#anyway enjoy my silly little story

[rurukatt]

Acts of Kindness

It’s been a while since I wrote anything, so I’m really glad I finally had the energy to sit down and do this. I’ve been wanting to write something for my RDO/RDR2 OC & Arthur, starting with how they met 6 years before the events of RDR2, so here it is! I hope you’ll enjoy my little self-indulgent thing! Or just the illustrations, if you don’t feel like reading. :]

Special thanks to @rangari​ for all the help with editing ❤️

Warnings: Suicidal ideation, mentions of family death

Word count: 7.3k

The rain was falling relentlessly as dusk settled over the land. It had only been four days, but to Sophia, it seemed like an eternity; making her way through the forest in an area unknown to her already proved to be a struggle, and the weather didn't help at all. She cursed the downpour under her breath, but most of all herself, for choosing the path that led across the river to her new hideout, a fairly well hidden spot under a rock formation, the only thing promising some sort of protection from the elements – and from the lawmen and bounty hunters at her heels.

She looked down at her right leg, wrapped up in a piece of cloth she'd torn from her dress, all covered in blood now. One wrong step on the slippery rocks of the riverbed had been enough to put an end to her escape, tearing the skin from her calf and causing bruises all over her leg, almost robbing her of the chance to even reach this refuge. She traced her fingers over the scar and let out a relieved sigh. The sharp pain ripping through her body at the slightest touch seemed to dull down to a constant throbbing ache, which was still exhausting but a welcome change after the past couple of hours.

The girl leaned back against the cold stone and closed her eyes as she listened to the monotone melody of raindrops in a desperate attempt to calm down and try to recount the events of the past few days that led her here.

Valentine. Yes, she had visited the town to fetch some supplies for her folks and things had been going fine until she witnessed something just before she set out to return to Strawberry. She rubbed her temples as if that could have helped her remember more quickly.

A man in an alleyway lying in a steadily spreading pool of his own blood, several others surrounding him.

If I had been just a little bit quicker to move past them, I wouldn't have caught their attention.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

One of the men throwing a bloodied knife on the ground in front of her and wishing her "Good luck" with a mocking grin on his face before disappearing.

And then the chaos, people screaming, lights lit, and her running as fast and as far from all of this as her legs could carry her.

The rest of that night and the path she had taken to eventually end up here was a blur that’s only started to clear up.

“I didn’t do anything to him,” she murmured to herself, perhaps to soothe herself, but deep down she knew it wasn’t going to convince anybody that comes after her. Somebody had died and somebody would hang for this crime, and as a cruel joke of fate, this somebody was her. The law will not care, nor will the bounty hunters looking for some quick cash.

Eyes still closed, she lifted her hands and interlocked her fingers, and although at this point she doubted a prayer would help her, part of her still held out hope that it wouldn’t go unheard.

That fraction of hope was soon shattered by the sound of gunfire.

Sophia felt the blood drain from her face. Her trembling hand reached down, fumbling around until she found what she was looking for – the knife that had been so “kindly” bestowed upon her back in Valentine. After all, it was what got her into trouble, and with its help maybe she could carve her way out of it; so she clutched it as tightly as she could, and waited. Despite her best efforts to remain calm, a cold wave of panic surged through her with each gunshot and scream, head and heart pounding as the noises grew louder.

And then the commotion ceased, just as suddenly as it had begun, yet somehow the silence unsettled her more. She tried to concentrate on the sound of what she assumed were  footsteps, although she couldn't tell anymore whether they were real or just figments of her imagination. Whoever, or whatever it was, they were getting closer, and the thought once again filled her with dread. Time was running out – that much was clear to her, even if everything else was clouded by fear, but exhaustion had begun to set in. She squeezed the knife for a last time before her grip loosened as she slowly drifted into a hazy semi-conscious state.

An uncomfortably familiar sound jolted her back to reality. A clicking of a gun that, even though she couldn't see it in the dark, was too close for comfort. She turned her head, looking in the direction the noise had come from and let out a sharp breath when she found the source of it; the faint moonlight filtering through the clouds was just enough to make out the silhouette of the barrel of a rifle pointing at her – and the man who was holding it.

“A pleasure to finally meet the terror of Valentine.” The sarcasm in the stranger’s voice was obvious. He lowered the weapon as he continued. “When they said it was gonna be easy money, I didn’t know what to expect. Definitely not this.”

With whatever strength she had left, Sophia swung the knife in the man’s direction. “If you come closer, I’ll stab you,” she said, her voice almost turning into a growl.

“Like you put a knife in that feller back in town?” came his response, followed by a chuckle. “If you want a fight, then by all means. But it ain’t gonna be a fair fight, ma’am.”

As much as it pained her, she had to admit the man had a point. Even without her injuries, she would’ve been no match for him – she was certain of it, even in her current light-headed state. She withdrew her hand, still fiddling with the knife as her eyes followed him when he stepped away from her. He circled around her hideout as if he was looking for something, occasionally stopping and leaning down, disrupting the silence of the night with the cracks of twigs. After some time had passed, she gave up on keeping an eye on him; the noises seemed to be enough to assure her he was still around and approaching her again. It was only then when she noticed the rain had ceased.

A bundle of thin branches landed right before her on the ground. She squinted, trying to take a better look at him as he began to stack them into a neat little pile; it took a couple of attempts to help it catch alight, but the flames were growing fast, sending amber sparks into the black of night. It was a mesmerizing sight, only eclipsed by the sheer joy of feeling warmth for the first time in days.

“Doesn’t hurt to see each other while we’re fightin’. Might help you aim your knife better.” the man remarked as he plopped down next to her, interrupting her quiet musing.

“There will be no fight,” she replied, somewhat annoyed. “I… I’ve changed my mind.”

“I get to live another day,” he laughed. “Thank you for sparing me, miss.” He threw another branch into the fire.

Sophia turned towards him, finally taking the time to properly inspect her new acquaintance now that she could actually see him. She hadn't noticed how much bigger he was than her before sitting so close to him; the fact didn't quite make her less agitated, so she shifted her attention to his face. Ruffled, dirty blonde hair framed his rugged features; he was unshaven but not entirely unkempt, she concluded. Her gaze traced the arch of his nose over and over again before it settled on his blue eyes, lingering long enough for their eyes to meet.

"So what's going on here?" He broke the silence again. "Were you defending yourself from that man?"

She turned away, somewhat embarrassed that she was caught staring. The same couldn’t be said about the man whose intent gaze she could still feel on her, even after minutes have passed. He was far more patient than she had expected, but Sophia wasn’t sure when his patience was going to run out – it was better to start talking while he was asking nicely, even if it took all the focus she could muster.

