of the walls. 

Cigarette in hand, Youngho turns at the call of his name, nearly falling over in surprise to see you standing there. No, not surprise- bewilderment, shock or some form of abject horror as you take a few long strides to stand in front of him. It’s as if a child’s been caught by his mother and Doyoung is playing witness to it all.

Doyoung watches the scene in a state likened to childlike curiosity, he understands not one word that falls from either of your or Youngho’s lips, but he can tell you’re angry and him beyond apologetic. Hand movements gesticulating, he catches the words ‘Seoul’ and ‘Tokyo’ at some point as you huff something out under your breath. Voices raising, Doyoung’s surprised Yuta hasn’t come out to tell them to be quiet, but if he were in Yuta’s shoes he wouldn’t as you sounded royally pissed. When you turn on your heels Doyoung looks to Youngho for some sort of explanation, but his gaze is solely locked on you leaving.

“Shouldn’t you chase after her?” Minhyung asks, the two others not realizing he had returned, box of chalk in hand as the three men watch you storm out into the crowded streets.

“She needs to calm down before I talk to her again or she might really kill me.” Youngho sighs, bringing the cigarette to his lips before taking in a long drag. A hand runs through his hair as it looks as if all of the blood had drained from his face upon your arrival.

“Is that the friend you mentioned a while ago? You showed us a picture I think.” Doyoung questions, somewhat relieved at your intrusion into their previous conversation.

“It is,” the answer not coming from Youngho, but from Minhyung. “And by the sound of it she’s ready to pack you into her suitcase and take you on the next boat home.” Head nodding as he looks to the space you once occupied, “You really didn’t tell her you were coming here?”

“You understood that?” Smoke leaving him he turns to the younger, “You didn’t tell me you speak English.”

“It never really came up.” Shoulders shrugging as he sets the box of chalk he’d been fiddling with down onto a nearby chair. “And I am from Canada, after all.”

“Son of a bitch, Yuta told me you were from Hanseong.” Youngho muses, tossing the cigarette from his hand and smothering it with his shoe. “But yeah, that’s her. I may have neglected to mention that but I was a little held up,” he looks confused as he pushes himself off the wall and makes his way to the door, peering out in the street. “I just don’t know how in the hell she found me.”

“She probably used the wrath of God to do it,” Minhyung suggests, “That’s how my mom says she knows everything I’ve ever done wrong.”

“Wouldn’t put it past her,” A shake of his head as Youngho turns to Doyoung. “She said she’s staying at the hotel you’re in. Would you mind meeting up with me tomorrow morning in the lobby to talk some sense into her and get her to go back home?”

“I don’t even know her though?” Hands dried on a nearby towel, Doyoung stands and reaches for the bucket of now dirty water. He walks past Youngho and into the street to dump its contents out, “I don’t even speak that much English.” 

“It’s more of moral support than anything,” Youngho steps aside to let Doyoung back in, “I wasn’t joking: she might actually kill me if she gets the chance.”

“Fine,” Doyoung sighs, walking to pick up his bag from the corner of the room. His hands smell of vinegar and he rubs his still pruned fingertips together as he thinks of what the next morning would hold. “You owe me, though.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Youngho breathes a sigh of relief as Doyoung makes his way to the front door once again, this time with the intent of leaving. “Nine work for you?”

“Nine works for me.” A nod as he walks down the two steps and onto the dirt road below, the indentations from your shoes leading off down the almost empty road. He glances back to Youngho with a, “See you tomorrow,” and then to Minhyung with a question of “Do we have a quiz on Friday?” before waving it off and beginning his trek back home.

The night descends on Kyoto quietly and without noise, the stores closing long after the sun has fallen behind the western mountains in Arashiyama, lanterns aligning the street as Doyoung shuffles his way to the hotel. It’s quiet, the city typically is at this time of night, he’s learned over the course of his stay in the ancient former capital.

Before he goes inside, he stands outside of the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat as he stares up at the night sky blooming with stars. His bag lays at his feet, more worn now than it had been on the first day of class. Crumpled in his fists, buried away into the depths of his coat lies a letter, the ink that had adorned it far too smudged and water damaged to read now. Doyoung hadn’t meant to ‘accidentally’ drop it into a puddle when it had arrived that morning, so the contents lie unknown. However, on the corner of the envelope, a blurred name, ‘Seungwon’ stays virtually untouched as if to remind him of former obligations. 

It’s as if there’s a clock ticking in his chest, counting down to a day, a time, when he’s meant to take up the holstered responsibility of his family and place it onto his own shoulders. A burden not yet ready to bear, he sighs out into the balmy night and makes his way inside of the hotel. 

[1909.05.27. 今出川、京都] Doyoung wakes to the knocking on his door, his head burrowing into the tangled blankets and pillows from a restless night’s sleep. It takes a moment for him to find himself, writhing around the sheets before pulling himself out of his own stupor. Feet hitting the floor with a dull thud, he drags his lethargic body to the small bathroom, running his hands under the cool water of the faucet before splashing some onto his face to wake himself further. He meets his own gaze in the reflection, tired eyes and the slightest shadow of stubble beginning to darken on his jaw and upper lip. He’d have to visit the barber at some point in the coming days before he becomes totally unkempt.

He dresses himself in casual attire, a white linen button up, the most breathable thing he’d wear today, before he dons the dark blue of his three piece suit, a light gray and black one still residing in his wardrobe. He notices the threadings are nearly worn as he buttons the bottom half of his jacket, the things threatening to fall off should he exert too much force. The soles of his shoes too lie in disarray, wearing thin from endless wandering the streets of Kyoto after his classes have finished. It’s not that he’s searching for anything in particular, maybe a solution to his current situation. But he can’t find that at a merchant’s stall.

The route to the dining hall located on the first floor is a path easily tread, remembered in his first few days of arriving in Kyoto. The carpeted floors giving way to a wooden expanse the further he delves into the hotel, the scents of varying breakfast foods calling out to his aching stomach. 

His hands keep busy with the morning paper, perhaps yesterday’s or the day prior to that one. It takes a while for the Korean post to arrive in Kyoto, the postage system seems to take years for important things to arrive, yet the letters from home seem to be weekly. A sigh as he sets down the news, reaching out for the carafe of coffee situated some ways away from where he’s seated. He begins to pour himself a cup of coffee, only pausing when he catches something out the corner of his eye. 

A few darkened drips from the coffee pot settle into the white linen of the dining room tablecloth as he spots you stalking towards him. His eyes go wide and his breath hitches when your gaze narrows on him, almost causing him to choke on coffee he’d just brought to his lips.

The way you saunter over to his table reminds him of his mother when she’d be out to scold either him or his brother. Doyoung doesn’t know you but can easily tell that you’re not a force to be reckoned with. 

“Where’s John?” You ask, standing before him, arms crossing over your chest as you look down at him expectantly. “You were one of the men with him yesterday, right?”

“What?” Doyoung asks, trying to make some sense of what you were saying. When he was a young boy, his parents had allowed him to take English lessons with a handful of the Christian missionaries that had drifted through Guri, but seeing as he understands nothing of what you just said, it’s obvious he hadn’t retained much, if any, of his vocabulary. “What are you looking for?” He sees no glimmer of understanding in your eyes as your brow furrows, probably trying to decipher what he’d just said. “Youngho? Are you looking for Youngho?” It’s the common connection the two of you seem to have, it’s his best bet on trying to figure out what you want. 

You nod at the name, recalling that his mother shouts that at him whenever he’s angry. “Where is he?” If you’d taken up John on any of his invitational Korean lessons, you may have had much better luck in this situation. But you’d gone off to learn French because you were enamored with one of your classmates at the time, you could almost hit yourself seeing where it’s gotten you. 

“Whe-” Doyoung pauses, lips pursing together as he thinks of the word. Youngho was meant to be in the lobby when she came downstairs, but it’s now clear he’s nowhere to be found. 

 “School.” It’s one of the words he can pull from memory. “He’s probably at the school,” he says again and gestures in the general direction of Yuta’s academy. 

“The school- Imadegawa Gaikokujin Nihongo Gakko?” You’ve said the name of the institute hundreds of times to yourself that you think it’s the only Japanese you know. Not that you fully understand what it means, just knowing that it’s the name of the place. 

Doyoung nods, somewhat surprised that you know the name. 

“Can you take me?” The question falls out quickly and you see he’s confused, so you repeat it again slowly in hopes that he comprehends it. It seems that he does, reaching for his coffee and finishing the cup before rising to his feet, motioning for you to follow him as he heads towards the exit.

The walk to the school is painfully awkward, drenched in a silence that neither of you want to address. Both of you are not confident enough in the other’s mother tongue to make small talk as the two of you begin to walk the streets. 

“Hey!” Doyoung hears Minhyung call out as the schoolhouse nears, “Took you long enough, you’re almost late.” When the younger sees that you’re accompanying him he gives you a small wave, “You’re Youngho’s friend, right?” 

“I am,” You say after a moment, not having expected to hear English today. But with the company that John keeps, you can’t be too surprised at anything now. “Do you know where he is?”

“No, he’s not here yet,” he shakes his head and turns to Doyoung, “Didn’t Youngho say that you’d meet him at the hotel?”

“He did,” Doyoung’s lips curve into a frown as the three of you make your way into the school. “She’s been interrogating me about him, I think. Although I can barely understand what she’s saying.”

Minhyung laughs at the older and then turns back to you, “My name’s Minhyung, but you can call me Mark if that’s easier for you.” His demeanor has a lightness to it that descends onto you as something of a godsend. It’s an ease that you’d probably find with John if he were here and you aren't still angry at him. 

“It’s nice to meet you Minhyung,” you offer him a smile before your eyes go wide and you turn to your partner, “I uhm, I never asked him what his name is.”

“Doyoung,” Minhyung answers, another chortle leaving him and the elder looks confused as to why his name’s just been called out. “What’s your name?”

You respond quickly, glancing over your shoulder to see if John is on his way in, to your misfortune, he isn’t. Minhyung quickly introduces you to Doyoung, probably so he has a gist of who you are. It’s hard to tell if John’s said anything about you to these men, but it doesn’t look as if he’s said much.

“We’ve got class soon,” Minhyung’s voice pulls you from your search and you turn back to him, “I’m sure Yuta would let you sit in on the class if you wanted to, although I’m not too sure that you’ll understand much, I don’t even get all of it.”

“It’s alright,” you shake your head at him, “I’ll just wait out here for Joh- Youngho.”

The man in question strolls into the school around thirty minutes later, the local paper tucked under his arm as his brow raises in surprise to see you, “I thought I said I’d meet you at the hotel.”

“I got impatient,” a frown as your gaze flickers over to him. “Jail John? Jail?” You fume, storming over to the taller, “Do you have any idea how worried I was, how worried your mother was? God- If you don’t write to her today and tell her that you’re okay, I'm stuffing you in my suitcase and taking you back with me.”

He laughs heartily, despite you glaring him down, “I wrote to her as soon as I got out. I wrote to you, too, but it doesn’t seem like you got the message.” A few more chuckles escape him as he holds his arms out, “I missed you.”

You sigh, falling into his embrace, “I missed you too.” After a moment you pull away, stepping back from him, “I’m glad to see that you’re okay, but if you ever do something like this again-”

“I’ve missed your hollow threats,” John smiles and glances around the school’s empty halls, “Do you want to get out of here for a while? I know a good cafe nearby.” 

“Don’t you have class?” You question with a tilt of your head, the gentle murmurs from the classroom some ways away drifting out into the hall. “Minhyung said that Doyoung was already late, I wouldn’t want to stop you from your lesson.”

“I’m not a student,” John shakes his head, “I’m just… in town for a while and Yuta’s putting up with me for a bit.” He flashes you a grin before you have a chance to ask him exactly what he means by that, “Now come on before they run out.”

The two of you walk out into the dense heat of August, passing by a group of students as you do so. John recognizes some of them whereas you don’t, him saying something to them that elicits a laugh or two before you’re both back on your way to the city center. 

“Why were you arrested?” You can’t stop yourself from asking the question as you turn onto the main road from the alley in which the school is situated. There are only a handful of people perusing the streets, but none look interested in what you’d just said. “It wasn’t serious, right?”

“Of course not,” he reassures you and looks to a few buildings ahead, “We’re almost there.” John walks in silence for a moment, his fingers rubbing against his palm as he looks back to you, “I lost my passport, can you believe it?” You recall when you were leaving San Francisco and you had lost your own passport, if it hadn’t been for the man that found it for you, you’re not sure where you’d be.

“Well, actually, I didn’t lose it, it fell between the pages of one of the books that I bought, which reminds me- I have a few for you, I wrote you about them, just remember to tell me to give them to you,” John says quickly as you approach the building he’d been eyeing earlier, walking into the opened door confidently and heading to the nearest open table. 

You can tell he’s lying. You’ve only known him since you were children and he’s the closest person to you, you know almost every little quirk about him. And one of the first things you’d learned was that he talks quickly when he’s not being truthful. Yet, you don’t question him on it, seeing as you’d just calmed the tension between you, you don’t want to ignite it for the second time today. So, you just nod and follow him inside.

More oft than not, you hide your feelings behind a veneer of snark, of a bite that seems to sting but never lasts. It’s a sham way to hold yourself together, for if you let the dread of reality seep into your veins any longer than you allow it, you may just become the person you’re trying to hide. A vulnerable being who longs for the company of others but finds errant ways to keep them close instead of just outright saying it. 

John offers out a seat to you and you sit, hands folding neatly atop the tabletop as you look to the menu scrawled onto a chalkboard near the cafe’s counter. You’re not sure why you do, the mix of Japanese alphabets is still foreign to you.

“I’ll go grab something, just wait here,” he says, noticing your confusion, still standing before he turns on his heels and strides over to the counter. You turn away before he begins to speak to the barista, looking out of the glass window at the front of the shop, 

“How long were you planning on staying in Japan?” John’s voice stirs you some time later, the gentle sound of two cups being placed on the table making you turn in his direction as he sits down across from you. 

