#been a bit since i posted a story

[idioticsky]

How did you get here? 1,590 words

I've had this saved for a while and just forgot to post it lmao

It had been a long day, and it wasn't even the end of it. First training for 8 hours, then mystic training for 2 hours, now a meeting with the head of the Krang army himself! When will it end? Never probably. At least that's what Lucky thought as she walked onto the bridge. Her arms were behind her back, as she stood next to her master, Krang Prime.

Krang Prime looked out at the chaos before him, another earth destroyed and taken over, making this one earth 1450. They started universe hopping 4 years ago to the day. He found the spider yokai under some rubble trying to portal to another universe once again, but she was stopped once she saw him. After that day she became his pet, his servant. They use her as their gateway to other worlds.

"So-" Krang Prime started- "what universe should we head to next? I'm sure you've picked out one that'll be perfect for the Krang to take over."

"Yes sir, the world I've found has been taken over by the Krang once, but abandoned afterwards because the Krang from that world didn't know how to extract extra resources from practically nothing."

"Wonderful, I'll give you a week to scope out the world. Don't fail me, Lucky." Krang Prime hissed, taking a look back at the spider yokai, who nodded her head before leaving.

--------------------------------

"Aaaand... done!" Gallio yelled out as he finished working on his modified dirt bike. Don said if he could getting working, that he and Gal could go riding out to some Krang ruins and bring some tech home. Now that Gal had fixed the bike, it's going to be great! Now to wait until Dad got home so that they could go.

--------------------------------

After a few hours, Lucky put on her hood, grabbed her mask, grabbed her bag, and summoned a portal to the next world. Once she walked through, she ended up in a ruined Krang city.

"Hm.. seems usable for a little base.." Lucky said while throwing her backpack to the corner of a room. She looked around for a moment before hopping out a window to see what she could use for the time being. There was a good bit of Krang tech, and in almost perfect condition too. She grabbed what was around and got to work on fixing an older scanner. But before she could get too far into fixing it, she heard something. It sounded like.. engines? Wasn't this world supposed to be abandoned? Whatever. Lucky climbed up the wall and onto the roof, just out of sight from whatever was heading her way.

"Alright, we got about 3 hours before we gotta head back and pick up your sister from her friend's house." Donnie said while taking off his helmet, only to see his son running around looking at everything in sight. Lucky looked down at the mutants before her, once she saw Donnie, her eyes shot open.

"He's alive in this world! 4 years and this us the first time this has happened!" Lucky thought as she slowly climbed down to the ground, still out of sight.

"Dad! Look at this! A krang scanner that's almost working!" Gal yelled out as he examined the scanner in his hands.

"Huh, wait, it looks like it was in the middle of being repaired? No one really comes here other than us." At that moment, Donnie felt someone's eyes watching them. He wiped his head around: nothing. Strange. He could've sworn that there were eyes peering at him. Before he could continue thinking about it, Gal was already on the run again, looking at everything there was to mess with.

--------------------------------

It had been half a hour now and the feeling of eyes staring into the back of Donnie's skull is still not going away. Every time he would look back, nothing! He'd take the time to look around and move things, still nothing! Why the hell did he have this feeling? No idea! Lucky on the other hand had been following and watching Donnie and was just really curious about him. I mean, this is the first universe where he seemed to live in the end! And besides, she never really got to know him since he died when she was young, so now she has the chance to figure it out at least.

While heading deeper into the Krang city, Donnie launched out a net right behind him and Gal. Causing Gal to jump and look behind them.

"Woah! Dad what the heck?! You scared me!" Gallio yelled out.

"Haha! I got it! I got the thing starring daggers into the back of my head!" Donnie yelled as he ran over to Lucky, who was stuck in the net. Gal soon ran up next to his father and saw the spider mutant. The moment he saw her with her dark purple hair, dark gray skin, and pink eyes, his face turned red.

"P-Please! I don't wish to hurt you Master Donatello!" Lucky cried out as she struggled to free herself from the net.

"Wait what-"

"R-Right wrong dimension me-" Lucky finally pushed her way out of the net, getting a few cuts in the process- "crap.."

"Who are you kid?"

"U-Uhm.. ok.. to say the least, I'm from a different dimension.. my name is Lucky.. I was one of Master Michaelangelo's students before the end of the invasion. I was sent my him to check out a different dimension to see how to fix things, but by the time I got back, everything was gone.. t-then the Krang found me and t-took me in as a tool a-and now I'm stuck a-as their tool to different worlds!.." Lucky said, starting to panic and make her cuts worse.

"Woah woah, calm down kid-" Donnie said while putting a hand on her shoulder- "you're ok kid, but if you have all this power, why not run away? It's pretty simple."

"They'll kill me! The collar on my neck will end my life in a moment!" She yelled out, slowly getting more and more panicked as time went on. Gal wanted to help, it seemed like he should, but what could he do? His body started to move on its own, pulling Lucky into an embrace. She slowly started to calm down as tears filled her eyes. She cling to Gal as she slowly started to break down at the smallest bit of affection, the first bit she's had in years.

--------------------------------

It had been a bit since they took Lucky home with them. Gal was still trying to process how this person knew his dad, but they have bigger problems at the moment. Like the explosive collar on her neck.

"It looks like I should be able to unlock it, but it won't be easy." Don said while examining the collar. "Gallio, would you mind helping me with this?"

"Oh, sure." Gal said while going to grab the tools that would most likely be needed for the job, also some snack, this is gonna take a while after all.

--------------------------------

"The fuck did they make this lock out of?" Donnie asked, he'd been trying to pick this lock for about two hours now, there was a little progress here and there but nothing too big.

"I wish I knew.." Lucky whispered, as she didn't wanna wake a sleeping Gal who was leaning on her. But she did all of that for nothing since he woke up soon after.

"Hm?.. oh, the lock is that tough?.." Gal asked once he saw that his dad was still working on it.

"Surprisingly, yes."

"Can I try?"

"Fine, but I don't think you'll get to far, Gallio."

On that note, Gal sat up and put his hand on the collar. Lucky, mainly out of worry, put her hand on his, she needed to move it. She knew that any wrong move could make this thing explode and she didn't wanna see anyone hurt. Why she didn't do this with Donatello? No idea, but with Gal, it felt right to do this. Gal looked up at Lucky in the moment, then turned a little red, with Lucky soon following. Donnie looked at both of them, then gave a little smirk before starting to speak. "Gallio, the lock?" He asked.

"O-Oh! right!" Gal spat out while snapping back to reality. He picked up the tools and got to work. While he was doing this, Lucky didn't know how to feel, she felt like she wanted to laugh a little, feel happy and everything, but she couldn't. She didn't know why but it felt too soon to be happy. Before she could continue this thought she heard the sound of metal hitting the floor.

"I did it? I did it!" Gal yelled out while looking up at his dad, who was clearly surprised.

"Huh, you really did do it-" Donnie started before ruffling Gallio's hair- "amazing work." He finished with a smile.

Lucky put a hand on her neck for the first time in years, she.. she was free. Tears started to trickle down her face, which soon turned into streams. She sobbed quietly as she realized that she didn't have to go back now, she could be free from the hell that she was put through. She could finally run and jump for fun and not for training, she could laugh and yell without needing to worry about having someone hear, she could be free. She hugged both Gal and Don.

"Thank you.."

[darkxsoulzyx]

do you guys ever get too scared to post ocs because you’re worried that their design or story isn’t cool enough

And then someone posts their OC/sona that looks super similar to your OC, even though you’ve technically made yours first

And now you’re scared of posting them because you’re afraid someone is gonna try and compare the two, because someone will always do that if they look similar enough

Do you guys ever feel that way or am I just really really stupid

[squuote]

rereading 17776 rn and noticing that Nine’s hesitance to accept their new reality is something I didn’t fully take in before. Like a majority of their concerns are all focused on the idea of purpose, which actually makes a lot of sense for them to solely be hooked on that specific concern. Nine was built with the intent of space exploration and to help humans achieve that goal. Being thrown into a reality where that purpose has essentially died and doesn’t really exist anymore would be very alarming for someone whose whole reason of existence is that specific thing. Nine’s arc of acceptance in existence so to speak. sorry I’m probably last to get to this but man it just hit me like a ton of bricks

[cerise-on-top]

Hank with an Eldritch Horror Reader

Here's another thing I wrote two years back! It was an interesting concept which I really liked, so I actually really enjoyed writing this request!

Hank J Wimbleton was a grunt of many things, but not one to be scared unless he had a good reason to be. There were many things in this world he did not understand, you were one of them. Upon meeting you, his first instinct would have been to either fight or run away - who could blame him, it was all he knew. No matter how many times you reassured him that the very last thing you wanted to do was to harm him, he’d draw his weapon, uncertain of whether or not he should believe your words.

Once you show no resistance towards him whatsoever and simply restrain him using your powers or other methods, that’s when, thrashing around as much as he could, he would start listening. You may or may not have seen a grunt up close, but this was your chance to finally examine one. As you scrutinise him from every possible angle Hank realises that you were simply curious about his being and finally lowers weapon.

Your voice would likely hurt his head and freeze the blood in his veins, so you might have to resort to telepathy or speak through a marionette, if you can find one. Though, once Hank’s interest in you has been piqued, he’d be more than happy to find you one. A lot of people in Nevada seem to be redundant in the first place. Regarding telepathy: You will be able to have a two-way conversation with Hank like that, but, for the most part, he doesn’t think in words. Still, he can do so, if needed.

If you’re on the rather small side, he will make an effort to pick you up, or hold you, and bring you back to base. Depending on whether you can float or not, this might be rather difficult, but he’ll try. If you’re large, however, then he will simply “tell” you to follow him. As an eldritch being you could likely either change your form or scare away anyone in your path in the first place, so he doesn’t particularly worry about anyone being stupid enough to attack you.

