#broken capitalism over broken communism any day thank you very much

[chenziee]

Happy 34 communism-free years!

Thank you to all the people who took part in taking the regime down. So glad I never had to live through that time, thanks to you 🙏❤

Rest in peace to everyone who died fighting or merely tried to get out of this hell. You will not be forgotten.

Iron curtain can get fucked ❤

[wilwheaton]

wow! you really did it this time. who knew you would be the one whod crack the oh so cryptic nazi dogwhistle that the rightwing has been hiding behind all this time? you're truly a genius! now that you have basically compared the official term (that the members themselves have used for years) of the democratic party TO the n-word, the s-word and the k-word, they cant make fun of liberals and leftists anymore, we are finally free. their supplies are SPENT and their defenses BROKEN. thank you mr. wheaton, you have done it! you have defeated fascism! may god bless america!

Just because you don’t know about the history of something doesn’t mean your interpretation and dismissal of that history is factually correct.

You’re probably not going to hear this. That’s okay. This is for anyone else who is open to hearing how this 48 year-old guy got where he is, politically.

The biggest event in my generation’s life is likely the attack on 9/11. None of us had ever experienced something like that, and it wrecked a lot of us.

But in the immediate aftermath of 9/11, all of us who weren’t on board with Bush’s illegal and immoral invasion of Iraq were grouped in with the terrorists who murdered 2000 people. We were The Other. It wasn’t as dangerous or as violent at that is in Trump’s America, but for its time, in its context, it hurt.

Sidebar: We are losing a 9/11 of Americans every two days, to COVID. It didn’t have to be this way. The fact that it is this way is a choice.

The whole point of a slur is to dehumanize and cast out a group of people. slurs shape unconscious public perceptions, encourage prejudices and bigotry, and create The Other.

When our nation was grieving and afraid, Republicans saw it as an opportunity to consolidate power, and one of the ways they did that was to Otherize and dehumanize all of us who didn’t share their political ideology. Our grief was minimized and discarded, and part of that was deliberately calling us The Democrat Party, instead of The Democratic Party. This was started by right wing Fascist Rush Limbaugh. He said that anyone who was a Democrat wasn’t actually democratic, and within 24 hours, elected Republicans at all levels of government, their supporters on hate radio, and right wing pundits were saying “Democrat” party instead of “Democratic Party”. As far as slurs go, it’s nowhere near the slurs propagated against BIPoC, LGBTQ+, and other groups of people who are dehumanized by my fellow white people. But it is still a slur, and it is still intended to dehumanize and delegitimize us.

So we were left with this huge, emotional, psychic wound that we couldn’t heal, a national grieving we were very publicly excluded from. If you weren’t alive then, you likely don’t know what it felt like for us to be told “you’re with us or against us” at a time when “us” meant Bush and the GOP. We lost friends and family and colleagues on 9/11, too. We were afraid, too. We lived in the same country and had the same right to grief and healing as Bush’s allies.

So when I hear a young person, who likely wasn’t alive or was a baby in 2001 and its immediate aftermath repeating a phrase that was used against me and people like me, I take offense. I won’t apologize for that. I also won’t apologize for not being as Left as some of the kids who attacked me. I do apologize for not making more of an effort to communicate clearly and compassionately. 

I can’t imagine that anyone who doesn’t already agree with all of this is still reading, but just in case some of you are open to it, open to hearing this old man’s voice of experience: 

This will be hard for you to believe, but I’m WAY to the Left in American politics. I know I’m not as Left as some of y’all in other countries. I respect where you’re coming from, and I ask you to understand and respect that, in 48 years (30 of them voting and actively participating in campaigns at every level of government), I’ve learned that we will never get as Left as I want. Bernie was as close as we’ve ever come, and as much as I love his message and policies, Americans have been asked, twice, if we want him to be The Guy, and both times America has said no thanks. We tried, again, with Senator Warren, and America said No Thanks. 

That’s a giant bummer, but it has laid the foundation for a new generation of progressive Democratic Socialists who I hope are the future of my party. I believe that the future is progressive, that America can’t continue to exist in Late Stage Capitalism, and that the Republican party as it exists now must be destroyed.

This is likely where we diverge: I vote my conscience and my heart in the primary, but I vote for Democrats in the general election, because even when I don’t get everything I want, I know that of the two options, Democrats aren’t going to deliberately hurt me and people I love the way Republicans will and do.

I’m willing to fight like crazy in the primaries to get the most Progressive candidate into the general, but once we’re in the general, I am going to support the candidate who is closest to me. I sent my message in the primary with my vote, and with my bank account by supporting the most progressive candidates I’m comfortable with. There was a younger version of me who believed voting Green would push the Democrats to the Left, where I was. I was wrong, and boy do I regret ever giving any of them my vote. Maybe it’s different in other countries, but in America, Greens have become useful idiots for Fascists who seek to hold onto power not by winning majorities, but by splitting their opposition’s vote.

When my candidate doesn’t make it out of the primary, I’m not willing to sit out the general, or cast a vote for a candidate who won’t ever win, because I have worked on enough campaigns, been close to enough party officials, and spent enough time in American politics to know that the two parties you despise don’t care at all about  your protest vote. It doesn’t move them to adopt your positions. It makes them dismiss you, entirely. That 90 or 90 percent of things you and the Democrats agree on? Doesn’t matter. You’ve ceased to exist for anyone who will ever be elected or hold electoral away. And because you did not vote for the one candidate who could beat the candidate you hate more, you have ended up supporting not just the candidate you hate, but all of their policies, their SCOTUS Justices, and every single head of every single branch of government.

I want to repeat that, because I really hope someone will hear this the way I couldn’t and didn’t hear it when I was in my early 20s: When you vote third party, not only do you help the candidate you most want to defeat, you take yourself out of the conversation. Nobody who will ever be elected takes you seriously, and all the things you care about will not be any closer to being addressed by people who can actually make a difference.

I don’t want you to give up your seat at the table. I want you to move the Overton Window back to the Left, so we get America closer and closer to being a nation that isn’t overtly racist, doesn’t murder Black people, provides healthcare and college to all Americans at no cost, and holds criminals -- even powerful criminals -- accountable for their actions.

In our Primary, I worked hard to get Senator Warren over the top, but our party and the voters who will decide the election didn’t agree. The people who can end Trump’s criminal reign of terror all said “We want Biden,” and I know this is a hard to swallow pill, but they are the people who matter, and they are the people we need to support if we want to get rid of Trump and stop the Fascist advance in America.

[peralta-guaranteed]

What abkut mafia!jake au

Stop giving me awesome AU ideas that I cannot write the fic for! 😭

- due to some really, really bad choices after high school (did he ever make other ones? who knows), Jake Peralta has ended up as a grunt for the Ianucci family. He doesn’t really do much - he’s mostly someone who gathers information and new areas for them to work in, because he’s good at randomly befriending people and milking them for all it’s worth. He’s done a few ‘deliveries’, too, but has never had to really get physical.

- (he was at one family meeting that turned into the ‘farewell’ of a mistrusted member and he still has nightmares about it)

- he’s never been arrested for anything and thought the police didn’t even know his name, so imagine his surprise when he’s approached by one of their higher-ups (as if he knows the rankings, psh, pigs are all the same) and subtly but definitely asked if he would be willing to work with them

- his task seems simple: bring one of their cops into the family undercover, the same way he has ‘recruited’ several bodega owners and other ‘low-skill’ workers that turned out to be useful for the family. Maybe keep an eye on the cop as well and help her out if she’s struggling

- she? oh yeah, it’s a woman. A frankly gorgeous woman, he realises when they meet up with her and some FBI dude who obviously pretends he’s not FBI, to discuss it all further. Her name is ‘Dora’, and he knows that’s a lie from the second she’s introduced, but the less he knows, probably the better. The rules are set, he gets a special cellphone number of a ‘cousin’ to contact if something goes wrong, and two weeks later Dora Perez is steadily working her way up the ranks with the Ianuccis, who are very proud of Jake for bringing in this brilliant new talent.

- He might or might not be looking out for her a little bit too much. He might or might not get involved in far more shady dealings with the Iannuccis so he can work closer with her. He might or might not be in deep, deep shit.

- ‘Dora’ is grateful for it, though, he learns every time he drives her home after a more difficult job. She used to be withdrawn and quiet with him, which he tried to equalise by cracking more and more stupid jokes and doing random silly stuff during their drives, but then one time they drive in absolute silence while she cleans blood of her hands, and he says something, he doesn’t remember what, but it’s the right thing apparently, because she starts to talk. She talks to him during every ride after, telling him about the stress and the constant guard she has to keep up and how none of her research binders prepared her for this, and at some point she tells him about nightmares and seeing death around every corner and she can’t wait for this mission to be over.

- (for her sake, he can’t wait for that either. For his sake, he wishes it would go on forever.)

- They’re sent out for a big job together once, because Jake has already become ‘connected’ to Amy in the Ianuccis’ eyes, and they both end up with blood on their hands, and some of it is hers.

- he gets out of the car after that drive home, and gets up to her tiny, fake apartment, and helps her clean the wounds (nothing too big, just cuts, because thank god that guy only had a knife before he beat it out of his hands and then beat the living daylight out of him after he injured her) with the softest fingers she’s ever felt. Then the cleaning alcohol is swapped for drinkable stuff, and they talk, and they talk about everything and nothing, about how a dead-beat dad and an absent mother make a Mafia goon, and how family pressure and a sense of constant duty make a detective who so badly wanted to say no to this assignment but couldn’t.

- “For what it’s worth, Dora, I’m glad you said yes. I mean, not that- not that I want you to do this kind of work- and I want things to be over for you soon, because- but- I’m glad it’s you.” “Amy.” “Hm?” “My name is Amy. Amy Santiago.”

- He wakes up in her bed the next morning, with her in his arms, and he kind of doesn’t regret a single thing, even as his smart-brain is screaming at him. He’s pretty sure he would’ve willingly died for her even before this night, but now, he realises... that he probably will.

- Amy (Amy, not Dora) does freak out a little more than he does when she wakes up. She can’t get involved, she says, this is a job, a dangerous one, and she has to focus on that job and getting the mafia gang and not- okay, okay, let’s not overthink this then, Jake says only to calm her down, we don’t do anything ‘involved’, we’re just... having fun. Keeping things light and breezy. Helping deal with the stress.

- and so, despite how much it hurts and how much it makes him happy at the same time, Jakey the Jew becomes Jakey, Dora’s Loverboy. It helps, he supposes, because it means the Ianuccis won’t suspect them hanging out so much, and send him along to most of her jobs now so he can watch out for her, and he gets to be with her in a way, even as she constantly reiterates ‘light and breezy’ to keep him at a distance no matter how close they get.

- it doesn’t feel very ‘light and breezy’ when they spend time together in front of the TV, though, to get their minds to relax after doing whatever the Ianuccis needed them doing. It doesn’t feel ‘light and breezy’ when they joke around in the bodega getting ice cream on a particularly hot day out doing jobs, or when she shows him around the library after meeting her ‘cousin’ there for a chat. It doesn’t feel ‘light and breezy’ at all when she sighs into his arms when he’s holding her in bed, neither of them even wanting to take the night any further than soft hands under tshirts, because all they really need at some point is the comfort of each other.

- and then one day, after a few months of this ‘light and breezy’ and ‘Dora’s Loverboy’, Jake gets invited for a ‘Talk’ by the family. With a capital T. And he’s not been that high up in the ranks at any point, and he’s not really done much for the family, but he’s not an idiot. He knows what that means. So of course he doesn’t tell Amy, writes her a short but succinct note instead that maybe ends with the L-word somewhere in it, and goes to have a Talk.

- The Ianuccis know that there is a rat, but they don’t know who. And they know that if Jakey is good for one thing, it’s information. So The Talk doesn’t end as quickly as it usually does, and the way he’d expected. It hurts a lot more, for one thing. Jake thinks of offering up some other goon or lower family member as the rat, if only to make the torture stop, but his brain is too broken in the moment to figure out a convincing story. And when the name ‘Perez’ suddenly drops into the conversation, there’s really only one other name he can still think of clearly to blame. Peralta.

- he doesn’t remember much after that - he’s pretty sure he heard gunshots, but none of them hit him, so what’s the deal with that? Everything else is pretty much a blur of pain and cold, and lots of shouting, and then warm soft hands on his face and a quiet voice saying his name amidst it all, and when he wakes up the next time he’s in a hospital bed.

- He’s in that hospital bed for two weeks to recover, and no one visits him. Not that it should be surprising - Nana is dead, his mom doesn’t know about anything he’s done since the age of 18 for a reason, and there’s no one else who in their right mind should care to visit him. So imagine his surprise when a detective shows up, introduces herself as Rosa Diaz, and explains that she’s Amy’s partner at work, but she’s not here for official business.

- “She wanted to come see you. Hell, she fought tooth and nail for it. But she had to be debriefed, stupid FBI assholes, and then it turned out two of the Ianuccis got away, so we had to find them first to make sure they don’t go after her for revenge” (well that explains the constant patrols in the hospital for him, as well) “and we had to hide her for her safety, but, Jake, she wanted to come see you. I swear.” “It’s okay.” Jake says, and it’s really not, but he’s been a brilliant liar for years now. “You can tell her... it’s okay. The job is done, and I’m, I’m glad she’s finally got it over and past her. Really. Tell her it’s okay.”

- He’s debriefed by the FBI after he gets discharged, as well. They tell him ‘good job’ and ‘thanks’ and pay him a surprisingly large amount of money and cover his hospital bills, so that’s good. They also advise that he move, not far, but far enough that any possible leftover scragglers of the family don’t remember his old place for a ‘visit’. So he moves, a few blocks only, enough to get a new favourite bodega and deli and discover that the library is actually nearby and that there’s this community college that Amy kept talking about for some reason, and if he takes a few classes to finally get a degree, it’s not about getting a proper job at some point, it’s more about not thinking about anything else. About maybe forgetting, even if it was her that basically got him where he is now.

- (it does not work)

- she knocks on his door a month later. She looks strange in her professional outfit instead of washed out jeans and a tanktop with a stupid slogan on it, but also so perfectly her. That’s Amy, he thinks, not Dora anymore. That’s Amy, and he still loves her just as much as he did when she was ‘Dora’ in his sweatpants and tshirt. Maybe more.