“As long as it took me to find you.” You smile at him, reaching out for the small cup, “I guess that means I can pack my bags and leave now.” The smile placated on your lips is joking, but you hold a sincerity in your gaze as if to ask him if that’s what you should do next. He was the entire reason you were here, to find him, to make sure that he was okay and to bring him home if you could. 

John’s finger traces the rim of his own coffee cup, gently lifting after a moment to tap along the surface of the tabletop. He hums, low and obstinate, as if to ponder the significance of you being here. 

“I guess you could,” a slow nod of his head, “You know, you were never obligated to chase me half-way across the world to try and get me back home. I’ve been detained before-”

“You have?” eyes widening as you look from your coffee to meet his eyes, “You’ve never mentioned that.”

“I’ve been detained before but,” he continues, gaze hardening at you as you interrupt him, “I really thought I had lost my papers so I sent my mom a letter saying I may need my official documents back home to get me out of the mess I found myself in. This was a little more serious than the others.”

“What happened the other times?”

“Well, in London they stopped me for taking too much tea out of the country, I guess they thought I’d run them dry of it,” a teasing smile twinges on the corners of his lips, “and in Cairo, I tried to sneak off with a few things from Cleopatra’s tomb.”

“You know,” you lean back in your chair, a snide frown on your lips, “lying less might help you out in the future.”

John laughs, reaching into his jacket pocket to procure his pack of smokes, it isn’t until he’s got a lit cigarette dangling from his lips that he speaks again, “Where’s the fun in that?”

He suddenly gasps, the smoke he’d been inhaling filtering into his lungs and causing him to sputter for a moment. You reach for and hand him his cup of coffee  so he doesn’t choke on himself. After a moment of hitting his chest and extinguishing his cigarette into the ashtray on the corner of the table, he speaks up, “You didn’t use your grandmother’s money to get you here, did you?”

“Well, technically it isn’t hers anymore,” a guilty exhalation of a chuckle, “but yes, I did.”

“Oh,” He’s crestfallen in the most faux of ways, “You said you’d take me to Italy with that.” It’s a joke, but you can see his concern wavering behind the sincerity of his words. 

Your hand falls to run over the textured brocades of your dress, a wavering smile delicately tugging at the corners of your lips, “I was just worried about you.”

“And I appreciate that, I really do,” brow softening as he reaches for his coffee, voice still a bit hoarse from his earlier choking. “But you don’t need to throw everything you have away for me, I know the trip probably wasn’t cheap.” 

John’s not wrong. It had taken quite a large portion from your deceased grandmother’s account to get you here, and the subsequent stay in the country. 

“I had to make sure you were okay,” you shrug your shoulders with a coy smile, reaching out to pick up your teacup and bring it to your lips. It’s then you realize something, setting the cup back down and looking around the shop, eyes wide.

“What is it?” John questions, noticing your shift in demeanor. 

“I haven’t ever been abroad before, I thought maybe I’d travel to Paris or London, Milan, even… Never…” A small hum as you turn to look back at him, “Never to Kyoto.”

“I’d have loved for you to see Seoul,” John smiles softly, his fingers tapping along the sides of the cup, “It’s beautiful this time of year.”

“You make it sound as if it’s impossible to go,” a tilt of your head. John had told you stories from his time studying abroad, of the antics he and his friends would get up to and of the history he’d learned. 

“It would be a little difficult to go back right now,” the smile lingering on his lips looks sad now, almost wistful in a way, “I’m sure we could go in the future if you want to.”  

“I’d love to,” you nod, glancing out of the window once more to watch the passersby walk up and down the crowded street.

[fragileizywriting]

friends (part two)

AO3 | Start Here | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

This… this is not fun.

He wants to be in bed with Marinette.

He wants to be under the thick covers on a cold and freezing morning and curl into her warmth and never leave. Is it the cat part of him, or the demon part of him that means this? After all, demons don’t like the cold— it burns through the hellfire that covers their soul and makes them all almost insufferable. His dad, too, is inconvenienced by any amount of freeze— he doesn’t get snippy but he’s seen the way that frown has transformed his father’s face into a disgruntled god.

But cats are no different, either— making it a habit to curl up in the warmest place and hide until it’s warm enough to move. Winters are hard for Chat when he’s not in hell, and Marinette always teases him for him retracting into his cat form almost for days at a time, trying to use his fur to keep the frost from seeping into his body. The cold and Chat Noir do not do so good.

Whatever it is that makes him hate this, he listens to it, souring his mood by thinking of all the things he’s missing without Marinette near.

Why hadn’t they just invited Marinette along? It’s not like she doesn’t ever come with them sometimes. She enjoys the experience of being on Luka’s boat, even if it is to collect ingredients on her own, and Chat Noir has always very much enjoyed her company. If Luka’s feeling up to it, which he often is, he goes collecting for her. Marinette’s list is never that long, given that she stocks up on everything she can get her hands on, but sometimes she’s in need of more.

Algae, rocks, a specific crystal that regrows every two weeks or so. Snails, any bottom-feeders that Luka can lure and trap for her, and definitely whatever type of ocean or lake plant she’s looking for. Every time Luka resurfaces with a new item, Marinette is so quick to smile and so quick to thank him, turning and spinning around on the deck to show Chat the new item before she puts it in a jar for storage.

But without her, this whole fishing moment is just… exhausting.

Truly, of all things he’s done in the past week and a half— this takes the cake as both the most mundane and the most unnecessary thing to do.

He’s built fence posts, he’s seen his mother and almost passed out from dehydration— he’s seen his father and gotten his whole world tilted onto its side and backwards— not to mention the bite marks and suture in his skin. He’s kissed Marinette— done more than just that, actually— and finds himself rubbing at the tattoo on his chest the more and more he thinks about being away from her. The seal burns purple against his hand, reminding him that he’s far from his witch’s magic, and that his entire body and soul misses her.

Today’s fishing is just too much.

Luka agrees with him— he knows it— because the naga’s eyes are closed as the sun beats down on their shoulders, warming their skin and bodies to the point of laziness. Chat can barely keep his eyes open, looking out to the lake, his eyelids getting heavier and heavier as the sun continues to bake them alive.

Just their luck. The two people who struggle the most to focus when there’s a patch of sun are now subjugated to an entire afternoon of it— what he wouldn’t give to just transform into his cat form and lounge for the rest of the day, yearning to be in his witch’s lap as she pets through his fur.

“Why is it so sunny?” Chat complains into the silence, trying not to close his eyes for too long. This is perfect napping weather— all he has to do is just rest his head and… “Of all days for it to be ridiculously sunny.”

“It’s good for the festival,” Luka answers, looking just as out of it as he is. It’s laughable, of course, that a water creature such as Luka would absolutely go frozen stiff at the prospect of baking under the sun. Even though he’s not a snake— or at least, that’s what Luka always argues whenever he brings it up— he certainly acts like one. He looks ready to lay down and coil up, let his blood be warmed up by the sun, and stay that way for days.

“What’s going on with the weather this week?” He sniffs, not exactly stopping himself from laying back down on the deck of Luka’s boat. The Liberty doesn’t even budge under their weight— she’s a solid, heavy barge that is more long than tall— it offers barely any protection from the elements coming from the sky. It’s a floating platform, essentially, which is perfect for nagas who frequently spend most of their time in the water and have a tough time climbing up the sides of their boats from how slippery they are— and the boat is also long enough to house a superfluous amount of nagas, as well as their long tails comfortably, should they feel the need to curl up instead of letting their tails hang off the boat.

And it fits the fish as well.

Lots and lots of barrels of fish.

“The constellations are starting to move.” Luka answers, almost sounding a bit too serious. The tip of Luka’s tail sways in the water with the gentle current that is too soft to genuinely make a dent in the barge’s lazy course to the middle of the lake. His plumes open instinctually wherever his tail meets the water— a sway of fins that only come out when there is enough moisture. He is more sea serpent this way, than an actual snake— and his tail glitters with sparks of gold underneath the clear water. Fish swim by next to him, curious as to whose fins are swaying like a tree in a breeze, and Chat Noir admits— even if it’s to himself and safely away in his head— that he understands why nagas consider themselves sea serpents instead of just snakes. “There’s a celestial storm coming. Did you not know?”

“This sounds like a horoscope,” Chat doesn’t let the idea settle into his head. “Celestial storm? Don’t pull at my tail, Luka. You won’t believe that my parents are gods, but you’ll believe in celestial storms?”

He snorts. “No one believes you when you say your parents are two divinities.”

“At least it’s more believable than hearing you talk about how a ‘ tornado will come from Orion—’ or ‘ an earthquake has been predicted because of Antares—’”

Luka smiles good-humouredly. “Idiot, nothing of that sort. Naga use constellations to guide themselves across the sea, you pruned lion.”

“‘Pruned lion’,” Chat mutters, resting his clawed hands against his chest. Rubbing and rubbing and rubbing away at the seal. “I’ll show you a ‘pruned lion’.”

“There’s not much paper we can use on the sea. Clay is a good substitute, but they’re too heavy when using as maps, so we navigate by using stars. We can tell when stars aren’t in their place,” Luka continues, as if he’s barely heard him. “And they are most definitely not in their places. Just last night, eight northern constellations moved closer south.”

Chat’s feet dangle off the edge of the platform that makes the Liberty, and his toes sink into the water. It’s lukewarm, heated by the sun that beats down and down and down, but much easier and cooler than the damp and still air above.

He has half a mind to dunk himself body and whole into the water just to cool off, but knows that his hair will dry in the shape of a dandelion if he does that, so it’s a stern no. There’s no way in hell he’s going to worry about how his hair dries while trying to fish with a naga by his side. Besides, getting ready for the festival will take him a lot longer if he has to tame his hair— he doesn’t mind getting brushed by Marinette when she corners him, but his fur usually snags into knots and it’s painful. “Fine, fine. I believe you— you don’t need to get all technical on me. I’ve just never heard of a celestial storm before.”

“Probably not, since you don’t need to use stars to see like we do. The celestial storm just brings indication that there will be a large magical gathering soon— it’s nothing inherently serious.”

Interesting. “You mean like the festival?”

“Exactly. It’s something to be cautious of, that’s all— it just ends up confusing lots of naga who are trying to travel somewhere new for the first time. There might be a lot more naga at the festival than usual, since the stars are pointing in this direction.”

“That’s not too bad— no one has anything against your kind, anyway. Witches and magic-users from all places are coming here to see the infamous Ladybug, after all— they want to get her good wishes on behalf of my mother— so it’s not like a big deal to see more of you.”

There’s laughter in his voice. “‘The one who can cast good fortune on even the sick and the dying’, yes, I know. But unfortunately, no— the magical gathering isn’t the reason for the stars warping. It’s something bigger than that. Bigger than her. Constellations only move when sages or gods show up.”

Well. Well well well. He doesn’t really need to think about it, now does he?

“How long have they been moving?”

“They only started four days ago.”

“Have they shifted back?”

“No.” Chat doesn’t need to look at him to know that there’s a question forming on his face. He knows Luka too well by now. “Your questions are oddly specific for someone that never heard of this storm before.”

“Well, good to hear. You don’t need to worry about all that— but thank you for the confirmation.” He spreads his good arm out as far as he can reach it. He ends up hitting Luka in the chest, and the naga hisses out, startled— but other than that, they match each other by slowly cooking in the heat. Luka’s heartbeat is slow against his palm, and Chat has no real reason to pull away, so he just leaves it there on his jacket. “Everything will go back to what it once was after the festival.”

“I thought you said you didn’t believe in horoscopes. Why are you fortune-telling?”

“Because my dad isn’t going to set the festival on fire just because he’s up here.” Maybe. There’s a strong likelihood he won’t, given that he’s already caused too much mischief.

“Right, right. Your ‘father’. You think Plagg is here?”

“The stars said so, didn’t they?” He flashes a smile, even though they’re not making eye contact. It’s instinctual to try to get a rise out of the man sitting next to him. “Relax. I won’t let him set fire to things— Marinette’s been making all of those charms for the past three months, it won’t go to waste.”

“Remind me to get a handful of them, since I’m going to be spending most of it next to you,” The driest thing in the world is hearing Luka’s voice go flat. “The last thing I need is to catch fire from your terrible luck.”

“Wh— rude. I don’t have bad luck, that’s just a myth— but I’ll gladly walk underneath a ladder for you in order to give you what you deserve. Anyway, I thought you were going to find yourself someone new to fancy? What was the whole point of the molting?”

“The two people that I actually cared to court are currently taken. I’m not disappointed, but I’m rather bored of humans otherwise.” Luka’s breath deepens as if he’s falling asleep at the idea of spending that much energy finding someone else. “If someone were to approach, I’ll at least give them the benefit of listening, but you won’t find me looking for new people.”

“You’d make a good familiar to whatever witch shows up to you tonight,” Chat oof!s hard when Luka’s hand does the exact same and hits him on the chest. He snorts on instinct, thinking a second or two longer on the idea. “Do you have an animal form like I do?”

“I’d rather not tell you, just in case you get ideas. But I would hope that she would like me for more than just a pet, unlike Marinette.”

He ignores his comment. “Most magic users can create some sort of animal form for themselves, no? Humans can’t, but I’m sure a naga could. Are you sure you don’t have a snake form?”

“I’m still not telling you the answer.”

“I’m imagining a faceless witch wearing you like a scarf as she brews,” For some reason, he imagines a white snake wrapped around a neck, even though Luka’s tail is very much blue. “You’d be happy getting to laze around while your lady works.”

“I should give it a try with Marinette one day. You wouldn’t mind sharing, would you, kitty-cat? After all, she doesn’t mind sharing you with me.”

“Funny.” He tries his best not to laugh, but he’s weak to the comedy of this whole day. It’s beyond painful to keep the laughter in, of how this day has been just another bizarre domino in the whole scheme of the week.

“It’s good to hear you laugh,” Luka sighs. “I was beginning to worry you actually hated me. Ever since this morning you’ve been snippier to me than usual— you’re not actually worried I pose a threat of some kind, do you?”

Wait. “Are you insecure?”