Spend time with him, he’ll get used to you more and more and, eventually, grow a bond with you. Proud, he’ll show you to Doc so he can figure out what you are, but do not be fooled. Hank wants to know what you are to some degree too. Once comfortable with you and certain you won’t harm him, he’ll start observing you, touching you to some degree. See how you react, how you feel, how you are.

Despite your conversations being, for the most part, one-sided, Hank will ask you directly what you are and if you’re some form of eldritch deity. Since you’re an amicable creature he can’t exactly wrap his head around, it’s worth a try.

Although he would like to do so to some degree, he won’t take you with him on missions. It’s his way of saying “I care a great deal about you, I don’t want you to die or worse even if you are capable of defending yourself.” If you really insist on aiding him, he will let you, begrudgingly. But beware that he will have your back. In fact, having you around will give him a greater reason to fight and improve his overall performance. Though, it will also be a major stress factor to him if something were to happen to you, so choose wisely.

[fronomeeps]

Sorry if you’ve explained this before, I couldn’t find it, but what’s the circular object on Emmet’s vest that sits over his heart?

the thing on his chest is actually holding the watch he retrieved from plasma! he had a custom case made for it so he can keep it on him as a part of his attire, hiding it in plain sight as they say! plasma is 100 percent hunting him down for the watch and they 100 percent know it was him so peepaws gonna wear his prize proudly

[doodlejoltik]

grass knot

[~4.5k words, read it here or on Ao3. tagged with Volo and Lance since they appear as prominent characters; Rei-centric]

Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

Rei, caught in the stirrings of a new arc, tries to rise to its call, but trips over the past at every turn.

A full rewrite of that Mysterious Stones chapter where Volo first shows up, from Rei’s POV, plus a bit more. Written mostly before the Arceus Arc began.

(Setting expectations: a lot of this fic is just Rei Thinking About Stuff haha. Love getting into his head! His characterisation is a little bit different/more nuanced compared to the other Rei oneshot I wrote; hopefully you'll still be along for the ride if you've read that one!)

-

“Show me thy bond.” It echoes inside Rei’s skull, down to the very bone, the same as in his earliest memories. He nearly buckles under its weight, but it's a welcome feeling.

After so long without direction, this is a relief. Arceus has finally spoken.

The words fit perfectly with the half-remembered fragments Rei had received some weeks ago in the middle of the night. Why hadn't they been intelligible then? What makes now different? The sync stones ultimate are one factor, of course. Maybe Arceus draws power from them, which is strange to say of a deity, but from what he knows of the Plates, it might not be so far-fetched.

Prince Lear disperses the murmuring crowd; so, the audience all heard it too, not just those on the arena floor. Professor Bellis congratulates Bettie. Cynthia, Lance and Steven whisper among themselves. And his mind still whirls with new theories as they gather together.

What does Arceus want? 

‘Seek out all Pokemon’ had meant completing the Pokedex. At least, that’s what he’d assumed. Now, this time, Arceus likely means for them to showcase bonds with their Pokemon, given the context. But what does that actually entail?

Cynthia’s words cut above everyone else's. “Rei. Was that voice…?”

All eyes are on him. He breathes deeply, steeling himself, as the familiar weight of it settles in. Things are moving, now. 

“Yes. I'm certain. That was —”

“Indeed! That was a message from Arceus!”

His words catch in his throat. Off-balance, suddenly, as all his thoughts fall away, replaced by a swooping feeling he can't quite identify —

He whirls around.

Volo is here.

He takes a few steps back, an involuntary half-stumble, before remembering himself. 

Those flashes of movement he's been seeing, the feeling of being watched, a Togepi, unattended: they’re all now terrifyingly validated. He'd half thought them a product of his overactive mind.

“Excuse-moi, pardon me… but who are you?” Professor Bellis ventures. 

“I'm Volo — a humble merchant who loves history and mythology!” With that, he flashes a winning smile. Rei could laugh at the sheer audacity of it all, but his thoughts are still strewn across the dusty ground, scattered, and they slip from his grasp as he tries to gather them up. Whatever sense of gravity he’d felt upon hearing Arceus’ voice has completely lifted.

“But more importantly!” Volo continues. “When the arena shone brightly, I also heard that voice.” He brings his hand up to point at the air with enthusiastic emphasis, a gesture still so terribly familiar. Rei clenches his fists, feeling the nails dig into his skin. Not really out of anger. More as a reminder.

The last time he’d seen Volo had been. Well. Memorable. But that isn’t the image that smiles back at him now, tripping him up. He's in Gingko uniform again, complete with ridiculous oversized backpack, which Rei had thought discarded, up there on the peak. Apparently not. Had Volo returned later, still seething, to collect his things? The concept is strangely hilarious.

“I wonder… these sync stones ultimate… might they be some sort of test from Arceus? If we could show him that ‘bond’ he desires —”

“Sorry, test? Arceus?” Cynthia interrupts with a frown, holding a hand out. “What makes you say that?”

“Why, it's quite simple. Arceus' presence was summoned by these stones, in this exhibition, and he requests us to further show our bond. What else could he desire?” Volo says, gesturing widely. 

Rei finally pulls himself upright — scrapes his thoughts together into something resembling coherence. The initial shock has drained away, settling into a distant sort of apprehension. He watches silently. Volo’s not really saying anything too unreasonable, but where is this leading? 

There’s so much he doesn’t know. What has Volo been doing, all this time? How long has he been on Pasio? What does he hope to gain, approaching them like this?

He’ll let Volo continue, then. It's an opportunity for some of those questions to be answered.

(And it gives Rei time to think of what to say.)

“Well, put that way, that does make sense,” Steven nods along. “Should we organise for more trainers to try the stones, then?” 

“Oui, I would love to gather more data!” Professor Bellis answers. “However, the stones are still quite volatile. There is progress on this, yes, but for now, I would like to limit their use, capisci?” 

At this, Bettie speaks up. “Yeah, it was weird.” She runs a hand through her Pikachu’s fur, the mouse curled up lazily in her arms. Nobody in Hisui was quite that affectionate with their Pokemon. Certainly not Akari, though she'd grown closer with her own Pikachu over time. As for himself, Decidueye had been standoffish, averse to being carried even as a baby Rowlet. Well, actually — as his distracted mind digs deeper into memory, he recalls — there had been Volo and his Togepi. 

He casts that errant thought away, buries it deep once again. Bettie is still speaking.

“And it was like nothing was there, at first, and Pikachu and I had to concentrate really hard. And then — whoosh! Wow! Overwhelming,” she shifts Pikachu’s weight to one arm to gesture with emphasis, “and all at once.”

“And this is when Arceus spoke,” Lance asks. 

Bettie nods, now subdued. “It was a rush! I think you guys could handle it, but I dunno if everyone could.”

“If I may,” and all attention returns to Volo. “It seems the stones can currently be used by trainers with particularly powerful convictions, and bonds with their Pokemon,” he gestures with a smile to Bettie. She blushes. 

At the casual flattery, Rei can't help the small frown that twists onto his face. It seems innocent enough, but compliments and niceties can so easily mask true intent. 

Especially with Volo.

Volo continues. “Perhaps we might solve this by way of a tournament, of sorts. Allowing Arceus to witness our talent and dedication, with the victor bestowed the honour of using the stones! Of course, the winner of such a competition would have the fortitude necessary to handle such power.”

Well, taking that to its logical end… Volo wants to win, and be granted this ‘honour’ he so conveniently proposed. But why go to all this trouble? The stones appear out in the streets quite often — apparently, found even by preschoolers. Volo should have no trouble obtaining them.

Does he know something they don't?

“Bettie here led the first winning PML team, did she not?” At this, the girl in question smiles Mareepishly. “And that is why she was the one to demonstrate the stones, I presume,” Volo inclines his head towards the Champions.

Informed guess, or something more? He thinks back on half-seen, furtive movements, and wonders. 

“That's right,” Steven confirms. “Bettie is a shining example to us: a leader of the next generation. We decided there was no better choice.” 

“So you suggest we hold another tournament,” Lance says thoughtfully. “Well, there is precedent. Prince Lear,” he turns to the Prince, whom Rei had honestly half forgotten was there. “What do you think?”

Before Lear can reply, Volo reinserts himself into the conversation. “It would be a grand tournament, truly fitting of Pasio's reputation. Why, perhaps, the deity Arceus might even be compelled to descend —”

Ah. So that’s what he intends. “Aren't you getting ahead of yourself there?” Rei interrupts. He means to sound stern, but it comes out sounding more incredulous. Not at the idea itself, but at how brazenly it’s admitted.

“Perhaps,” Volo says with a careless shrug. He doesn’t acknowledge Rei any differently than the others, still maintaining their inadvertently shared ruse. “It's only speculation, of course, but it is exciting to think about!”

“Hmph! I believe I was the one being addressed,” Prince Lear declares, arms crossed. His red shades flash dangerously, eyes hidden under their glint. Directed at him, it's almost like the full glare of an Alpha Pokemon.

Rei’s face flushes with heat to the tips of his ears. Great time he picked to enter the discussion. He quietly ducks his head down; the Prince is in charge, here, after all. He'd rather not test his patience. 

Meanwhile, Volo just smiles, seemingly unfazed. 

There's a part of him that really wants to know how Volo does that. It's just — he's so confident. How can he be so sure that everything will work out in his favour?

“A grand tournament,” Prince Lear ponders, tapping his foot. “And what could be grander than the second Pokemon Masters League?”

“Indeed!” Volo beams. “I'm sure the audience would love to see the clash between a king and a deity, would they not?”