“When I first saw him, he was already dead.” Her brows furrowed as she recalled the details of the incident. “There was a group of men around him. Three, maybe four of them, I can’t remember.” She lifted the knife. “This belonged to one of them, I guess it was his… parting gift to me. They left quickly and I tried to follow them, I really tried! But they were gone before I knew it. The sheriff showed up, one of them… one of them was with him, and I knew I had to– to Strawberry–” Her heart was racing, her breath coming in short, quick gasps as she struggled to continue, but no more words came out. The flames of the campfire and the surrounding shadows blended together as the combination of fear, frustration and confusion caused tears to fill her eyes.

He didn’t say anything. Instead of acknowledging what had been said or asking new questions, he placed his hand on her shoulder, rubbing her arm gently – a gesture she hadn’t anticipated from someone she had only known for less than an hour. Sophia didn’t know how much time had passed before she started to regain her composure, the oddly comforting weight still on her shoulder.

“Say no more, miss,” the man spoke in a low voice and gave her a small pat on the shoulder. “I think I’ve heard enough.”

She reached up to her shoulder, her hand searching for his just to hold on to something for a little more comfort. “What makes you think I’m telling the truth?”

He squeezed her hand in response.

“I reckon if you spend enough time in the company of conmen, you slowly learn how to tell when someone’s lyin’.” The man cleared his throat. “This whole business smelled weird from the start. But forty dollars is forty dollars, so I decided to try my luck… I’m glad I did.”

His words sounded genuine. Maybe a little too genuine, and Sophia couldn’t fathom why he’d go to such lengths to gain her trust if he was going to turn her in anyway… but something in her kept telling her that maybe a different outcome was possible. But at what cost? There was a bounty on her head. If she was to live, she had to do it on her own, get far away from here and stay out of sight for the rest of her life, leaving everything she’s known behind. A life on the other side of the law was unimaginable to her; the way she saw it, she was simply unfit for it.

After some quiet contemplation, she came to a conclusion.

“Can I ask you for a favor, mister?” She waited for a moment before continuing. “It’ll be beneficial for both of us.”

The man raised his eyebrows, his bright eyes showing a glint of bewilderment and suspicion.

“Depends on what you want, ma’am.”

She let go of his hand and turned her back to him. “You seem like someone who’s good with weapons,” she lowered her voice as she held out the knife to him over her shoulder. “I can’t do it myself. But this is no way to live. I don’t know how to… Just… be quick, please. As an act of kindness for forty dollars.”

Much to her surprise, he took the knife from her.

“If you were really so eager to die, you'd have done it yourself before I was on your trail, girl," his voice was more serious than before. "You're still alive. Only a fool clings to life so hard and throws it all away in the end. And you ain't no fool, are ya, miss?"

Not waiting for an answer, he tucked the knife into his satchel. "I'm keeping this until you get yourself together."

A resigned sigh left Sophia’s mouth in response, yet there was a sliver of relief in her voice. Although the uncertainty of what the future was holding for her still terrified her, this turn of events promised a second chance that was not likely to be offered again. Once again she had to admit the stranger was right; and considering her efforts to endure the hardships of the past few days, she felt stupid for even thinking quitting like that would be a solution in a moment’s weakness. However, there was one more thing that didn’t allow her to let her guard down completely – at least not yet. Her palm opened and closed around the empty space where the knife had been, movements repeating slowly as she tried to think of the right words to say. But rather than an answer, came a question.

“Why are you doing this?” It was a very simple question, but it summed up everything that kept her on edge. The man’s intentions remained a mystery to her, and no matter how much she tried, with every action of his it was getting more difficult to decipher them.

He huffed and stood up; to Sophia it seemed like he was just doing something else to buy himself some time before responding. She watched him walk away towards something she couldn't clearly see at first, but slowly, a faint silhouette of a horse was starting to take shape amid the trees. Muffled sounds of rummaging through a bag filled the chill night air for a few moments before he returned to her with a small sack and a jacket Sophia could swear he'd been wearing earlier. He crouched down next to her, draping the jacket over her shoulders.

"I guess I'm just tired of seeing folks die before their time," he said with a hint of sadness in his voice, adjusting the jacket as if he was making sure she was covered properly. "You're in rough shape, miss. That's a good way to catch something nasty," he gestured at her drenched clothes and her leg wound that was in desperate need of fresh bandages while grabbing some gauze from the sack.

Sophia watched him in silence, still processing his answer. Simple as it was, it raised a lot of questions, but for now she deemed it sufficient; it was becoming very clear that whatever it was he wanted, the man meant no harm to her. The fact that she no longer needed to keep her eyes on him all the time out of caution brought her some much needed relief.

“It is indeed time to change these–” she hissed and bit her lower lip in order not to yelp from the sudden pain that shot through her leg when she pulled it up to remove the old dressing. She hadn’t moved much for the past few hours, which might have caused the illusion that the worst of the pain was gone. “I’m fine,” she held up her hand in protest before her unusual companion could even have opened his mouth to provide help; the procedure of changing wound dressings was not unknown to her, but she needed some time for the pain to subside and to finally be able to get to work. Removing the makeshift bandage turned out to be a much slower and more painful process than she had expected – she gritted her teeth while peeling it off inch by inch, the piece of cloth stuck to half-dried blood once again tearing the wound open as it parted from her skin.

“God damn it,” Sophia panted, throwing the rags into the fire before leaning back to the wall. Normally, she would have scolded herself for taking God’s name in vain, but this time she felt not a twinge of shame, only the never ending exhaustion and the growing need to just get this over with.

“You need a hand with that?” the man asked. He didn’t make a move, seemingly having understood she’d wanted to do this herself. However, as determined as she was at first, she found herself getting frustrated very easily by the task she was supposed to complete without issues and was grateful for that question.

“I believe I do,” she replied, glancing over to him.

He nodded and slid closer, ready to continue where she had left off when the girl grabbed his wrist. The sudden move caught him by surprise, bringing an expression to his face that almost made Sophia burst out laughing despite her current misery. “You need to wash your hands first,” she instructed him with a barely restrained smile on her lips.

“A little finicky, aren’t we?” He let out a small chuckle. “What are you, ma’am, a doctor?”

“Just the daughter of one.” She gestured at him, brows raised as if urging him to do as she said. Nature, of course, lacked the relative cleanliness of a doctor’s office, but she still wasn’t going to compromise; she stared at him until he gave in and pulled out a canteen from his bag to pour water on his hands.

“Satisfied, Miss Daughter-of-a-Doctor?” he inquired, which was met with eye-rolling and a small nod from Sophia. She was not quite amused by her newly given title, no matter how accurate it was, but it suddenly dawned on her that the stranger had no means of calling her by her name. In an ordinary situation, introducing herself would’ve been the first thing she’d have done, but this was far from an ordinary situation, and therefore the lack of good manners didn’t bother her too much. Still, curiosity kept her mind restless as she watched him proceed to clean up the wound and apply the new bandage – with a lot more care than she had hoped for.