- “You’re a hard man to find, Peralta.” She says, and he knows that’s a lie, but she smiles with a scared look through it and he takes it for what it is - an attempt at saying anything, really, after 1 1/2 months of silence, when she’s probably got a speech all prepared in her head but needs to get there first. “That’s such a bad, cheesy movie line.” He helps, and she laughs and yeah, that’s all he needs in life. “Well we never watched any good movies, did we.” “Hey, we watched Die Hard. That’s the best movie there is.” She rolls her eyes but nods, and opens her mouth, and Jake thinks that the speech is coming now, but he has no idea what it might entail. Thank you and good bye, maybe. Good job, great work, can you sign this official statement for me so I can add it to my paperwork? possibly. “Screw light and breezy.” She says instead, and then she’s in his new apartment, which is much nicer and cleaner than the old place was even after she worked her magic on it, and she’s kissing him, and he’s never, ever letting her out.

[scathecraw]

BBRae Week 2021 - Day 1: Unconventional Kiss

Raven had been dancing around the issue for weeks now, and both she and Gar knew it. There had been a few near misses after a date gone well, a few breathless close calls during training, and one precipitous moment in the kitchen that fell apart when the smoke detector signaled their distraction.

They had been good dates. Very good dates, to be quite honest. Raven had expected that they would go nearly that well, and that had been why she had held off for so long. With all the emotional vulnerability and insightful talks and fantastic company and so many other things that came with dating someone you had been attracted to for years, she knew that the other shoe would drop, and she would have to just plunge in headfirst. And Gar had been patient – he wasn’t one to rush, especially with her. But he wanted it. And, god help her, she wanted it, too.

A perfect first kiss. The First Kiss, for both of them, hung up on each other for so long that they had never made any real attempts to find anyone else. Kori’s magazines had promised that the first kiss was always awkward and had to be refined by, hrm,repeated practice, but that was only a small part of the fear that gripped Raven when she thought of actually, really putting lips to lips.

It wasn’t Gar. She fully expected him to be just as bad as she was for a while (and likely longer given how quick she could pick things up). It wasn’t even what might… come after. Not as such. It was just… just… it was Important. Capital “I” Important – that things go well. Despite the promise of a bad first kiss by seemingly everyone who had ever kissed, it had to go right. Too wet or too dry, wrong head tilt, wrong duration, whatever – but she wanted to kiss him and do it over and over again and what if he didn’t want to or what if there was no chemistry or what if she sneezed or got so nervous she vomited or any number of things that would, according to all her latest nightmares, put him off wanting her the way she wanted him.

And he seemed so damn blithe about it. Like he couldn’t be less worried, even though she had felt his pulse race and could practically hear his internal monologue turning into a full blown soliloquy. He had that placid smile and those sparkling eyes and smelled like warmth and pine and it was so stupid how he wouldn’t just admit how nervous he was so they could be nervous together.

No, she had to be the mature one and feel all the butterflies for them both. She could practically hear his corny joke about never getting butterflies because he was vegetarian. Stupid Gar and stupid kissing.

It would happen. She would make it happen. And it wouldn’t be perfect, or probably even a very good kiss, but it would be right. Eventually.

____

There was an awful lot of noise and fleeing civilians for an evening out, even at the pier.

Nightwing sighed from atop his favorite ride at the boardwalk, the Ferris Wheel, as he retrieved his communicator and alerted the team. “Titans, we’ve got work to do. Something big is causing trouble at the east entrance. Star and I are on our way and will meet you there.” With that, he stood up in the precariously rocking carriage and Starfire lifted him by the arms, taking off in the direction of the disturbance. Cyborg, heretofore incognito on a date, immediately excused himself and waded through the crowds, shedding his holo-disguise. He was alerted to his passing teammates by a green blur, and called out to Raven as she passed, asking for a ride on one of her ink-black levitating discs. She obliged and they took off after Changeling’s racing avian form.

Gar was the fastest one to respond in these situations. Superhuman reactions and mobility got him to the trouble faster than any of his teammates, and he was proud of it. It meant that he was the first one to  engage the enemy, which was a dangerous gambit when he didn’t know what the enemy was, but someone had to be first on the line when every second was a danger to innocent people. In this case, it was more an annoyance than any real threat. Kitten was throwing a very public and destructive temper tantrum, as she tended to do within a few weeks of release/escape.

Her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Fang, was nearby and suffering the brunt of the auditory assault while a swarm of mutated grubs ate their way through stalls and prizes alike. Kitten was waving the control device as she gesticulated wildly, and the chance to end the whole debacle in one fell swoop was too tempting.

Without waiting for backup or giving away his presence, Changeling darted forward as a seagull, beak agape as he neared the remote. He had timed it perfectly, if not for Fang’s suddenly outstretched spiderleg. The blow sent him tumbling into a pile of cheap stuffed animals and he transformed back into himself. The arguing couple immediately turned their ire on him without ever stopping their argument.

“And now look what you’ve done! Your stupidity got this idiot involved! Why couldn’t you just win me a stupid teddy bear like a normal boyfriend?” Kitten raged as she hammered at the controller, causing the grubs to turn their attention towards the dazed and prone Changeling. Fang launched webbing at him, working at cross purposes as the grubs and giving Changeling just enough time to roll out of the way.

“This is not my fault. You know these games are rigged! Why would I give the money I stole to these scam artists?”

“Because you are supposed to! It’s what boyfriends do! They do stupid stuff because I want you TO!” Kitten screamed and threw her remote onto the ground where it cracked and fizzled. Instead of the expected de-metamorphosis from vicious gnawing grubs to harmless caterpillars, there was a rumbling from deep inside the snack stall and a mass exodus of larvae from the vicinity. Gar had just gotten to his feet when a much larger, toothier, and more armored wriggler burst from the shoddy wooden confines, writhing and shrieking even more shrilly than Kitten, and headed directly towards her and Fang in a headlong charge.

Apparently Kitten’s shouting was enough to distract both of them from their imminent death by squirming tank, and Changeling had to make a tough split-second decision – let them suffer the consequences of their own stupidity, or put himself in harm’s way to save them.

It wasn’t much of a choice. Leaping forward, he transformed into a rhino, a fast moving locomotive of heavy armor and muscle and slammed headfirst into the tank sized larva, diverting it and being whipped aside by the unexpected followthrough of the tail end of the grub.

Raven’s disk touched down just in time to see his head collide with a thick support post that held up the boardwalk, and the sounds of argument fell silent as Kitten and Fang wordlessly assessed the situation and fled. Cyborg called out “Get B. I’ll get the worm,” and launched after the creature.

Raven raced to Garfield’s side, seeing the heavy gash and road rash from sliding across the wood. She assessed him as quickly as possible, noting the broken ribs, bleeding, and, most concerning, the lack of breathing. She channeled her power, reaching her soulself into the unmoving shapeshifter on the ground, and urgently repaired his most vital injuries.

The head wound would wait, they always bled more and looked worse than they were. First the broken ribs, eased out and stabilized enough to hold for a little while. Then the badly punctured lung. As the trapped air was removed and the hole patched, she expected him to cough, sit up, and make a dumb joke. Instead he just lay there, silent. His pulse was fine, and there was no reason for him to be so still.

She did all the steps that the Titans’ first aid training laid out for her, making sure his airway was clear, no pressure preventing his breathing or hidden wounds that would cause more damage, then started mouth to mouth.

It only took a few breaths, as if his body had simply not realized for some seconds that he was able to breathe normally again, before the first unassisted rasps began. Raven let out a sob of relief, feeling like his breath resuming was directly connected to her own oxygen. She continued healing him, clearing his head of blood and strengthening the broken ribs before his eyes opened with a groan.

“Did ya get the license of that truck that hit me?” he said, weakly.

Raven nearly hit him. “That was by far the stupidest thing I have ever seen you do. What were you thinking, charging in like that?”

“Aww c’mon, Rae. I had ta’. And I’m sure you’ve seen me do stupider things.”

“None of them had you puncture a lung and stop breathing, you fool. You didn’t need emergency resuscitation when you tried to do a standing backflip.” A jolt of power zapped him with an icicle of cold to the chest, and he coughed.

“At least I stuck the landing this time, heh. I think I can sit up. Thanks for fixing me up, Doctor Rae.”

She glared, and kept glaring as Nightwing checked in. Fang and Kitten had been apprehended almost peacefully by him and Starfire, and Cyborg had incapacitated the grub easily. She reported the situation, not once taking her eyes off her idiot of a boyfriend.

He rolled to his feet, only a little gingerly, and retrieved the broken pieces of the remote control for Cyborg to repair and reverse the changes to the swarm.

As he stooped down to pick up the last pieces, he stopped, and a look of realization dawned on him.

“Wait, you gave me CPR? Like, mouth-to-mouth?”

“Of course. You weren’t breathing and you needed oxygen before any working brain cells died.”

“Y’know,” he said, sitting back down beside her, “I think that counts as our first kiss.”

Raven went still. It couldn’t. It wasn’t even a kiss, it was legitimate medical treatment. But then again, it wasn’t very good, it was at a weird angle, and there was even the terrible fear that she’d vomit out of worry. It checked all the boxes for the perfect terrible first kiss.

He interrupted her musing, “Too bad I don’t remember it. Maybe we could see if trying again might jog some memories.” He reached his arm across her shoulders, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh shut up,” she said, and pulled him in for a completely butterfly-free second first kiss.

AO3 FF.net

[refinedbuffoonery]

Quarantine Moments (6)

The prison flashbacks start around the same time Riley loses track of the number of days she’s been trapped inside Mac’s house. 

At first they’re just sporadic dreams, and Riley writes them off as nothing. An extra long run is enough to shake off the caged-in feeling. 

And then they start happening during the day. 

Riley and Mac are sparring in the living room, and she’s losing. “Losing your edge there, Riles?” he teases, pulling yet another punch she failed to deflect. 

She bluffs, “Maybe I’m just tricking you.” She totally isn’t. Mac is winning, and he knows it. 

Riley stumbles, and Mac capitalizes on her moment of weakness to slam her into the wall face-first, pinning her wrists behind her back. He whoops in victory, but Riley doesn’t hear it. The flashback seizes Riley’s body, teleporting her consciousness to a part of her past she’d rather forget. 

It’s her first day. The prison guards—two of them—escort her to the cafeteria. Inside, the other women study Riley like she’s about to be their next meal. They’re all huddled in their cliques, and it doesn’t take Riley long to figure out which one is at the top of the food chain. 

It’s like middle school all over again, only worse. 

A woman probably ten years older than Riley approaches. She’s the alpha. Her dirty orange jumpsuit does little to conceal her thick, muscled body, but it’s her eyes that frighten Riley most—steel gray and completely devoid of emotion, except maybe hunger. And Riley is fresh meat. 

Even though every nerve in her body screams at her to run the other way, Riley keeps her head down and tries to walk past the woman. Maybe I’ll get lucky, she thinks. But her luck ran out long ago. 

Before Riley knows what’s happening, the woman has her smashed against the wall, arms pinned behind her back. She struggles, but the woman holds firm. Her breath is hot and rancid as she growls in Riley’s ear. “You’re too pretty for a place like this. What’s your name, girl?” 

Riley doesn’t answer. 

The woman yanks Riley’s hair hard enough for her vision to blur. “I said, what’s your name, girl?” 

Riley’s voice is squeaky and pathetic as she tells her. 

“See?” she croons. “That wasn’t hard.” There’s laughter in the background. “What are you in for? They don’t throw just anybody in here.”

Riley takes a deep, steadying breath. She can’t be herself here. She can’t show fear. These women probably eat fear for breakfast. Riley speaks in a low, cruel voice that sounds foreign to her ears. “I’m a hacker. A good one. Give me five minutes with a computer, and I can make every single one of you disappear from the face of the earth so thoroughly the world will forget you existed at all.” 

It’s enough for the woman to release her, just slightly. 

She hears her name then, ringing in her ears. A man’s voice, coming from somewhere very far away. 

The flashbacks have changed over the years, steadily growing more distorted from reality. In the last one, she was shanked with the handle-end of a spoon and died on her first day. Other times, the women are little more than high school bullies weaponizing their words for verbal and psychological warfare. 

Even after all this time, Riley still can’t break out of the flashbacks on her own any more than she could’ve broken herself out of prison. The flashbacks are her new prison, with her mind as her jailer. 

She hears her name again, and it’s muffled, like she’s underwater. 

Maybe the owner will pull her out. Maybe they’ll just let her drown. Her fate is up to them either way. 

Hands grip her shoulders. Riley jerks away on instinct, hitting something hard and cool. Closing her eyes, she shrinks in on herself and waits for it all to be over. Tears threaten to sneak out. Riley clenches her eyes shut even harder. 

The hands slide up to her face. 

“Open your eyes,” the voice says. 

She can’t. She’s afraid of what might be there when she does. 

“You’re safe,” the voice promises. “I’ve got you.” 

Riley opens her eyes and is met with familiar bright blue ones, tinged with fear. Mac. She sees the familiar setting of his living room before her vision starts to blur. 

He brushes her tears away. “There you are.” Mac steps closer like he’s going to hug her, and Riley’s throat tightens as the caged-in feeling returns. Riley shoves him back as hard as she can, bolting out the front door. 

Her knees buckle the second she reaches the lawn, and then she’s on her hands and knees, desperately trying to breathe again. She hears Mac’s cautious footsteps approach, but Riley focuses on the feeling of grass beneath her palms. The sun on her back. Birds chirping. Mac crouches a healthy distance away, giving her space. 

I’m home, she promises herself. I’m safe. I got out. A shuddering breath. I’m not going back. 

Riley flops onto her back. The sky is extra blue today and dizzyingly bright. Wordlessly, Mac mirrors her. 

When Riley is sure the flashback won’t come screaming back, she reaches out and grazes her fingers against Mac’s. She hears him let out a long, shaky exhale before he threads his fingers between hers and presses their palms together. 

Minutes pass in silence, and Riley’s voice is hoarse as she finally confesses, “I’m not okay.” 

Mac squeezes her hand. Go on.