Lear's tapping stills. His guarded stance loosens; he's taken aback. Volo emphasised king, and oh, Lear's official title is Prince. Hm.

There's something more deliberate about it beyond just casual flattery. 

Lear uncrosses his arms and seems at a loss, for a moment, on where to put them before straightening up with his hands on hips. “Is that so?” He laughs. “I like the sound of that!” A pause, unnecessarily dramatic. Nobody breaks the silence, not even Volo. 

The Prince looks around with some satisfaction and continues. “Very well, then. The winning team of the second PML will be granted the honour of using the sync stones ultimate.” He grins, sharply, red shades flashing once again. “Which will include me, of course. Hahahahaha!”

“You have a real gift for making quick decisions!” Volo says cheerfully. The tension breaks. Chuckles arise from the rest of the group, and Rei can only stare in disbelief. That — that has to be mockery, right? But everyone else seems to take it as light teasing, even the quick-tempered Prince himself. 

Against his better judgement, his gaze catches Volo’s. 

He doesn't know what he expects to see: amusement? Satisfaction? Triumph? And there's some of that, but it's a wry, knowing sort of look, like a joke shared only between the two of them. 

Already the others are starting to animatedly discuss between themselves. Bettie makes a teasing comment to Lear, who scoffs. Professor Bellis says something about checking in on the sync stone technology. Cynthia, Lance and Steven form their own little group again, speaking in low tones, and he can't quite follow their discussion. 

It seems like he's the only one who notices Volo quietly slipping away, and he's got half a mind to do the same. 

Would it be incredibly ill-advised to follow him? Probably. But he still has questions. And it’s possible that Volo will let his guard down when they're alone. 

(Even to him, that seems incredibly optimistic. But there’s things between them that he himself would rather only unearth in private. Maybe Volo feels the same way. And even if not, perhaps he'll gloat, or tease playfully, and let on something of use hidden in the thorned barbs.)

It's not like he has much left to contribute here. Tournaments and competitions and organised displays are foreign to him. The Neo Champion Stadium had felt so different from the kind of battles he’s used to… which, in part, could be why he lost. 

He needs to train. If everything rests on the result of this tournament, he has to be ready. 

The group seems to be naturally dispersing, at least — Professor Bellis just excused herself — so he won't be missed. With some quick words, he, too, turns to leave. They can handle this part, and Rei will do his. 

Prince Lear had mentioned a winning team, and Pasio battles are generally three on three, from what he's seen. Who could he ask? There's Akari, of course. And the clan leaders, but it would feel strange to team up with only one and not the other. A little bit too reminiscent of another time. 

His steps carry him nearly to the edge of the arena.

Besides, he's getting ahead of himself. He still has to… well, he should explain everything to them. About Volo.

Even all these months later, it still aches. He had buried it all, hoping to let it rot away, to be free of that thorny mass of contradictory feelings that arose every time he dwelled on it. 

But the longer he waits, the more impossible it seems to explain — to explain not only the events of that fateful day, but also his own, confusing silence on the matter. Though he’s tried to plough the field, turn it all over and start anew, it still lies just beyond the surface, and a single misstep is all it takes to snarl him all over again. Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

(Akari is unquestionably the one person he's closest to. But there was a time when that singular title wasn't so clear cut.)

There’s a sort of tunnel that leads out of the stadium, a long darkened archway that passes under the audience stands. He's about halfway through when he hears footsteps from behind, swift and purposeful strides. 

His breath catches, for a moment. But Volo left first, and the arena had been flat and wide, with no corners to lurk in. Besides, it's too loud. Clearly telegraphed.

Cynthia, maybe? 

He turns. The face that greets Rei is slightly less familiar. “Lance,” he acknowledges the Champion. 

“Rei,” Lance greets in turn, stopping a few paces away. Arms crossed, silhouetted against the light of the arena and framed by the tunnel’s dark, arching walls, his tall figure is — intimidating. 

He can’t help but wonder whether that's deliberate. 

“You left before I could ask,” Lance says, and there's a pause. “As someone who has prior experience with Arceus, what do you think of all this?”

A fair enough question. But the way it's said… sounds a little too carefully worded. Casual, but purposefully so.

What sort of answer does Lance expect? 

“It sounds reasonable enough,” he decides to say. As much as he hates to lend credence to Volo’s proposal, he can't think of anything better. It somehow seems to suit their needs perfectly, which he's sure is no accident. “Back in Hisui, I was told to seek out all Pokemon, so I helped with the Pokedex. In the same way, I guess this could help fulfil Arceus' new request.”

Lance nods along, but his brows furrow. “You sounded more sceptical, earlier,” he points out. 

Ah. Not really his intent, but… “That was about the more…” he casts about for the right word, “speculative part of it. I don't know if it would really call Arceus down, or anything like that.” Though honestly, he doesn't know that it won't.

“What do you think will happen, then?” Lance asks, with clear curiosity, and, well. He doesn't really have a good answer to that. 

“... I don't know,” he admits. “I never actually completed the Pokedex, so I'm not sure what happens after Arceus’ request is fulfilled.” He had been close, but there had still been so many minor tasks that needed finishing, things to busy himself with, to arrange and get in order before he had to face Giratina again. 

He hadn't been ready, yet. Maybe Arceus had grown impatient, and brought him here to confront his problems directly. Maybe it cared. Maybe it didn't. 

(Seeing Giratina with Cynthia had felt a little like he was the punchline of some divine comedy.)

Lance purses his lips and looks off into the distance, out of the stadium, past Rei. He wishes he could read the man’s expressions better; as it is, the set of his brows calls to mind Kamado, and everything else tangled up with it. 

Finally, Lance’s gaze turns directly to Rei once again, and he speaks. “That Volo… you two know each other.” 

It’s not a question, but even then, the expression of unguarded surprise he can’t hold back might be answer enough.

Lance has one hand on his hip, the other, at rest, is framed by the drape of his cape. He looks down at Rei as he states plainly, “His clothes aren’t of modern make, so the logical assumption would be that he’s from Hisui. Cynthia confirmed my suspicion. And, historically, Hisuian communities were few and quite tightly knit. It’s more likely than not.” 

He tries to keep his expression carefully neutral, as logic digs deeper, dangerously close to things unexplainable. And the earth is already recently disturbed, soft, friable. He can’t offer much resistance. “I've seen him around,” he concedes.

“But why did neither of you acknowledge the other?” Lance looks confused; frustrated, even. “Even a passing acquaintance would be notable, with both of you being here in the future.”

And here — this is familiar. The accusations. The questions he can’t answer. But it’s different; it’s not that he doesn’t know the answers. He just can’t seem to put them in an order that would make sense, to anyone else.

(Does he really understand, himself?)

But eyes are on him, and he needs to explain, in whatever unsatisfactory way he can. “Volo and I… it's complicated,” he laughs weakly, tugging at his scarf. “He genuinely does love history and mythology, you know. I guess I wouldn't be that surprised if he was right about Arceus.” All those times they’d pored over ruins together, Volo excitedly babbling on about whatever legend this one related to — there had to have been the seed of something real, something genuine, in that. 

It’s not really an answer. Lance can obviously tell, because he crosses his arms. 

“Is he bad news?” he asks bluntly. 

There’s no twisting his way out of this one.

Some of the panic he’s feeling must bubble up onto his face, because Lance’s expression softens, just a bit. The man sighs. “Look, Rei, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but us Champions need to have all the relevant information. This tournament, the stones,” he gestures around them, “affect everyone here on Pasio. So I’m sorry about involving myself in your business, but it's necessary. Should we be keeping an eye on Volo?” 

It’s obvious what the correct answer is. And every second he delays responding makes him seem all the more untrustworthy. He questions, a little hysterically, why this of all things is what he stubbornly roots himself for, risking this place he’s made for himself in another unfamiliar land. 

But his jaw works, and all that slips out of his throat, past the thorny tangle, is a “Maybe.” The most ground he can concede. “Volo’s… passionate about Arceus.” Which is perhaps the biggest understatement of both this century and the last. 

There's an expectant pause. He almost leaves it at that, but it seems it's too unfinished a sentiment for Lance. “He wants to be seen by it.”

“The same way you are?” Lance says sharply. Arceus, he picked up on that fast. Rei hopes he leaves it at that. A rivalry fallen apart, twisted into bitterness and jealousy, nothing more.

Nothing world-ending. 

It’s not like he doesn’t trust Cynthia, and by extension the other Champions. It’s just… he can deal with it himself. It’s what he was probably brought here to do, anyway. The thought of someone else turning him over, and finding him lacking — fighting his battles for him — makes him uneasy. 

“Yeah, something like that,” he answers, with a painful swallow. 

Besides, he hopes he can resolve this peacefully. He’d beaten Volo before, even after he’d flipped the rules of battle on their head. And this time Volo can’t upend the script; one good thing about tournaments, he supposes, is that the rules are rigorously upheld. A different sort of battleground.

He wants to laugh at that. Suppositions and wildly optimistic thoughts are his only foundation, and yet it’s enough for him to reject all possibility of outside help.

Then again, if he can’t even bring himself to tell Akari, what chance does he have of breaking that self-imposed silence, here, on less familiar ground?

Lance hums, assessing this. He uncrosses his arms. “If that friend of yours does anything drastic, tell us, alright?” he says. It’s said warmly, but there's something serious to it. An undertone. “Our job is to help out wherever we can, so don’t hesitate to reach out.”

Rei tries for a smile. “Understood.”  

Lance nods, and looks Rei up and down, though it's only a subtle flicker of his eyes. His gaze lingers on the scarf at Rei’s neck, which Rei realises he’s been fidgeting with unconsciously. He lets go with faint embarrassment, feeling caught out. 