“It should hold until we get to somewhere safe.” He rolled up the remaining gauze and put it back into the sack, then turned his gaze back to her, giving her a nod along with a subtle yet encouraging smile.

Sophia returned the smile. “Thank you for the help, Mr…. Mr. – “

“Morgan.” The man interrupted her. “Arthur Morgan.”

She stopped for a moment to thank whatever higher power saved her from having to outright ask – it was nice to finally be able to attach a name to the face.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. That was very kind of you.” Her voice was calm, but in her head countless possible conversations played; she knew it was her turn for an overdue introduction.

“Least I could do, don’t mention it.” Arthur waved his hand and sat down next to her. “Now, how may I address you, ma’am?”

“Sophia. My name is Sophia…,” she began, but suddenly went silent, staring into the light of the campfire as she contemplated her next choice of words. The man seemed honest and she felt a pang of guilt for rewarding his honesty with insincerity, but the need for some sort of precautionary measure was stronger, even if she had already given away her first name – he deserved to know at least that much, she thought.

The sound of him pushing back a stray charred piece of wood into the fire with his boot broke her line of thought, but in that moment, she had her answer.

“...Ashe. My name is Sophia Ashe.”

“You’ve got a nice name, Miss Ashe.” Arthur tilted his head, a smirk forming on his face. “Can’t say it's quite usual ‘round here.”

She blinked at him, looking for any signs of disbelief – she still couldn’t tell if he was being serious or just playing along, but he didn’t seem too intent on prying.

“That’s because I’m not from around here,” she replied. Had she used her actual last name, it would probably have gotten a similar reaction out of him. Upon seeing Arthur raise his brows in what looked more like inquiry rather than doubt, she continued. “I was born in New York. Spent my life there until my family decided to make a big move across the country when I was fifteen, but there was an incident and… I’ve been stuck here ever since.” She took a deep breath. It had been years since she even mentioned it to anyone, but she found the time passed has made it easier to talk about it, even if just a little. Or maybe it was the company? She couldn’t say. “My mother and father were good people, god-fearing, refined and kind. But they did not know this land. To them, bandits were just… a thing of the past, I think. Nameless figures in some romantic tales, and no more. When they realized that was far from the truth, it was already too late.”

In spite of her attempted detachment, she felt tears swelling in her eyes. “I think of them every day. My mother was a frail lady… she was the reason we set out for California – the cold months in the city did no good for her health and my father wanted the best for her. He promised me he’d take us for walks under the orange trees.” She reached up to wipe her tears. “There was no man who loved his family more than he loved us.” Her own talkativeness surprised her, but nevertheless it was good to have someone to listen to her, even if this someone happened to be a stranger.

She felt his hand on her shoulder again.

“I’m sorry about your family. Sounds like they were decent people.” His voice was low, almost whispering; she found it rather soothing. He waited a little, then added: “How’d you get by after that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Repeating the same motion as before, her hand moved again to touch his. There was something genuinely calming about his presence, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on what exactly it was. “A couple down in Strawberry found me and took me in. They had no children, so I got to stay with them. Taught me how to do things around the house, cleaning, cooking, all that; even got me some work on a friend’s farm.” She caught herself squeezing his hand again, but since he didn’t seem to mind, she continued. “Not really how I imagined my life as a child, but I’m still grateful.”

“It’s quite the change after the big city life, that’s for sure,” he nodded.

“Do you have a family, Mr. Morgan?” She felt it was her turn to ask a question after talking so much; she’s grown fond of his voice and could do with a break from talking anyway.

He didn’t answer immediately, and for a moment, Sophia worried she might have insulted him.

“I di– I do,” he started, with a tired half-smile. “But I don’t think it fits your image of a family, miss. A bunch of criminals, outcasts… people who have nowhere else to go. But I’d kill for them – and I’d die for them if I had to, just like anyone would for theirs.”

She was not prepared for this answer. “They’re lucky to call you family,” she blurted out, for the lack of a better response.

“I’m the lucky one here.” He chuckled, squinting at her. “I hope I didn’t scare you too much. We ain’t like the fellers that were after you,” he gestured towards the woods, in the direction where the sound of gunshots had come from earlier, with his free hand. “Or those who… took your family from you.”

“No, it’s just… so hard to believe you’re a petty criminal, after all you've done for me.” She lifted her head until her eyes met his.

“You don’t know me, Miss Ashe. I’m much worse than that – a bad man who does bad things; always have been, always will be.”

“You have quite a strange idea of what a bad man is, Mr. Morgan.” Her initial shock was quickly replaced by anger and confusion. A bad man. Unless he was a really good actor, this couldn't possibly be true, could it? It made no sense to her.

"You're one to talk with your idea of what an act of kindness is," Arthur let out another dry laugh.

“I was just scared.” There was a bit of defensiveness in her tone. Part of her wanted to stay silent to not annoy him too much and risk getting left behind, but the other part wanted to argue with him despite how much the lengthy conversation and experiencing such a wide range of emotions in such a short time had worn her down; she knew she was right. “But you still chose to go out of your way to help me when I asked you to kill me. You could’ve just agreed and get your money. Is that a bad thing, Mr. Morgan? Is that what bad men do?”

Her questions were met with silence. He didn’t ignore her – to Sophia it seemed as if he was just struggling to find the right words to say.

“Arthur.” She pulled his hand from her shoulder into her lap, holding it with both of hers. “If you don’t mind, I would ask you for another… act of kindness.”

He snorted and shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips after getting called by his first name. “Told you I’m not harming you. And don’t even think about getting the knife back.”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” she replied quickly. “Can you promise me something?”

“It better not be another wild idea–”

“Don’t call yourself a bad man in front of me ever again.” She knew she wasn’t in the position to give out orders or even to ask for anything, but she felt like she had to give it a try.

“I guess it only matters if you stay around me, but… sure, I can do that.” He looked down at their hands, then back at Sophia, who appeared to be content with his answer. “I take it that means you’re coming with me then?”

“Do I have another choice?”

He exhaled slowly. “Nah, I don’t think so, unless you want to be dragged back to Valentine.”

As much as she yearned to see civilization again, that was the last thing she wanted. Although Arthur was still barely more than a stranger to her, there was a particular sense of safety around him which she wasn’t ready to give up yet; it gave her a glimmer of hope that she might survive if she goes with him – in stark contrast with the certain death she’d face if the law got her. It was an easy choice.

Sophia opened her mouth to say something, but her throat was so dry she could hardly speak – all that came out was a hacking cough. Arthur moved immediately, reaching over her for the canteen and handing it to her. She accepted the water, taking small sips until the last drop was gone from the bottle and her coughing stopped.