“You two are my closest friends.” Luka doesn’t meet his eyes when Chat lifts up from his spot to look down at him with furrowed brows. “After Adrien passed, I didn’t have many people, you know.”

Wait. “Hold on, you knew Adrien that well?”

“I didn’t know you knew who that was.” Luka raises a brow.

“Marinette talks about him.” Never mind the other things…

“He was my first friend when I was very young.” He shrugs, still giving Chat the stink eye like he doesn’t actually believe him. “Naga aren’t as scary as people think, but humans are prejudiced to their own kind all of the time, so it’s not hard to believe that they won’t be to nonhumans too. Adrien brought me into the friend group before he got sick.”

Adrien, Adrien, Adrien. Always Adrien, isn’t it? “Was he the closest friend you had?”

“Probably. Nino and I were always really good friends, back in the day. But Marinette and I got rather close after Adrien’s passing. I would see her almost every day if I decided to stay nearby.”

Oh. Oh. “No wonder you were so uncomfortable with the idea of her moving a demon into her house.”

His eyes go flat. “A girl I liked suddenly bringing a demon home? Anyone would’ve been worried.”

Chat can’t force himself to stop chuckling. “I guess I can see why you were… not the nicest person to me at first.”

“She’s never been afraid of you, but I think that just made me even more worried.” Luka gestures towards Chat’s direction, as if that helps explain better. “It doesn’t take much brainpower to realize what a Ladybug needs a Chat Noir for. Forgive me for not buying the little nonchalant act between the two of you, but I can read the little pearl like the back of my hand, after all.”

“So you know about the miraculous cure.”

“Yes. Anyone with reading eyes can put two and two together, kitty-cat. Information isn’t kept that hushed about it.”

He ignores the needling smile gracing Luka’s features. “How well exactly did you know Adrien?”

“Well enough to know that his sickness was strange. His death was stranger. The smell on Marinette’s clothes was horrid, when she’d ran into me in the woods while stricken with grief and crying. We were all terrified by it, obviously, but Marinette seemed to be the most affected— probably because she was the one to try to see him the day he died. Nino, Marinette, and I were the most affected.” He sighs. “I don’t think Nino’s ever actually talked about it that much, but they were best friends.”

“Smell.” Chat winces. “What smell?”

“Same smell that’s coming off your stitches on your arm. I recognize the smell of hellfire anywhere, it sticks to my nose for weeks. I’ll never forget the first time I smelled it sticking to Marinette’s clothes.” Luka laughs bitterly. “Running down the path in the woods towards the ocean like she was crazed. Death clinging to her dress like she was his daughter.”

“Hellfire. You smelled hellfire? Are you sure?”

Luka’s looking at him curiously, now. “I’m positive. What’s on your mind?”

Adrien’s room had been covered with the smell of… hellfire? That’s just further proof that something definitely happened— one more thing pointing to his own relation to Adrien. One more damning evidence that his past life could be tied to Marinette’s wish. If only he could get his memories back to actually prove it as fact, though…

He flattens his ears across his head, looking back out on the water. “Don’t— don’t mention this to anyone what I’m about to tell you. Promise me you won’t. This can’t start a crowd.”

Luka’s eyes turn to gold as he squints. “Of course.”

“Marinette and I found out that there could’ve been foulness in his death. Odor or otherwise.”

The naga pauses. “Are you saying a demon of some kind could’ve been the reason for the smell?”

“I don’t want to tell you something only for it to be wrong later, but the basic answer is that Adrien most likely didn’t die from an illness after all.” He licks his lips.

“You’re saying that Adrien’s father might have summoned a demon for some reason?”

“No. I have no idea what it could be, but, if there was hellfire involved, there’s definitely something to do with hell in this poor boy’s death. We don’t have all of the information yet, but I think it’s a little bit more difficult than just pointing fingers.”

Luka’s quiet for a long time. There are gears turning in his head too, no doubt, trying to piece together all of the information. “Gabriel could… most likely be at the festival tonight.”

His head snaps up. “What? He will?”

“A couple of my kind saw his ship sailing close by the shore and where our dens are. He left— or, rather, fled, now that there’s an implication that he could’ve been responsible for something to do with Adrien— town years ago, and never came back. It’s been completely silent from him, deciding to even move countries, but I think he’s here for a blessing of some kind by a Ladybug.”

“Shit.”

“Agreed.”

“Shit.”

Luka sighs. “It’s just speculation, of course. I have no idea if he even knows that Marinette is Ladybug, never mind the fact that he might not be stopping by after all. He could just be here to visit family friends, and is using the festivities as a genuine and good excuse. What will you two do? Confront him?”

“I don’t know.” Chat answers honestly. “I genuinely don’t know. My dad doesn’t know much of the story, either— and he’s usually on top of his game on paying attention to these types of things, but got distracted the day it all happened. It’s not often you hear of a human getting caught in the crossfire of hell matters— but we’re all stumped, so it’s not like we can pin it directly on Gabriel with no reason. I’m going to need more information.”

Luka is surprisingly not as agitated with the whole thing as he’d expected. He’d expected surprise, or confusion, not genuine contemplation like he is now. The naga hums at the back of his throat, attempting to piece things together himself. “Do you think Adrien is still out there, maybe?”

“Well… He’s not dead,” Well. Are demons considered alive in the first place? Is this a moral or philosophical question? At what point is Chat Noir even considered alive? And if he really was Adrien, would he consider Adrien to be dead in this case? Rebirthed as Chat Noir? His head hurts. “As far as we know. Maybe in a sort of limbo state. What a mess.”

“This sounds a lot more confusing than I thought it would be. I can’t imagine this is any easy on the two of you. Adrien was my best friend and it’s hurting me to hear about it, I can’t imagine what it’s doing to the little witch.”

“She’s been… a little bit confused about it, too. I can’t wait for the festival and get her to relax about it— yesterday it was nonstop. The both of us, honestly, need to stop thinking about this for just a bit. You and I should keep an eye out for Gabriel just in case. I don’t know what he looks like, but, anything that’ll get us closer to the truth I’ll do it.”

But Luka’s smile is kind, and Chat can sense he’s trying to skirt the subject away and get him to think of other things. “Sure. I didn’t have plans, anyway, so that’s fine. And I’m sure you two managed to distract each other at some point yesterday, right?”

“By the grace of my mother,” Chat mutters under his breath. “This entire week has been monstrous to us, Luka. Every day has been a discovery, I don’t even know what to do or how to handle it. Not to mention that even my father thinks you and I are a good match together, did you know that? The amount of years I’ve aged each day in this disaster of a week would’ve turned a human into dust by now.”

Luka turns, belly-side down, hiding away his pale under-scales in favor of showing his long blue-and-diamond-patterned back. He ends up dunking more of his tail into the water, and those ghost-like fins blossom from underneath his scales like a billowing sheet. The water is hazy from all the glittering gold and those glossy, feathery fins. “Perhaps I’ll listen more often to what you have to say about your family, after all. Is he truly the king of the underworld?”

“Shut up,” Chat really can’t stop himself from laughing, because he doesn’t have any emotional handle on any of this. “If you have any luck, you might see him visit the festival and actually find out. Maybe I’ll have all my friends meet him, so that you all can stop making fun of me when I say it.”

“What in the world is the king doing here?”

“Visiting his son, you noodle.” He slips his eyes shut.

Ah, this is more natural territory for them both, isn’t it? He can almost feel how easy it is for the two of them to slip back into banter. “Careful, now. You’re implying that I’m tasty.”

“And also very easily chewable, what do you think about that?” He’s bit into Luka’s tail a few times, and each time he’s felt how the muscles had shifted under those hard scales. It’s amazing his teeth can even penetrate the scales from how genuinely hardened they are, but he supposes that anything is possible with a jaw strength like his. He cracks back open one of his eyes, looking at Luka, who continues to just look at him with humor swimming on his face. “Hey, how come you aren’t fishing?”

“I am fishing, you idiot.”

“Bullshit. Where’s your fishing pole?”

“I’m not fishing with a pole today.”

“What?” This gets Chat Noir to sit back up, looking around. He blinks hard in the sunlight, willing his eyes to focus without hurting his vision. His pole at the far end of the barge is completely still, resting in a small divot carved into the boat, the fishing wire still swaying with nothing grabbing onto the bait. He narrows his eyes at the single pole, looking around for Luka’s, which is no doubt somewhere on the boat, only to come up with nothing. “Have you been using your net this entire time?”

“And if I have?”

“I thought we said no fishing with nets this time.”

“We said no fishing with Marinette this time.” Luka’s eyes are absolutely vibrant and gold as Chat Noir turns to look back at him in the eyes. He looks a little bit more awake than he does, but that’s probably because Luka’s cooling off in the water with most of his body in it, while Chat continues to bake. “You and I get too distracted around the little pearl, you especially more now. And the festival needs fish— the last time I went pole fishing with you, I got a hook stuck in my dorsal fin.”

“That was your own fault, noodle.”

“Again with calling me tasty,” Luka sighs. “Honestly, Chat Noir, it’s a miracle Marinette’s fallen in love with you when you’re so keen on flirting with me, instead.”

“At least I don’t injure myself while flirting with her, and don’t realize that my hook was next to one of my fins before trying to cast out my line.” He rolls his eyes. He remembers the nasty gash, and how the translucent fin had bled for what looked like to be far too long for a simple cut, and how Marinette had spent so long carefully stitching the feathery membranes back together with suture, willing for the fins to heal. There’s a scar still left behind on that fin, but it’s hard to see unless he’s close enough to really look at the little veins and how they’re slightly wobbly.

Luka snorts. “Of course, of course.”

“That’s what you get for flirting with my Lady.”

“So childish. You’d think I’d be allowed to talk to a good friend of mine without her familiar puffing up his chest.” Luka sighs, unraveling his jacket on the waist. The pearls on his sleeves shine all sorts of colors as his shoulders shift, and he folds the garment carefully with his long claws. Every bead is delicately sown in, and he knows that Marinette has obsessively looked over the pattern work, as well as the stitchwork, with amazement and gluttony.

Would she be happy if he bought a naga jacket for her? Maybe in a dark red color, or a white as similar as Luka’s and a red sash? Something pearlescent, though— a plain white jacket wouldn’t match the paleness of her skin. It would look as if she’s wearing nothing at all.

“Loverboy, I’m going to go check up on my net. Stop swimming in your thoughts and focus on fishing. Cast yours as well, won’t you?”

He registers that he’s been drifting off into thought, rubbing at his tattoo across his chest, still thinking of her. He thinks about what Luka’s said for a little while, trying to remember if he’d been making a point, only to realize: “I didn’t bring mine.”

“Use my spare, then.” Luka laughs. “I’ll be back in a second— try not to get lonely, kitty-cat, okay?”

Luka slips off the boat entirely with a gentle splash noise. Chat watches with mild interest as Luka’s long and elaborate tail starts to plume again, filling out with all sorts of fins now that he’s entirely in the water, disappearing under the boat into the shade where no doubt many fish are hiding. He reminds Chat very dimly of a betta fish, with how gentle and fanish the fins are. No doubt that naga are incredibly good hunters in the water, but Chat Noir can’t help but wonder why they look so delicate and so easily tearable once they’re subjected to a humid environment.

He looks back to the empty barrels behind him with a sigh. Maybe his mother will bless him with good fortune, although, in all honesty— it’s doubtful. Very doubtful. He’s just going to have to do this by hand, it seems, to which he sends a quick prayer to his father— hopeful that instead of blessing him with good luck, he gives Luka enough bad luck for him to win.

And maybe he’ll be able to stop thinking of it for a few more minutes, too.

She finally finishes with the first stack of charms when Alya ends up knocking on the door. There’s a breeze gentle enough to kiss her cheeks brushing up against the windows— she’s let the panels of the house open enough to catch the draft. It’s light, as gentle as a cloud against her skin as she works, and barely stirs the fire from its slow attempt to reignite from the coals. The breeze is good for her heart, she supposes— every once in a while stopping in her attempt to complete her task in order to bask in how content she feels.

Her heart is full.

Of thoughts of Chat Noir, of thoughts of them, of thoughts of being happy. The thoughts she hadn’t given the chance to breed and fester are suddenly in full swing in her chest and mind, allowing her to gaze longingly out the window, wondering about him. There are many things to do in order to get the festival up and ready, and many of them will have to be done at the fields on the other side of town, but she’s certain that she’ll be able to finish a second or third stack of charms before she has to slip out of the cottage and go start the physical preparations.

Alya’s here to collect her, no doubt, just like Luka had said she would.

She’s brought Nino along, too, and Marinette is quick to grin and pull the two close enough to smother them into her shoulders. “Hello!”

“Hello there, Mari!” Nino twirls her, pressing their foreheads together. As like many people in her life, Nino is much taller than her— he makes up for it by bending his back as much as possible to be at her height. “I haven’t seen you in so long. How have you both been?”

“We’ve been well,” She laughs, cupping his cheeks with her hands. He lets her, eyes squinting behind his glasses, looking at her with friendly affection. “Much much better now, recently. The rain finally letting up is much better for the farm— oh, but I’ve missed you both. When was the last time we spoke?”

“Far too long.” He muses, breaking away enough to allow Alya to crush her into another hug. Her friend’s arms are warm, and comforting, and so definitely sweet. Living in the cottage away from town is mostly good, and allows her to work on her potions in peace— but it doesn’t allow her to see her friends as much as she wants to. The two of them are always so busy running their tavern, and renovations to Marinette’s own shop have made her daily check-in to their eatery almost impossible. “Where is Chat? Don’t think I forgot about him— I haven’t seen him in forever, either. Where is that cat?”

“Out fishing with Luka, unfortunately. They’re at the lake, if you’d like to go join them?”

“Absolutely not,” Nino breaks out into laughter as he unlaces his boots. “The last thing I need is to be caught in the crossfire between the two of them. It’s usually fine, I enjoy their banter and their desperate attempts to find reasons to touch each other without making it weird, but I’m trying to look my best for the festival.”