The other man sighs. “You can go, you know?” There’s resignation in his voice. Maybe even something apologetic. In that moment, he seems more like Kamado than ever.

Rei doesn’t want to turn his back to him, but he wants to be here even less. So he nods, stiffly, and turns himself around, continuing the dark walk through the tunnel and out the stadium at a steady pace.

He doesn’t run.  

(But his hand hovers by his satchel, where Decidueye's Pokeball rests.)

It’s only when he’s walked for a good while, out into the harsh sunlight, through the town outskirts and to a more forested spot, that the tension drains from him. He sits at the base of a large tree, feeling a little lightheaded.

That was… an interrogation, to put it bluntly. And he can’t really fault Lance for it. To anyone, he's sure, his actions are confusing at best.

Unfortunately, he’s found that he’s less than clear headed when it comes to Volo. He turns over Lance’s final words. That friend of yours. It’s not surprising Lance phrased it that way; everything Rei had said had been carefully woven to lead him to that conclusion.

Except it hadn’t been misdirection, not fully. He does still think of Volo as his friend, despite everything.

He slumps backwards, against the trunk of the tree, feeling the rough bark dig against the base of his skull. 

What is he supposed to do with that?

Apparently, one of the worst days of his life isn’t enough to uproot over a year of growing camaraderie and budding friendship. Too many memories knot together, a stubborn tangle impossible to pick apart. He’s tried not to think about them too hard, but they tighten their hold once again, from where they lay dormant and buried.

Many of them have been forcibly recontextualised. He’s second guessed every helpful gift, every directly admiring word, every coincidental and fortunate appearance, as something deliberate and cultivated. But some of it, it seems, doesn't fit so neatly with that singular goal.

One day, they’d watched Togepi use Metronome for an hour, ostensibly for Rei’s surveying purposes. Important documentation of a seemingly random phenomenon, and all that. In actuality, they laughed the entire time, with no useful or coherent records to speak of, as the results became all the more improbable. 

They’d camped together, those last months, as the search for the Plates got wilder and more exciting. He knows Volo’s favoured way to build a camp-fire, and how he wakes up unreasonably early in the morning, and that he prefers sweet foods over savoury, unlike Rei himself. A hundred mundane familiarities shared, taking root in fallow ground.

Once, Volo had been his only friend in the entire world.

Is it surprising, then, that he can’t lay this friendship to rest so easily?

He wonders what it means, that the hand offered to him at his lowest point was the same one that always meant to drag him back down. And what it means that he still wants to reach for it.

Had any real feelings been sowed there, on Volo’s part? Or was the entire thing a carefully constructed weaving, an intricate field of grass knots laid around Rei, ready to catch him in their snare? 

He can’t quite strangle the hope that something of their friendship still exists, even if neglected and overgrown. And that’s the part that scares him.

He has Akari, and Adaman, and Irida. He has Professor Laventon and the Captain, though they’re far away. Then there’s the Wardens, more friendly faces: Mai, Sabi, Ingo, and all the others; there's Zisu and Pesselle and Beauregard and everyone else in Jubilife. New friends here on Pasio, too. 

He pulls out Decidueye’s Pokeball from his satchel, and rolls it around in his right hand. He has his beloved Starter.

He has friends. He has bonds.

Why can’t that be enough?

The Pokeball he’s holding isn't the original. He'd had to break that well-loved possession in two, and recapture Decidueye in this modern device. It's a distant echo of its predecessor, wooden grooves and clunky iron replaced by smooth metal and near imperceptible seams. The weight of it is all wrong. 

But despite that, it's still his partner, and that's what matters.

(The two broken halves sit in his satchel, too, carried on his person at all times. It's yet another thing he can't bring himself to let go of.)

He sighs, tracing formless shapes in the dirt. His hand finds one of the sparse clumps of grass that grow here, directly under this wide and mighty tree. Deprived of proper sun, it’s a miracle that there’s any at all. 

It seems more and more likely that he’ll end up looking for Volo on his own. To get answers: not only about the stones, and the tournament, and Volo’s intentions with Arceus, but also for his own ends. 

Maybe there’s still something there. A single glimpse of life in this scorched earth between them.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do then.

Where he sits, what little grass there is has grown long and ragged, as their leaves stretch and reach for the sun. He sets Decidueye’s ball down and plucks two long blades. With a few simple loops and twists, they’re deftly woven together into a knot. He considers it, looping it around his fingers; tightens it, pulling on both ends, until he can feel the entire construct threaten to snap from the force. He stops. 

The thing is, no matter if it was never meant to be real, deliberately sowed, intended ultimately for harvest — it’s all the same, to Rei. He wants to keep it alive. He’s hopeful. Naive. Selfish.

For a single, impossible moment, he wonders whether this is what Arceus meant by bonds all along. 

The knot goes in his satchel, where it will turn dry and brittle with time. But kept safe, unbroken, regardless. Maybe his future self will laugh at his sentimentality. Maybe, he won't remember why it’s there. 

Wouldn't that be for the best?

He tucks Decidueye’s ball away, with care, then hauls himself up, both hands braced against the dusty ground. There’s dirt under his fingernails. From under the tree’s darkened canopy, he squints into the afternoon sunlight.

There’s a lot that needs to be done. He needs to train for this tournament, for one. Learn more about modern battling. Pull together a team. With that, ask Akari, and perhaps Adaman or Irida. Confront Volo, somewhere in all of this. 

After that? Only Arceus knows.

One step at a time. 

He finds his footing, around gnarled roots. The grass crunches underfoot. And he steps into the light.

(So maybe I was just snared by the grass knots you laid in my path. But if I wove my own, would you fall for it too?)

[dukeofthomas]

I'm so mad that so far the only good robin!jason content i've ever found is his original run. Everything i've seen since has just been making him out to be the Angry Bad Problem Child and victim blaming him for dying. How is it that the only fucking good characterization of him is 20 issues from the 1980s

[dollypopup]

y'all can all cancel me (again) for this, but if there's even a SHRED of 'who should I pick?' from Penelope in season 3, I am tuning out SO fast because like. . .sorry not sorry, there IS no choice. Debling is some crusty OC suitor she barely even knows and Colin is a man who she has been so supposedly in love with to the point where she'd ruin her entire family's reputation to have a potential love story with him. Penelope and Colin have background, years of knowing each other, intimacy that few people in the Ton can boast of having (letters, conversations about purpose, fights and arguments and makeups) and her and Debling have. . .a dance or two at a ball because he's a rebound for Penelope's broken heart. he means nothing. he has no nuance, he has no weight to the story, he is such an afterthought to me. either I wanna see Penelope going 'you know what? I don't even LIKE this dude. he's. . .fine, but I don't care about him even a shred as much as I care about Colin' or the INSTANT Colin's like 'you know what? we should get married' if it's not an immediate 'say less, you're already my husband, try returning me without the receipt, Debling whomst?' then I don't want it!

like. . .it's just so frustrating to see all the 'I hope Debling sweeps her off her feet and she rejects Colin's proposal and she makes him work for it and and and-' nonsense from the fandom and it's always tagged and no matter how many times I block it, it just keeps popping up. I go into the Polin tag for POLIN. I don't give a SHIT about a male love interest other than Colin. Not one. Not a shred. Not an iota.

and also. . .Debling has the 'benefit' of not having depth, or character traits, or HISTORY, so peeps can project onto him however they want, but I'm calling it now, there is NOTHING he could do or be that would make me like him more than Colin. Colin will always hit different, and I will always love him more. and if Pen's not on that same page? lol bye

you want me to believe Penelope and Colin are soulmates and it's romance for her to hem and haw about how difficult a decision it is for her to marry a stranger who knows barely anything about her. . .

when Marina was out here dropping banger lines like 'You were the only man with which I could see myself being happy' and 'I do not care about any of these men, where is Colin?'? like hello??? and she wasn't even fully in love with him!!!! but we'll demonize her until the cows come home in our fandom and make her the villain in Polin's love story for DARING to get in between Polin, yet Debling, a white man, is a darling dear perfect prince for getting in between Polin? existing in our fandom solely so Penelope can be like 'lol, Colin ain't shit, let me entertain any and everyone else'?

if that's the direction it goes then, ten toes down and on my mama, she doesn't deserve Colin and she can move because I'm on my way to court him my damn self

and that's that on that

[puppyeared]

who up seeing their disorder in a fictional character but feel like its not their place to put a name on it

[tales-of-green-hill]

Jet and Wave!!

Jet is as pretty charismatic guy and a lot of people around the school like him. People think he's so cool!! But he's also an idiot. He and Sonic have an odd dynamic where they're not exactly rivals but not really friends either. Jet thinks Sonic is cool and thinks they're friends. Jet gets under Sonic's skin a LOT, and Sonic is like "Ugh, he's so cool >:/"

Wave is ambiverted, and she'd usually rather have the company of her own thoughts and work over most people, but she can be social. She's the head of the robotics club, so Tails and her interact. Tails is the only middle schooler in the club, so Wave is more interested in how capable Tails is for his age (and she's surprised knowing he's actually younger than she thought! 11 instead of 13)

(There's a strong chance I might actually retcon all of this for story reasons, but if I do, they'll be pretty important to the end of the story, but only for an arc)

[skitskatdacat63]

2023 Australian Grand Prix - Fernando Alonso & Max Verstappen(by Zak Mauger)

[angelbornaltruist]

The Ballad of the Two Travelers, Chapter Two

Chapter Two: First Steps to Friendship

Lyra was having a nightmare. She dreamed of an endless war, a pointless battle fueled by a rivalry fueled by things that should have been forgotten long ago. She dreamed of fire and lightning, clashing eternally in the heavens while the world broke. She dreamed of destruction and chaos, of decay and disease that festered and bred in the cracks of the world caused by that endless, pointless, hopeless war.