“I should’ve asked sooner,” Arthur remarked as he fetched a small packet from his satchel and placed it in her lap. “When was the last time you ate?” “I had dinner back in Valentine. I had some food in my bag but threw it all away on my way here. I didn’t want it to attract animals or something…” Sophia screwed the lid back on the canteen and put it down before investigating the little bundle she just received. It fit into her palms, and when she unwrapped it, the package revealed half a bread roll and a tiny piece of cheese.

“Smart,” Arthur gave her a smirk as he watched her devour the contents of the packet. “You probably should’ve eaten some of it before you threw it away, but– hey, slow down a bit, miss! It ain’t worth choking on.”

“Thank you,” the short expression of gratitude came out as a mumble; she wasn’t even sure he understood it. Small as it was, the improvised meal was more than satisfying; Sophia had never expected that some dry bread and not so fresh cheese would make her so happy one day. With her hunger satiated, she let out a yawn; her eyelids felt heavy and her head slowly fell to the side, resting against his arm. He was talking to her again in that familiar, calming tone she was so captivated by; what he was saying, she had no idea anymore, but at some point the words stopped and changed into a low humming – the last thing she heard before she finally fell asleep.

☾

The first rays of sunshine just started illuminating the morning sky when Sophia was slowly nudged awake from her sleep. Without opening her eyes, it took her a moment to register that Arthur was still sitting next to her – the smell of smoke and sweat was the same as she remembered it from the night before, but it was not nearly enough to bother her; she snuggled in a little closer, reveling in the warmth that radiated from him. His arm was moving in a delicate, careful motion, and she squinted her eyes open to see what he was doing. A journal lay in his lap, open at the page he was trying to fill up with writing and some drawings – what exactly they were, Sophia couldn’t see clearly. Upon noticing that she was no longer sleeping, he quickly closed the journal, leaving her no time to inspect whatever he had scribbled down there.

“Mornin’, Miss Ashe,” he greeted her, turning to her. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” she muttered in response. “Fine, I guess. Could sleep for a little longer, though. You?”

“I bet you could.” He slipped the journal into his satchel. “Don’t you worry about me, I’m rested enough. My shoulder’s a bit sore, but I’ll live.”

“Sorry.” She felt a little guilty about it – after all, that was her fault for having slept leaning against his arm; it wasn’t the most comfortable position for him, but she was grateful that he hadn’t moved away. “I swear I don’t plan on using your arm as a pillow again.”

“I understand. It’s a small wonder you had any sleep at all on a pillow like this,” he laughed. “Well, now that you’re awake, I think we should get going. It’s still early enough. If we’re lucky, we won’t run into anyone on the road.”

Arthur stood up and walked over to the remains of the campfire to scrape some dirt onto the smoldering ashes with his boot, then stopped in his tracks for a moment as if he had a sudden revelation and smiled to himself before carrying on. It didn’t escape Sophia’s attention, but she chose not to comment on it – she was much more preoccupied with taking in the sight of him revealed by the daylight. Somehow he seemed even taller and broader than she recalled from last night, but having glimpsed into what was hiding behind the rugged facade, it didn’t intimidate her as much as it had when she first saw him. She had no doubts he could be ruthless if needed – he had demonstrated that even before they met by shooting the men that had tracked her down, she reminded herself, – however, the good things he’s done for her far outweighed the possible threat he was posing.

He let out a sharp whistle, and a horse galloped up to him shortly after. The animal looked well cared for, much better than its owner; it had a chestnut coat Sophia found especially beautiful.

“Good morning, girl,” he welcomed the horse with a fond tone that was clearly reserved for a beloved companion, pressing his forehead to the horse’s as he patted her on the neck. “Let’s get you on her,” he turned to Sophia and led the horse closer, extending his hand to help her onto her feet. “Can you stand?”

Sophia nodded in response as he pulled her up. The pain was still there when she shifted her weight onto her right leg; although she was able to stand, she knew she couldn’t possibly walk without stumbling, but that wasn’t something she had to worry about too much. He put both of his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the horse so effortlessly as if she had weighed next to nothing.

“Don’t worry, she won’t throw you. She’s a sweet girl,” he assured her, adjusting the saddlebag and fastening his rifle to the saddle before he swung himself up to sit in front of her and looked around. “Alright, let’s be on our way. Hold on tight, Miss Ashe!”

He didn’t have to say it twice. Sophia wrapped her arms around his waist as he urged the horse forward through the woods; their little encampment soon disappeared behind them and the scenery gradually changed from forest to lush meadows with snowy peaks towering above them in the distance.

Hours had passed since they set out on their journey, only stopping occasionally to let Arthur’s horse rest. During those stops, she observed him taking out his journal and sketching or jotting down whatever was on his mind; good manners dictated she should not poke her nose into something that was none of her business, but her curiosity proved to be stronger.

“You really enjoy writing in that book,” she began, restraining herself from directly asking to see what’s inside. Sitting across from him, her chances of sneaking a peek were low, so she had to find other means to take a look at the journal’s contents.

“I ain’t much of an artist, but it’s a good way to pass time.” Aware of her nosiness, he closed the journal again. “I don’t think there’s anything in this for a sophisticated young lady like you,” he added with a little chuckle. “But there will be others at the camp who can entertain you with a conversation or two about… cultured things. You seem like someone who likes art and books and whatnot.”

Her face brightened up. To finally have people to discuss the things she loved with after all those years, it sounded like a dream. “I do like all of those things!” she replied with thinly veiled excitement.

“Then maybe you can educate an uncultured man like me on the way,” he grinned as he walked over to her to help her onto the horse again. “We’re still not quite there yet, so you’ve got plenty of time.”

“I could…,” she hesitated for a moment, but decided to continue. “If I can ask for something in return.”

Arthur leaned against the saddle and shook his head, almost laughing. “Another act of kindness?” He glanced up to her. “You wanna play a game, lady? I’ve been meaning to ask something of you anyway. If you let me, I’ll be in your debt and I’ll do a little act for you. But if you ask me for one more, you’ll owe me one. How’s that sound?”

Without skipping a beat, Sophia held out her hand. “Deal.”

Arthur shook her hand and proceeded to settle in the saddle. “I’m asking for a promise, Miss Ashe,” he started while gently nudging his horse to move. “One day, I’ll ask you a question, and I need you to promise me you’ll give me an honest answer. I hope that ain’t too much.”

His words took her by surprise, and although she wondered what that question could possibly be, she nodded in agreement. “Fine, I promise. It certainly doesn’t seem too much. For everything you’ve done for me, I feel like I already owe you more than I could ever repay.”