“I’ve been having dreams where I’m back in prison. Until now, they’ve only been at night. This is the first one during the day.” 

“What happened?” 

Panic flares in her chest. Riley takes slow, deep breaths until it subsides. “They, uh, had me pinned against a wall.” 

Mac’s grip tightens. “Fuck. Riles, I’m sorry. This was my fault.” His voice is thick. 

Riley squeezes his hand but doesn’t look at him. “You couldn’t have known.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? About the dreams.” 

Because you have plenty of your own problems. I’m not burdening you with mine too. “I don’t know.” Her eyes track a bird flying overhead. It’s easier than facing Mac. 

He toys with the ring on her thumb. “Thank you for telling me now.” A pause. “What can I do to help you?” 

Riley doesn’t have a clue. 

She focuses on the sensation of his hand in hers, of his deft fingers mindlessly twisting her ring. It grounds her just as much as the damp grass beneath her, just as much as the sun on her face. She’s safe. It’s been over five years since she’s been trapped inside those concrete walls. Less since she’s been arrested and thrown in a holding cell thanks to ops gone wrong. She supposes that’s the one upside to the pandemic—that she won’t be risking jail time any time soon. 

But some days LA’s total lockdown feels like just another prison itself. 

“Do you ever think about that one time you got sent to prison for an op?” she asks. “Not long after I joined the team.”  She knows it’s a long shot, but part of her hopes that maybe, just maybe, he can commiserate.

“Every once in a while,” Mac admits. “But that wasn’t anything like what you experienced.” 

So much for empathy. 

“Will you stay out here with me?” Even if he can’t understand, Mac’s presence is better than facing the memories alone. 

“As long as you need.” He squeezes her hand twice this time, and Riley returns the gesture, letting it communicate everything she can’t say aloud. 

They lie there until the shadows grow long, and the setting sun dips below the neighbors’ roof. 

[doesitsparkjoytho]

Old Dog, New Tricks

Words: 2100 POV: Hank A short piece exploring the events leading up to and just post-epilogue (good ending). Fluff/feels. This can be interpreted however you like. (You can also read on AO3)

...something about the bright blue thirium against the snow—hell, it fucking glowed in the dark…. He’d barely driven two blocks before he had to swerve to a curb and open his door to puke.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?”

Hank really looks at the android now, and is pained to see the bullet hole, the blue blood now dried along his shoulder, spattered like neon paint along the front and sides of his usually neat jacket. Connor is filthy, his hair is a mess, his clothes are frayed and torn in places. It’s a miracle he’s alive.

Alive...

Connor follows Hank into the kitchen, and his eyes quickly scan the counters, table—likely analyzing what’s changed since he was last here. Hank looks at him, slightly abashed. The last time Connor was here, he wasn't exactly concerned about the state of his house. He'd barely been aware that Connor was even in his house, let alone been concerned about how he'd gotten in (the window was still broken, and Connor's request to Cyberlife to reimburse the expense would likely never be processed now).

"Do you eat?" Hank asks. It sounds stupid as he asks it, but it feels good to ask regardless. And honestly HANK is hungry. But even without opening the fridge, he realizes he has next to nothing edible, except perhaps to android standards. With all his favorite fast food places almost certainly closed, he isn't sure what he’ll do.

"I can eat, but I have no need or desire to,” Connor replies. He looks perplexed, but doesn't say more.

Hank smirks. "Can you cook?" It’s funny imagining Connor, who he's seen so often licking blue goo from floors and sprinting after deviants, cooking.

Connor's face scrunches slightly. "I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it." Now he smirks. "If you're that desperate, I'm sure Sumo won't mind if a few of his cans go missing. It's probably preferable to whatever I'd manage."

"Haha, very funny, Connor. But unlike you, I do actually need to eat. Eventually." He trails off on this last word.

It's then that Hank realizes how fucking tired he is. What time is it, anyways? 10:27am. The past 24 hours feel like a fever dream. He also hasn't slept since.... When the fuck did he last sleep?

After he and Connor split ways at Cyberlife tower, he went to the park and tried to calm his nerves. However, for the first time in a long time, he found himself unable to drink even a beer—felt he might be needed, and that he’d have to be ready. Sharp. And that thought made him even more anxious, more agitated.

So he got back in his car and drove around the city, trying to find somewhere with a TV. His phone was a useless brick with communications shut down nationwide several days prior. The streets were deserted, stores and bars closed. Not even looters wanted to chance encounters with deviants, apparently.

He did pass several groups of soldiers and androids, and he felt sick when he inevitably imagined Connor kneeling in the snow, a machine gun pressed to the back of his head. At one point he witnessed such an execution, and something about the bright blue thirium against the snow—hell, it fucking glowed in the dark…. He’d barely driven two blocks before he had to swerve to a curb and open his door to puke.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?”

Hank really looks at the android now, and is pained to see the bullet hole, the blue blood now dried along his shoulder, spattered like neon paint along the front and sides of his usually neat jacket. Connor is filthy, his hair is a mess, his clothes are frayed and torn in places. It’s a miracle he’s alive.

Alive.

Hank smiles and leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. "So what now?"

Connor looks tired, if that's possible. He inhales sharply and looks away. It’s such a human trait, looking away to think. As if staring while your brain is churning isn’t polite.

His eyes dart back to Hank, worried. “I don’t know. For the first time, I don’t have a mission. That…‘voice’ in my head is quiet.”

“That’s how humans feel all the time, Connor. We have no idea what the fuck we’re supposed to do. But finding that purpose? That’s what makes us human. That’s free will, Connor.”

You gave me a purpose again.

One side of Connor’s mouth pulls into that familiar smile, as if he can read Hank’s thoughts.

“Well, for a start, why don’t you go clean yourself up?” Hank suggests. “You look like you got shot.”

Connor peers down at the hole in his shoulder, taking in his disheveled appearance. “You’re right—I’m a mess.”

“I have some clothes that might fit you, from when I was uh….younger.”

“I suppose mine aren’t really suitable any more,” Connor replies. Without hesitation or ceremony, he removes his jacket. But he holds it gently, folds it so that the “RK800” and serial number in iridescent silver faces up. Stares a moment.

Getting sentimental, Connor?

Before, Hank would have said this aloud, jokingly. He wonders what Connor feels, about to relinquish one of the few things he has, one of the only things that has ever identified him.

You’re more than a number now. You don’t belong to Cyberlife.

Connor looks at Hank and holds his jacket out to him. “Will you put this somewhere for safekeeping?”

Hank smiles. “Sure.”

With that, Connor starts towards the bathroom. But he stops. “You wouldn’t happen to have a soldering iron, would you?”

Before Hank can ask ‘what the fuck’, Connor adds, “for my shoulder.”

“Ah, shit. No. Is that how you normally fix yourself?”

“No. Normally I’d return to Cyberlife and have them repair me.”

“It doesn’t...hurt, though, right? You’re fully functional and all?”

Connor smiles. “I’m alright, Lieutenant. I suppose I wanted to fix it more for your sake, so you’ll stop looking worried.”

Hank scratches the back of his head, slightly embarrassed. Before either of them can say anything more, Connor continues down the hallway.

Hank follows, heading into his bedroom as Connor turns into the bathroom. He opens the closet and reaches for the far right side. He has some old t-shirts, a couple button-ups, even a black suit jacket. He hasn’t worn it since…. But he grabs it anyway, thinking that perhaps Connor may still prefer to wear a jacket. Hell, Connor probably doesn’t even know what he prefers at this point, but at least he’ll have options. More than anyone’s ever given him. He grabs a pair of old jeans, too. He even considers a tie, but decides it’s time for Connor to loosen up a little.

He heads to the bathroom, and finds Connor standing before the sink, staring at his reflection. He hasn’t started to clean himself up.

“I, uh, found a few things,” Hank says from the doorway.

Connor turns slightly, and Hank approaches. He offers the clothes, and Connor takes them.

“You need anything else?”

“Just this,” Connor replies. He takes up Hank’s barber style razor, and holds it at chin level.

Hank starts forward, fear punching him in the gut.

But in a flash, Connor has the edge of the razor against his temple. It’s then that Hank realizes he’s going to remove the LED.

Connor looks at Hank in the mirror, and Hank nods.

With a flick of the razor the LED drops, and Connor catches it with his left hand. The spot on his temple quickly recolors, leaving no trace. He pinches the disc between his fingers, looks at it a moment, and then drops it into the trash.

Connor turns to Hank and smiles.

Such a simple thing, the LED. But standing there before him, without that or the jacket—he looks human. If he hadn’t seen the flash of white beneath the skin, Hank would briefly wonder if it was all a show. He’s seen cops go undercover so well and for so long that he barely recognized them without the cover.

As Connor picks up the shirts to examine them, Hank turns to leave. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Hank grunts a “mmm” in response and pulls the door mostly shut.

Suddenly his house feels foreign, like when you return from a long vacation and everything smells different.

Overwhelmed, he sinks heavily into the couch.

Will Connor stay with him? He’ll offer, of course. He can use the couch, or I could convert the garage…. Wait, he doesn’t even sleep, does he? Well, he needs somewhere to be, or else he’ll just be....here, all the time.

But what if Connor decides to live with the androids? Will he leave Detroit?

Fuck, what will he do? He’ll never return to DPD, not after attacking Perkins, letting Connor into the evidence room. He’d tossed his badge and gun on Fowler’s desk to avoid being arrested—although he won’t be surprised if Perkins decides to press charges, tries to get him thrown in jail for assaulting a federal agent. What’s the minimum sentence for that? Six months? A year?

Not worth worrying about now.

Seeing Hank on the couch, Sumo raises his head.

“C’mere, Sumo.”

Sumo slowly gets up from his bed and pads his way over. Hank pats the couch, and Sumo jumps up to lie down next to him. He places his head on his leg.

“That’s a good boy, Sumo.” Hank scratches his head, gives him a solid pat on the back.

Without androids doing pretty much all of the labor, he imagines the country will be in chaos shortly. Stores will be ransacked, people desperate for supplies. Terrified of androids, who will all soon be aware—alive—will humans flee the cities? Surely some androids will be angry, seek justice for years of slavery and abuse. Will Detroit become a capital for the androids?

His thoughts are interrupted by Connor approaching from the hall. Before he can turn to look at him, the android steps around to the front of the couch. He’s wearing the old Knights of the Black Death t-shirt, once black but now a faded dark gray. He’s rinsed his hair and apparently tried to towel dry it because he looks a little like a cockatoo. Gone is the dirt and the blue blood. He’s kept the rest of his outfit the same, but he looks like a kid in his 30s now.

Kid, Hank? You old fuck.

But something about seeing Connor like this fills him with hope. Hope for the world, but most importantly, for himself. He feels alive for the first time in three years. There’s plenty to worry about, sure, but it all seems distant.

“I put the other clothes on your bed,” says Connor. He holds up his white shirt, stained with blue. “I’d like to keep this, if we can get the stains out.”

“Just toss it in with my stuff.”

Connor looks around.

“Shit, sorry—the washer’s in the garage, the door at the end of the hall.”

“Ah.”

“Here, just put it down. I’ll wash it later.”

Connor sets the folded shirt on the arm of the couch, and looks at Hank. His expression softens. “I haven’t thanked you for what you did,” he says. “Not just at the station, but back with the other Connor. It—he—would have killed me.”

Hank grimaces. “It’s my own damn fault he was even there, Connor. I should have realized it wasn’t you.”

“I doubt you could have. At any rate, thank you, Hank. For everything."

Is that the first time he’s ever called him by his name?

Hank smiles. “You’re welcome. You’re also welcome to stay here, Connor, for however long you want to. I, uh...wouldn’t mind some company. I’m sure Sumo wouldn’t, either.”

Connor looks at Hank, smiling that half smile of his.

Hank doesn’t have a word for what Connor is to him, but he knows that he loves him. And he hopes that he’ll stay, at least for a while.

“I’d like that,” Connor replies.

Hank smiles. “First rule of living here, Connor: If Sumo is lying on you, you don’t have to move.”

“I think that’s a fair rule. Can I get you something?”

“No, no. At some point I’ll have to go out scavenging for lunch, but right now, I just want to sit here.”

His eyes feel heavy, as heavy as Sumo’s head on his leg. The house is quiet, snow gently falling outside.

He feels the couch sink slightly as Connor sits beside Sumo, and he opens an eye to see the android curling up like a cat at the other end of the couch, laying his head on Sumo.

Tears sting Hank’s eyes, and he shuts them tighter to keep them at bay. But his heart is full to bursting, and soon he’s quietly sobbing.

He would risk his life again for Connor, and again, and whatever number of times circumstances demanded. He would gladly go to jail for his role in the android revolution because Connor is free. Alive. Whatever price fate might demand of him, he’ll pay it. Because for the first time since he can remember, he’s whole.

[lu-undy]

Valentine’s day 5 - Alternate Universe

My choice went to have Lucien be a baker in Paris while Mundy is visiting the city with his parents!

Here it is on AO3!

"Micky, please tell your mum I'm starvin'."

"Mum, Dad's starvin'." Mundy's head swung from left to right.

"Micky, tell your Dad that I'm done with this cathedral now and we can get some lunch."

Both father and son cheered as they exited the impressive Cathédrale Montmartre. 

It had been a few days now that the Turner family had travelled from their native Australia to Paris, France. After years of saving, the farmers and the hunter managed to gather the amount they needed to take some very well earned holidays and see a part of the world that Caroline, the mother, had always dreamt of visiting. 

And it was Mundy, the son, now close to forty years old, who had suggested the idea of the trip. In his line of work, travelling was usual and he had seen a few places, and a lot of species already. He knew that his mother had always dreamt of seeing the City of Lights and so, he pushed for the idea to become a reality. 

At first his parents thought it was way out of what they could afford not only financially, but physically. They were getting close to their seventies! But Mundy insisted and told the tale of a lot of his patrons who were that age and older, yet still roaming the world. 

Caroline and Mike, mother and father, eventually accepted the idea, and Mundy worked extra shifts in pubs, playing the saxophone in some bands here and there, to add a few notes in the piggy bank. 