She dreamed of the cracks growing, laughing, spreading wider and wider still as hatred seeped within and drove everything further apart, a dark, tentacled miasma, reaching ever further in its will to consume all; this great evil Blight which threatened to consume the whole world.

She dreamed of the cracks already forming among her own people; the bitter, hurting wives, sisters, and daughters who in their hurt chose to hurt others, spreading their hate as they wreaked destruction upon the humans; and the few who begged for peace and were dubbed traitors by their kind. She dreamed of the great dark cavern between giantkin and humankind, a yawning abyss that would surely consume them all if they could not learn to cross it–

“L-Lyra? Lyra! Wake up, please!”

Her eyes fluttered open as she heard the anxious cries of her charge. She sat up quickly, looking around for any signs of obvious danger.

“What troubles thee, little one?” she asked after a moment. “I can sense no danger. Why dost thou cry out? Art thou hurt?”

Tristan shook his small head, and Lyra realized with a start he was quivering.

“I-I'm not hurt,” he said after a moment. “But....”

The human boy glanced at something just behind her. Lyra turned, and realized with a chill that the trees near her feet had been split and knocked over. She realized she must have kicked unconsciously in the throes of her nightmare, and had put the human boy in great danger.

“N-Nightmare?” The small voice of the human boy shook her from her disturbed thoughts. She looked down. His face held a look of such fear and apprehension, her heart nearly broke as her eyes met his.

I offer thee my most humble apologies if I have caused thee any distress. It is the duty of one such as I, who layeth claim to the role of maiden, to ensure that her charge is safe no matter what.”

She gently laid her hand in grass before him, a heavy feeling settling over her heart as he took a half-step backwards.

“Y-You don't have to apologize,” Tristan said with a smile that was clearly forced. His bright blue eyes were wide with poorly-concealed fear.

“Little one...” Lyra wanted to comfort him, to say the right words or do the right thing to reassure her little charge that she wished no harm towards him, but she could think of nothing.

She retracted her hand and laid on her side awkwardly, aware of an uneasy silence between them now. Again she wished she knew what to say, how to overcome the inevitable fear and anxiety on the small boy's part, but but her lips remained shut, and she remained silent.

It had been a little over a week since their meeting in the Misted Vales, and they'd made some progress on their journey. They were a day or so away from a human settlement Tristan had pointed out on his map, at which Lyra hoped to speak to the locals and tell them of their quest. She had hoped that Tristan's presence would inspire a call for peace, but she had to be sure that Tristan really trusted her, which had proven to be easier said than done.

Tensions were high on both their parts. Despite the lack of confrontation from either of them, there was a constant sense of disquiet between them both, a fact which maddened Lyra to no end.

It didn't help that traveling alongside a human was somewhat difficult, at least in the physical sense.

Tristan had at first tried to walk alongside Lyra as they made their way, claiming he was quick enough to keep up (he was not) and nimble enough to keep safe (he was not). Lyra, unconvinced, was therefore constantly on edge, afraid that she'd take one wrong step or careless motion and crush her little charge underfoot. She'd insisted upon carrying Tristan as they traveled, either in the palm of her hand, upon her shoulder, or within her pockets, much to the little one's chagrin. Though Tristan concealed his fear whenever they spoke, Lyra could tell he was just as nervous as she was, if not more. She could see it in the way he cast furtive glances whenever he thought she wasn't looking, and in his high-strung, stuttering manner of speech.

Lyra couldn't blame him. Tristan was barely the size of her middle finger, and was somewhat small and slight in build even for a human. To him, every little movement she made must have been terrifying, let alone the sight of her reaching for him, leaning close, or inspecting his body for wounds. Lyra herself felt nervous whenever her fingers brushed against the human's warm skin, feeling for broken bones or bruises. How easily she could bring him to harm with little more than a thought.... it frightened her just as it frightened him.

Lyra understood it would take time for her companion to get used to her, regardless of how desperately she wanted to connect with him. She would be patient, and gentle, and reassuring, as she always did, but she couldn't help but wonder if too gentle was a thing. Lyra had caught a few embarrassed looks and flushed expressions from Tristan as well as the nervous glances. She had considered that Tristan fancied her, and she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that. To be sure, she found feelings of a kind blossoming towards Tristan; his small size concealed a kindhearted, curious spirit and a recklessness that seemed rather disproportional to his height (it was a miracle Lyra had only found him with a broken arm, she thought. Only four days ago had she caught Tristan attempting to steal the eggs from a blight-touched vulture, nearly falling from a withered tree at least thrice before running towards her screaming as the monstrous bird swooped down at him). All of this was wrapped up by a cute face framed by dark curls and a smile that, even when marred by fear, melted Lyra's heart every time she saw it. She'd come across many humans in her travels before, but Tristan was the cutest by far.

It was a bit of a conundrum for Lyra. On one hand, it was completely normal for a hero and a maiden to share feelings towards each other (if Tristan held any feelings for her at all, that is). Yet it was certainly unusual for a maiden to be able to pluck up her hero between two fingers and cup him in the palm of her hand. What's more, she wasn't sure she had a crush on her little companion, more of an admiration or appreciation. How desperately she wished to get to know him, for their companionship to become a true friendship!

Yet instead they sat in silence, a bridge of unease between them and neither of them brave enough to take the steps to cross it.

Well, Lyra thought. If I am to change anything, I must take that first step.

Tristan looked so small to her; even as she lay on her side she could have rolled over and smothered him with her waist alone. But she had to try.

“Um,” she said in a quiet voice, as not to scare the boy too badly. “Tristan.... I would ask something of thee.”

The human boy glanced at her but said nothing. Lyra took this as a cue, and pressed on. “Um....well.... if we are to be companions on this journey, I would hope that there would be no tension between us. Thou countenance has been laden with fear since we first met,” she said in a gentle tone as a shadow came over Tristan's face. “I would hope to relieve thee of thy worries as we travel on–”

“Have I been being weird?”

The outburst startled Lyra a little, but she smiled when she saw the bashful expression on Tristan's face. The question confused her a bit, however.

“I-I've been trying to get used to it, I really have,” Tristan said, his voice nervous and shaky. “I know we pledged ourselves to the quest, and that I've been an awful companion, and I'm sorry, it's just so strange to have spent so much time alone on a quest everyone said was a foolish endeavor and a naive, stupid dream, and boom, suddenly someone shows up out of the blue and not only says she'd like to accompany you, but actually wants to serve as a maiden? And I know I'm starting to ramble but really, Lyra, this has been a very strange few days for me, especially because you're a – well, you're a....” Tristan suddenly paused, and Lyra noticed a slight blush come over his face.

“A giantess,” she prompted.

“Yeah,” the human said, nodding hastily. “That.”

There was something in his voice, something he was hiding, but Lyra chose not to pry. She had gotten him to open up a bit. That was promising enough.

“Do not feel ashamed, little one,” she said in a comforting voice, slowly moving her hand closer towards him. “This has been strange for me as well. The path of one who pursues hope is always fraught with uncertainty and confusion. To encounter one such as thee, a human of such young age who would willingly leave his home and all he knew, and would willingly travel alongside the age-old enemy of his people, is astonishing to me. I consider myself blessed to have encountered thee, little one.”

Slowly, gently, she brushed her index finger down his tiny back, figuring it was the best she could do for a reassuring pat. She felt Tristan's body tense up, and her heart froze. Did he still feel such fear, even now? But then, to her joy, she realized Tristan was slowly relaxing, his shoulders slumping and his breathing slowing. Their eyes met, and Lyra saw fear, yes, but also a quiet sort of hope, peaking through all fear and uncertainty.

“Blessed?” he asked quietly, and Lyra's heart sang as a tiny, shy smile came over his lips.

“Yes,” Lyra replied quietly, nodding earnestly. “Blessed, little companion of mine. So please, do not be afraid. I swore an oath, to protect thee and guide thee. I would not let any human come to harm in my presence. Especially not thyself.” She allowed herself a grin. “Thou art mine, in a sense. My companion, my partner.... my friend.”

She gently rested her index and middle fingers over the boy's shoulders, figuring it was the best she could do for a comforting embrace. A warmth spread through her as she felt Tristan reciprocate, hugging her fingers against his cheek.

“Friends,” he said after a moment. “I... well, I like the sound of that. Friends.”

“Tis a simple sort of beauty in the word, no?” Lyra agreed.

They remained like that for some time, enjoying each what little touch of warmth they shared against the coldness of the Misted Vales. Then, Lyra sat up, and gently laid her palm out before him once more.

“Come hither,” she said. “Let us embark once more.”

Her hand was at least twice as long as Tristan was tall. Lyra still marveled at how there could be an entire race of beings that were so small. Yet Tristan had hesitated once more, his eyes looking downward at the palm and fingers that dwarfed him.

There was a moment of silence, long enough that Lyra had just resolved to retract her hand, cursing herself for moving too fast – then Tristan took a step forward, meeting her gaze with a excited sort of nervousness upon his face.

His steps were light, almost imperceptible against the flesh of Lyra's palm. It almost tickled her, but that may have merely been her excitement tickling her instead of the sensation of little feet walking against her hand.

Tristan slowly bent down until he sat, neatly snuggled in her palm. She had an entire life, in the palm of her hand... and what was more, that little life had placed himself there willingly. She hadn't scooped him up hastily, she hadn't plucked him up despite his protests, no, he had taken his life, and placed it Lyra's hands – literally.

She felt a soft tapping sensation upon her palm, and looked directly at the little traveler, forcing herself from her thoughts.