“You don’t owe me nothing for what I did last night.” He cleared his throat. “So what is it you want? I’ve got your promise, now it’s your turn.”

“Can I see the drawings?” Sophia peeked out from behind him. “Just the drawings, not even all of them, just– just what you did today. That would be enough.”

“Ain’t you a persistent little lady?” Arthur sighed with obviously faked annoyance and reached down to pull out the journal from his bag. He opened it at the most recent drawings and held it up for her to see. “There you go, I hope that sates your curiosity.”

Sophia was astounded by the level of detail in those sketches; it was not what one would have expected from someone who supposedly wasn’t “much of an artist”. A rabbit, a deer, some wildflowers, mountains and fields – they almost looked like photographs.

“You keep saying things about yourself that aren’t true,” she turned to him. “These are breathtaking, Mr. Morgan. Thank you for showing them to me.”

Arthur gave her a nod as a quiet thanks and put the journal away as they continued their journey in silence for a while.

“...Do you still want me to talk about art and… other things?” Sophia asked suddenly.

“I thought you’d never ask,” came the answer immediately.

And with that, she started talking. About the art galleries they had visited back in New York, about artists her parents loved, her painting lessons, the books she had read, the libraries she had visited, her favorite authors, and everything else that flooded her mind, overcome with sheer joy and excitement after having no audience for this kind of talk for years. And Arthur listened, occasionally nodding and asking her to talk more about this or that – and she did, until she was so exhausted she started drifting off.

Still holding on to him around his waist, she could feel his arm over hers; he was most likely just making sure she wouldn’t fall off the horse in her sleep, and she appreciated the gesture. He started humming again; it was the same calming tone that had helped her fall asleep the night before. But this time, the humming slowly grew into whispers, and the whispers into words. Arthur was singing, and Sophia did her utmost to stay awake to hear his voice, careful not to let him know she was still listening, until reality started to fade and gave way to dreams – dreams about a man singing a song she had never heard in her life.

☾

The thin fabric of the tent wasn’t enough to keep the chill night breeze out, but it certainly offered much more protection than the cliff she had hidden under last night. Sophia rolled over on the cot and pulled one of the two blankets over her chin. It wasn’t as comfortable as her bed but it still felt like a luxury after what she’d just been through, and on top of everything, at long last, she was clean. She vaguely recalled arriving at the camp just before sunset; a quite intimidating lady helping her take a bath, get new bandages on her leg, food and clean clothes while commanding everyone around, and an older, kind man asking some questions, speaking in a refined manner that reminded her of her own father. She’d seen a few other faces too, but she could barely remember them. The sound of a conversation coming from outside of the tent caught her attention. She recognized Arthur’s voice as he mumbled something.

“I know, son, I know,” a familiar, kind voice responded. “But you need to do the talking this time. I’m sure Dutch won’t mind the girl, but he expected money.”

“You don’t have to remind me.”

“Maybe she could help us. She’s well educated and seems to have a sharp mind, we could find a way she could earn some money.”

“Stabbing and conning people is out of the question,” Arthur snorted. “She would cut herself before you know it, and… she ain’t that good at lying.”

“Anything can be learned, Arthur,” the other man replied. “She could learn from the best, if she’s willing to.”

“Hosea, please.”

“You know I ain’t wrong! Now go. Dutch will be back tomorrow, get some rest until then.”

As the conversation ended, the entrance of the tent opened and Arthur entered.

“I see Miss Grimshaw made you feel quite at home”, he remarked with a grin, lighting the small lantern next to the cot and spreading a quilt on the ground for himself. “ Don’t worry, you ain’t stuck here with me forever. You’ll get to be with the girls tomorrow, so you only have to put up with me snoring next to you tonight.”

“I’ve survived worse,” Sophia peeked out from under the blanket, watching Arthur sit down and lean his head on the cot so they were eye to eye.

“I know. I was there," he said. "But you're safe now, and… welcome to stay until you figure out what you wanna do from now on."

They lay in silence for minutes. His eyes were moving; to Sophia it was almost as if he was trying to memorize her features. She pulled the blanket from her face, which won her a grateful smile from Arthur. Her own gaze was just as restless; after all, he was finally close enough for her to take a good look without worrying about getting caught staring. It was definitely the face of someone who could've used a good night's sleep but she was pleased with what she saw, and every new little detail she discovered added to her joy – especially the small scar across his chin that she found rather charming. She reached out, although with a bit of uncertainty, to touch it; to her surprise he didn't back out, turning his face into her palm once she was done inspecting the scar – a gesture that flustered her so much she could only manage an answer when the light of the lantern went out.

"You're the nicest man I have ever met, Mr. Morgan."

"The nicest? You're making me worry about the company of men you keep, miss." His voice was getting noticeably more and more tired, but she could still feel a smile forming on his face. He inhaled as if he was trying to continue, only to change his mind just before even a single word came out – he must have remembered what she had asked of him earlier.

"I know it's getting late," she started, "but can I ask for one more thing?"

"What is it?"

She knew it was a selfish request, but it was worth a shot.

"Would you sing something for me?"

"I would if I could sing at all, ma'am."

"Strange, I could've sworn I heard you singing on our way here," she replied, still hoping he would cave. "It must've been the wind "

Arthur let out a drawn-out sigh that turned into a chuckle. "You're racking up quite a debt, Miss Sophia." He placed his hand on her arm and gave her a little pat. "Let's keep this between ourselves, alright?"

He started singing right away, so quietly only the two of them could hear it, and despite his voice cracking a couple times, he kept at it until his words faded to incomprehensible mumble and eventually, a steady snoring.

Sophia grabbed one of the blankets and pulled it over his shoulder, even though he was fully dressed and probably not bothered by the cold; it just felt like the right thing to do. She curled up under hers and decided to leave pondering about her future for tomorrow – she had plenty of time for it now that she was given another chance at life. All thanks to an outlaw who claimed to be a bad man, yet contradicted this statement at every turn; whose voice echoed in her head even now, lulling her into sleep once again.

[aethersea]

I do think Blazing Saddles handled its one depiction of native americans very poorly, and the full extent of its representation of chinese workers on the railroad is they were literally just there. not even one single speaking line. unclear if this is worse or better than the redface.

it's fucking phenomenal at lampooning antiblack racism though. extremely blatant, extremely funny satire, which is constantly and loudly saying "racism is the philosophy of the terminally stupid at best and morally depraved at worst, and we should all be pointing and laughing at them 24/7"

plus the main character is a heroic black man who has to navigate a whole lot of bullshit but is constantly smirking at the extraordinarily stupid racists and inviting the audience into the joke. the one heroic white character is a guy who was suicidally depressed until he met the protagonist and they just instantly became buds, and he's firmly in a supporting role the whole time and happy to be there. the protagonist saves the day with the help of his black friends from the railroad, and uses the position of power he was given to uplift not only those friends, but all the railroad workers of other minorities too, in an explicit show of solidarity.

anyone saying "Blazing Saddles is racist" had better be talking about its treatment of non-black minorities. it had better not be such superficial takes as "oh but they say the n-word all the time" or "they have nazis and the kkk in there!" because goddamn if that's the full extent of your critique I very seriously suggest you read up on media analysis. there is too much going over your head, you need to learn to recognize satire.