“And I’m sure you can’t do that when you’re in the middle of getting your hair scorched off.” Marinette can’t stop laughing.

“You and everyone else,” Alya rolls her eyes, letting go of her so she can breathe and not cough into her sleeve. Alya hugs like she has a vendetta. “What are you trying to look good for, anyway?”

“The more presentable I look, the more likely people are willing to give us tips in the end, my dearest.” He waggles his brows. Oh, the two of them are so lovely— Marinette watches with a yearning and heartful gaze as Nino bends Alya back in his arms, dipping her low, a firm arm underneath her waist. Even with only one shoe on, and his feather in his cap dangling dangerously low to brushing against their faces through the entire action, he’s nothing short of having heart eyes for the woman in his arms instead of dissolving into giggles like Marinette is. “I may be a good player, but we all know that only the truly most handsome get the money at the end of the day.”

“Then it’s good fortune for us that I have the most handsomest man in the world by my side,” Alya smiles so warmly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Oh, the two of them— Marinette is helpless to give a little sigh at how perfect the two of them are. “We’ll be rich in no time.”

Love. Love love love.

By far one of the most important things that Marinette has ever been able to witness firsthand is the way the two of them look at each other— her heart is ready to explode. She hasn’t touched the cookies in a couple of days, still trying to get the bitter taste of love sick out of her mouth and away, and looking at the cookies gives her a slight nausea, but the core principle is still there.

Love.

She’s so giddy and warm.

“Oh! Come on, come into the house for breakfast, join me at the table. I’ll get a new pot of tea out, does that sound good?” It’ll be good for her, too— it’s a good thing she has those herbs on hand, or else she would be worried about any developments in her body she isn’t ready to have— the problem now, of course, will be to make sure neither of them pick up on her dropping additional leaves into her cup. Alya is persistent and keen and notices just about everything there is to notice, which means that unless she’s genuinely distracted by Nino, it’ll be impossible to dissuade her from asking questions.

Marinette readies herself, turns to the kitchen, and beckons the two of them to finish unlacing their boots while sitting the iron kettle on the oven to heat.

“Awh, I’m sorry, Mari. We’ve already eaten breakfast,” Nino has to help Alya, of course, because her petticoats are far too long and her stays are too thick with boning for her to bend properly for her feet.

“Oh? That’s alright. I think I have something you both will enjoy snacking on while I continue working on my stuff.” Marinette grins when they finally make it to the table. She moves the charms away and clears most of the space for there to be enough room for the three of them— she drops the unfinished charms into a corded bag, for now, tying the little string. “So. Do you remember the lover cookies?”

“Do I? The same cookies that made Nino realize that he did, in fact, have feelings for me?”

“Hard to imagine a time that you two didn’t date,” Marinette giggles. “But yes, those exactly.”

“I always knew I loved you,” Nino pouts. “My problem was I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Telling me ‘I love you’ would’ve been enough, you know.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Nino sighs. “We were all so caught up with the loss of Adrien that I didn’t know how to do anything.”

Marinette stops wiping at the table with her apron. Alya and Nino always remind her that she’s not the only one who misses their old friend. She never wanted to bring Adrien back because of her love— she wants to bring him back for everyone’s sake. Luka, Nino, Alya— their friends miss him. So dearly and so much— and talk about him as if he’s simply moved town, instead of being gone forever— but she’s never actually… explained that she plans on bringing him back. And now with the complicated mess of Chat Noir possibly being Adrien…

Oh, her head hurts. Just when she thought she could survive five more minutes not thinking about this tangled web. It’s as difficult to navigate as Plagg’s magic.

“Right, yes— I remember.”

“Mari?” Alya tilts her head, looking at how she massages her temples. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes— yes I’m okay. I just wish he were here.” Marinette smiles small, trying her best to ignore the way the seals on her ears burn. The two of them look at her with knowing gazes— they know she’s consumed some of the cookies herself. What they don’t know is that her heartache is actually pointing in an entirely different direction… or, perhaps, the same direction after all— just the person has a different name now. “I miss his laughter. I miss him— so I made lover honey cookies a couple of days ago, but I’m still in the process of making more, along with the charms. Would you two like to try them?”

Nino looked pained. “Are you making them for the festival?”

“Just in honor of our friend,” Marinette shares a private smile with herself. “It was his favorite, after all. It’s almost been ten years since he’s been gone.”

Alya’s eyes widen, looking down at the plate that Marinette puts in front of her with wide eyes. “Oh, how interesting. A cat shape?”

“Chat’s idea,” Marinette eagerly waits for them to try some, smiling a little bit wider. The cookies don’t snap in their mouths— still moist enough and sweet enough that it’s more of a chew than a crunch. The two of them hum appreciatively as Marinette takes a bit of time to pat off her apron clean of dirt. “What do you two think? Still good?”

“This tastes wonderful.” Alya sighs. “How is it that you make things taste like a whole fantasy? I feel like I’m biting into a cloud.”

“Guess it’s just part of my luck,” She giggles. “What do you think, Nino?”

“I think that, if I weren’t already with Alya, I’d confess my love to her on the spot all over again.” Nino’s face pinks. “This cookie is so strong. Did Chat try some?”

“He did.” She tries to hide her blushing and focuses instead on some dried-up flour on the edge of the table. “We both got love sick from all the cookies we ate. We probably ate a whole batch and a half, honestly— don’t do it. You’ll get overwhelmed with love.”

Alya hums with the cookie in her mouth, sharing a look with Nino. “Oh, really?”

“There’s no need to act all mysterious,” She shies, hiding her hands behind her, wringing her fingers through the laces of her apron. She looks to the single fire lily in the vase, how beautiful the blossom’s orange petals are, smiling to herself. “The cookies don’t make you feel love, but rather just amplify the feeling, and you two definitely know that. It wasn’t hard to put the context of his purring together with why we were getting overwhelmed.”

“Y—” Their eyes widen. Alya gasps. “So— he— you—”

Are there stars in her eyes? It feels like there are stars in her eyes. “We… talked about it.”

And other things. Lots of other things. Where was that bag of herbs, again?

“Chat Noir finally managed to confess?” Nino has to sit down from shock. “Holy hell!”

She sets out three tea trays, ignoring the way Alya looks at her knowingly when she sprinkles ginger root into one of the porcelain cups. Alya will accost her for that one later, that much is certain. “Wait, you— uhm. You knew?”

“Everyone does! Everyone knows that your familiar’s affections for you are much more than just friendly. Chat Noir has always— always— had his eyes on you, and has never concealed it.” Alya rolls her eyes. There’s a glitter in her smile, something that wasn’t there before, just proving to Marinette that she is absolutely going to get hounded the moment the two of them are alone. “I didn’t even need gossip for that one. His eyes follow you everywhere.”

“Oh. So, everyone, huh?” She blushes.

“Anyone with eyes can tell, yes.” Alya takes a seat next to Nino. She grabs for another cookie, nibbling on the tail, “Everyone could tell your affections for him, too. I was hoping something good would come out of it. Good to see that everything is well, in the end!”

“So are you two… together?” Nino doesn’t let Marinette steam behind her hands for very long. “Actually actually?”

“Uhm— well— I hope so. I think so. We talked about it—” Alya’s snorts cut her off, hiding a ‘yeah, and more’ under her breath. Marinette steams harder. “Uhm— and I really do think we’ll be together for a long time.”

“Is that even allowed for demons?”

“I don’t think we’re breaking any rules,” She rubs at her earlobes. Yet another thing to consider… “Uhm. Maybe I’ll have to talk to him about it. Who knows? He could be fine, considering his father—”

“Is 'the king of hell'.” Alya curls her smile. “And so, with a kiss, Marinette has accepted his propaganda.”

They have no idea how confusing it gets, do they? To know that Chat Noir could absolutely be telling the truth, and furthermore— the shenanigans that Plagg caused? She snorts behind a hand, thinking of how to even begin breaching the topic of a god stopping by to prank a witch and his demon son. Even if he really isn’t the king of hell, he’s certainly showing that he’s living up to the name… she can’t stop giggling. “Let’s hope he’s telling the truth. Why don’t you two enjoy some more cookies while I work on more of my charms? Or should we go to the field now?”

AO3 | Start Here | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[jackoshadows]

What are your thoughts on Jon-Bran-Tyrion & their relationship in TWoW & ADoS?

I have read that in GRRM original-idea [?] Jon was to rival Tyrion [because of their love over Arya] as well as Bran for the sake of Northern Power [& Arya apparently too, but not in the same sense??]

[No idea what Bran & Tyrion's relationship was suppose to/could look like, don't think GRRM has mention smth]

That being said, I can get behind Tyrion vs Jon, alright. But Jon vs Bran? How is that suppose to look like/work?

Even if we ignore that they think of each other fondly & miss each other, and that I don't see a reason why this would change all of a sudden... Or that Jon will likely gain the support of the North in TWoW, since he rather fit the "perfect image of an Lord", since he is a able-bodied, traditional [swords-] man, grown & proven as Leader/Lord Commander, has the same education as Robb did, is the eldest Son of Eddard, etc....

[Although I guess Lords like Manderly could prefer Rickon, so they can grap power as his custodian/regents? And the whole being-dead-but-not-anymore-&-what-about-the-oaths thing could be a little tricky & stuff😅] while Bran will likely remain longer behind the Wall, won't be able to rally allies & bannermen [Althouse I have read the speculation of Bran, The Blizzard and The Battle of Ice, my main concern is again the pacing:where Bran's plot seems on overdrive, while Jon's & all those around & in Winterfell are on hold in order for Bran to come back. It's the same problem for me with all those "speculations" about Dany & arriving way to early in Westeros] ...

But the thing that makes it so unbelievable for me is: the fricking age gap?! Put aside their feelings for each other, who is more likely to gain poltical support & all of that, Bran will be like 11 & Jon 18-19? Like... a rivalry between a elementary school student & a high school graduate? 😂🙊

I think for certain that there will be some kind of conflict between Jon and Tyrion. Them shaking hands on the Wall and calling each other friends is foreshadowing a friends to enemies arc, IMO.

As for Jon and Bran, it's hard to see this happening, but I am not ruling out the possibility - meaning that I won't be surprised if it happens. As you mentioned, a Jon/Bran rivalry/bitter estrangement was one of the major parts of the story in the original outline.

By the end of A Game of Thrones,------------------------------------- ---------------------------------g--------------- onto the iron throne with a bit----------------premature death, Bran sits free.--Yet his seat is hardly a comfortable one. In the North, Jon Snow is his bitter enemy. Beyond the narrow sea, Daenerys Stormborn prepares her invasion and on the far side of the Wall, the others are watching with cold dead eyes and gathering their strength.

Can this still happen? I think so. I have always said that GRRM likes his themes of dysfunctional families, conflict among family members and the human heart in conflict with itself and again, I don't see why the Starks should be the exception.

But I think it is a mistake to generalize about “the Westerlings,”  just as it would be to generalize about “the Lannisters.” Members of the same family have very different characters, desires, and ways of   looking at the world… and there are secrets within families as well.

GRRM SSM, May 01, 2001

The reason Sansa even exists as a character in the first place is because he wanted family conflict among the Starks.

Arya was one of the first characters created. Sansa came about as a total opposite b/c too many of the Stark family members were getting along and families aren’t like that.

Why would Jon and Bran have a rivalry? That I cannot speculate on, yet. We still have a lot of story to cover. But in the next book, my speculation is that both Jon and Bran would have changed a lot.

Bran is the current Lord of Winterfell/Heir to the North/Robb's Heir and King in the North. Robb's decree legitimizing Jon Stark could be a possible issue between them.

GRRM has said that death and resurrection changes a person and Jon is going to be spending time in a wolf. A resurrected Jon Snow coming back more wolfish and more hungry. Remember this?

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. A hunger … he could feel it. It was food he needed, prey, a red deer that stank of fear or a great elk proud and defiant. He needed to kill and fill his belly with fresh meat and hot dark blood. His mouth began to water with the thought. - Jon, ASoS

GRRM ties in his desire for Winterfell to a deep hunger that then connects to Ghost - his hunger for Winterfell intermingling with Ghost's hunger...

Remember the kings in the North of yore, like Ice Eyes. I doubt Jon Stark is going to hold back much. He's going to be doing some really messed up stuff.

Meanwhile, Bran's heavily involved in the magical stuff beyond the wall. Has connections to Bloodraven, the Children of the forest, can influence timelines (Hodor), unearth past truths and will be one of the most powerful greenseers. Blood sacrifice and human sacrifice is a big part of the dark magic of the north. Maybe they fight over how to defeat the Others? I think Bran's connection to the children of the forest is how they win again this time around - and his relationship with Jon suffers because of that?

Bran ends up King on the Iron Throne and Jon Snow ends up in the lands beyond the wall - just the opposite of what we would expect for these two characters considering where they are now and what we know of them (R+L=J) etc. How does this happen?

Anyways, according to GRRM, TWoW is a very dark book and if there is a Jon-Bran rivalry, we may see the seeds of it being planted in this book.

There are a lot of dark chapters right now in the book that I’m writing,” he said during a Q&A at the Guadalajara International Book Fair, according to Entertainment Weekly. “It is called The Winds of Winter, and I’ve been telling you for 20 years that winter was coming. Winter is the time when things die, and cold and ice and darkness fill the world, so this is not going to be the happy feel-good that people may be hoping for. Some of the characters [are] in very dark places.”

This is why I find all the Dark!Dany stuff slightly hilarious. Is Dany going to do things that go against the Geneva conventions (lol) in the next book? Yeah, I think so. She is going to come back from her sojourn at Vaes Dothrak and be like I have had it with these effing slavers and go all Aegon the Conqueror on them (About time I say, she should have done it a while ago). But I am pretty damn sure most of our characters are going to become darker in the next book. Tyrion is already on a downward spiral, Jon will surely go on a rampage against the Boltons, Bran most probably eating Jojen paste over there and learning dark magic, getting taught by Bloodraven, Sansa participating in the slow poisoning of her little cousin in the Vale and have you read Arya's Mercy chapter? That stuff is dark.