“If we're to be friends,” Tristan said, now wearing a mischievous grin, “I'll have to teach you to speak like a normal person. All those thee's and thou's are giving me a headache.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow, and lightly prodded him in the ribs, but she was smiling all the same.

“We shall see, little one. I am happy to see that thou hast developed a sense of wit in learning to trust me.”

Tristan grinned. Lyra grinned back, and she felt it in her spirit, something ancient and unknowable. She couldn't explain it even if she tried. But there was something in sharing a smile with a friend, something that she would protect as fiercely as she would protect the little life she held in her hand.

[elytrafemme]

and obviously this is by far the least important part of ANY of this, but i'm going to pretty strongly dissociate myself from anything relating to that smp-- mostly for my own mental health (again, not to center myself here). as for CS, i would like to continue it, though obviously the disclaimers again will be heavy. it is a story i wrote to cope with abuse, and if fanworks like that are called to be stopped then i will obviously rethink things. but i will give it a lot of time to figure out how to meaningfully create something from a piece of media created by unfathomably shitty people, and i'd like to be able to continue writing for the message that CS was set to convey.

again, this is not the focus of the conversation, but i just wanted to say that since i am online for once and i figure i may get an ask or two about it.

[queenlucythevaliant]

A while ago, @supreme-leader-stoat sent me an ask with a really interesting concept for a HHB AU. It’s taken me a while, but here is the story I came up with as a result. 

The Fisherman and His Boy

Six years after the Tisroc (may he live forever) began his august reign, word reached the fisherman that the prince of Archenland had been kidnapped.

Arsheesh lived many miles from the nearest city, and so it was common for news to take its time in reaching him. When the old queen of Narnia was overthrown by the demon lion worshipped in the north, Arsheesh did not know of it for two years. Smaller matters often did not reach him at all.

“You have brought me a poor catch today,” said a merchant in the village. “It is a shame you cannot pluck that barbarian prince from the seas.”

“What prince is this?” asked the fisherman with polite disinterest.

The poor day’s trading left Arsheesh in a sour mood. When he arrived home, he found that Shasta had not cleaned the nets as he’d been told to, but had only succeeded in thoroughly tangling them. Arsheesh grabbed the boy by the hair and made to strike him, but he stopped short. Shasta was barbarian-fair.  

Numbly, Arsheesh released his hold on the boy’s hair. Shasta scampered back, his face a blotchy mess of tears and snot. “Boy,” the fisherman said. “Clean thy face and let me look on thee.”

Shasta scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand. He raised his head.

Certainly, the boy was either Archen or Narnian. He had been an infant five years ago, when the prince was supposed to have been taken. The dead man in the boat with him had been dressed like a foreign nobleman.

“Surely,” the fisherman said slowly, “surely the gods never fail to reward those who befriend the destitute.”

“’M sorry,” muttered the boy.

“No child,” Arsheesh replied. “Thou’st naught to be sorry for. I ought not have been harsh with thee. Has not one of the poets said, ‘Treat a child with care, that he may one day care for you?’”

It was obvious that the boy did not understand what was happening, but Arsheesh would not have expected it of him. He sold his boats that day and his hovel the next. He put the crescents he had gotten for them in a satchel along with a small bit of bread, a great deal of dried fish, and a few other necessities. He saddled the donkey for riding and made petition to Tash for good fortune. Then, with the child clinging to his back, Arsheesh the fisherman set off north.

*

The boy became swiftly accustomed to the knowledge that he would not be struck for displeasing his father, and soon enough his questions were endless.

“Where are we going, O father?”

“To Archenland, north of the great desert.”

“But how do we get across?”

“We shall book passage on a ship once we reach Tashbaan.”

“A ship? Are we going to cross the ocean?”

“Yes, boy. As I have told thee many times: we are going to Archenland.”

“But why?”

The whys were endless. Arsheesh did not care for them in the slightest.

*

When the lions attacked, Arsheesh urged the donkey into its fastest sprint. The donkey, which was rather frail to begin with and not at all made for sprinting, keeled over and died after it had scarce run a thousand paces.

Arsheesh and the boy tumbled from the donkey’s back and landed hard on the ground. The roaring grew louder as the seconds lengthened. The dratted boy’s lower lip began to wobble, and presently he was choking back sobs.

“Be quiet, boy,” hissed the fisherman. Yet Shasta only drew back from him when he said that and began to weep all the louder.

“Quiet!”

“We’re going to die!” wailed the boy. “We’re going to die, the lions are going to eat us, we’re going to die.”

Yet the lions did not eat the fisherman and his son. After a long time, Shasta’s wailing subsided into quiet sniffling and the roaring of the lions faded into the distance. Arsheesh regarded the carcass of the donkey and sighed very heavily. “We’d best begin walking,” he said.  

*

The boy proved willing enough to walk without complaining, but he was small and as such made poor time. Arsheesh looked down at the child dutifully trailing along behind him and sighed. “Come, boy. I’ll carry thee,” he said.

“’M not tired,” Shasta protested.

“Nevertheless,” replied the fisherman. He bent down and scooped the boy up in his arms. In the five years since he’d rescued the child, Arsheesh had held him very rarely. Yet Shasta was small and slight: not at all burdensome. Arsheesh shifted his weight very slightly and then continued on, satchel over his back and child in his arms.

Day turned to dusk and somewhere along the way, Shasta fell asleep. When Arsheesh made camp for the night, he roused the child only briefly in order to feed him, then tucked him away under his cloak beneath the stars.

*

After the moon had set, yet while it was still dark, the fisherman heard the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats fast approaching. He glanced towards the boy (who had roused at the sound) and murmured, “Stay here.”

When Arsheesh stepped out into the middle of the road, he saw a mail-clad Tarkaan fast approaching. “My lord!” cried Arsheesh, waving his arms above his head.

The Tarkaan made no sign of having heard him, so the fisherman tried again. “My lord! Your servant is in distress, and I’ve a child in my keeping.”

Distantly, a shrill, girlish voice spoke. “Shouldn’t we help them?”

“No Aravis. Hush,” the armored figure replied.

“We should help them,” came the girl’s voice, more firmly than before. “Salma, you’re my horse and I say halt.”

The horse halted.

“Your servant is grateful, O my lord,” Arsheesh said at once. “Yesterday, lions perused my ward and me and our donkey perished in exhaustion. Might your servant render you some service in exchange for aid in reaching Tashbaan?”

“How funny!” exclaimed the girl (who Arsheesh could now clearly see was seated in front of the Tarkaan). “Lions were after us not two hours ago.”

“Indeed,” said the Tarkaan. “What business have you in Tashbaan, peasant? And where is this child of whom you speak.”

“The child is a ward of mine whose family are in Archenland. Your servant must return him hence.” Then Arsheesh turned round and called, “Boy!”

At once, the boy appeared beside him. “Here, father.”

“Didn’t I tell thee to remain where thou wert?”

The boy nodded once, but made no apology.

“Doubtless he’s of northern stock,” said the Tarkaan, inclining his head as if to indicate that he believed Arsheesh’s story. “As it happens, my sister and I go north as well, and we must not be prevented from going. An Archen child in our party would doubtless be a boon. If I may claim your story for my own, I will ride to the nearest village and return with another horse. Then we’ll all travel north together. Will that serve?”

“Certainly, it will,” said Arsheesh, who hardly dared believe his good fortune. “Your servant is grateful.”

“Good,” replied the Tarkaan. “Stay here and hide yourself. I’ll return before dawn. What shall I call you?”

“Your servant’s name is Arsheesh, and the boy is Shasta.”

The Tarkaan nodded. “Very good. I am Ilsombresh Tarkaan.” With that, he flicked the reigns and was gone.  

*

True to his word, the armored Tarkaan and the little girl returned just as the western horizon was beginning to grow hazy. The girl rode the same mare that they’d both been riding the night before (though she couldn’t have been much older than Shasta), but the Tarkaan was mounted on a grey dappled stallion.

“Arsheesh!” called Ilsombresh from the road.

“We’re here,” piped the boy, who till now had not spoken in the presence of the Tarkaan. “Are we going to ride that big white horse?”

“Are you a skilled rider?” Ilsombresh asked. “Is your master? I purchased this horse cheaply because it’s proven difficult to break. If you are not up to the challenge, then Aravis and I will ride him and leave Salma for the two of you. She’s quite gentle, I assure you.”

*

That evening, after a long day’s riding, Arsheesh dismounted the Tarkheena’s mare feeling sore and saddle-weary. He hefted the boy down and set him on the ground. When he turned round, he saw that Ilsombresh had at last removed his helmet to reveal a shockingly youthful face beneath it. The hair on his face was scarcely more than a few whiskers; not nearly enough to make a beard. Why, he was little more than a boy himself!

“If your servant might inquire,” began the fisherman.

“You may not,” replied the Tarkaan.

Once the horses had been tended to, Ilsombresh went into the brush and shot a rabbit with his bow. Arsheesh produced the dried fish from his pack, and he instructed Shasta to go find wood for a fire.

“I can come too!” the Tarkheena exclaimed at once.

As they supped that night, Ilsombresh said to the fisherman, “Supposing you tell us your story in full.”

Arsheesh regarded the boy Shasta for a long moment, wondering how much of the truth he ought to reveal. It is obvious, he thought, that the Tarkaan has his secrets too. Perhaps now is the time to speak truly.

“I am a fisherman, like my father was before me. Yet because of my poverty, I never married and have no child.”

From Shasta there came a sharp intake of breath. “You mean— you aren’t really my father!”

“Hush boy. Do not interrupt me.”

Shasta flinched away from the fisherman for the first time in several days. When he remembered that he was not going to be struck, he crossed his small arms and looked sullen. Arsheesh turned back to his audience.