[lillybearrie]

Possibly a hot take but i don't like when The Joker is a character with an actually really tragic Backstory that the audience gets to know that explains exactly why he is that way or when he's portrayed as actually secretly a super genius

And it's not that I don't like psychotic characters who are tragic and smart but if I wanted that I'd pick up a riddler comic

Joker narratively is suposed to be Batman's perfect antithesis exact opposites ultimate archenemies.

Batman is dark and brooding so Joker is colorful and is famous for smiling

Batman feels guilt for everyone around him getting hurt, Joker hurts everyone around him for shiggles

Batman protects gotham through fear, Joker terrorizes the city with laughter

Batman is cold and calculated mapping out hundreds of contingencies before a threat is even identified, Joker does what he wants when he wants with no regards for anyone including himself

Bruce Wayne has a tragic backstory that everyone who has ever even heard the name batman knows, the Joker's true origins are unknown even to the audience

Batman is an unlucky genius detective, Joker is an extremely lucky moron

"A defined joker? One with a name? An identity? Why that ruins the very definition of me." - The Joker

"he's not like the rest of us. we all want something money, power, control, fear,love. but [joker] dosen’t he's like a wildfire. a wildfire dosen’t want anything it just happens" - Edward Nigma

[marlynnofmany]

Small Noises

The air was warm, the breeze smelled of spicy alien flowers, the sun was a comforting Earthlike brightness, and something kept making a popping noise that was slowly driving me mad.

I tried to figure it out. The hoversled that Mur and I sat waiting on was inert and parked. There was no cargo on it because the client was late (thus the waiting). Our ship lay behind us on a relatively quiet landing pad, with crewmates bustling around inside and a variety of locals going about their own business at some distance.

The door to our ship was closed. Maybe it was something from another ship? I turned my head back and forth, trying to pinpoint the direction.

Mur noticed, glancing up from where he was idly braiding his tentacles like a particularly arts-and-crafts-inclined dark blue squid. “Something wrong?” He sounded like he was hoping I’d say yes, because it would mean something to do.

“I’m trying to tell where that sound is coming from,” I told him, cupping a hand to one ear. Of course it stopped when I was actively trying to find it.

“What sound?” Mur asked.

“The little popping noise,” I said. “It happens every few seconds. I thought maybe it’s that ship over there, but I don’t know.”

“This noise?” Mur separated his tentacles and lay one against the deck of the hoversled, popping it upward with a suction-cup smack.

“It was you??” I spread my hands in exasperation. “I was trying to see which ship engine was making the weird cooldown noises, or maybe somebody on this spaceport chews bubblegum!”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, popping a different tentacle even louder this time.

Shaking my head, I pulled my lips in and made a popping sound with my mouth. I’d meant it to be a frivolous imitation, but Mur gave me a sharp look.

“You do know that’s a swear word, right?”

“Ha! No, I didn’t.” I grinned. “Good to know.”

Still visibly bored, Mur lined up two tentacles against each other and separated them in a cascade of sound like undersea popcorn. “Bet you can’t do that.”

“You’re right,” I said. “But I can do this.” I breathed on my palms and squished them together in a respectable imitation of squeaky flatulence. Third-grade me would have been proud.

“That’s not a swear,” Mur said.

“Probably for the best,” I told him. “Humans have been known to make that sound accidentally, and I can just imagine the diplomatic kerfuffles that it could lead to.”

Mur twirled a tentacle in assent. “Like we need more of those.”

I thought of another one. “Hey, I know you can’t do this.” I pressed one long fingernail against another, letting it snap back with a tiny click. “This only works when I need to trim my nails.” I snapped away in a flurry of clicks.

“Well, yeah,” Mur said. “You’ve got more hard parts to hit against each other than I do.”

“True.”

“Good thing there are no Mesmers here to put us to shame,” he said. “With all their clicky bits.”

I nodded, picturing the mantislike species that came in wild colors with egos to match. “Yeah, they’d definitely win the clicky-tappy competition. You know, I bet they’d make amazing tapdancers. I should ask Zhee if that’s already a thing.”

“Or you could ask these guys,” Mur said, standing abruptly.

I looked up to see an irritated-looking procession of Mesmers towing their own hoversled in our directions, loaded with shipping crates. There were many taps, clicks, and hissing grumbles.

I did not ask the late clients about tapdancing. Mur and I simply accepted the delivery with patience and grace, making sure everything was accounted for and all payments were squared away, promising that we would do everything in our power to get the crates to their destination in the agreed-upon time frame or better.

The clients agreed in a huff, leaving with a flair of red and bronze limbs, still muttering. Some of it was barely-veiled insults that they clearly didn’t care if we overheard.

I didn’t say anything as they clicked away. Neither did Mur.

But I did swear in his language once they were out of earshot.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come!

[uhohdad]

hello hello i just read meine perle and it is the best thing i’ve ever read on tumblr and i just want to give you my biggest thanks and appreciation for delivering such a well written fic of konig!!! i will never be able to get over octo!konig he’s going to haunt all my dreams. it was such an amazing read it felt as if i was there experiencing everything and i held my breath unknowingly when they were escaping from the lab??? can’t believe i get to enjoy that piece for free it feels like premium content. what was you thought process if you are happy to share it?? or was it like im gonna pump out a 25k words after seeing that fanart because im so so inspired and ideas are just pouring out of my brain rn??

anyways thank you thank you thank you again!!!!! hope everythings well for you!!!!

okay hi first of all ily ily ily thank YOU for taking the time to send this you got me smiling goofy fr <3 <3 💗💞🩷🩷💗

i cannot BELIEVE y’all are still snacking on Meine Perle u lil freaks 😏😏

it was absolutely 100% inspired by Numelu’s brilliant fanart and i’m sure it would not have been a fic i created otherwise. i had such a blast writing that fic and tbh i’ve always struggled with motivation when it comes to hobbies so i am forever grateful for @numelu and their undeniable talent, and for sparking in me that excitement to create.