As for the rest, I think we should ignore the age gap like GRRM is planning on doing ( GRRM sees his young people as adults anyway - "Arya has the experiences of a 40 year old, If a 12 year old has to conquer the world then so be it" etc.) and I do think he will include some time gaps in the next two books allowing for travel etc. I am pretty sure Arya will end the books at 14.

Bran, Dany and Arya's plots have to be in overdrive in the next book out of necessity. Bran has to advance a lot in his plot, be used to build up the Others as a big threat, give us more info about the Children, Bloodraven, what is actually happening, Hodor etc. - there's just so much stuff here that GRRM has to write. Same with Dany. Dany has to wind up in Meereen, land in Westeros and start her campaign. Same with Arya. I think that's why they will get the most chapters, and time in the next book.

[misiwrites]

Beyblade Week Day 4

i'm sorry i'm out here still posting things so late but here's my fourth and final 4kingdoms-verse oneshot for @beybladeweek2021, mostly this is late because i was out of town last week but these prompts were also the hardest to make a oneshot about, somehow i managed to make a quirky little story about max anyway.

this takes place probably somewhere right before the beginning of the main fic, or close to it anyways. and i feel like this needs the small explanation that 4kingdoms max looks a bit different because the north has no sunlight (don’t ask me how that works. it’s fantasy)

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

Fears / Animals / Winter

“Aaugh!”

As patient as Max is, the strange sound of Giancarlo’s sudden scream followed by a soft, barely audible thump of something hitting the floor in the walk-in closet is enough to snap his attention from the game console in his hands. He casts a curious look across his bedroom to witness the striped leg of a plush toy sticking out through the narrow crack of the closet door.

Now he can already tell what has happened. Regardless, he drops the game on the couch and jumps to his feet to see what his knight has gotten himself into in the closet.

“You opened the forbidden door!” Max gloats at Giancarlo, now standing ankle-deep in a sea of plush toys. “I told you the games are in the second from left, not from right.”

“Is this why you call that door ‘forbidden’?” Giancarlo asks, one hand still on the handle of the closet door that the avalanche of toys descended on him from. “I expected something more... I don’t know... scandalous... or personal.”

“This is personal. They’re all mine.” Max crouches over to pick one of the plush toys up, the yellow mascot character of a popular Eastern children’s game franchise. “Oh man, these take me back. I haven’t really seen them since Mama ordered them to be put away. She said I was too old to keep them in my bed. But I refused to have them taken out, so I got this closet for them instead.”

“Aha. I don’t mean to judge your decisions, but I think there’s a few too many for a closet of this size.”

“Well, they fit in just fine before you opened the door like an idiot.”

Max lets his eyes scan the colourful blast on the floor, admiring the chaos of all the scattered shapes of different stuffed creatures, some more nostalgic than others but each and every one so familiar to him; some expensive and store-bought, some hand-made by his father or someone else, he hardly even remembers at this point; it’s been so long since he was gifted these toys, and at least a couple of years since Judy wanted them sealed away.

And then one of them catches his eye over the rest, one that makes his heart skip a beat of bittersweet joy and longing. He tramples and kicks his way past other toys to get to the middle.

It’s a plush dog, one whose tattered, worn-out shape isn’t particularly distinguishable as a dog. It has an elongated body and small stubs for legs, folded ears – well, one ear, as the other has come off and been lost to time – and a small, thin tail that’s also on its way to come off its stitches but is barely hanging on, miserably drooping down from the back of the caramel brown animal that’s so thoroughly covered in dirt and dust that it looks grey. The dog’s black button eyes are intact, at least, and it still has a red little tongue sticking out of its mouth.

Max is momentarily frozen in place staring at the dog. This toy brings back so many memories, some of which threaten to turn his stomach as the long-forgotten anxiety rushes back in one tidal wave, it climbs up the ladder of his spine like an unwelcome visitor from the past; but at the same time, he loves this little dog so very dearly, his childhood favourite.

“Look at these, Your Highness!” Giancarlo suddenly yells, snapping Max out of his thoughts. “Really fitting, aren’t they? Doesn’t it make you think of something?”

Max turns to see his knight holding three plush animals on his arms: a snake, a fox, and a miniature horse. Max does remember all of them, but none were his favourites. They must have been gifts from his earlier childhood, he has no memory of actually getting them or ever feeling particularly attached to them.

“Umm,” he says, “no, not really.”

“Don’t you remember? The fairytale? A guy talks to a fox, a serpent, and a horse...”

“No, can’t say that rings any bells.”

“Really?” An idiotic grin spreads on Giancarlo’s face, the same one he flashes every time he gets to feel smarter than his young king. “It’s a traditional Northern folktale! Each animal represents one fear that the dude has, and he has to face them one by one. Well, I don’t really remember the details, but it was something like that.” He lifts the tiny horse closer to his face, as if to study it more closely – or to face it, to stay true to his own words, Max assumes. “Was the third one really a horse? I think it was. I guess horses can be scary to some people. They’re big animals and all.”

Max rolls his eyes, truly wishing that Giancarlo would shut up for once and clean up the mess he’s caused in the walk-in closet – or just do anything else and leave Max be, to sort out the sudden, fairly uncomfortable onslaught of memories caused by the discovery of his old stuffed dog toy.

Instead, Giancarlo keeps talking, as he always does.

“If there was a story about my fears, it would probably be... hmm... never eating cannoli ever again... and never going on another date...”

“Some incredible fears you have,” Max comments. “Tells a lot about your psyche.”

“And what are you scared of, Your Highness? What would you face if you met this guy? Nei-i-i-igh.” Giancarlo waves the tiny horse at Max, truthfully not the embodiment of terror by any stretch.

“Me? Well, nothing, really.”

“Come on, now, no need to be shy. You can tell the good old Gianni.”

“I mean it – I have my magic, so there’s no reason for me to be scared of anything.” There’s nothing that Max can think of that he wouldn’t be able to shield himself from with his magic powers, especially his ability to turn invisible. If nothing can catch him or do as much as touch him, what reason would he have to be afraid? If anything, he loves the thrill of almost being caught but disappearing out of sight on the last second. Max prides himself in being bold and resourceful, the master of stealth, and the youngest Genbu-ou with the ability to summon the holy beast of Genbu in the known history of his kingdom.

As long as he has his magic and the golden locket of Genbu around his neck, he cannot think of anything that could cause him fear; and as the king, he can have all the materia he could ever want, so he never needs to worry about running out of cannoli pastries or whatever else.

“Okay then, tough guy,” Giancarlo snorts. “And what’s that you got there?”

Max’s gaze returns to the dog on his arms. It stares back at him with its pitiful button eyes, black and lifeless.

“This used to be my favourite,” he replies, finding the words coming out of his mouth with slight hesitation. “Papa made it for me...”

“Oh? Prince Tarou knows how to sew stuffed animals? Well, I guess that makes sense, since he’s such a talented craftsman – but still... It’s hard to imagine a burly man like him making something like... that thing.” Giancarlo forces down an obvious cackle, raising a hand to his mouth to hide his amusement. “I mean...”

Max knows what he means, the puppy with a hot dog-like physique is a pathetic sight, but he cannot help feeling just a little insulted by Giancarlo laughing at it. This puppy brought him so much comfort during a time of turmoil, and it was specifically made by his father for that very purpose. Tarou most likely stitched it together over a single night all those years ago.

“You mean what?” he challenges the royal knight, his tone arrogant.

“Uh... Well, you know... Oh, never mind.”

* * * * * *

When he was younger, Max had no objections over his sheltered life in the Snow Glory Palace, as it never even occurred to his child’s mind that it could be anything but; and the thought only came to him as he entered the rebellious years of puberty and by the questionable ideas that his whimsical knight planted in his head, the thought that it would be exciting to sneak out of the palace every once in a while and wander around the royal capital out of sight.

Max has always been adored by commoners, as the only son of their beloved (by now former) king, the strong yet beautiful and hauntingly intelligent Mizuhara Judy, the only female Genbu-ou of their lifetime; and as much as Max loves the attention and savours the constant awareness of his status of importance that doesn’t escape anybody in his kingdom, he’s equally entertained by the idea of walking among all these people on a lower social ladder without their knowledge, freely entering spaces where his appearance would normally cause a considerable brouhaha. The complete control over whether he’s perceived or not gives him a great amount of satisfaction.

And, most importantly, his ever-so-predominant mother has no idea about it happening right under her nose. As much as Max loves his parents, like any teenager, he has an innate need to break free and seek independence from them, do as he pleases without their scrutiny, without any adult paying attention to him...

at least sometimes.

How many times has he traversed the narrow streets of the ancient royal capital, heard the snow crunch under his shoes without anyone seeing it’s the young king leaving a trail of footprints on the ground covered in white? And when the snow is quietly falling from the sky, the shield of magic around him reflects his surroundings, camouflaging him from other people’s line of sight, he blends perfectly into the arbitrary dance of the snowflakes in the dark.

Then, sometimes, when he finds a suitable corner or shade or hideout for himself, he plans a delicious little display of seemingly appearing out of nowhere into the spotlight. And all the attention is once again drawn to him.

It’s borderline addicting, that calculated spectacle, the thrill of a surprise and act of rebellion that Max is perfectly aware he’s not allowed to do. That his ice queen of a mother would be absolutely furious if she knew.

Now he’s again walking down a cobblestone street, the stone fence of a cemetery on his right-hand side. There’s a layer of powdery snow on the stone, like the icing of a sugar cake.

A cake, oh, a cake sounds excellent to him; and he’s now across a bridge, and the familiar sight of a cosy little coffee shop greets him some feet away. It has a sign outside, a metallic one, shaped like a kettle that’s hanging above the entrance, the shop’s name written on it in cursive.

Max walks over to one of the shop windows and takes a peek inside, bathes in the golden light coming from the other side of the glass. As expected, nobody pays him any attention, none of the people sitting around the lovely little tables inside see him.

He’s ready to be seen, however, and decides to step inside, greeted by the ring of a bell attached to the coffee shop’s door.

“Good evening!” he says cheerfully upon his entrance, flashing a wide grin to everyone in the shop.

People turn to stare at him. Nobody is smiling back at him.

“Er, good evening,” replies the person working behind the counter. Their voice is polite but wary, they stare at Max like everyone else in the shop, with an expression of wide-eyed confusion.

This is not what Max expected. Where are all the delightful gasps, all the “Oh, Your Highness!” and “It’s the young king!” and “This is such an honour!” – all the surprised smiles and the rush to be the first to shake hands with him? He darts some quizzical glances around the shop, eyebrows raised, but his grin remains.

Maybe he’s come here a few too many times. He should have gone somewhere new instead, not the closest place he could think of.

A bristly feeling that he’s very much not used to suddenly spreads all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes: embarrassment. He’s embarrassed that his magic trick failed, the trick he was so confident in, so proud of.

He needs to get out of here.

And the next moment, he’s walking down a different street, this time in the heart of the city of Resting Palace. The lights here are so bright that they illuminate the black sky and give it a hue of light purple instead, almost a dirty tone, it looks dusty and devours the stars and even the Moon.

He’s walking past numerous people, but nobody turns to look at him. Nobody does as much as grant him a smile of acknowledgment, no faces light up with recognition when he passes by.

He stops to stand in the middle of the street. Someone immediately bumps into him from behind.

“Oh, sorry,” the stranger says and hurries away without looking at him. He doesn’t even have the time to say it was his fault for stopping so abruptly.

Max turns on his heels, lets his eyes wander aimlessly in the scenery. There’s a hotel to his left. There are people everywhere, but none of them are looking his way.

Now another person bumps into him. This is an older man, staggering on his feet and visibly losing his balance for a moment, and he turns to stare at Max with a sullen face.

“Hey, kiddo,” the man groans, “stop blocking the walkway, will ya?”

Max only stares back, not knowing what to say or think. Kiddo? What is this? Why is this person talking to him like this? He’s so dumbfounded by this behaviour that he simply hangs his mouth open without making a sound. Nobody in his entire life has acted this way towards him, and it’s making his blood run cold under his heavy cloak.

On a bewildered whim, he suddenly turns to whoever is passing by his left-hand side on that very moment. “Did you hear how that person talked to me just now?” he asks the passer-by. “How dare he?”

The person he’s talking to casts him a look of utter confusion. He can immediately tell this person doesn’t recognise him, either.

“No, I’m sorry,” the person mumbles hastily and hurries away. Max stares after their disappearing back.

What is happening? What is happening? How could this possibly be happening to him? Now panic is seeping into his heart, he arbitrarily grabs the sleeve of whoever happens to pass by him next.

“Excuse me,” he says breathlessly, “you know who I am, right? Right?”

Another astonished stare, but at least this passer-by is polite. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Are you perhaps lost?”

“No!” Max’s words now escape as a desperate eruption of discomfort, “I’m the king! The Genbu-ou! Don’t you recognise your king?!”

The stranger’s expression changes slightly – to that of pity, to Max’s horror.

“I’m sorry, boy, I don’t have time to play around with you,” the person says, and the next moment he’s gone.

Max spins around, glancing wildly in every direction, looking for anybody who recognises him. This is the royal capital, isn’t it? It definitely is, he knows the exact street he’s on, but for some reason nobody knows him, he’s only a mile away from the Snow Glory Palace and nobody knows that he’s the king, how could such a bizarre thing ever happen?

“I look like the Genbu-ou, don’t I?” he asks yet another stranger, this time a younger person, a teenager just like him.

The person stops to stare at him, evaluates him with her eyes for a moment, as if she has to think about it first.

“I guess you do,” she finally says, “a little. But Genbu-ousama has spots of black in his hair and skin as clear as snow.”

What? What?

Max drops down to his knees into the snow and now he’s on the riverbank; he hauls his shaking self closer to the aquamarine glow of the water, and he crouches over to look down at his own reflection on the surface.