“Yet in the same year in which the Tisroc (may he live forever) began his august reign, on a night when the moon was full, the gods saw fit to deprive me of sleep. Therefore, I arose from my bed and went forth to the beach to refresh myself with looking upon the water and the moon and breathing the cool air. And presently I heard a noise as of oars coming to me across the water and then, as it were, a weak cry. And shortly after, the tide brought to the land a little boat in which there was nothing but a man lean with extreme hunger and thirst who seemed to have died but a few moments before (for he was still warm), and an empty water skin, and a child, still living. I thought then that they might have escaped the wreck of a great ship, but I’ve come to learn of late that at that same time the crown prince of Archenland was kidnapped. I believe that this boy is that same prince and I’ve a mind to return him to the king and queen.”

“And doubtless fatten your own purse insodoing,” retorted Ilsombresh.

“I expect to be rewarded handsomely,” Arsheesh said, “but your servant is a man of tender heart.”

“Assuredly,” said Ilsombresh, though he sounded incredulous. “Well then. If we are stopped at any point before Archenland, I will say that I came to your hovel while traveling with my sister and that upon speaking with you I realized who the boy must be. I took you as my servant and we are all bound for Archenland together so that I can claim the reward.”

“You, claim the reward? Surely not. I’ve sold all I have in hopes of profiting thusly!”

Ilsombresh harrumphed. “So much for your tender heart. Yet you and your wallet need not fear; I’ve need of your excuses, nothing more. My sister and I are going north for our own reasons.”

The Tarkaan sat back and the fire popped. Shasta still looked thunderstruck, but he knew better than to try to press the issue.

*

They mounted up early the next morning, Arsheesh and Shasta on Salma the mare and Ilsombresh with his sister on the newly acquired stallion. They made good time, but there was unease in the air. Arsheesh still didn’t know why the Tarkaan was fleeing north with his young sister. Shasta had all but stopped speaking to him.

“Boy—Shasta. If you mean to curse me for speaking untruth, do it and quit your sullenness,” Arsheesh said when he had finally had enough. “Thou’ll thank me for my kindness when thou art old enough to appreciate it.”

The boy didn’t answer for a long time and Arsheesh began to wonder if perhaps he had fallen asleep. At last, he muttered, “Is Shasta even my real name?”

“It is the name that I gave thee. Doubtless thy true parents gave thee another, but I do not know what it is.”

“Is that why you always call me ‘boy’?”

“No,” said the fisherman. “It isn’t.”

*

The longer Arsheesh observed the young Tarkaan, the more Ilsombresh seemed less like a nobleman and more like an untried youth. “If it please my lord, what age are you?” he inquired cautiously.

“It does not please me,” replied Ilsombresh, raising his chin and looking proud. “Remember your place, beggar.”

A few feet away, where the two children were seated with their noon meal, the young Tarkheena leaned over and loudly whispered, “He’s fifteen.” A little gasping laugh burst forth from the boy. Arsheesh didn’t think he’d ever heard it before.

Arsheesh leveled his gaze at the young nobleman for a long moment. “One of the poets has said, ‘A boy in a time of peace is a man in a time of war.’ I’d wager the notion applies in the case of our noble patron.”

“Thou haves’t naught to wager,” muttered Ilsombresh, but his face looked smoother now.

The girl Tarkheena, however, was not so easily mollified. “But you haven’t been to war yet. That’s the whole—”

“Aravis! Mind your tongue. One of the poets has also said, “The price of careless talk is paid in blood.’”

“Sorry, ‘Bresh,” she chorused.

Shasta leaned over and whispered something else to the girl, who elbowed him firmly in the ribs. The boy had the good sense to look sheepish, but Arsheesh saw another smile beginning to take shape on his face. It tugged at his cheeks like a fishing line pulled taut.

*

The whole party rose later than intended the next morning, for the young Tarkaan had slept fitfully. As the children made up their bedrolls, Arsheesh went with Ilsombresh to go see about the horses (for although Aravis knew far more of riding than he did, she was nowhere near tall enough to reach all the buckles and straps involved in tacking up.)

“Tis a most peculiar thing,” mused Ilsombresh as he settled the saddle blanked over the stallion’s back. “I bought this fine horse for a pittance because he was ill mannered, yet now he seems as docile as a kitten.”

“No doubt a testament to your exceptional horsemanship.”

“Perhaps.”

*

The moon waned a little, and then the lions came again. Far from any village, Arsheesh was roughly roused in the dark part of the night. Someone was tugging at his bedroll.

Shasta was crouching over him. The child’s face was red and blotchy, but his tiny voice was level when he whispered, “Lord ‘Bresh says for you to get up.”

Arsheesh blinked a few times to clear the sleep from his eyes. Across the camp, Ilsombresh was hastily preparing the horses. Coiled around his right leg were the arms of his little sister.

There were lions roaring in the distance. Lions, again. Arsheesh stood and made to join Ilsombresh and the horses, but he paused for a minute before moving. “Are you afraid, Shasta?”

The child bit his lip. “Yessir.”

So Arsheesh scooped the boy into his arms before striding over to join the rest of the party.

Up close, the horses’ eyes were wild with panic, and Ilsombresh himself was little better. “Do they seem to be aware of our presence? Perhaps we ought not flee in haste,” Arsheesh volunteered.

“We cannot remain here. We cannot take the chance! I will not, do you hear me? My sister will arrive safe in Narnia, and if you refuse to go I will run you through with my sword and use your worthless carcass to ward the lions off.”

From her clinging place round her brother’s leg, Aravis choked out a sob.

Arsheesh knelt and placed Shasta down beside her. “Here now, Shasta. Comfort the Tarkheena, yes? That’s a good boy.”

The boy looked uncertain, but he nodded firmly at the charge. He tugged on Aravis’s plait and said, “Aravis. Aravis. Come here. Let the grown-ups talk.”

Slowly, painfully, Aravis released the grip on her brother’s leg and went with Shasta to sit by the bedrolls. Arsheesh turned his attention back to Ilsombresh and his flashing eyes.

“Peace,” he said firmly, placing his hand on the young Tarkaan’s shoulder. “I’ve no wish to see either of the children come to harm. If we must flee, so be it. I only mean to offer an alternative. If we move apace, will we not seem as prey?”

“They can smell us, can they not? If Aravis dies, I shall—”

“You needn’t threaten me further, I understand. Perhaps if we crossed the river.”

Ilsombresh seemed to consider this and Arsheesh breathed a sigh of relief. “Alright,” he said finally. “Let us cross the river and see what comes of it.”

*

The children, seeking to be helpful, had packed away the camp and sitting pressed together and whispering when their guardians finished their conference. “We will cross the river,” said Arsheesh, disentangling the children and hefting Shasta into his arms. “We must make no sound and no sudden movements, do you understand?”

They crossed in silence and dark, Arsheesh with the two children in his arms and Ilsombresh leading the horses (who were as quiet and obedient as anyone could have hoped.) His many years of fishing served him well; he navigated the currents and swells of the river and after ten agonizing minutes, he placed the children on the far shore and waited for Ilsombresh to follow.

The whole party stopped and listened, and presently the sound of the lions began to grow faint. “You see, my lord? They never knew of us.”

Ilsombresh cleared his throat. “I apologize for my rashness, Arsheesh. Your wisdom has availed us all tonight.”

“I am a man of many years, my lord,” replied the fisherman.

*

As the days went on, Shasta’s whispered conferences with Aravis Tarkheena blossomed into a full-fledged conspiracy. The smile tugged on his cheeks quite often now. When Arsheesh told him to gather kindling or to lay out the bedroll, he did it without any sullenness; almost with cheerfulness. It seemed, thought the fisherman, as though he was a whole new boy.

That, in itself, was troubling. Arsheesh had taken the boy in with the thought of putting him to work, and so he had done as soon as Shasta was capable. He was six years old, but he could untangle nets and scrape muck and oh, so many other things. Yet his fearful sullenness had made him inefficient. Arsheesh had gleaned long ago that Shasta could likely work faster if he did not double back and check his work so often for fear of punishment, but what else could he do? Without that fear, the boy would not work at all.

Now, in the face of Shasta’s newfound cheerfulness, Arsheesh was forced to concede that the child was capable of pleasantness and speed in whatever task his small hands were set to do, if only he might smile and laugh as he did it. Arsheesh watched as Shasta and Aravis diligently set about filling the waterskins; how they raced each other down to the river and tossed stones into the water while they worked and squealed with glee as they raced back. Perhaps, in the past he had been overharsh with the boy.

Yes. Well. As one of the poets had said, “A sluggard is he who desires nothing; let the man with a lazy servant discover what that servant desires.” Besides, the King of Archenland would likely prefer a son who laughed to one who only sulked.

*

One night as their party was nearing Tashbaan, Arsheesh woke to find the bedroll beside him empty and cold. Shasta was missing. At once he was awake, scrambling upright and looking round until at last he saw Shasta sitting cross-legged with Aravis beside him. Their heads were close bent together, dark hair and tow side by side in the moonlight, facing the makeshift hitching post and the two horses tied there.

For a moment, Arsheesh considered whether he ought to go to the children and usher them back to bed, but after a moment’s pause he decided against it. Let them have their midnight whispers. They were in no danger and certainly they would return to bed when they were tired enough.

*

“We come to Tashbaan in two days,” Ilsombresh said. The party was seated in a patch of grass, taking their midday meal in the afternoon sun. The horses grazed contentedly a little way off, and the two children were seated so close together that their elbows were touching.

“In two days,” the young nobleman repeated. “It is imperative that no one of our acquaintance should recognize Aravis or myself. To that end—”

“Perhaps the time has come for my lord to disclose what, exactly, he and his sister are running from.”