that fic was originally supposed to be a smutty little one shot but apparently i’m a ho for the drama of it all and it absolutely ran away from me. i think i remember making a post at some point that was like “this was just supposed to be smut but it’s at like 15k words and they still haven’t even boinked yet” lmaoo

thanks for ask-in sweet anon 💗💞💕💗💞💕

[gaybearwedding]

hi hi hello i have been gone forever due to various reasons such as “work” and “mental illness” and “having developed a kpop hyperfixation that has been occupying most of my attention recently” but i need everyone to know that i saw off book live twice last week (in philly with a friend and then in nyc with my girlfriend) and it was truly so everything. i didn’t get many pictures but i did get a few and none of them are very good but one of them is of jess’ amazing stool balancing act and that’s all i need really

[toytulini]

me, stupidly and weirdly resistant to listening to audio books vs reading a physical book for no real reason: man i wish there was a way to like, read a book while i crochet like i do with tv shows and movies and podcasts

[natsmagi]

OKAY SORRY FOR SPAMMING LAST ONE BUT SPEAKING OF HIM BEING A SWEETHEART THIS HASNT LEFT MY HEAD

WE GOT A FUCKING CHARMER ON OUR HANDS!!!!!!! oh but he really is so sweet and kind and loving its no wonder like everyone i come across yumes him. What a cute little guy......

little tangent but one of the hills i will die on is i think people play into his rudeness and "edginess" way too much bc like. Hes really only mean to tsumugi (justifiable) and at times his classmates because he thinks theyre being annoying (also justifiable i say) and he really isnt that edgy hes just alt. hes just an alt dude. and being alt isnt abt satan worship or whatever the hell its purely just about expressing urself in a fun and unique way thats true to u. he does struggle with managing his emotions and doesnt have the healthiest outlet for it but these things dont make him a cruel person....... he just. like. has alot of shit going on. and hes weird. but time and time again we see natsume want to help and assist people. he looks out for the underdogs aswell as his fellow classmates and colleagues (although he wont be the most upfront about it and may shield it behind some grand performance or w/e. points at ms alkaloid) and then u have his entire relationships with anzu and sora. him just being incredibly sweet with the absence of his shy+stubbornness u might find with people like tsumugi

TLDR I THINK HE IS VERY SWEET AND HIS SWEETNESS SHOULD BE HIGHLIGHTED MORE ESP SINCE ITS A VERY CONSISTENT FACTOR OF HIS CHARACTER

[losersroom]

i already commented on "take it for the team" on ao3 but i just have to tell you again that i love it. i now look forwards to fridays for the updates (no pressure, again). take it for the team fridays, if you will.

<3 aw, thank you anon. maybe it sounds, like, self-important of me or whatever but i was sort of hoping that would be the case, that i could get people excited and looking forward to the weekly updates. my last attempt at posting chaptered fic, um, did not go this well, i think in part because i posted it all at once in a singular chunk and everyone collectively went "i am not reading all of that" so. this rollout has been going a lot better. there are a lot of fics with weekly update schedules that i look forward to all week, so i'm thrilled that i can provide that for other people!!

[cuteniaarts]

What if… Suiren in Vaatu’s colours 😳👀

[orionsstory]

that kind of devotion is almost at 500 hits on a03 holy cow

[tathrin]

A response to this ask; taken from this prompt; anyone can feel free to send other numbers in at any time, I don’t care how long it’s been. (Just maybe add some context to your ask if it’s been like a month or more since I posted this, because otherwise I won’t know what to do with the random number in my inbox).

#28....as a lie.

*technically this one picks up after the end of this story if you want to read that first, although you don’t need to; it’s as much a self-contained snippet as any of the others, it just happens take place in a setting within the events of a specific fic, that’s all.

Gimli’s eyes were drawn ever and again to the elvish dancers, even as he was drawn several times into brief conversations as friends and acquaintances paused at the table he now shared with Gandalf to exchange a few words and toast their well-wishes together for Gondor’s king and queen. Gimli was glad of the toasts, at least, for they brought fresh mugs of cool ale, and the heat of so many cavorting bodies had raised the temperature of the hall to near-dwarven levels, despite the cool white stone and tall windows through which a summer’s breeze still wafted.

Legolas’s hair shone like a sunrise in the rich torchlight, and his eyes gleamed like starlight on pale clouds. Gimli was amazed that anyone could long look elsewhere, with the shine of him whirling there to draw the eye.

He was not amazed that the other elves twirling on the dance floor were drawn to him; of course they were. How could they help but be lured in, dull drab moths circling that golden glow? Long hands ran up and down Legolas’s lithe limbs and pressed against his slender waist, long fingers twined through the streaming locks of his unfettered hair and curled possessively around his braids—

The mug in Gimli’s hands gave a crack and shattered, soft metal collapsing in on itself in his grip. He stared at the mess in his hands, numbly grateful that he had at least drained it already and so there was no ale left to spill out across his lap, and then he hurriedly shoved it onto the table behind him. He could feel his cheeks burning hotter than any torch in the hall.

Gimli chanced a sideways glance at Gandalf, who was watching the dancers with every evidence of placid enjoyment on his old face. Had he seen? Had he heard? He said nothing, but that did not always mean anything with Gandalf. Perhaps Gimli should speak, should craft some excuse...

“Flimsy human metal,” he muttered, and glanced at the wizard again. Gandalf nodded absently, but did not otherwise react.

Gimli let out his breath in relief—and then a second later he nearly choked on it, as Legolas suddenly bounded out of the tumult to perch on the bench beside him. His eyes danced as merrily as any of the revelers and his smile beamed bright and clear upon his beardless face.

“Will you not dance with us, Gimli?” he asked. His voice was light with laughter and with joy and his thin chest heaved from his exertions. Gimli found his eyes drawn upwards to the bare lips above that smooth and hairless chin.

“What?” he said.

“Dance with us, Gimli!” Legolas repeated. “Come, you can teach us dwarven steps and I will show you the ways of elvish revelry up close.”

“No,” Gimli answered automatically, his heart stuttering in his throat. “No, I—I am quite comfortable here, thank you.”

“You do not seem comfortable,” Legolas observed, and Gimli felt his stomach drop like a stone. He could not stop himself from glancing behind him at the ruined mug, even though he knew the gesture was a dead give-away; if Legolas had not seen it before, he surely would now, with Gimli’s gaze to lead him to it like a map—or a swift arrow.

“I am perfectly fine,” Gimli insisted. “Gandalf and I are enjoying the dancing quite well from here, thank you.”

Legolas spared a glance at the unmoving wizard but his eyes soon fixed on Gimli once more. “You are bothered by something,” he said quietly. “I can tell. Will you not tell me what? Perhaps I can help.”

Gimli’s mind stuttered with the possibilities of the help that Legolas might offer, and he quickly shied away from the idea. “No!” he blurted. “No, I—as I said, I am fine. It is merely warm in here.”

Legolas laughed. “Warm!” he cried. “But you are a dwarf!”