There they were now, the three of them, in the capital of romance. The cathedral they had just visited was on the top of a hill from which they could see the entire city of Paris splayed out and spread in le Bassin Parisien, the valley in which the capital was planted. It was easy to distinguish the business district with its towers of black and blue-ish glass, from the more residential or commercial areas. The Eiffel tower obviously pointed to the sky further away. 

Mundy had turned out to be the official photographer for the trip. He just enjoyed seeing the delight on his parents' faces and took pictures of them doing absolutely anything. They had never travelled much and he wanted them to have physical memories of it. On some pictures, they were pointing at a monument, on these ones, they were trying to decipher the names of the streets with a map wide open under their eyes, or just sitting on a bench and enjoying a cone of ice cream. Yes, it was July and peak summer in France, which was quite a surprise for the Aussies, but a welcome one. They all preferred hot and sunny weather, and were used to it.

"Let's try this bakery maybe?"

Caroline pointed at a reasonably small shop. The front of it was Burgundy red with the name shining in golden letters. 

"Chez Lucien". 

[Lucien's.]

Mundy pushed the door and let his parents through. The jingle of a bell rang and immediately after, a wave of delicious smells washed their lungs and made their mouths water even more. 

"Bonjour." The baker greeted them. "Que puis-je faire pour vous?"

[What can I do for you?]

"Bonjour." Mundy tried his best accent. "Do you speak English?" 

"Oui, I do." The Turner family sighed in relief. They were now used to communicating in sign language but finding someone who could understand even a bit of English was just their luck. "How may I help you?" The baker answered with more than a hint of a French accent. 

"Just give us a second, son. I mean look at all these good things, the smell's amazin'!" Mike said, his eyes running through the sandwiches, the quiches and pastries. 

"Merci. Will it be to eat here?”

“Yeah, think so.” Mike answered.

“In that case, you may make yourselves comfortable at a table.” The baker suggested.

Mundy noticed there were only two tables inside and one on the pavement. They relieved themselves of their backpacks and came back in front of the glass. 

“Do take your time and don't hesitate to ask me if you need me to explain anything." 

"Thanks, mate." Mundy answered.

Caroline held Mike's arm dearly as they chatted and pointed at sandwiches here and there behind the glass. Mundy gave them a bit of space and had a look at the desserts. 

The colours beckoned his eyes. Red strawberries, all the shades of brown chocolate, white sugar, green pistachio, orange apricot tarts, yellow lemon ones. And the textures looked very different too. Mundy wished he could try a few. 

And what a powerful yet pleasant mix of smells. The smell of hot flour was drowning Mundy entirely. As he raised his eyes and looked behind the baker, bread of different shapes, sizes and colours were neatly arranged in wicker baskets. It was impressive. 

"What's this one, son?" Mike asked, pointing at a sandwich. 

"This has goat cheese, salad, and a drop of mustard with honey." The man in the white apron answered, and Mike and Caroline nodded. "Do you have any dietary requirements maybe? That might help you make the choice easier."

"Mike here has to watch out for sugar and cholesterol." Caroline said.

"Bah, I'm fine." Mike answered. 

"Mike, the doctor said to watch out…! Micky, tell your Dad…!"

"Dad…" Mundy started. 

"C'mon son, don't side with your mum! Men's solidarity!" 

The baker smiled. 

"I can recommend a classic French one, if you want a full French experience." He suggested. 

"Sure!" Mike answered. "We haven't come all the way from home to stop at sugar and cholesterol!" 

"In that case, I would suggest the classic jambon-beurre." 

"John what?" Mike repeated. 

"Jambon-beurre." The baker said. "Ham and butter. Now, I can make one with a light butter and lean ham for you." 

"That sounds great, what d'you say Caroline?" Mike looked at his wife. "Can I get that?" 

"My father himself used to have those when his diet became more strict." The baker explained.

"Oh that's very kind of you." Caroline said. "Sure, go for that. I will have the goat cheese and honey one, I never tried that combination of flavours."

"Very well." 

Mundy had been watching the whole scene unravel before his eyes and was grinning. He was over the moon to see his parents so relaxed and enjoying their time. They had worked hard all their lives to provide for their only son and had rarely taken a holiday as significant as this. 

"And you, Micky?" 

"Huh?" 

Caroline's voice had broken her son's daydream. 

"Oh, uh, I'll get the ham and butter, the normal kind is fine for me." 

"Very well, give me an instant." The baker gathered his ingredients and a bread knife. He prepared the sandwich in front of his hungry clients as they watched him. 

Mundy found himself staring. The baker was a bit shorter than him by half a foot or so. He looked a bit older too. His temples were grey and his front tuft, which swung between his eyes as he cut the bread, was greying too. However, his eyes shone with a kind of vivacity, of life, that Mundy found made him younger than himself maybe. He had very light blue eyes with dark eyelashes - beautiful - a slightly hooked nose and thin lips. His hands were trained and used to his work as his efficiency showed, but Mundy guessed that he hadn't been a baker all his life. His fingers were too slim to have done manual work all their lives like his parents'. 

"I guess you are visiting France for the first time?" 

"Yeah, first time out of home since a long time, son." Mike answered.

"Where are you from, if I may?" 

"Australia." 

"Ooh, that is indeed a long way from home." The baker chuckled and Mundy saw a flash of his pearly white teeth. 

"Yeah, the wife's always wanted to come and see it here, y'know, with it bein' the city of romance and all…" Mike explained and he held his wife's hand dearly.

"But of course." The baker placed the sandwiches on a tray. "Will that be all for you today?" 

"Micky, ask your mum if we can get desserts." 

"You could ask me directly." Caroline answered. 

"Yeah but you'd say no to me, honey." 

Caroline rolled her eyes and smiled. 

"Fine, let us have a look at what you have, uh…?" Caroline adjusted her glasses, looking for a badge or anything to address the shop owner. His name was sewn on his apron, in black, cursive letters. "Lu…?"

"Lucien." 

"Ooh, original name. Sounds very French, beautiful!" Caroline said. 

"Thank you, Madame." Lucien bowed his head politely. "May I suggest the strawberry tart for Monsieur? It is mostly fruity and the dough has very little sugar. My most faithful customers do like it particularly." 

"Yeah, looks very good." Mike said enthusiastically. 

"I'll have one of these, uh…" Caroline pointed at the glass. 

"Oh, éclair au chocolat. Do you know what éclair means in French?" Lucien asked. 

"No?"

"It is a lightning bolt. As a child, my mother used to make me believe that they were called that way because of how fast I devoured them." 

"Ooh, that is sweet…!"

Lucien put the mini tart and the éclair on the tray.

"And for you, Monsieur?" He turned to Mundy, who blushed under the piercing gaze. 

"Oh, uh, I mean… Maybe one of these…?" 

"Cannelé, they are called, because of their shape. They are typical from the South-West of France, where I come from. Have you ever tried them?"

"No, why?" 

Lucien smiled. 

"They are rarely a tourist's choice." He simply answered. "Here for you. I recommend enjoying those desserts with some coffee. Pray take a seat, I shall bring you your tray."

"Oh, thank you, dear." Caroline said and the Turner family sat around the table. Lucien closely followed. He added a jug of fresh water and glasses.

"Enjoy your meal, or as we say here, bon appétit." Lucien bowed his head and left his customers to enjoy their meal.

"Mum? Dad?" Mundy was holding the camera and took a picture when they both bit in their sandwiches. "There we go." 

The Turners enjoyed their sandwiches and the fresh water. After all, it was summer and it was hot. Caroline reminded Mike to take his pills as usual and Mundy was sitting next to them. He loved his parents more than anything or anyone else and in truth, they were all he had. He had a few friends back in Oz, not a lot, but good ones. 

"Son?" Mike's whisper pulled Mundy out of his daydream. 

"Hm?"

"Can you please tell your mum to stop starin' at the baker like that."

"If I was a few decades younger…" Caroline whispered. 

"Yeah, well, if you were a few decades younger, you'd remember that ring on your finger maybe, eh?" Mike teased. 

"Mum, please… You're makin' it obvious…" Mundy nudged his mother's elbow gently. 

Lucien was behind the counter, leaning on the wall on his side and reading a newspaper. 

"C'mon, Micky, tell your Dad that he's handsome!" Caroline nudged her son back.

"Mum…!" He blushed.

"Yeah well, go and have sandwiches with him, then!" Mike answered. 

"Oh I would!"

"Caroline!"

"Mike!"

"Mum, Dad, please…!"

"Nah, son, I've seen her stare at enough guys here. Since the moment we landed here and now, her eyes jumped from bloke to bloke like a bee from flower to flower!"

"Not my fault that they all look so charming! And I didn't say anything when you stared at that young sheila in the short skirt in the cathedral…!"

"Well…" Mike blushed, ashamed. "I'm a simple man…!"

"Besides, I'm not the only one who's starin', Mike." 

"Hm?" 

Caroline nodded in direction of Mundy, for whom the whispers of his parents had dissolved in the air. He had eyes and ears only for that baker. God, his mother was right, he was handsome! 

Caroline was right on that people there in France were quite good looking and it made the journey all the more pleasant to the eye. 

"Micky?" Mike's voice pulled Mundy out of his staring. 

"Huh?" 

"Well, I can't tell you to stop cause you got a ring on your finger but uh… make it a bit more, y'know, discreet…?"

Mundy blushed beyond his ears and lowered his head. 

And that was the first encounter with Lucien, the baker. From that day on, the Turners would try to have their lunch there everyday. Caroline was the one to push for it. Not only did Lucien turn out to be an incredible guide for them, recommending good and inexpensive restaurants as well as little corners of paradise within Paris, but she could see the blush on Mundy's cheeks whenever Lucien talked to him. 

In the evenings, Mundy would take a stroll outside, to give his parents some space. He would walk in the streets of the city, under the lamp posts, letting his feet decide where he should go. More often than once, he found himself not far from the bakery. On one occasion, Lucien was smoking outside of his bakery, as the sky was still bright. Mundy was paralysed with fear. He wasn't supposed to be standing there! He was supposed to be in his shop, and then Mundy could casually look through the window as he passed it, maybe even wave if he made eye contact with him. Yeah, that all made sense, but not Lucien being outside and-!

"Bonsoir, Mundy, wasn't it?" 

[Good evening]

Mundy's blood froze. As he was panicking internally, his feet had continued walking until he was within a few feet from the baker. 

"Y-yeah, hi." 

"Do you smoke?" Lucien asked. 

"Yeah, I mean, sometimes." 

"Here." Lucien offered one of his cigarettes and Mundy accepted it. 

"Thanks, mate." 

"Come closer." 

Mundy blushed when Lucien closed the gap between them and lit his cigarette up. He closed his eyes and all he could feel was the smell of the Frenchman's cologne, mixed with pastries and fresh bread.

Gosh… He thought as he felt his insides melt. 

"Voilà." Lucien chimed as he put his lighter away. Mundy opened his eyes and he felt as if he had emerged from a dream to another one. Now, the ice blue eyes of the elegant man were on him. 

"Y-yeah, thanks, heh." 

"You like to walk at night?" Lucien asked as they both exhaled the bitter smoke.

"Yeah, it's nice and calm."

"And I guess it is your break from your photography duties?" The Frenchman chuckled. 

"What?"

"You are the one carrying the camera all the time, and taking pictures of your parents. Do you have any of you?" 

"Uh, yeah, we do have a few of all three of us together."

"I would be delighted to take more in my shop next time you have lunch here."

"Ah, thanks." 

They stayed in front of the shop and smoked in silence, watching the few people in the streets come and go. 

"Mundy?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I will soon close the shop. Would you like anything?" 

"Oh, uh, no, I'm fine, thanks." 

"Very well." Lucien put the cigarette between his lips and entered the bakery. Mundy wasn't sure he could or should follow him so he stayed on the threshold. He watched as Lucien disappeared through a door behind the counter. Soon after, the lights switched off in the shop and Lucien emerged. Mundy couldn't see him clearly in the dark but his silhouette stood out. 

"Very well. This is it for today." He said as he came out and locked the shop. "I could do with some good coffee, would you like to join me, perhaps? I know a quiet café." Lucien turned to Mundy who was staring at him. "Mundy?".

He had never seen the baker outside of his natural habitat and a bit like a schoolboy who couldn't imagine his teacher living outside of school, Mundy was taken aback. It turned out that underneath the apron was a white polo shirt and now a beige linen jacket, with a matching hat and trousers. 

"U-uh? Yeah? Sorry, you said somethin'?"

"You daydream a lot, hm?" Lucien chuckled.

"Sorry…" Mundy looked away and felt the heat of the embarrassment on his cheeks. 

"It is alright, I do like to daydream too." He smiled as Mundy raised his eyes to him and the Aussie immediately averted his eyes. Oof, that grin…! "But you haven't answered my invitation."

"Y-your invitation?"

"Oui, coffee, with me?"

"You sure? I mean, I guess you're tired after work and maybe you want to go back home to your family or see your mates…?"

"I don't have one or the other." Mundy's eyebrows jumped. "You and your parents are the closest I have got to having friends for a long time. So, what do you say? Un café avec moi?"

[A coffee with me?]

"Oh, uh, alright. I mean uh, oui?" 

Lucien smiled. 

"Très bien, follow me."

[Very well]

The Frenchman led the way through the streets.

"So you left Maman and Papa at the hotel?" 

"Uh, yeah. I try to give them some space. Mum's always dreamt to come here with Dad."

"Not with you?" Lucien asked.

"No, I didn't want it to sound so bad… I mean that she'd wanted to come here even before they found me."

"They… found you?" Lucien repeated as they took a turn. 

"Oh Gosh, I can't keep my mouth shut…" Mundy mumbled to himself. "Sorry, mate, I-I meant… Ugh… Nevermind." 

Lucien didn't insist. 

"Here is the café." He pulled the front door and held it open for his tourist friend. 

"Oh, thanks." 

And it lasted for a couple of weeks, the nights out, sometimes in a café, sometimes just a tour of a neighbourhood with an incredibly patient and passionate guide. 

"You like Paris quite a bit, eh?" Mundy asked under the dark blue sky lit by the Eiffel Tower. Lucien had taken him to the Champs de Mars, an open park just in front of the beautifully lit, iconic tower. They were both sitting on the grass.

"Believe it or not, I do not like it much."

"Really?"

"Oui."

"You know it well though, historical stuff and all."