His hair is yellow like the Sun, bare, the splashes of black brush strokes gone. But his face – his face is covered in something – small dots everywhere, his skin is infested with them, they spread from the centre, the bridge of his nose, in every direction on his skin, he lifts his hands to his face and—

* * *

He opens his eyes. The ceiling of his bedroom is covered in cotton candy clouds of pink and purple, they rotate ever so slowly around the axel of the chandelier in the middle, with stars blinking in and out through the veil.

He rolls over in the four-poster bed that feels like an entire ocean to him. The pillow under his head is wet, it feels gross and he grabs it with two tiny hands, tosses it away as hard as he can and it lands on the edge of the bed. It knocks a couple of his plush toys to the floor.

He can hear voices from behind the bedroom door. It’s Mama and Papa, they are yelling at each other again.

Max rubs his tear-stained eyes and crawls out of bed, wrapping his enormous blanket around him like a cape, he drags it along across the carpet as he makes his way to the door. He stands on tiptoes and opens the door as softly as he can.

He makes his way to the hallway’s railing just in time to see his parents walk into his view downstairs. They’re not yelling anymore but still arguing, in quiet voices now, Max can tell they are spewing arrows of poison at each other even if he can’t make out the words.

He’s staring through the narrow hole in the railing as Papa spots him, it’s probably a subtle sniffle that gives him away up there.

Seconds later, Papa has climbed the stairs and has knelt down to talk to Max in a voice that’s meant to be soothing but is seeping with recently suffocated agitation, and it makes him uneasy.

“Are you having trouble sleeping again, buddy?”

“I don’t want Papa to go away,” Max says, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his orange sleeping gown.

Papa gives him a lopsided smile, pats the top of his head. “I’ll come visit you often, I promise. And – this is only temporary, okay? I will keep talking to Mama, and maybe I’ll be back home in a couple of moons. Papa will bring you lots of presents then, but for starters...”

Now something appears from behind Papa’s back, he’s holding a plush toy dog that has a silly face with a tongue drooping out, its body so long that it nearly matches Max’s height. Papa hands it over to him.

“I made this for you, to help you sleep better. I call it Sleepy, but you can call it whatever you want.”

Max stares down at the dog’s face. It has plain black buttons for eyes, and a third one for a nose.

He presses his own little nose against the button, immediately smearing the dog in the snot and tears of a six-year-old.

“Take me with you, Papa,” he says, the words muffled against the dog’s snout. “Don’t leave me alone.”

“You won’t be alone, Max, Mama will be here.”

“She’s always working, she never pays attention to me.”

“That’s not true...”

“I don’t want to be alone, Papa.”

* * *

He opens his eyes. The ceiling of his bedroom is velvet blue, with the silver sickle of a crescent Moon glowing faintly in the night’s silence.

His heart is beating in an anxious rhythm inside his chest. He quickly sits up in the bed, driven by the panic of the lingering terror of his nightmare that makes his fingertips tingle and his stomach turn, and he gasps for air.

It was just a dream. Just a dream.

The momentary urge to rush to his feet, to check that he actually is who he’s supposed to be in the mirror, recedes quickly upon the realisation that he’s in his own bed, in the royal palace, exactly where he should be. He’s covered in sweat, the blankets feel uncomfortably sticky against his skin, he tosses them aside.

Then he notices three shapes in the darkness, sitting at the end of his bed. A row of three plush animals is staring at him from a distance.

A fox, a serpent, and a horse.

[nerdyfangirl67]

Let it Snow - Supernatural Reader Insert (12 Days of Christmas)

Pairing: Dean x reader

Warnings: language, fluff!!

Word count: 1580

A/N: I’m rewatching Supernatural as I write this (which I haven’t done in a long while), and all I see is baby faced Sam and Dean! (Plus the amount of foreshadowing or hidden details I see now is crazy!) ANYWAYS, here is another part of my 12 Days of Christmas mini-series. (It’s a little less Christmas-y, and a little more winter-y, sorry). I used some lyrics from the Christmas favorite, “Let It Snow”, so those will be in italics. Image taken from Google Images.

You weren’t entirely sure when the hunt went south, but a number of different signs should have clued you in on the hell of a rollercoaster ride you were going to be taken on. When Dean had suggested an “easy” hunt, one that just the two of you could do, allowing Sam some much-needed down-time, you had jumped at the chance. If anything, besides the fact that you practically had been gifted some one-on-one time with him, you had thought that you could use the opportunity to finally tell Dean how you felt about him. That should have been your first clue. Things were never that easy for you, especially when it came to your relationship with Dean. 

The case brought you to Northern Minnesota in the middle of December, another sign you had ignored, and the thought of hunting down some obscure pagan god that had been terrorizing those in and around one of the national forests had intrigued you to the point that you hadn’t even considered the fact that you would have to ‘rough it’ in the woods with Dean in the dead of the winter season. 

And ‘rough it’ you did. For over seven hours, you and Dean had been trudging around in the woods, looking for a sign, anything, to show where the god was hiding. Over the past hour the weather had gotten increasingly worse, and despite your reluctance to admit you are cold, you reach for Dean’s empty hand to get him to stop. The touch of your gloved hand in his has him whirling around, examining you from head to toe to see if you were physically harmed. If you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you would have missed the small sigh of relief he let out.

“What’s up princess?” The use of one of the sweet nicknames he’d given you, has you blushing. 

“Dean, I’m cold. I’m so fucking cold.” You mumble, wishing you were anywhere but the Minnesota wilderness in the middle of December. Hell, you’d give up the rest of your ‘alone’ time with Dean to be back at the bunker, cocooned in your bed.

He looks you over, a guilty expression clouding his features. “I think I remember seeing a shack of some kind around here. We’ll stop there.” He said, gripping your hand in his. You were so cold that you didn’t even protest at the idea of doing a little breaking and entering, wanting anything to be out of the frigid air.

The walk to the small shack seems to take forever, but in reality it isn’t more than half an hour before the two of you reach the weather-worn door of the shack, just as the sun falls below the horizon. Dean jiggles the handle, opening it with surprising ease, pulling you inside with him before shoving the door shut behind the two of you. 

You look around for a light switch, but to no avail, so you pull the small flashlight you kept in your jacket pocket, turning it on and looking for any kind of light source. You don’t find anything promising, but the sight of a fireplace catches your eye. You move closer to it, looking around for a source of kindling or wood. You don’t find anything which disappoints you. You briefly remember you are in the middle of a forest, but the thought of going back outside, into the now gusting winds and blowing snow, has you shaking your head in exasperation. There was no way in hell you’d be going back outside anytime soon. 

“Hey princess, looks like we picked the right shack to spend the night in.” Dean’s voice has you turning around to face him and what he was smirking suggestively at. A bed. And not just any bed; one that could barely be considered a full. You bump him with your shoulder. “Ha, ha.” You say, deadpanned. 

“Rock, paper, scissors for the bed?” You ask hopefully. Part of you, the side that was also in love with Dean, was thrilled at the possibility of sharing a bed with him. The other part, the side that knew you couldn’t take a glimpse of what a life with Dean would look like and then have to give it up, was looking for any way out.

“Hmm.” Dean hums, taking a look at the bed and then back at you. He steps into your personal space, his breath fanning on your neck as he whispers in your ear. “I don’t think so princess. Looks like you're stuck sleeping with me.” He sets his bag on the cheap, formica table, pulling out a sawed-off shotgun, a handful of shotgun shells, and a bag of salt. 

After Dean finishes loading the shotgun, he looks fruitlessly outside for a dry source of firewood, while you fumble around in the dark, looking to find any source of wood inside. Dean comes back inside about ten minutes later, shaking his head. “Didn’t find any dry wood out there princess, so it’s going to be a cold one tonight.” You breathe out a breath of frustration as you help him lock the doors and windows, lining them all with salt, to help fend off at least one kind of supernatural being. 

You go around the other side of the table to pull off your boots, heavy outer jacket and jeans, leaving you in a thick, oversized sweatshirt, a pair of lined leggings, and wool socks. You try not to ogle Dean, who was sporting a tight, dark grey henley and a pair of jeans that fit him well in all the right places. 

You hesitantly lift up the shabby wool blanket up from the side of the bed that you were on, wearily eyeing the pillow case on the bed’s lone pillow. “I think I’ll let you have that.” You say, pushing the pillow over to his side. Dean barks out a laugh, before swiftly removing the pillow case and placing the pillow back on the bed. You crawl in under the blanket, immediately recoiling from the coolness of the bed and making yourself as small as possible. Dean climbs in after you, not at all looking uncomfortable in the small bed. 

“Hey, if you’re cold princess, I’ll warm you up.” Dean says with a cunning smile you can barely make out in the dark on his face. 

You take longer than you want to respond because you instantly want to cuddle into his side, but you ultimately murmur, “I’m okay Dean, really.”

He fumbles around for a moment before resting a soft hand on top of yours. “Good night princess.” You mumble out a “good night” of your own, squeezing his hands before you give in to the exhaustion in your body.

---

A numbing cold in your entire body wakes you. You pull the blanket up to your chin, hoping it will help warm you up. After a few moments, you realize it’s not going to help and you, albeit much less reluctantly than you had let on earlier, you inch your way over to Dean’s side, and bask in the warmth radiating off of his muscular body.

A groggy groan leaves Dean, causing you to jerk away from him. His hand on your hip stops you from moving too far away. “Don’t.” His voice is rough with sleep as he brings you back against his chest. “I like having you in my arms.” He confesses quietly, his breath fanning on your neck, sending tingles down to your toes. 

You move in his arms just enough to bring up a hand to rest on his face. “I like being in them.” You say boldly, tracing patterns on his stubbly cheek with your thumb. He takes your hand in his and moves until his head is tucked into the crook of your neck. A surge of confidence runs through you and you are saying everything you had been trying to hold in for months.

“Dean, I like you, a lot. Well, to be completely honest, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you. And I have been for a while. I just didn’t know how to tell you and-” His lips on yours cuts you off. You completely forget what you were going to say as his taste fills your mouth and his hand brings you flush against him. You pull back, breathless, as he says, “I love you.” Your heart, which had been fluttering in your chest, starts rapidly beating. A swell of excitement forms in your chest at his words. He loves you. Those three words were ones you had been waiting months to hear and you couldn’t be happier. 

A sudden howling of the wind catches your attention, drawing you from your thoughts, and causing you to start to sit up, with the idea of looking out the window to see if you could see anything through the snow. Dean stops you, pressing a kiss to your collarbone as he quietly sings in a deep, almost gruff voice, “As long as you love me so, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.” 

You smile at him. “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.” You echo, nuzzling closer to him and letting his warmth lull you back to sleep and to dreams of a Christmas Eve by the fireplace, with Dean holding you close and Sam reclining in the Lazy-Boy, a cheesy Christmas movie playing on the TV.

[mcheang]

Fjerdan Border

What if instead of being sent across the Fold, Mal and Alina were sent to the northern border? This is a draft because I feel like there could be more to follow only I’m not sure what

Let’s face it, the Darkling would only want the best trackers to find Morozova’s stag so when Mal’s incredible tracking skills earn him attention, he is reassigned.

As for Alina...does it really matter where she is assigned?

Up in the north, Alina is more vulnerable to the cold due to not using her powers (look what happened to Baghra)

She isn’t popular and her vulnerability in the snow impedes her mapmaking progress.

When Mal comes back, he immediately seeks her out, having missed her after weeks of separation. He is horrified to find her near freezing.

They move away from the camp to huddle in an isolated section of the forest. Why? Because Mal wants her relocated but he doesn’t want to be separated from her either. Same goes for Alina. They need to think of a plan.

What should they do?

Desert? They would have to cross the Fold... but what is there for them here anyway? Mal has to fight Fjerdans. Alina has to fight the winter chill. But if they surivive the Volcra, they could be free.

Alina asks if Mal is willing to give up his rising career for her.

Mal: none of that matters when it comes to you. All that time we were apart, I had never realized how much I took you for granted. But now I know. And I see you, Alina.

Alina would have responded, but something caught her eye.

Alina breathed, “Mal, look.”

She spoke softly so as not to startle the majestic stag with moonlight fur and gleaming antlers.

Alina belated noticed that there were hinds following him but was distracted by the sound of Mal cursing. “Damn it. I don’t have any rope. We need to capture the stag alive.”

Alina stood in front of the stag, and blocked Mal with her shivering arms flung out wide. “Don’t you dare!”

“But Alina,” Mal entreated, “once the stag is captured, I can get reassigned. We don’t have to desert and face punishment if we’re caught.”

But Alina was stubborn as ever. “I’d rather freeze to death than give this stag to the Darkling.”

Mal: that’s treason

Alina: we were planning on it anyway!

Alina suddenly felt a snout muzzling her hair. She recalled she had been previously lying on a haystack and there must be some hay still stuck in her hair.

Giggling, she turned around and cradled the stag’s head. She felt warm when she touched the fur. It was like he was calling to her and wanted her to answer.

Alina had no idea what answer the stag was hoping for, maybe more hay or carrots. But some part of her answered anyway.

Mal: um, Alina...you’re glowing.

Alina looked down at herself before looking up at the stag. “I think he saw me freezing and wanted to help. Still think you can stomach turning him over?”

Mal grumbled but could not deny his gratitude to see Alina’s face flushed with warmth and the stag’s mystical presence.

Mal: so then what do we do?

Alina shrugged. “No clue.” She peered at the stag. “Got any ideas?”

Before Alina could see if the stag could actually talk, she heard an unwelcome but familiar voice shouting out, “the stag! Quick, get some rope!”

Alina turned around quickly, just in time to see Dubrov’s back as he ran back to camp with a few other trackers. They had probably come in search of Mal. Mikhael was easing down the slope, trying not to startle the stag.

Turning around, Alina stared deep into the stag’s eyes and urged him with a whisper. “Run! Now! Don’t come back.”

The stag didn’t move. He was still staring at her like he was mesmerized by her light show.

Mal yelled, “hurry up with that rope!”

The hinds were startled and ran off. The stag snorted but galloped after them. Mal could have sworn the stag was practically saying “Real subtle.”

Mikhael: what the hell? You startled it, Mal.

Mal: how was I suppose to know my shout would chase it off when yours didn’t?