“Aye, a dwarf,” said Gimli, “and one who is enjoying his ale from his comfortable seat, and has no need to go whirling about like some flighty elven dandelion!”

Legolas should have laughed; Gimli knew his friend well enough to know that much. He should have laughed, but he did not. Instead his pale eyes narrowed sharp and keen on Gimli’s face, and Gimli could feel himself blushing beneath that tight scrutiny.

“Does it bother you,” Legolas asked in a low voice, “to see me frolicking so with these other elves?”

“What?” Gimli exclaimed. His hands clenched convulsively, and he was glad that he had already broken his mug; had he still been holding it now, he would surely have turned the thing into a flattened disk of over-stressed and useless metal. “Bother me! Of course it does not!”

To prove it, Gimli made himself laugh and shake his head, as though Legolas had spoken some ridiculous jest. He even lifted the elf’s lean brown hand and kissed the smooth knuckles as more evidence of how thoroughly unbothered he was. “Go back to your dancing, Master Elf!” Gimli chortled. “I am doing quite well watching it from afar, thank you!”

Legolas stared at him for another moment, his smooth face unreadable . The tips of his ears were flushed dark red from all of his cavorting and his pale eyed looked very wide with no beard to frame them.

Then he shrugged, and said, “As you like, then!” and squeezed Gimli’s shoulder once before bounding away and throwing himself back into the whirl of the merry elvish dancers.

Gimli let out a shaky breath and flexed his hands a few times, getting the blood-flow back into them.

"Lying will do no good for either of you," Gandalf declared calmly. "And it is hardly fair to Legolas; he will take you at your word, whatever you tell him."

Gimli could feel his cheeks burning hotter, shame coming along to add its kindling to the blaze. He managed to force an unintelligible grumble of disagreement from his lips, but nothing more articulate than that; he felt as though he was already strangling on all the words he would not, could not, say.

"He will," Gandalf insisted. "The elvenking might be able to spot a lie from 300 leagues and skewer it as neatly as his son ever has an enemy with that bow of his, but Thranduil's people are another matter. Lies are not generally told in Mirkwood. It is not a place for dissembling, or oaths, or scheming. The Wood-elves are a simple, honest people. And you are Legolas's friend." Gandalf pulled his eyes away from the dancing and fixed his gaze on Gimli instead. His bushy brows were drawn very low atop them, making his eyes glint like embers in deep shadow. "If you tell him something, he will believe you, Gimli. And you will have none but yourself to blame for the results."

Without waiting for Gimli to muster either the courage or the wits for a response, Gandalf swept to his feet and strode off into the tumult of the party.

Gimli slumped low on his bench and stared miserably at the dancing elves.

Legolas was still so impossibly vibrant and noticeable against the duller backdrop of the others. Gimli's eyes fixed on him at once. He seemed to be moving now with even greater abandon than before, if such a thing were possible.

And if such a thing were not impossible, Gimli would almost have said that Legolas kept glancing back at the table where Gimli sat as well—but he was not, of course, and so Gimli put the thought from his mind.

He had more than enough to think of anyway, when a tall elf of Lórien slid up behind Legolas and snaked her arms across his narrow shoulders, leaning in low to murmur something into his finely-pointed ear.

Legolas laughed and turned to face her, their long lithe arms entwining as close as any dwarven lovers. They swayed and swirled together with the music, and the elf-woman’s hands slid up from Legolas’s shoulders to tangle in his braids. Legolas smiled up at her and said something that Gimli was too far away to hear, but it made her laugh. Then Legolas gave one of her dark braids a gentle tug, and Gimli realized that he was growling low in his throat as though facing down a horde of goblins.

He turned away blindly and reached for his mug, realized that it was both empty and broken, and turned back around just in time to see the elf-woman twirl away into someone else’s arms as another pair of hands took Legolas by his trim waist and plucked him out of the center of the tumult to pull him in close against their long lean body, and—

And it was Haldir, Mahal curse it. Gimli’s mouth went dry, his blood pounding in his ears like drumbeats as the March Warden leaned in close and lowered his mouth to Legolas’s ear, whispering something. He took one of Legolas’s braids in his hand and rubbed his thumb across the heavy golden strands, like a dwarf might test a metal for its quality. Haldir was hardly dancing; only swaying a little as he stared down at Legolas, who stood balanced before him on his toes like a bird paused on the edge of flight.

Gimli was on his feet before he realized it, about to start forward and—and what?

His hand was at his belt, which was empty of course; a wedding was no place for weapons. And why was he reaching for his axe, anyway? He sat back down on the bench with a heavy, hollow thump. What was he thinking? What was he doing?

He had had too much ale, clearly. It was the only explanation for his strange behavior tonight. His throat was dry, but he would not drink anymore tonight; he had drunk too much already, clearly, and it was clouding his thoughts. Making him think strange, impossible things. Making him dream things that—that were not, that could never...!

Legolas laughed and rose up onto his toes to press a light kiss to Haldir’s lips.

His head reeling, Gimli watched as the March Warden took Legolas by the hand and led him, smiling, towards the door. If Gimli thought that Legolas paused on the threshold and looked back, somehow finding Gimli’s eyes across the crowded room and glancing at him hesitatingly, questioningly, even hopefully—well, then that was just another sign that he had reached the night’s limit for ale; reached, and more than passed.

Gimli held himself very still, schooling his expression to a placid calmness that might have rivaled Gandalf’s, and then he forced a smile and a nod—just in case Legolas was really looking; just in case he could really see him.

A shadow seemed to flicker across those bright elvish eyes, as though one of the torches near the door was on the verge of guttering; although when Gimli looked at them, they both appeared to be burning tall and strong still.

When he looked back, there was only a faint fading flicker of golden locks flowing around the corner as Legolas vanished into the night and Haldir’s arms.

Gimli sat there for several minutes, staring into the empty darkness of the door. The noise of the wedding revels that had once filled the hall with such bright merriment seemed to have faded now, somehow; he heard it from a distance, like echoes from some far-off cave. Eventually he forced himself to rise, and murmur unintelligible farewells as he passed his friends, and trudge his way across the long white hall towards the other door.

He stumbled back to the rooms the Fellowship shared, alone.

[infizero-draws]

bout to stream 10 whole season of Adventure Time just for you because it looks so interesting

HOLY SHIT FOR REAL. DO YOU PROMMY

[xawkward-ariesx]

Starting the new year with three new comments on Golden Girl, feeling increasingly guilty for not updating in over two years

[melanc0ffee]

posts art after 80 million years

Anyway, hi!! I've been reworking my characters for a while now, and now they have nice new refs that I can share. So, here's Áine and Fiachna! They have their own story, but they also appear in my main project (but not until much later and in different forms). They are married and they rotate in my brain constantly <3