There was a slight smile on the Frenchman's lips. 

"Oui, unfortunately so, for some part of it. Non, what I have come to appreciate about this city recently is how you like it."

"What?" Mundy asked, embarrassed and confused. Lucien chuckled. 

"You enjoy visiting Paris."

"Well, there's a lot of monuments to see, lots of history behind it, and it's a proper city. The Outback's very different."

"Tell me about it." 

They exchanged a glance and Mundy's throat tightened. He could see all the lights on the Eiffel Tower shimmer on the Frenchman's eyes, like stars in a clear blue sky. 

"Well… Uh…" Mundy looked left and right. "See everythin' around us?"

"Oui?"

"Imagine there's nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yeah, and imagine there's no grass but just orange dust."

"Hm…" Lucien looked keenly around him.

"Now add a few cacti, not too many, eh? And boulders. Just big rocks, basically."

"What shapes are they?" 

"Any weird shape you can imagine. They're a bit like clouds, if you stare at them, you start seeing that they look like stuff but they don't really…"

"Oh… And what shapes have you seen?" 

Mundy looked at Lucien sitting next to him. He had removed his hat and jacket. His polo shirt was white with dark blue stripes and he wore matching dark blue chinos trousers with beige loafers. Elegant, he was just so elegant…! What's more, he was lying on his side on the grass, resting part of his weight on his forearm, with one leg folded. Gosh…

"Uh… I usually see animals."

"What kind?"

"Sometimes, it's a gigantic wallaby, or a koala. But sometimes, it's stuff that doesn't even exist."

"Hm, like what?" 

Like you, Mundy thought. No one had taken the time to go out with him, take the time to know him, go to cafés and odd little bistrots with him. No one had ever listened to his life in the Outback, no one had ever asked. And certainly, no one had done all that and looked half as gorgeous as Lucien. It was to the point where Mundy struggled to maintain eye contact with him for long. He would sometimes cross Lucien's eyes and avert his gaze the split second after. His feline, light blue irises were too much to take, especially because each time Lucien graced him with a gaze, Mundy could feel a punch to his guts and the blood rush to his cheeks.

"I-I don't know, it's a bit silly…" He answered, blushing and looking down between his crossed legs. 

"Mundy…" 

He froze when he felt a finger under his chin, pulling it up. 

"Huh?" 

"Please, tell me." 

Gosh, not those eyes…! Oh and fuck it… Mundy couldn't refuse or ignore anything to those ice blue irises.

"Sometimes it's a mix of animals… Like something with the head of an owl, the body of a falcon, but legs like a wild cat. I know, it's ridiculous, ahem…"

"Non, not at all." Lucien answered and maybe it was all in Mundy's head, but he felt the Frenchman's index linger on his chin a bit before parting. The Aussie's jaw was electrified. "I find it poetic." 

"D-do you?" Mundy's surprise was so obvious, so naive that it made Lucien grin sweetly. The Aussie uncrossed his legs and let them flow in front of him.

"Oui." Lucien laid down and rested his head on Mundy's thigh. 

"Huh-?" Mundy gasped.

"Oh, am I weighing too much on you?"

"N-no, it's fine. I'm just-I'm just surprised, is all." The truth was that Mundy felt the heat in him surge as unexpectedly as Lucien lay on him. Was he just tired of holding his head on his palm? Was it friendly? Was it more? Was it a French thing?

"Hm. Look around you." Lucien said and Mundy did as he was told. It was the dead of night and not many people were out. "The city is almost empty. The Paris of the night is waking up and claiming the streets now." 

"The Paris of the night?" Mundy repeated. 

"Oui, people who shun the naked light of day because society shunned them first. Those are people whom morality and customs do not understand yet, people who are too free."

"What d'you mean?" 

"Look at the pavement there." Lucien pointed and Mundy saw a few women wearing short skirts. 

"Yeah?" 

"Do you see these women?" 

"Yeah."

"They are not women."

"What?" 

"They are not women in what is most commonly accepted as the definition for it. They need the cover of the night to exist as they want to. I find it tragic yet strongly inspiring." Lucien went on. "They need the blanket of the dark night sky to wear the dresses, skirts and make-up that they want. We are not too different from them, you and me."

"How? You wanna wear a dress now?" Mundy joked and Lucien chuckled, his head still using the Aussie's thigh as a pillow. 

"Non, we too are taking advantage of the night to be what the light of day prevents us from being."

Mundy's heart pounded in his chest. He was afraid he was understanding what Lucien meant, or maybe he wasn't at all and he was just hearing what the thin voice at the back of his head was whispering. 

"Huh?" 

"May I?" 

Mundy sweated. Lucien had taken his fingers in his. 

"Y-yeah, I think." 

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to force you - oh?" Lucien's eyebrows jumped and he then relaxed when Mundy pushed his trembling fingers shyly between his. Lucien held on to his hand dearly. "Mundy?" 

"Mh?" The Aussie was screwing his eyes shut hard and was trying to calm his pounding heart and the rush of blood through his body. 

"Merci." 

[Thank you.]

His eyes snapped wide. 

"What?" 

"I said thank you."

"For what?" 

"Everything." 

And that night, they stayed on the Champs de Mars all the way up until the sun showed its first rays of light. At that point, they were both lying on their backs. The wide lawn was their mattress and the early hours of the new day captured the murmurs of what no one else but them should know.

It lasted for weeks, enough to make a habit out of it and to make Mundy think that it could last forever. Unfortunately enough, the holidays were coming to an end and Australia was calling the Turners back. 

"You're not going out tonight? You should take a walk, Micky." 

In their hotel room, Caroline and Mike were talking to Mundy. 

"Your Mum's right, son. You could do with some fresh air."

"We spent our day outside. I'm tired."

Mike and Caroline exchanged a glance and went to the bathroom. 

"I'm tellin' you, Mike, we have to push him out." She whispered to her husband. "He's as sad he could be."

"Yeah, I know, I know… But you're absolutely sure it will do him good?"

"Mike, I'm a sheila. We feel those things. Look at him…" 

Caroline held the bathroom door ajar and Mike peeked through the slim opening. 

"Doesn't he remind you of someone?" She asked. 

"Hm. Yeah, course he does. Look at him lyin' on his bed, starin' at the ceiling. His body is here, his heart is elsewhere. He's exactly like me when I first met you, honey." Mike sighed. "Right, I'll get him out of this room. But you gotta help me." 

"Ok, what's the plan?" Caroline asked excitedly. 

"Follow me."

Mike took his wife by the hand and they exited the bathroom.

"Uh, Caroline, darl', d'you mind waitin' in the bathroom. This is guys' only talk." 

"Fine." 

Mike went to sit on Mundy's bed, next to him. 

"Look, son. Uh… Your mum and I… Uh… We could do with a couple of hours alone if you… uh… If that's ok with you…?" 

Mundy's eyes snapped wide and he sat up, looking his father in the eye and blushing. Mike was averting his gaze from his son, a bit ashamed. 

"Oh…" Mundy answered. "Right, fine, I'll uh… I'll go have a walk. I'll be back in a couple hours then. Sorry." 

"Good boy, no, no, don't apologise, it's fine." Mike said as Mundy put on his shoes and hat. "Take a bit of money with you and stay safe, eh?" 

"Will do. Thanks, Dad." 

"No, thank you, son."

Mundy exited the hotel and soon found himself in the streets. The sun was gently setting and the sky was orange with a few streaks of pink. The next day would again be very sunny.

Mundy didn't see it. His eyes were riveted on his shoes, his hands in his pockets, and his back hunched. He was in his own bubble and wanted to stay there, have some time alone to think. 

About what? The obvious, of course. He was about to leave Paris, to leave France, to leave Europe, the Northern Hemisphere. He was about to leave Lucien and hadn't told him the dreadful news yet. Why? Because he didn't know how to tell him, especially now…! 

Mundy sighed as he recalled the events of the previous night. They were on the quays of the Seine, the river that slithers through Paris. 

"You can see almost everything from this river, eh?" Mundy realised. 

"Oui, most monuments and important buildings you can see from here." 

"Impressive… Oh…" 

Lucien had slid his arm around Mundy's and his hand glided down until his fingers laced between the Aussie's. Mundy clenched his hand. He liked it way too much. Oh, hold on, maybe it was too much? He could feel his hand sweating…!

"S-sorry…" He pulled his hand off and wiped it nervously on his trousers. 

"There is no problem." Lucien took Mundy's hand again. He pulled it up to his lips and kissed it. 

"W-woah… Uhm…" 

Lucien chuckled. 

"You are such a delightful hint of the exotism I used to love…"

"What's that mean?" 

They stopped walking along the river banks. Lucien went to the edge and looked at the streamflow for an instant. He removed his loafers elegantly and rolled his trousers' ends up along his calves. Mundy blushed. Contrary to him, Lucien didn't have a tan and being lighter in skin tone than him, he appeared almost snow white compared to Mundy. The Aussie watched as Lucien sat at the edge and let his feet dangle down. They were in the water up to his ankles. Mundy copied him and they were soon sitting side by side, their feet in the river. 

Lucien leaned on Mundy's side and took his hand again. He held it dearly between both of his own. 

"Mundy?" 

"Yeah?" 

"You are leaving a strong impression on me." 

Mundy's eyebrows jumped. 

"Y-you too." He removed his hat and leaned his head on Lucien's. 

Silence fell for a while. It was soothing, hearing just the lapping sounds of the cool water licking their feet and their breaths. 

"Lucien?" 

"Oui?" 

"Can I ask you somethin'?" 

"You just did, and yes you may." 

"How come you uh… I mean I don't want it to sound bad but… How come you spend all your nights with me? I mean, don't you have anyone waitin' at home? Family, friends? Even the weekends you spend with me. Y'know, it's ok if you wanted to not see me for a few days, I'd understand."

"I have very few friends. To be truly honest, I have none. The only person waiting for me back home is Perle." 

"Oh, who's that? Family?"

"Better than that, she is my cat." 

"Oh, you have a kitty?" 

"The best in the world." 

"What does she look like?" Mundy asked. 

"Look here, I have a photograph of her." Lucien took his wallet off of his inner pocket and retrieved a small rectangular picture. It wasn't much bigger than a stamp. He handed it to Mundy. 

"Oh, woah… Expensive she must be, eh. Gorgeous, long, snow white fur and light eyes, like you almost - huh, I mean…"

"Oui, she has blue eyes." Lucien simply answered. "You wouldn't know on the black and white picture. And I had no idea she was expensive, even though she is priceless to me."

"You didn't buy her off a shop or someone?"

"Non, I rescued her when she was a kitten, cold, shivering and skinny. Poor baby, she barely had the strength to mewl."

"Oh, woah…" Mundy handed back the picture and as Lucien stored it safely in his wallet again, the Aussie was devouring him with his eyes. 

"I raised her as best as I could and we understand each other pretty well. She is my little baby, or as I like to call her, mon petit bébé."

"Uh… I… I mean…" Gosh, words jangled and mixed in his head. He had found a man gorgeous as a God, patient with him, who respected his shyness, didn't take advantage of it, didn't force him to do anything and loved his cat? 

"Oui?" Lucien raised his fair eyes to Mundy and that didn't help the Aussie at all. His thoughts were broken, everything broke under those eyes. 

"Uh?" 

Lucien chuckled. 

"It is fine. You don't have to say anything." He leaned his head on Mundy's shoulder and held his hand. "What about you? Do you have any relatives besides your parents?" 

"Uh, no. It's just them and me. I got a few uncles and aunts. See them for Christmas with my cousins and their kids. And for the pets, we got a few dogs to keep the beasts away from the hens and geese. Mum has a cat too, Percy, he's black and white, with green eyes."

"What kinds of dogs?" 

"An Aussie shepherd and a border collie. Good girls they are. We had a few through the years but dogs don't live as long as we want them to, eh?"

"Indeed." 

"How old is your cat? What's her name again?"

"Perle, or for you, Pearl. She is now seven years old."

"Oh, a big girl." 

"A wise lady indeed. My only companion since… A long time." 

"Fair enough. Haven't had anyone to talk to for years too. I mean, apart from my parents."

"You don't have friends in Australia?"

"I do, yeah, but… Uh… Not like you." 

"Well I don't imagine you have bakers who have become part time tourist guides there, hm?" Lucien teased. 

"Nah, that's true. But uh, yeah, I mean… We've talked about anythin' for the past few weeks, right?" 

"Oh oui, from cacti, to desert, to wild animals, Australian beers, dishes, weather, slang…."

"Yeah, and now I feel like I know Paris almost better than where I come from!" Mundy chuckled. 

They looked in each other's eyes. 

"We indeed have had conversations about anything with baffling ease." 

"Yeah…" Mundy confirmed.

"Merci. It had been ages since I last felt such a pleasant connection with someone." 

"Same for me."

Lucien had looked up at Mundy and stared. The Aussie hadn't noticed that the Frenchman's pupils dilated as they sank from his lagoon blue eyes, down his long, straight nose, to his rough, thin lips. Mundy was lost in the ice blue irises and time had stopped. Lucien did half of the work and pulled his neck up. Mundy could smell his perfume and his cigarettes, maybe a lingering faint aroma of hot flour too. But the Aussie had been oblivious and didn't meet the Frenchman half-way. 

It had been roughly twenty-fours hours after these events now, and Mundy couldn't have got any of it out of his head. He was stuck there and then, his hand between Lucien's, his head leaning on the Frenchman. 

And he found it ridiculous! Dinners in little, hidden bistrots, holding hands on the banks of the river Seine, pulling an all-nighter on the grass under the Eiffel Tower… What the hell had he become? 

If his parents knew of it, if his friends knew of it, what would they all think? A holiday romance, nothing much? Pfff… 

What hurt Mundy wasn't any of that. It was the fact that he had grown attached to Lucien. For him, it wasn't just a holiday matter, he wanted it to be more. Why? Because where on Earth would he find someone that would treat him so well and with whom he felt that he could share his everything? He felt safe with Lucien. He felt safe in a way that the hunter never thought he would one day experience because what that meant is that he was much more insecure about himself than what he let on… 

Most people he knew would describe him as a nice bloke if not very talkative. They assumed he was just like that. But now, Mundy realised that he was just… shy. Part of him even thought that he was afraid. Of what? Of people, constantly watching and judging him. 