Mikhael stared at Alina. “did the stag really make you glow?”

Alina: I was freezing! I think he wanted to help.

Mikhael shook his head. “And what about the rest of us freezing on Fjerdan lands? Sheesh. Just like the fairy tales. Pretty deer only want to help maidens while boys have to fight dragons.”

Alina snapped, “Maybe the stag wasn’t impressed with your attitude or desire to capture him!”

Dubrov returning with the tracking party but too late. Their captain believed their story about the deer, seeing the massive hoof prints for himself. But he was skeptical when not only Dubrov and Mikhael, but two more trackers, gave their witness testimony that Alina had been glowing.

Which sucked because now the captain decided to use Alina as bait, without fire to keep her warm in the clearing.

Only, Alina felt like she could summon some heat into her bones whenever she looked up at the stars for company. She didn’t want to glow again but she did miss the warmth.

Eventually the captain decided to use a different girl instead. Which made Alina unpopular with them. Like she made the switch suggestion herself. Typical.

It didn’t help that Alina started having an appetite and they could no longer scavenge her leftovers.

After maybe a month of this, of trying to map out their new border with Fjerda, Alina was surprised to see the Darkling arrive.

Looking to Mal for answers, he could only offer what he suspected. “The Darkling must really want that stag. The captain wrote a report on the whole thing as usual, to explain why we’re sitting here instead of ranging the forests.”

Only the Darkling wasn’t interested in the trackers so much as Alina.

Alina’s brain was whirring at the idea of giving her own testimony to the Darkling himself.

Darkling stared at her from his desk. “Were you tested by a Grisha examiner before?”

Alina nodded, confused. “Yes, when I was eight.”

Darkling: but they concluded you didn’t have any power

Alina: yes.

Darkling: only I was told you just summoned light

Alina: that wasn’t me. It was the stag.

Darkling: the stag can’t give you power unless you already have it. And ever since then, you’ve been able to summon heat to survive the cold nights and even your health has improved from what I hear.

Alina: I’m not Grisha.

Darkling: only one way to find out. Come here.

Alina took a few steps to the middle of the room.

Darkling: closer.

Alina walked until she was in front of the Darkling. “It wasn’t me.”

Darkling: lift up your sleeve.

Alina frowned. She pushed up her jacket sleeve, underneath, there was no sweater. But the Darkling could feel the sunshine heat somehow coating her skin.

The Darkling lifted his palms and Alina was terrified to see darkness blossoming. “Now let’s see what you can do.”

His palms met and the darkness spread.

Alina glanced around frantically and startled when she felt the Darkling’s cool fingers close around her arm.

Instantly she was met with another call. Albeit this one was more cool and bossy than the stag’s.

Alina felt something inside her start to answer. Like it answered the stag or her longing for warmth.

She was hesitant to answer the Darkling’s call. But her body had already been summoning for so long, it reacted.

To her surprise. She began to glow. It was gentle, practically hesitant in front of the Darkling, dimmer than the radiance she showed in front of the stag.

Alina looked around and saw the Grisha were slack-jawed.

The Darkling let Alina go but she still glowed like a small sun.

Alina: you’re like the stag...

Darkling nodded. “And you’re Grisha.”

Alina: wait, what?

Darkling: Ivan, see to my sleigh. We leave for the Little Palace before nightfall.

Alina shied away from the huge man in the red kefta. “Hang on! I think there’s been a mistake. I’m not what you think I am.”

Darkling: I doubt you have any idea what you are.

The Darkling turned to Ivan. “Go.” Then addressed the captain. “Keep searching for the stag. It was drawn to the sun summoner but we can’t risk the Fjerdans getting her.”

Needless to say, Alina spent the carriage ride with the Darkling protesting as he tried to explain what being a Grisha meant and lowering her défenses.

When the Darkling admitted he intends to use the stag’s antlers to amplify Alina’s abilities, she downright protested.

Darkling: is one life worth so many of Ravka’s people?

Alina hesitated. “Give me another amplifier. There has to another powerful one.”

Darkling: there is, but we would have to cross the Fold to reach it.

Alina: Can’t you amplify my powers for that?

Darkling: I have an army to run

Alina pretty much gives the Darkling the cold shoulder from that point onwards.

[baegarrick]

hi hello so i’m coming to you because you’re the only person in the zukka fandom that i’ve seen blogging about the old guard and i love that movie SO MUCH and i can’t stop thinking about immortal zukka..... aang as either nile or andy bc i can’t choose, andy wouldn’t lose her immortality, and no one would betray anyone bc i say so 😌 how do you think an atla/the old guard au would work?? (zukkababey)

ok i rly love the idea of immortal everyone but tbh!!! i really dont know enough about asian history to like... go into detail about this honestly and I really didn’t want to come off as racist by fudging some stuff, but here r some bulletpoints about Things

(also u can slide into my dms 2 talk about this if u want, or if u have a discord, sorry it too so long I literally cant stop writing when I get on Topics. I'm so sorry if this gets off topic)

Sokka & Katara

In this au they’re not biologically related, but are both Inuit

Sokka dies first in a skirmish with another group of indigenous people in northern Canada (Inuit Nunangat) sometime prior to 1800

He knows he died, his people saw him die, and he doesn’t understand what’s happening (I really don’t know enough about the Inuit people to say whether they would have rejected him or tried to help him understand what happened to him)

however, I’d like to think they’d at least tell him to talk to the angakkuq, the shaman, and would probably see this as a positive thing

Eventually his band of people would whittle down to just a dozen or so, after long winters and harsh climates, and they were forced to assimilate with other bands who didn’t have ancestors who were there when Sokka died in the first place, so he has to move on.

He travels around for a while, trading and learning and staying in bands for a few years before moving on to another group, until it’s the 1800s

Around this time, Katara is born (and dies)

She refuses to stand down against a white French hunter who wanted to take one of the young women in her village as a wife, and she’s killed, and the woman is taken anyway.

When she wakes up, she’s furious, and before she can understand what happened to her, she finds the man and kills him. She’s arrested and set to be killed when Sokka finds her.

They aren’t biological siblings, but they come from the same people, and the world is changing rapidly and they’re the only people they know who are like this. The idea of marrying Katara is the worst thing that Sokka can think of-- look at her, she’s just a baby!!-- so they call each other siblings and travel together.

Zuko

ok again i know literally 0 things about chinese history like i googled “female chinese warriors” for suki and got like 100 things for mulan

Zuko is old, probably one of the oldest of the (living) group, but younger than Aang

he was the first son of the second son of the emperor in a time of political conflict in China. His father, the prince, was at war with his own brother who Zuko considered a father figure.

zuko speaks out against his father and is killed for being a traitor, but, guess what, he doesn’t die!!! his father does it again for posterity and uhhhhhh still doesn’t die. (or rather, dies, and comes back)

here’s where my uhhhhhh lack of knowledge is Bad

would his father banish him for being cursed? for somehow being against the gods?

or would he force him to fight in his armies, against his uncle, because he can’t die?

I was going to go with “banished” but fighting for decades in a fight he doesn’t want to be in is so! much! worse!

his father wants to know the secrets of his immortality and when he can’t share it he’s tortured and tested for years, and eventually sent out to fight as an immortal soldier who can’t die.

eventually he escapes, and leaves china for a long time (he doesn’t return for centuries)

he is highly distrustful of anyone for years bc of his father!! he wanders around for years like he does in Zuko Alone (or like Quynh before Andy finds her) and while he sees small bits of humanity, he has little faith in it and their wars, because he is Not One Of Them

For money he joins bandit groups or warlords or mercenaries, because why does any of that matter to him? Everyone dies.

Eventually he meets Aang, who is Humanity Personified, and Aang asks him if he thinks they can be friends-- but they’re on opposite sides of this conflict and Zuko is too disillusioned to want that. (they part ways)

He meets a man, Iroh, who reminds him of his uncle. They travel together for far longer than Zuko normally would, because he likes having a father figure, and because Iroh lost a son about Zuko’s age. They travel for years and Zuko never ages, so eventually he has to leave. Iroh finds him a few years later, greyer and slower, but tells Zuko that he knows about Zuko.

Zuko reacts poorly to this, lashing out, but Iroh is calm. Zuko breaks down and tells him he can’t give Iroh what he wants. (what Zuko assumes he wants-- what they all want, immortality)

But Iroh’s like, why would I want that? it sounds like a curse, son. Why would I want to never see my son again?

He tells Zuko: we’re not meant to be alone

After Iroh passes a few years later, he tries to track down Aang but can’t find him. He, however, has dreams about the others.

alternatively///////// japanese zuko?????? RONIN ZUKO???? love it but im too tired to think of More Than That after typing all the chinese zuko stuff up, although im Sure a ton of it would cross over bc im vague as Hell

Aang

he’s the oldest of the group but you wouldn’t know it!!!!

Roku was his mentor, the first immortal that any of them know of. He’s thousands of years old when Aang meets him. (He’s also the first to die. He shows Aang that All Things Must Die)

Aang is Tibetan, a Buddhist monk, one of the earliest, maybe the 7th century?

He dies in a temple fire

here again my complete and utter lack of knowledge is Bad

according to Dzogchen, individuals can transform their body into an immortal rainbow light, so there’s some mention of immortality in certain parts of Tibetan Buddhist culture, but idk how widespread that is since wikipedia didnt even have a source for it

he becomes a missionary and travels around asia for decades before Roku finds him

Roku!!! he’s an Old Immortal, and probably wants to die a little bit at this point, and he eventually does!! but for awhile he and Aang travel around together, and butt heads a bit bc Aang’s pacifist nature, and Roku thinks Aang Will Change as he gets older

aang is absolutely devastated by the Mongol invasion of Tibet in the 13th century

roku dies about a hundred years after he meets aang, and aang travels around a little aimlessly for awhile, learning all kinds of things and befriending people he’ll outlive. it dampens his spirits a bit.

eventually he meets Zuko, who’s far more jaded than Roku was, even, and wants to be friends, but respects Zuko’s decision otherwise.

Eventually, aang travels with the Norse to Canada in the 15th century, but when they leave they don’t take him with them. Instead, he ends up frozen ala steve rogers. Katara and Sokka find him a few hundred years later.

alternatively////// Aang IS the newest kid. he’s the Nile of the group. He’s still a Tibetan monk, and views this as a teaching/learning opportunity. He would also probably like everyone to stop killing each other. Sokka rolls his eyes at him constantly.

Toph

toph is a struggle bc how do you deal with an IMMORTAL BLIND GIRL

I’m gonna stick w her show backstory: rich, blind daughter of a wealthy Chinese family

Is kidnapped and her throat is slit when she’s young (maybe an older teenager) and the kidnappers panic, leaving her body. She’s found, namely unharmed, and resumes life despite the fact she knows she died.

However, being a privileged young girl, she’s kept under watch and it quickly becomes known that she’s immortal.

She’s regarded as a living deity for centuries until she meets Suki, who rescues her from the place and teaches her to fight. (she becomes a myth, later, rather than a historical fact)

alternatively//////// she could have been first generation chinese-american, and therefore the youngest

Suki

Suki was a third generation female warrior of her family who guarded the boarder during the Northern Song Dynasty (960-1127), and trained from a young age in martial arts. (insp by the story of Mu Guiying)

She’s a war orphan, and leads an army of war widows and orphan women, but meets her untimely end with some of her sisters in a reign of arrows. She’s buried by some of her sisters before she wakes up again, and has to claw her way to the surface.

Her sisters don’t know how to react to her (a lot like Nile’s soldiers) so she eventually leaves them.

After her death, she hears rumors of a living goddess (Toph) and goes to see if there really is another person like her, and finds one of the people from her dreams (Toph)

She trains Toph to fight despite her being blind, and the pair become an unusual duo for a couple hundred years.

eventually, they start dreaming about a pair of siblings in the New World (not that new!! people live there!!) and book passage there in the 1800s with the first major wave of Chinese immigration

They dream about each other. it happens a lot at first, but it tapers out over the years. it grows stronger whenever a new one (katara) is born, but Katara and Sokka have NO desire to leave their homeland to go look for these strange people until they find Aang. (what languages might they have in common? russian??? the russians came to settle alaska, I know bc my stepmom is native alaskan and russian--- the Mongols invaded TIbet and Mongolia is right next to Russia, so Aang might know it??)

When they find Aang, Suki and Toph start dreaming of them again, and so does Zuko and they all start making their way to San Francisco. The Chinese wouldn’t arrive in Canada until around the 1850s (according to google) so Sokka probably wouldn’t speak any Chinese (mandarin???? i dont know things), but Zuko might speak some English or Russian. [really just gonna be a bunch of chinese, inuit, and tibetan people speaking russian to each other, isn’t it??]

Aang greets Zuko like an old friend, and Zuko Does Not know what to do with that. he’s skirtish and shy and hasn’t really been around a lot of friendly people. Sokka does NOT trust him. At all!! (he wants Katara to stay FAR AWAY from him. stick with the harmless monk we found at the bottom of a lake, katara.)

They find Suki and Toph in a bar. Toph hustling people for money, and Suki drinking at the bar. It’s very strange to have all of them around, and it’s like, 1830. they all decide they like each other, after they get some good old fashioned stabbing in-- Katara is the only woman Sokka has been around whos like him, and she’s like his little sister, and all he wants to do is Protect Her, so he doesn’t know what to do with women who known knives. (get his ass handed to him, thats what)

I want Zuko to be a broody mess but honestly he’d probably revert back to yelling at people/things in ancient Chinese (mandarin? I’m not really sure what period he’s from exactly). He’s still got that Good streak in him, esp since he’s like, a hundred years off his adopted uncle Iroh.

and you know what? 1830 america is NOT a cool place for anyone!! least of all asian immigrants, native americans, or women of either group

So the Gaang take to helping those people out any way they can. (Aang wants Peace, but you know white people, we don’t listen). They actively get involved in the underground railroad, eventually the civil war, and also helping out native americans, as well as chinese immigrants working on the railroads.

also so sorry I know the ask was about Zukka but I had to write a million words about their backstories first

Zuko + Sokka eventually come to a truce as the only dudes in this entire group who are willing to fight. Sokka is interested in both men and women, but he’s never really shared his life with anyone, and it’s the same for Zuko. Sokka, because he was regarded as an elder with his people, and after that he could only stay a few years. He had lovers, like Yue, but they all eventually died and Sokka couldn’t do anything about it!! Zuko, because while he also had lovers, he couldn’t really bear to be around humanity for a long time after what happened to him. (he’s vehemently opposed to slavery)

I think they get together at first just kind of because there isn’t really anyone else. Suki + Toph are kinda their own thing (are they lovers? sisters in arms? who knows), Katara is like Sokka’s sister (and if Zuko touches her Sokka will end his destiny permanently), and Aang is... aang.