It was a very bold thing for Arsheesh to say to any of his betters, but he met the Ilsombresh’s gaze and held it nevertheless.

“Yes,” Ilsombresh replied, stroking his barely-whiskered chin. “Very well then. I’ll give the shape of it, at least. Thou hast earned our trust.”

“My father, and Aravis’s father, has lately married a wicked woman (having been bereft of our mother for some years.) She loves us not and covets our father’s inheritance on behalf of her own child, which she is carrying; thus, she arranged for my appointment to the army of the Tisroc (may he live forever), in a place of great peril and in the hope that I should perish. Likewise, she has arranged to send Aravis to dwell in the home of a distant relative, a man of many vices, until she comes of an age to be married. Therefore, I have taken Aravis and made to escape, that such evil things might not come to pass.”

Arsheesh stared, dumbfounded at his blunt admission to deserting the Tisroc’s army.

“Have you any questions?”

Arsheesh opened his mouth and shut it. Finally, “Thou art very brave, my lord. I shall do my utmost to ensure that no one knows of thee.”

A wide smile spread across Ilsombresh’s face at that. “I thank thee,” he murmured. “I have tried to do right. It has not been easy.” He cleared his throat. “And I, for my part, will ensure that thou art well rewarded for the discovery of the Archen prince, eh? North to freedom and fat wallets!”

“Freedom and fat wallets,” Arsheesh softly echoed.

“The plan then. Aravis and I will enter the city with our faces covered: I with my armor and Aravis veiled. We will go to the Foreigners’ Quarter, where we are unlikely to be recognized, and Shasta will remain with us in case we are recognized. You, Arsheesh, will go to the docks and secure passage on a fast ship in the name of your master, Alimash Tarkaan (that’s a cousin of mine). Then, you will sell the horses and return to the Foreigners’ Quarter to meet with us. We will lay low until the ship is to embark, then make our way to the docks and be on our way to Archenland. Is that acceptable?”

“’Bresh,” Aravis interjected, tugging on her brother’s sleeve.

“Yes, my lord. A fine plan.”

“’Bresh!”

“In a moment, Aravis. Now if we have need of Shasta as our alibi—”

“’Bresh, what did you mean about selling the horses? Salma and Bree are coming with us.”

“Bree? I was not aware that thou had named that stallion. I told thee not to, dear. Thou knowst that horses may not come on the ship. I’m sorry.”

“But ‘Bresh, the horses have to come—!”

“I know thou’rt fond of Salma, but I will buy thee a horse when we reach our new home. A better horse, yes?”

Aravis looked helplessly at Shasta, who himself seemed to be rather agitated. “Father, hadn’t we better take the horses? Perhaps we can give them to the King of Archenland.”

“’Please, ‘Bresh. Pleeeeeeaaaaseeee?”

It was at that moment that something miraculous happened.

“Excuse me,” said Salma the mare. “It seems to me that we’re all trying to get free of Calormen in one way or another. Could I—that is, I think it would be sensible if we all were to work together. So that no one gets left behind, I mean.”

Nobody breathed. Arsheesh could only blink at the Tarkaan’s horse, convinced that he was losing his mind. Then, when several long moments had passed, the stallion replied.

“Very well put, madam. Four of us have much better chances of seeing the foals safe in the North than you two have alone—and, I might say, a better chance of getting free ourselves.”

And then all Tash’s hell broke loose.

Ilsombresh drew his sword, but the two children leapt to their feet and raced over to the places where the horses were tied. “Bresh!” cried the Tarkheena. With his child’s fingers, Shasta untied the knot holding the stallion Bree in place. Bree lunged forward towards the young Tarkaan and Arsheesh saw the horses’ fierce hooves preparing to collide with his chest. Ilsombresh ducked and took a swipe at the horse’s feet with his sword, but now Shasta was untying Salma and she was free as well. Arsheesh strode forward and put his hand on Ilsombresh’s shoulder, but the youth roughly shook him away. Shasta crouched very near Salma’s back legs and Arsheesh now turned and moved towards him, meaning to scoop the boy up and at least remove him from harm’s way, but Shasta scooted away, closer to Salma’s legs. Now, Aravis was yelling and Ilsombresh was still brandishing his sword and Bree reared back and then—

Everything stopped. Everyone turned towards the deafening, unmistakable sound of a lion’s roar. It had heard them. It was coming.

Arsheesh recovered his wits first. “If you horses carry us true,” said the fisherman in a rush, “we will see you free in Archenland.” He whirled round to face Ilsombresh. “Yes?”

“On my honor,” Ilsombresh nodded and sheathed his sword.

The lion was at their heels in moments. Both horses broke into a run, but still it gained. Its roar was terrible: so much more fearsome than it had been at a distance, now that it was so very near. Like thunder on the sea, thought the fisherman. Like when a squall comes from nowhere. From in front of him, Shasta whispered something into the horses mane. Arsheesh couldn’t make out the words, but he felt the child’s skin clammy against him.

Bree was the faster horse, and so for all that Arsheesh had gotten the head start, the Tarkaan and his sister had soon outpaced him. He hazarded a glance behind and saw great, white teeth snapping not yards away. The creature’s breath on his back. Claws like bright silver and that thunderstorm-roar.

Shasta’s clammy hands. A squall on the sea. There was a kind of symmetry to it, Arsheesh thought. Perhaps one of the poets might have made some great tale of it, but for now his own mind was dumb with fear. If the lion took down Salma, Ilsombresh and Aravis would escape, but he and Shasta would die. If the lion took him—

“Mercy,” gasped his horse, and the thought came to Arsheesh like lightning.

He leaned low over both child and horse and to Salma he said, “Ride hard and get him to safety. Not Tashbaan: Anvard.” Then, to Shasta, “In Archenland, let Ilsombresh claim the reward. But—tell the King and Queen that I was good to thee.” With that, Arsheesh slid from Salma’s back and landed hard on the ground. The hoofbeats continued on, running at full tilt, and from his pile on the ground, Arsheesh thought, good. He shut his eyes and waited for the lion’s teeth.

*

Arsheesh opened his eyes. His muscles ached from the fall, and he thought that perhaps a few of his bones were broken, but he was not dead. That itself was very strange, and for a moment he dared to hope that the lion had left.

But no. A few paces ahead of him were two enormous golden paws. The claws were still extended, but the creature attached to them was so still that it might have been a statue. Arsheesh held his breath.

“Well then, my son,” spoke the lion. It had a heavy, rumbling voice that seemed to come from all around. “What would you have me do with you?”

Arsheesh flinched backwards and his old muscles complained. What was he to say? First, the talking horses; now the talking lion. Perhaps he was dreaming. Perhaps he had gone mad.

“Do—do you mean to ask how I want you to eat me?”

The lion inclined its head lower, so that Arsheesh could see his face. “That is not what I have asked you,” it said.

Thinking then of Salma’s gasping voice as she ran, the fisherman spoke the only word he could think to utter. “Mercy.”

“Mercy?” rumbled the lion. “Certainly, you shall have mercy in abundance; for you have asked for it.”

With that, it bent its head nearly to the ground, where Arsheesh still lay prostrate, and breathed on him. A bright, tangy scent surrounded him, as though someone had peeled an orange very near his face. The fisherman sat up.

“Arsheesh, son of Altan. Give me an accounting of yourself. How have you treated the child I gave you?”

“You gave me? I plucked the child from the sea one night. There was no lion. I’d never encountered a lion in all my years until I set out on this thrice-damned journey to Archenland.”

There was a glint in the lion’s eye that Arsheesh might have taken to be a smile. “You know not what you speak. It was I who pushed the boat that held the child nearly to shore for you to find. I gave him to you, that you might bring him up and someday see him returned to his homeland. Have you done these things?”

A knot had risen in Arsheesh’s throat. There was no doubt in his mind (if indeed there ever had been) that the creature before him was the lion-demon that the Narnians worshipped. Yet for all the fear he should have felt, he did not really feel scared. It was guilt, not fear, which had lodged itself in Arsheesh’s throat.

“Shasta,” he whispered. The lion looked at him, and Arsheesh began to feel very naked. He wondered if the lion somehow knew how he had treated the child, and only wanted to hear him say it before it devoured him.  

“O Mighty Lion, I knew not of these things. They are too marvelous for your servant, who is but an old and greedy fisherman. I drew the child out of the water seeking only my own profit, raised him to be my slave, and only made to return him to his homeland when it seemed that I might be rewarded for it. If in confessing these things, I have forfeited the mercy you promised me, then do with your servant as you will.” For the second time that day, Arsheesh shut his eyes. Once again, the pain never came.

*

The fisherman Arsheesh arrived at Anvard on a cloudy day. His clothes were threadbare and he carried no supplies, but the gate opened for him as soon as the watchman saw him approach.

He had scarce made it to the courtyard when a young man came running out. He looked like Ilsombresh Tarkaan, but his hair was shorter and there were more whiskers on his chin then there had been two weeks ago. He was arrayed in the heavy furs of the Archen court, and his arms were outstretched.

“Arsheesh!” he cried as the two of them embraced. “You live.”

“Yes. I take it Shasta is here with his true father?”

Ilsombresh nodded. “He is Crown Prince Cor, and he and Aravis are playing with his twin brother in the nursery. The horses—Bree and Hwin—are here too. And now thee.”

“Yes, thanks to the fare that thou left for me at the docks. But come. I would like to see the child, and the King and Queen should know that I’ve spoken with Aslan.”

“Aslan?”

The fisherman laughed. “Oh, my boy. I’ve much to tell thee.”

[todayisafridaynight]

everyday i constantly think of masato's wheelchair and if that's his only one/main one no wonder he's so pissed at everyone