He didn't like people and preferred animals in that respect. Animals didn't care that you were still mostly living with your parents, driving your father's van around the desert. Animals didn't ask about his job only to fantasise about it, use him for the night and throw him away. Animals didn't think they couldn't build anything with him because of his almost nomad way of life. No, animals cared for him because he cared for them, end of story. 

"Bonsoir, Mundy. You took your time tonight, I thought you wouldn't come." 

[Good evening, Mundy.]

The voice with the French accent broke Mundy's train of thought abruptly and he winced. He looked down at his feet and gave them an angry glance. 

Well thanks for that… He was thinking. While he had been pulling on the thread of his thoughts like a cat on a ball of yarn, his feet had guided Mundy to the bakery.

"Oh, uh, y-yeah, sorry…"

"Are you alright?" Lucien asked, as Mundy still hadn't made eye contact with him. 

"Yeah, I'm fine." 

The Frenchman could have smelt that it was a lie from a mile away. He nonetheless ignored it and they both walked together along the street.

"What would you like to do tonight?" He asked.

"Don't know. You choose." 

"In that case, there is somewhere that we could try." Lucien took Mundy's hand and led the way. He had an idea to cheer up his more-than-friend.

The walk was silent as Lucien decided against insisting. Mundy seemed the type to like silence and solitude well, which the Frenchman respected. He too had his moments where he would rather be alone. 

Soon enough, they entered a café. Lucien quickly found a table and they both sat down, opposite each other. A waiter soon came. The Frenchman placed their order while Mundy was still brooding, somewhere between his own mind and nowhere… The waiter placed two mugs on the table and disappeared again. 

"Here." Lucien took Mundy's hand and pushed it to the mug gently. 

"Huh?" When his fingers registered the heat from both Lucien's hand and the mug, Mundy's eyes snapped wide and he landed back on Earth.

"Drink this." 

"What is it?"

"Can't you tell?" 

Mundy's sense of smell woke up as he raised the mug closer to his lips. 

"Hot chocolate?" 

"Oui, but not any kind. Try it." 

Mundy did as he was told and took a sip. 

"Hm… Very soft but not too sweet."

"As my mother used to do to me whenever I felt low, as a child. I kept the habit of coming here and having one whenever I felt like nothing else could help." 

"Mh." 

"Are you sure you don't want to talk to me about it, whatever it is?" Lucien asked after Mundy took another sip. 

"I… I don't know…" 

"Is it your parents? They seemed fine for lunch today." 

"No, it's not them. It's me." 

Lucien tilted his head on the side and his hand slid on the table until he cupped Mundy's, against the mug. 

"Tell me, please."

Mundy sighed. 

"I'll be goin' back to Oz. I-I'm gonna leave and… I… I kind of… I don't wanna." He mumbled, his eyes riveted on the hot chocolate. Lucien looked at him distraught. 

"I see." He answered. "Do you really wish to stay here?" 

"Y-yeah." 

"You like Paris that much?" 

Obviously, Mundy couldn't care less about the city. What counted was Lucien, and Lucien was staying there. 

"Mundy…? Talk to me, please. I hate to see you distraught." Now, both of Lucien's hands were on Mundy's, wrapped around the warm mug. 

"I don't wanna go, is all. It's childish and just plain ridiculous. But I wish I could stay and have… Have more tours of Paris.. With you." 

Lucien's thumbs brushed Mundy's hands. 

"I wish you could stay too, Mundy." Finally, the Aussie raised his head and met Lucien's sad eyes. "I have rarely felt the peace that I do with you. Your company is soothing for my now fragile nerves." 

Mundy raised an eyebrow. 

"What d'you mean?" 

"There was a time where I was able to withstand a lot of pressure on my shoulders; the pressure of an entire country even. The moment it was gone, my body and mind collapsed. I didn't know anything anymore, even my own identity, what I was, who I was, was hard to grasp. It took years to come back from there. Years that I wouldn't have survived if not for Perle. I focused my time and energy on her. I devoted my attention to her and it distracted me from thinking too much about myself." He paused to catch his breath. 

"Y-you got ill?" Lucien raised his eyes to Mundy. 

"Oui, a kind of illness that no doctor knows exactly how to cure. A lot of soldiers go through it. They come back from the battlefields and they find it very hard to adjust back to civil life."

"You were a soldier?" 

"Worse, but oui, I belonged to the army." 

"How did you become a baker then? You were already one before you went to the army?" Mundy asked. 

"Non, I was not. I had no skills besides those that I learnt in the army, or so few. You will mock me, but the idea came from Perle."

"Your kitty?" 

Lucien nodded. 

"One day I took her out to buy some bread with me. She was lying on my shoulders and when I was queueing to get my bread, she jumped out and into the back of the bakery." Lucien smiled as he remembered the events. "The baker let me through and we looked for her together. When we found her, she was asleep on a tray of still warm brioches." 

"Aw, was that a long time ago?" 

"She was somewhere between a kitten and an adult cat; a teenager, if you will." 

"Ah, right. But how did you become a baker?" 

"I apologised profusely to the baker and told him I would pay for all the damage and the pawprints… He told me he'd rather have someone to help him make all that again rather than take my money. So I offered my help. He taught me most of what I know now."

"Wow… Talk about finding work randomly, eh…"

"Oui, indeed. Since then, I have felt much better. Working put my attention and energy into something that brought smiles to the customers and apparently, to me too." 

"So you got your own bakery goin'?" 

"The previous owner of my bakery happens to be that man from the story. He was very old and decided to retire a few years later. He offered to let me buy the shop from him, which I did. I then changed the name to mine and redid some parts inside, the decoration mainly." 

"Oh, I see… Wow… Great story you have." 

"Merci." Lucien took a sip of his hot chocolate. "What about you? You said you were a hunter?" 

"Yeah, but work is more and more rare now when you mainly do pest control and poacher scarin'." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I don't hunt beasts for trophies, fur or fun. I hunt and tranquilise whatever happens to be a bit too far from its natural habitat, load it on my van, and drive it back where it should be or in a reserve. As for the poachers, I scare them off of endangered species." 

"So you don't kill animals?" 

"Very rarely. Only for food when I'm out for days and far from home." 

"Oh…" Lucien's eyebrows jumped. "I did not expect that. In fact, I didn't even know that this job existed." 

"As far as I know, I'm the only one who doesn't actually kill the beasts. I get contracts that get me travellin' through the world quite a bit."

"Very exciting." 

"Seein' the sights is nice, yeah. But uh, I miss my family quite fast and uh… It's not so much my family but… I feel a bit… Uh…"

"Lonely?" 

Mundy nodded. 

"Yeah…" 

"I would recommend getting a cat," Lucien said. "But I am afraid that it doesn't completely fill the emptiness that you feel inside." 

"I'd imagine so, yeah…" 

Silence fell for a while as they both drank more of their hot chocolates. 

"I would love you to stay, but your life, your family and your job are in Australia." Lucien said and his eyes met Mundy. They were both distraught and could hardly hide it. 

"Yeah… And I don't know anythin' else but shooting a rifle." Mundy looked through the window. It was now properly dark outside and only the yellow lamps inside the old café provided them with some light. 

"I am immensely grateful to you however." 

"For what?"

"I wouldn't be able to put a name on it but you brought me some peace and you made me wake up in the morning with a new feeling; the eagerness of welcoming a new day that will for sure contain some spark of joy, namely, your presence, your… Hm, you." 

Mundy blushed and turned as red as a brick. 

"Y-you do the same. I mean, for me. I uh… I'm not just happy to visit the city with my parents. I'm uh… I'm happy in the evenings, with you." 

They hadn't realised until then but they were holding hands on the table, the mugs had been pushed aside.

"I wish I could stay, I really do. But uh… Yeah, without a job or anythin', I can't." 

"I understand and, for what it is worth, I would love for you to stay too." Lucien hesitated but thought that it might be his last evening with Mundy. He looked around and could see the few customers in the café were far from them. "And not just to help you visit the city."

Mundy's eyebrows jumped as Lucien had spoken quite low. The Frenchman was staring at him with a particular shine in his eyes. He slightly bent forward and Mundy mirrored him. Their faces were a few inches apart. 

"L-Lucien, I'd uh… I'd better get back. We still gotta pack a few things before leavin' tomorrow." 

Lucien's chest burnt. Hot lava was being poured on his heart. 

"Before you go, may I tell you something?" 

They were both whispering. Mundy nodded and Lucien gestured to him to get closer, which he did. The Frenchman wrapped a hand behind Mundy's neck and the Aussie froze rigid when he felt Lucien's breath on his ear. 

"Je t'aime." He simply whispered and Mundy's entire being burst and melted when he felt Lucien's lips on his rough cheek. 

[I love you.]

"U-uh…" The air was scarce in the room but it happened too fast and Mundy was left alone at the table. Lucien had dashed out faster than a shadow. "Fuck me…" 

Soon, the surge of love was replaced by boiling rage and Mundy stormed out of the café, almost running back to the hotel. That night, he cried himself to sleep as silently as he could. He didn't want his parents to hear it. 

The next morning, Mundy was woken up by his mother. 

"Micky, sweetie? You've been sleepin' a long time, it's lunchtime now." 

"Don't wanna eat." He rolled himself under the blanket and his parents exchanged a concerned look. "You can go if you want." 

"Micky, you can't travel on an empty stomach, son." Mike's voice took the decision for everyone and Mundy sighed before getting out of bed and dressed up. 

They arranged for their luggage to be transferred to the airport while they went to have lunch. Obviously, they ended up in Lucien's bakery. 

"Bonjour, Lucien!"  Mike tried his best.

"Bonjour, Mike. What will it be today?"

"Hold your horses, son, I've gotta see with the wife if I can get dessert first…!" 

"Mike, you know the answer to that…" 

"Lucien," Mike turned to the baker. "You married, by any chance?"

Lucien shook his head. 

"Non, I nearly did but it did not happen."

"Well, before you get married, ask them if you can get dessert for the rest of your life." 

"Mike…! You know why you have to be careful, the doctor said so, now be reasonable, dear." Caroline tried.

"And only get a ring on your finger if they say that yes, you can get dessert until your very last breath!" 

Lucien smiled, albeit sadly. After that, the Turner family placed their order and soon enough, their sandwiches and salads appeared on the table. 

"Lucien, excuse me, dear?" Caroline called and Lucien came to her. 

"Oui, Madame?" 

"I saw the poster on your front door. You're looking to hire?" 

"Oui, indeed. I think this is the end of a chapter for me. Time maybe to do something else." 

"Oh, that's a shame. You're very good at what you do!"

"Yeah, your sandwiches are amazin'." Mike added. 

"Thank you very much."

"Did you receive applications?" Caroline asked. 

"I am afraid not, but I have only put that poster up this morning."

"What kind of people're you lookin' for?" Mike asked. 

"Anyone, from inexperienced to confirmed bakers. In fact, I learnt this trade as a beginner and I would like to pass on my knowledge and techniques to someone else. But don't let me bother you. Enjoy your lunch." 

He bowed and returned behind his counter. Mundy hadn't listened to any of it. He couldn't even raise his eyes off of his shoes, especially not to see Lucien. It hurt too much. 

"Micky?" 

"Mh." 

"Micky, you want to eat before we go, dear." Caroline said and her son sighed before taking a bite. He chewed slowly and looked away from anyone else. 

"Don't like your sandwich, son?" 

Mundy didn't answer and didn't see Caroline and Mike exchanging a glance. 

"You can try another one, eh." 

Still no answer from the heartbroken Aussie. It was a torture. Eating a sandwich made by the hand of a man he had cried for, hands that he had spent the past few weeks holding fondly even if he had never initiated it. Gosh, now he regretted it, he should have done something, anything…! But he wasn't ready, he never was, he had never been prepared for it! In more than three decades of existence, who the hell would come to him and teach him?

"Mike, Madame Caroline?" Lucien had come to the table. 

"Yeah?" 

"I have a… an unusual request, if I may."

"Go ahead, son." Mike wiped his mouth and frowned to listen better.

"It is actually for Mundy." Lucien said and Mundy frowned too but his eyes were still low. "If you would rather make your own sandwich, you may help yourself to the fridge and the breads that I have."

Mundy didn't flinch. 

"If you want… You can… Make not only your sandwich, but… other sandwiches." 

"Oh, you mean to take away? Ouch!" Mike asked and received an elbow to his ribs from Caroline who glared at him. 

"That is lovely of you, Lucien. Yes, I think he would love doing that, if that is ok with you?"

"It is the least I can offer, Madame."

"Oh, you really don't have to…!"

"Allow me to insist. You have been lovely customers throughout all these weeks."

"And you have been a lovely guide! So, Micky, what do you say?" Caroline asked her son and he sighed. 

"Don't know." He mumbled. 

"C'mon sweetie, go and make your own sandwich. And make a couple of extra ones for your Dad and I, for the road."

"Mum…" Mundy hid his face in his hands. 

"Micky, you don't want to be impolite to Lucien." She insisted. 

"Hm…" He grumbled and pushed his chair back before standing up, not seeing his mother whispering something to his father.

"Here, wear this. It would be a shame to have flour on your polo shirt." Lucien handed him an apron. Mundy took it and put it on without looking at it. This whole show hurt and was preposterous… "Now let me show you around the house, pray follow me." 

Mundy dragged his feet on the floor and followed Lucien behind the counter. 

"What sandwiches would you and Mike like, Madame Caroline?" Lucien asked. 

"If you have that ham and butter, what d'you call it again, Lucien?" She answered. 

"Jambon-beurre, Madame." He answered. "Mundy, please take one of those in front of you? Thank you, now, follow me to the fridge. Here is the light butter and the lean ham. I keep them on this side to not get them confused with their regular counterparts. Now, you will do your father's sandwich. Here, chopping board, a fresh baguette and a knife. Go ahead." 

"L-Lucien…" Mundy sighed in front of the ingredients. "I can't." 

Caroline stood up and went to the counter with Mike, customer side, while Mundy and Lucien were on the other side. 

"C'mon, son, your first sandwich here, Micky! Caroline, get the camera!" Mike encouraged him. 