It’s sorta a friends-with-benefits thing, except its an immortal warrior reluctant companions-with-benefits thing because can you really call this a friendship?? (its a family, eventually). Eventually it’s just kind of always been a thing. Sokka checking Zuko first when he comes back to life, counting down the second to make sure Zuko comes back at all. Zuko tells people he’s the only one allowed to kill Sokka, because lets be honest, the first couple of months with rowdy immortals meant killing each other a lot. When Sokka is killed violently in the Civil War, he wakes up half an hour later (slow, slow), to find a field of bodies and Zuko sitting next to him with his dao blades in the dirt, waiting for him. Sokka tries to make a joke, but it just makes Zuko mad, because what if that was the last time. (sokka jokes that he’s young, yet, not like Zuko)

They don’t really talk about it, partially because they don’t live in a world where it’s acceptable. What kind of title fits when you can only use it with 5 other people? But this time, when Zuko was afraid Sokka might not wake up, thirty years after they met, after lifetimes of being alone for both of them?? Sokka has to let Zuko know he loves him. Loves him!!! He’s not just here for the meantime.

thats all I have rn bc its 9pm and I’ve been writing this for like 3 hours. again if u wanna slide into my dms or if u have a discord and wanna talk about this/other stuff hmu. so sorry this got off topic.

also, the order I had them born in is:

roku --> aang --> Zuko --> suki --> toph --> sokka --> Katara

which may or may not be accurate to my timeline lol

Sokka probably speaks all of the Inuit languages, as well as French, English, and Russian, being alive for long enough to learn it all.

Katara refuses to learn French. Hates it. Never wants to learn.

She and Sokka personally keep Inuit traditions and languages alive as elders of their community, though it’s so much harder in modern times to stay connected to their culture bc they don’t age!!

disclaimer: bc the show was written as a complete mashup of several cultures I had to like..... pick where ppl were from. I picked china for Zuko/Suki/Toph bc they have a beautiful culture and a lot of dynasties I have heard a lot about recently while half watching the history channel. I really, really don’t know a lot about non-white culture as a white american from FLORIDA (so like, literally the farthest place you can get from the Inuit people and still be on the same continent). if you know more about these cultures than I do and I said something blatantly wrong pls let me know and I will change it.

[failedfirebender]

Distance - ZUTARA

Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender Genre: Drama, Romance. Words: 2482 Paring: Zutara - Zuko & Katara

________________________________________

Zuko approached Katara; it was late and she had fallen asleep reading on the couch. No, not reading, he realized, writing. The notebook was going up and down, over her chest.

For the last year and a half, she’d been studying and collecting data of all kinds of healing. From traditional ways – including herbs and potions –, to bending ones, with the objective of putting it all together in a massive “healing encyclopedia”, as Zuko liked to call it. She was almost done with it, and had been pulling preoccupying all-nighters for the last week, excited by the view of the finish line. Even when her passion was one of the many things that’d made Zuko fall for her, he was trying to help her get it under control. It was not healthy when it took control of her like that.  

He woke her up tenderly, kneeling in front of her and brushing the stands of hair that had fallen over her face. Her nose frowned and a grumble left her mouth. The tips of his lips curled and a rough chuckle slid past his lips. It was such a Katara thing to do.

As she softly awakened, he took a hairband from her wrist, proceeding to stand and make his way behind her. With all the calm in the world, he accommodated her wild curls into a bun and tied it up. His hands fell to her shoulders, helping her sit up, and massaging them kindly.

His girlfriend looked up at him and yawned, stretching her limbs as far as she could. Her hands reached up to the sides of his cheeks and squished them.

“Oh, my hero!” She giggled, her voice still dormant and low. “You saved me from the terrible fate of a back contracture!” He knew she only got all touchy and silly when sleep deprived. If any other human dared touch him like that, he’d burn their hands off. But this was Katara, and thus, her childish behavior only made his grin wider.

He kissed her forehead.

“Let's get you to bed.”

“No, no!” She whisper-shouted, shaking her head, “I am about to finish, just one more paragraph.” He raised an eyebrow. “Ok, ok maybe it’s another chapter, but who cares?”

“I do.” To these words, her sleepy eyes lit up. “Come on, you can finish tomorrow.”

He’d been meaning to talk to her forever. But between his duty as Fire Lord and the encyclopedia project, time had been a luxury they couldn’t afford. Which was good- kind of. Zuko had had more than enough time to think exactly of what he wanted to say, and practice it eternally looking at himself in the mirror. Not that he did, of course. Anyways – and just like he suspected –, all the practice in the world made him feel no closer to confident now the time came.  

Perhaps it was the timing. After all, four in the morning was not the best moment to have the conversation that had been haunting him the last two months. Maybe he shouldn’t... But he couldn’t back down now. He knew that if he did, the courage he’d been gathering would be lost for good.  

His fingers sunk deeper into her muscles, tracing calming circles and she sighed. But before he could tell, she was pulling away.  

“I know...” a yawn interrupted her words, her hand covering her mouth. She was terribly adorable. “...your tricks, and I won’t fall for them.” She crossed her arms over her chest and shot him what was supposed to be a death glare over her shoulder.  

He repressed a laugh, knowing it wouldn’t help his cause, and instead lead his hands back to her nape. This time, she didn’t move.

“How is this fair?” he mocked, “The one time she visits, I have to beg my girlfriend for attention.”  

Katara, who now had her notebook open over her crossed legs, tilted her head back; her features tainted with guilt.  

“I know, I know... I’ve been travelling a lot, but as soon as I finish the book, I’ll settle back in the Water Tribe and we’ll see each other more often.”

The thing was, Zuko’s plans did not include a long-distance relationship.  

“The book can wait a few more hours.”  

“And you can’t?” Katara’s words were meant to be a joke, a playful smirk was plastered on her face, yet Zuko’s reply was overwhelmingly honest.  

“I think I’ve waited long enough.”  

Just like that, the waterbender tensed under his touch. With cautioned movements, she placed the book in the small table in front of her and stood up. They looked into each other’s eyes with the couch between them. Katara’s eyes flickered with fear, no trace of the previous sleepiness on her face. Zuko, instead, wondered what he did to deserve the love of such a beautiful creature.

“What’s wrong?” her voice quavered with concern. She knew him too well, how did he even expect her not to realize something was up?

He extended his arm over the couch – her hand grabbed his with hesitation – and led her around the piece of furniture and to his side. Unable to hold back his impulses, he tugged her in, trapping her in his arms. A surprised shriek was suffocated half way out her mouth, as their bodies collided and she melted into him.  

They’d been together for four years, and she still had the perfume of fresh winter breeze impregnated in her hair. She still had the same freezing touch that drove him crazy, the same stubbornness and capability of arguing till death, the desperate need to help others and make this world better. He’d never get tired of loving her.  

He squeezed her tight once more before letting go, and looked down to her eyes. When moonlight hit them in just the right angle, like it was doing now, their oceans seemed to shine like mercury had been melted in them, like the silver light of a thousand stars was held within.

His hand traced his way down the length of her arm and his fingers intertwined with hers. Katara’s worried frown relaxed as she realized the tips of his lips were struggling to contain a smile.

In that same silence, overflowed with both questions and expectations, Zuko guided them both to the bed in the center of the room. He sat over it with his legs crossed and invited Katara to do the same.  

“I am getting really scared over here. What’s going on?” she said, fidgeting with his fingers, “I won’t do anything until you say something.” He shook his head no and chuckled, uncapable of forming any coherent sentence. His eyes went from the girl, to the bed, and back, insisting.  

Few were the times he’d been as nervous as he was at that moment. He could feel his caged heart bouncing against his ribs, desperate to come out and fall into Katara’s hands. It was a tired heart, beaten up and somehow strong enough to love harder every day. Zuko hated it when she was away, his heart so passive, his head so cold and calculative. No one had ever turned his world upside down the way Katara did, and he cherished every second of it.  

Once she was in front of him, he let go of her hand.

“Say something. Anything.” She begged. “You’ve been weird ever since I got here, you think I didn’t realize?” Her eyes were determined, but also flooded with worry.  

He brushed the palms of his hands anxiously against his knees, not finding a good answer for any of the things that she’d said. He was feeling something he thought long lost; his blood boiling as it sprinted through his veins, his temperature way higher than usual, his cheeks blushing and his lips stuck in a smile. He hadn’t felt this nervous around Katara in a really long time. Their first couple months dating made him feel just like that; uneasy, scared to ruin it all by being the confused little boy he was. But he was a man now, and the woman in front of him was no longer a child. They’d both grown, and they’d done it right next to each other.  

“You do know the first time we met I thought you were pretty?”  

Katara’s eyes widened.

“This is what you wanted to talk to me about? I mean I’m glad to-”

“No, no,” he calmed her down, rising his palms. “Let me finish.” He took a deep breath, barely believing this was the real deal, not himself repeating the words over and over in front of the mirror. “You were just this pretty girl that was making my life impossible by pairing up with the Avatar. You always found a way to mess up my plans. Damn, till today I remember how I hated you after our fight in the Northern Water Tribe.” The memory made them both smile. They’d come so far from where they started.  

“To be fair, you kind of wan the spar.”

“But you did save Aang in the end... and you saved me, too.” He swallowed. “You could’ve left me there to die, but you made sure I was safe. At that time... I don’t know if I would’ve done the same.”  Zuko could see the engines in her head turning like crazy. They’d been over the events of that night plenty of times and of course, she had no idea of where he was trying to get. “Then there was that day in which we all team up against Azula, remember?” She nodded, patiently, “And my uncle...” the memory made him shiver “When my sister hit him you tried to help me, but I pushed you away. Back in those days, I knew nothing better than fighting alone.” An apology was written in his eyes. “And the catacombs... it’s true, you know? What you said.”  

“I mean most of the things I say are, but specifically about what?” The waterbender continued to look completely puzzled.

Zuko bit his lip to repress his laugh. “Show off,” he accused her.  

Katara shrugged and the hint of a smile appeared on her face.  

“You told me a long time ago that you were the first one to trust me, and still, I betrayed you.” They were long past that, but Katara’s smile flickered. He knew how hard it had been on her to watch him pair with Azula after... well, after everything. “And you were talking about the guys, but you were the first one to trust me ever. Besides my uncle, no one had ever seen anything worth saving within me, anything worth healing... not even myself.” His hand had drifted to his scar, and Katara reached out to it, cupping it in her own. His eyes closed and he leaned towards her touch. “I’ll never ever forgive myself for that day-” She opened her mouth to speak, but he gave her that look that said ‘I’ve been putting my guts together the last two days to say this so please don’t interrupt’, and she shut it. “Not even knowing you did. And last, there was Azula’s Agni Kai.”  

There was a pause after those words. Even when the scars that marked his skin healed, the ones in his soul hadn’t completely. Katara took his hand between both of hers and left an encouraging kiss over it.  

“I think even when I didn’t realize it back then, I already loved you.” To these words, that had never been spoken before, a million feelings shadowed Katara’s features. “I’ve spent all this time loving you and I can’t do it anymore, not like this.” The grip of her fingers loosened around his hands, and when his eyes met hers, the life seemed to have been ripped out of them. Still, he didn’t let go of her. “I am tired of missing you every single day, tired of waiting for your letters, not knowing if you are ok... I can’t do that anymore.” With every word, her eyes watered up, and he forgot completely about the other one hundred things he wanted to say. He just couldn’t bare it any more. “Move in with me. Come live here, in the Fire Nation, in the palace, with me.”  

The words fell out of his mouth gracelessly, way too fast and tipsy, not at all like he’d wanted them to. But it was done, and deafening expectation was now overflowing his body. The feeling was erratic, his every cell on edge, like he’d just shot a question way more dangerous than lightning. Katara’s state couldn’t be described with any other word but shock. Her eyes were about to fall from her face, her lips were parted and, except for one sneaky tear sliding down her cheek, she remained impossibly still.

And then, just when Zuko was about to apologize and take it all back for rushing things, his girlfriend’s hand struck him across the face with strength worthy of a Master waterbender. His hand flew to his cheek as he turned to her in disbelief.  

“That’s for making me believe you were breaking up with me!” Her chest was going up and down agitated, another tear fell from her left eye.  

Zuko was in absolute shock. He hadn’t realized his words could be interpreted that way. Why did he always have to screw everything up? Couldn’t he be a romantic average boyfriend for once? The moment he opened his mouth to try and fix the mess he’d made, her lips met his.  

It was an urgent kiss, fiery and passionate, that made him fall back on the bed, Katara over him. His hands dug deep into her hair and pulled back, the messy curls being freed and falling like an endless river behind her. He loved her, spirits he loved her so much the feelings could barely be held within his body, it was as if though they were trying to escape through every touch, through the bridge between their lips.  

Her hands were tangled in his mane and he took the opportunity to shift them, trapping her between him and the bed. Their lips finally separated, but as for the rest of their bodies, he couldn’t say the same.  

“And what...” he was completely out of breath, his shaken words got mixed with Katara’s minted breath. Their eyes collided, burning amber against ocean blue. Hers glowed like beacons in the darkest night. “What was that for?”  

“That?” a smirk took over her face “That was for all the rest.”

This time, he was the one to close the distance that held them apart. They had had more than enough distance for a lifetime, and from now on, he’d make sure to make up for every second of it.