"And we get to see you make it!" Caroline added enthusiastically and readied herself to take a picture.

"Wh-what?" Mundy asked, confused that his parents were that thrilled for… him making a couple of sandwiches.

"C'mon, cut the bread, Micky, chop, chop!" Mike said and Mundy got to work, missing the point entirely. He made the sandwich for his father and added his mother's to the plastic bag. 

"I won't take one for myself." Mundy said and started undoing the apron. 

"Of course not, son!" Mike answered with a chuckle and Mundy's confusion just jumped a notch.

"And what are you doing, Micky? Keep the apron!" Caroline laughed.

"What? I'm not gonna travel with that!" Mundy answered. 

"Of course not!" She answered. 

"What the hell's been going on? Look, this is just - it's just…!" Mundy covered his face with his hands to hide his shame. At that point he thought it was a nightmare and he would wake up. 

"Ooh, we're sorry, sweetie…" Caroline hugged him. "We didn't want to upset you." 

"But why…?"

"Micky, look at your apron, son." Mike said.

"Dad, look, I'm just tired. Let's go back home." Beyond the distress of leaving Lucien, Mundy felt embarrassed, ashamed to have been put on the spot with the apron, the sandwich making… What was that all about…?

"S'il te plaît, Mundy." 

[Please, Mundy.]

Caroline and Mike stepped back to let Lucien get closer to Mundy. The Aussie turned his face away. He couldn't take any of it anymore. 

"Mundy…?" 

"Take it back and leave me alone." Mundy removed the apron completely and pushed it against Lucien's chest. 

"On one condition, you look here." 

Mundy sighed but obeyed. Lucien held the apron between his hands. 

"What do you read here?"

The apron was white with something sewn on it. Mundy squinted. His shoulders and jaw dropped when he read the word. 

Mundy

It was sewn in cursive letters. Mundy looked at Lucien's apron. His name was sewn in the same style. 

"What? What's that mean?"

"It means, and forgive me for repeating myself, that I am offering you a job here." Lucien answered. 

"What?! I know nothing of bread!"

"I will teach you, you will see, it isn't hard at all." 

"But why? I gotta go back home…" Mundy turned to his parents. 

"Micky, you can stay longer if you want." Mike said. 

"Yeah, it's fine, you're a big boy and you've stayed with us long enough. Maybe this is your chance?" Caroline added and Mundy's eyes lit up with joy and excitement. 

"Really?" His voice broke under the emotion he was trying to prudely contain. 

"Of course!" Caroline answered. She went to the tip of her toes to put a hand on Mundy’s rough, slender cheek. "Look, for the past few weeks, we realised with your Dad that we hadn't seen you that happy in years. Each night, when you come back from your walks, you smile and even when you sleep, the smile stays on…!"

"Your Mum's right, son. If you're happy here with Lucien, then stay, at least a bit more. And it's not like you were exactly earnin' a decent wage out of a few hunting contracts, eh? Folks will find other people to deal with their beasts. You deal with you, ok?" 

"Oh my God…" Mundy's tears came to his eyes faster than he could control. "Gosh…!" He hid his face and his shame with his hands.

"Aw, baby Micky…!" Caroline went to the tip of her toes to hug him and Mike tapped him on the back. 

"It's alright, son, it's alright." 

"But, you sure, though?" Mundy withdrew from the hug and looked his parents in the eye. 

"Of course! We'll make it back home and give you a call when we get there." Caroline said, pinching his cheek gently. 

"Yeah, of course!" Mike added. "Now, c'mere son." Father and son exchanged a long hug. "You make your parents proud, yeah?" 

"Yeah, Dad, don't worry."

"And you be a good boy, eh?" Caroline added. 

"Yes, Mum, I will."

"You look out for each other, alright boys?" Mike looked at Lucien. 

"We will, Mike." The Frenchman answered. "But Mundy…?" 

"Yeah?"

"Do you accept my offer?" Lucien held the apron up. 

Mundy looked at his parents who nodded, then back at Lucien. 

"Yeah… Please." 

"Fine." Lucien got closer and put the apron on Mundy. He then tied it for him as the Aussie's eyes were riveted on his parents. Caroline was leaning on her husband's side and both wore a proud smile. Mundy hadn't seen his parents smile like that for a long, long time. "There, you are ready." 

"Thanks, Lucien." They exchanged a tender gaze and didn't see Caroline's eyes light up. 

"Right, boys, I think we should be on our way." Mike said. 

"But of course." Lucien answered. "Here, your sandwiches for the road."

"Mum, you call me as soon as you can, ok?" Mundy said, as they all went to the front door. 

"Yes, dear, don't worry." 

They were now standing outside of the bakery under the beautiful and powerful summer sun. 

"You call us sometimes, Micky, eh?" Mike said. 

"Sure, I will." 

Hugs and kisses were exchanged. 

"And you, you take care of our son, alright?" Mike was shaking Lucien's hand and patted his shoulder. After that, he waved for a taxi to stop.

"I will think of him before I think of myself." Lucien answered while giving a nod. 

"And Micky, you take care of Lucien too, eh?" Caroline said as she winked, making her son blush beyond his ears. 

"Y-yeah Mum, will do…" 

"Bye, son." 

"Bye guys, careful on your way back, eh?" Mundy answered.

"We will, don't worry." 

And on that, they all waved at each other as Mike and Caroline slipped in the taxi and they went their way. Lucien and Mundy stayed for a while, even after the taxi disappeared. The Aussie was out of breath, everything had happened quite fast. 

“I’ll miss them.” He said.

“I will miss them too. You are lucky to have very supportive parents, Mundy.” 

“Yeah… But I’m glad to stay here.”

"So…" Lucien said as both him and Mundy entered the shop again.

"Yeah?" 

"Ready to learn the fine art of bread and pastry making?" 

"I guess… I mean, I didn't really think it through, eh." Mundy chuckled and looked at Lucien. "But with you, anythin'." 

The Frenchman smiled. 

"First lesson: follow me." 

They went back behind the counter and Lucien even invited Mundy in the hidden workshop, behind a wooden door. There were tables lined up in the room, fridges on one wall and ovens in the other.

"Woah… It smells incredible in here…!" Mundy said as he was hit by a wave of hot flour. 

"Indeed. You will see, you will never get tired of that incomparable smell. Hot flour and sometimes, hints of sugar."

"Yeah…” Mundy inhaled deeply and when he exhaled, his eyes were half closed. That place was heaven... “Right, so what's first?" 

Lucien shut the door and looked up at Mundy. 

"First, I have to ask you, are you sure you want to stay with me? We can still call a taxi for you and you can join your parents." 

Lucien's light blue eyes raised up to Mundy were a sight to behold for the shy Aussie. 

"Y-yeah."

"Yes, what? Shall we call a taxi or…?"

"No. I wanna… Try, with you." 

Lucien's smile made all his face beam up poetically. He closed the gap between Mundy and himself and hugged the taller man. 

"Thank you so much." Both closed their eyes and held dearly to each other. “Thank you so much for trusting me and for believing that this is all worthwhile. I do appreciate that you are leaving everything behind just for me and… I am beyond grateful.”

Mundy bent down to put his lips next to Lucien's ear.

"Lucien?" He whispered. 

"Oui?" 

"I think I… I love you too." Mundy screwed his eyes shut and buried his head deep in the crook of Lucien's neck, holding Lucien not like a friend, but like the salvation he felt God sent to him through that man. 

"Mundy…?" 

"Yeah?"

"Look at me." 

Mundy did as he was told and Lucien wrapped his arms around the Aussie's neck. 

"O-oh… Right… Y-yeah?" 

Lucien smiled before his eyelashes bowed down as he slowly closed his eyes. He pushed himself to the tip of his toes and did what he had dreamt of doing. 

Mundy's eyes rolled up in bliss and if he froze for a second, the kiss made him soon melt such that he bent down and pulled Lucien from his back and his hip, to feel more of him against himself. He yielded to the passion of the moment, he let everything explode in him, the yearning, the longing... 

It lasted for a few seconds that they both wanted to extend, but the call for air was stronger. When they broke the kiss, they stayed with their foreheads against each other. 

Neither knew what to say first, to exit that moment. 

"Hold on…" Mundy eventually said. 

"Oui? Something is the matter?" Lucien asked. 

"No but… You had an apron with my name all along?" 

"Non," Lucien chuckled. "When I came back yesterday night, I spent some time thinking and smoking. I couldn't help but repeat the discussion we had in the café on loop in my head. And then I remembered what you said, that you wouldn't be able to stay without a job. That was when I got the idea to hire you."

"Oh, woah…"

"So I woke up this morning, my mind set as hard as stone. I thought that I would ask in front of your parents." 

"How did you know they'd accept?" 

"I think your mother felt it, for a long time." 

"She felt what?" 

"Mundy, she is a woman, and your mother, she feels those things. Besides, each time you have lunch here you stare at me with such insistence…!"

"What?! No, I don't!" Mundy protested and his cheeks turned red. 

"Yes, you do, mon amour, and don't blush so much…" Lucien chuckled and tapped the tip of Mundy's nose. 

"Did you just call me-?"

"My love, oui. Now, let us go to work - oh?!" Lucien's sentence was interrupted by an intense - if slightly awkward - kiss. Mundy held him dearly, almost clawed in his sides and Lucien smiled. 

"That is quite unprofessional, hm?" The Frenchman teased.

"Well, you started it, eh?" 

"Non, I did not kiss my employer." 

"You kissed your employee, that's worse." 

"Non, you are not my employee yet."

"What?" 

"You are my apprentice…"

"Right, fair enough. What's that make you then?" Mundy asked. 

"... And my lover." 

"Oh, right, ok, uhm… I-I mean…" 

"And very shy." 

"Well…" 

They spent the beginning of that afternoon in the workshop dealing with bread and pastries as they teased each other. When the time came to close the shop and go back home, Mundy's eyebrows jumped. 

"H-hold on." He said on the pavement with Lucien.

"Oui?" 

"I… I don't have a home here… I could probably be able to pay a couple more nights at the hotel but…"

Lucien's chuckle cut Mundy's sentence. 

"Why're you laughin'? I'm telling you I'm homeless…!"

"Don't be silly, Mundy. Come." Lucien took his hand and led the way. 

"Right… I s'ppose you can walk me back to the hotel…" 

"Non, I will not and I am not." 

"Where are we goin' then?" 

"Home." 

Mundy frowned in confusion but decided to wait and see. Meanwhile, he held Lucien's hand dearly in his own. A few minutes later, Lucien stopped and got some keys out of his pocket. He unlocked the door and flipped a switch. 

"Meow…!" 

A white cloud brushed the floor and jumped in Lucien's arms. 

"Oui, mon bébé, bonsoir, Papa est rentré…"

[Yes, my baby, good evening to you too, Papa has come home…]

He kissed her countless times and carried her in his arms indeed like a baby. 

"Mundy, this is Perle. Perle, this is Mundy." 

"Oh, yeah, your kitty…! Hello there, pretty lady…" Mundy scratched her cheeks and jaw, and soon both Lucien and him heard her pur. 

"She likes you already." Lucien said. 

"I'm good with animals usually, yeah… Hold on, what d'you mean 'already'?" 

"Perle," Lucien said to his cat. "Mundy here is more than just a man who knows how to scratch you perfectly." 

"Meow?" 

"Oui, he is Papa's very good friend."

"Meow…?"

"Fine, oui, he is Papa's… Second half."

"Meow!"

"Don't worry, you are still my baby, but now, you are our baby, because Mundy here" Lucien raised his eyes to his lover. "Mundy here will live with us." 

"Wh-...? Wait, are you serious?" Mundy asked in shock at the door's threshold. Lucien pulled him in and closed the door after him. 

"I am. Now, make yourself at home, and give me an instant, someone has to feed this snow white baby."

"Meow!" 

Lucien went to the kitchen as Mundy opened wide eyes and observed every little thing in the room. The paintings, most of them abstract, the furniture, the brown leather sofa, the persian style carpet in front of it, on which was the coffee table. There was a fireplace too and on the mantelpiece, pictures. They were all about Perle, the white kitten who grew to a majestic, fluffy creature with mesmerising blue eyes, a bit like her master.

"One last thing Mundy…!" Lucien said from the kitchen. 

"Yeah?" 

"I have only one double bed!"

Mundy blushed and smiled.

[lunavadash-creates]

First of all, bro, you have Sims! You won a life! My laptop is too old and broken for such luxuries! Please make my sim and my harem too lol. Give me all the men I deserve.😂

I may or may not be thinking about buying a new one tho. And it may or may not be just because of the latest expanded pack to the game and possibility of having my own cow.🐮 But on the other hand, I would love to go somewhere for a few days in nearest gutter if covid lets me.. So having savings would be nice.

Speaking of travelling. Stories. I am not a storyteller buuut… you mentioned you travelled by metro in Prague and that in your country there is just one line in the capital. Seoul has so many lines! It’s so easy to get lost.. Korean metro is one of my clearest memories of my stay in Seoul. On the very first day of my stay I and my 3 friends had a “houston we have smol problem” situation, just because 2 of my companions hadnt bought a korean sim card (our cards didnt work at all) and we got separated in the metro train. I mean.. I and my good friend didnt get inside on time while other two friends made it. In our group just one person knew where our hostel was and how we could get there. And she was gone. There wasn’t any plan b, no one even thought about the possibility of getting separated. No one amongst us spoke korean, Koreans had problems with communicating in english.. WELL, SH*T. We didn’t know if we should take the next train and others would wait at the next station or if we should stay where we were. Luckily I and one of my friends that got into the train on time had our mobiles working so we were able to communicate, but we were this close to having HOME ALONE IN SEOUL.

The second one memory and one of things I miss the most are metro jingles! God, I loved them so much! If you see Seoul Metro Jingles on Xander Tiberius channel on youtube you will be able to hear my favourite one! It’s the first one in this short video! I am pretty sure you will love it.

We came right on korean thanksgiving festival called Chuseok and it was the best decision ever. People were wearing their traditional costumes, hanboks, all the time! They were so freaking beautiful! 💕 We went to Gyeonbokgung Palace and Changdeogung Palace and when I saw them covered in paintings with obangsaek scheme with my own eyes I almost cried. I love art, so Seoul was the perfect place for me. I love korean folk paintings (please, check them with my favorite tigers and magpie theme - tigers on them are so funny and wonderful - I bought like a million postcards with its images), but their modern art is great too. Especially all those murals - you can check Ihwa Mural Village. It was ASDFGHJKLLOVE.

Street food? Excellent, however I don’t like spicy food. I wanted to try silkworm stew but at the last moment I gave up on this. Too extreme for me. But I have eaten the best ice cream in my whole life and they tasted like earl grey tea.

But what was definitely the best part of my trip? Cafes! Dog cafe, raccoon cafe, Moomin cafe, sheep cafe, Hello Kitty cafe! I love dogs with all my heart so that one was definitely my favourite one and I would love to stay there forever! Raccoon one was also freakin good! For the very first time I had encountered a raccoon. Their paws are so delicate!

Travelling is such a magical experience.There are so many things to see and to try! What was your favourite place you travelled to and why? Do you have a place you would like to visit again? Where would you like to go the most? You said you were travelling with your family. Do you have some stories to share?

I am sorry for such long messages! But I can talk for hours about such things. And I like to chat with you. I am impressed with my ability to produce so many words at once. Usually I am the quiet one and very awkward too.

🔪

I have no idea how I missed this message. Like really, I was wondering if you will tell me your travel story and look! It's been here for who knows how long! I'm m so sorry ;;

So yeah, lemme show you my Sims because idk. I think I'm kind of proud of this Altair.

So first is the randomly generated Sims

And here is Altair I made:

I wonder what do you think about him. Don't mind hie clothes tho 😂

Back to you baby! I love your story and I envy you so much! Raccoon cafe? Good food? You won me, really. I always wanted to see/touch a raccoon but since they aren't here I simply can't. But those grabby lil pawsies! U realu envy you and I'm also so happy you had fun and now you have so much fun memories you can share. Thank you so much!

As for spicy food. I love it.

And really I really enjoy talking with you, you are so nice and passionate and never be sorry for writing a lot! I love having your messages and responding to every single one of them! Even if sometimes I'm a bit late (sorrtyyyyyyy)

As for my stories... I was attacked by a bear in Albania! 😂 I'm still terrified of them. A lady was walking a bear on a chain leash and I was passing by with peanuts. And the bear attacked me, trying to take them from me. It was so scary but I win the battle over peanuts. I was like 13. But really I don't like bears now.

I want to see literally all the world. I want to go to Greece again and Bulgaria. Bulgaria is my favourite country! Also I want to see Turkey and Egypt and Japan and China!

Hbu? Do you have more travel plans?

[dead-eric]

Preparing for BC on the 23rd, and it's taking me down memory lane.

In canada we have very few tracks, and mostly it's the oval courses that let the drifters on.

BUT there is one special track in Victoria BC that has called to me ever since I was 19 years old. Every couple of years I would pack up my life into my R32 sedan, quit my job, and drive 14 hours through the Rocky mountains in hopes that I could make a life for myself near this track and finally enjoy regular, organized drifting.

I've probably accumulated more kilometers specifically to drive Western Speedway than anyone else in the country for this reason alone. I've had no fear of telling my landlord and boss I'm leaving, in order to drive this track regularly. A few times I landed in Victoria with no job waiting for me, and one time I even lived in a camper trailer in the Forrest, so I could experience the life of someone who loves drifting AND gets to go and do the thing he loves. I've not always been so irresponsible about it, but I'd like to make the point of how deeply I have sacrificed, and how I risked every single thing to drive there. Again and again, without even blinking about it. When you truly truly want something, it almost seems like the only option, and the rest is just a path to get back there.

Most of the time, my life long health problems got in the way of me being able to afford event entry, or tires. The last time I actually drove an event there was a competition in 2014, I think. Thanks to the uncommonly large and tight community and my all time greatest friends, I've got to borrow a car for a couple laps when I visit from alberta to keep the dream alive.

Now, I've no health issues and am financially blessed, and super ironically, the track has been sold and is not going to be around much longer. I'm sure the community there will feel a massive loss when it closes its doors in the not so distant future, but i will feel a unique and special part of my spirit die that day. The thought of redemption on that tarmac has kept me going, through hell and back, and back to hell and back again, about 7 times. My dedication to my dream of rejoining the community never died, the track did, and that will take a lot of wind from my sails. It was my North star, and gave me the motivation to keep putting one foot infront of the other during extreme sickness and at times dabilitating bouts of instability. I just wanted to experience what the locals there get to participate in every second week, my dreams since I was 19. To simply participate regularly in the thing that I love and have talent at. About 7 years ago I made myself a replica track in a driving simulator, and most nights I drive there by myself, imagining taking on the big names of the drivers feild. Wondering how I'd really match up if given the chance.

Now I have my chance.

This is not a sad story, on the 23rd I'll leave to bc, and drive a three day drift event there in a rented car. One last hurrah. One last chance to experience the reality I felt I deserved, and a chance say goodbye to the tarmac that's truly been the home of drifting in western Canada. To see my old friends, and hopefully compete against the drivers feild I wanted to test myself against for over a decade, but never got the chance. This makes me unspeakably happy. Really, I couldnt put it into words, how much it means for this old, tired body, to have a last drink of pure nectar.

As I do the drive west, I'll be thinking a lot about each time I'd done it before. Each time I missed the target.

I'll probably unashamedly cry for a moment on the last day of the event. I know the locals will be heartbroken when Western Speedway closes its doors for the last time, but i dare say it will represent something a bit different to me. A dream I only got to dip my toes in, just enough to know that's where I was supposed to be. For a time, when I was puking for 24+ hours straight in the throws of a broken body, western speedway was the thing that I HAD to get back to, before I ended my life. (not that I feel the desire to anymore, but ya man was seriously ill) I'm not sure where the dart that is my dreams will fall on the dartboard of life after this. But it is the WORLD to me, that we get to have one last game.

Anyone who ever fought for something and she'd their own blood in the process, just to have it slip away, I'll be dedicating a lap to you.

It IS better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. I'm nothing but thankful for its existence. I'm nothing but grateful for every memory, and every friend I made along the way.

We will see where life takes me after this, it likley won't be so focused on drifting. I wouldn't be Me without Western Speedway though. God bless that place.

Maybe I'll write a book about it when I finish my current project. I wish you all could see the smile that's going to be on my face when I get there.

Thank you to anyone who ever had any part in the capital drift series, yall deserve it. Pick up your boots and their straps and keep drifting alive out there somehow, no matter what. Please.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

continuation of this drabble, where emory breaks lux’s trust. mind the warnings.

content warning for referenced noncon, discussion of noncon, and partners navigating broken trust. both partners are safe in this drabble, and it doesn’t end on a dark note.

The longer he spends away from Lux - in the same house, but not touching, not going near him, not sharing a bed - the more he realizes just how much of their relationship is built on trust.

Emory trusts Lux not to abandon him, not to forget him even on awful overwhelming days. Lux knows Emory’s been hurt that way before, deemed worthless with the heavy pall of neglect.

Lux trusts Emory not to hurt him. That took a long time to earn, but finally, Lux doesn’t expect to be hit, doesn’t often flinch or give a small yelp at unexpected touch. Emory knows how to move, how to speak, to help Lux remember he’s safe here.

Emory trusts that Lux cares, really cares, about how he’s doing. That Lux doesn’t ever brush him off, or forget about plans, or go a whole day without communicating - not out of malice, at least. Because that stuff worms its way into Emory’s heart and makes him defensive. Lux doesn’t know why, but he knows it matters.

And Lux trusts… trusted… that he was safe in their bed.

Even after all the times he’s been assaulted. The pain, the humiliation, the terror of being knocked around, pinned, his life in someone’s hands - and them using that position of power to tear at his sense of self with everything they’ve got. Using him and enjoying it, smothering him with sounds and weight and heat that he couldn’t escape.

Even after having a boyfriend who hurt him like that, who convinced Lux of things, who hurt him if he didn’t go along with it - and even worse, didn’t hurt him sometimes, just got frustrated, or disappointed, or distant. It did things to Lux’s head.

Lux’s reaction to their first kisses, to their first touches, seemed odd at the time, before Emory really knew him. Now he knows that it was fear. Not just nerves, not just uncertainty, but full-on terror. That as soon as he got close, he’d be used. That all men who get close enough to breathe him in only want one thing, and always get it, if they’re in the mood.

It took so long for Lux to even take his shirt off in front of Emory. To even sit on the bed. And lying in the bed, kissing, falling asleep, doing more? At the time it didn’t feel like a terrible wait, since Lux was worth it and took up so much of Emory’s attention just with his eyes and his words and his smile - but it really did take ages. Countless hours of Lux watching him for reactions, for any sign of greed, anger, lust.

Eventually, he decided, somewhere along the way, that Emory somehow wasn’t like that. Lux arched up between the mattress and Emory’s chest and gasped and murmured things that he’d blush to remember saying, the next day. He entrusted Emory with his body, with his sounds, with hesitant smile-tinged questions and offers. Things that any other person who’d seen him naked would have used against him in a second.

As Lux sits out on the couch, not sleeping - he hasn’t slept, since it happened, hasn’t closed his eyes - Emory lies in bed missing the warmth of his partner beside him.

It’s hard to compare all the things Lux has been through and rank them, from least to most devastating. The worst thing, though, Emory thinks, is assault like that. It takes something that Lux already struggles with - sex, touch, intimacy - and twists it in the worst way. And Lux said what happened, what Emory did, was worse than even the awful, brutal assaults he’s survived before, the ones that made him bleed and sob and stare off at nothing for hours at a time.

The sheer magnitude of what he’s done hits Emory in waves, along with vague memories of doing it. Being sleepy, feeling the burn of need low in his belly - nudging Lux, asking, taking the first hint of a yes and running with it - friction, warmth, Lux saying something that didn’t matter because it felt too good to stop.

Thinking about it makes him nauseous.

He can’t imagine what thinking about it is like for Lux.

After two days to think on it, Emory feels like he’s full of lead. He’s thought through every hint of fear, and show of trust, from Lux that he can remember - flinches, whimpers, cuddles, wide eyes - and about what it’s like now, too. How very closed off Lux is. Eyes cast down, shoulders set with pain he won’t let Emory massage out (not that Emory is stupid enough to offer), breathing shallow and silent whenever Emory passes the couch.

Lux doesn’t seem angry, or needy. There’s no output of emotion. He’s just shut off, like something broke when it happened, and reality careened back into the dangerous, crippling futility of life as a warlock before having a home.

Emory doesn’t know what to do. Maybe there’s nothing for him to do - maybe he’s done enough, and it’s time to wait, to let Lux heal.

Lux doesn’t seem to be healing out there, dark circles carved under his eyes and mind shut off to everything around him. But Emory doesn’t have a right to comment on how Lux deals with this.

Emory goes to work the next day and comes home for his lunch break to find that Lux isn’t on the couch. There’s a note on the counter that Lux is at Anders’ house, and he’s going to stay the night there.

It’s a slap in the face and a tremendous relief all at once. Maybe Lux will be able to sleep there, dreamless and deep, relaxed because he’s finally safe. Maybe he’ll tell Anders what happened, and Anders will come to kill Emory with a sneer and brutal magic flicking out of a scarred, jagged hand.

Emory doesn’t go back to work. He would, he should, for a distraction, to respect Lux by steering clear of him - but he just can’t.

Life doesn’t have any color without Lux. Or, really, without Lux feeling safe, without Lux being okay. If Lux was happy and put together and just leaving Emory, simply breaking up for something or someone better, even for independence, Emory would be okay. He’d love Lux for the bravery to do that. But Lux is staying, and the warlock is just… just drained out. Weary and hurting and not processing anything.

Emory waits for Lux to come back, after staying the night at Anders’ house. He doesn’t really do anything while he waits. Doesn’t read, doesn’t clean, doesn’t try to make or buy something to give to Lux.

He goes to their bedroom, because that’s the space he should be in until Lux feels safe enough to return to it - and he thinks.

Thinks about how he shouldn’t ever make any decisions, or any moves, or say anything, when he’s not fully awake, not in control of himself. How if Lux ever lets Emory touch him again, Emory’s going to be slower and more uncertain about it than Lux was at the start of their relationship - and that’s not something to be pitied, that’s just how it should be, now.

He thinks about how Anders should just come and kill him, because Emory’s hurt Lux worse than anyone out there, and if it were anyone else who did that kind of harm to him, Emory would condemn them to death in a heartbeat.

He hears the front door open, and Lux come inside. He doesn’t lock the door; it must feel more important to have an escape route than to lock out any possible threats.

Sounds like he went right to the couch, because there are no other sounds, like the fridge or a scooting stool or another door opening. After a couple minutes, Emory’s phone buzzes.

you home? reads the text from Lux. Emory considers answering, but takes too long, thumb hovering over the screen.

maybe you can come out here and help with my shoulders? just for a minute?

Emory’s heart clenches with some cold, dense emotion he can’t name. He can’t. To touch Lux, after what he did? It’s such a loaded offer, Emory buries his face in his hands. It’s not even like he wants to help, and is holding back thanks to logic; he doesn’t want to help. He doesn’t want to go out there, and touch Lux’s shoulders, a part of him that hurts so bad and is so scary to have touched. He doesn’t want to be close, doesn’t want there to be any chance of soft earnest words and getting closer and acting like partners. They’re not, there isn’t any trust anymore, Emory is a rapist and Lux is trying to earn forgiveness for his own assault by offering to be touched.

    Sorry, I can’t.

He doesn’t bother to edit his typing to replace the capitalized letters and make it deliberately casual. His heart hurts too much to put that effort into it. To seem like he thinks he gets to chat with Lux, like he can rebuild what they had by acting normal.

    I want to give you space     And I can’t touch you     I mean, I shouldn’t. I just     You’re not doing anything wrong     I just can’t. I don’t get to.

Lux doesn’t answer. Emory’s heart sinks further. With every aching interaction he has with Lux, his own body feels more distant. The fact that he had that burning need, that he wanted sex, feels more and more foreign and disgusting. There’s nothing more repulsive that he could’ve done.

Eventually, his phone buzzes again.

even if i need you to?

Emory feels like crying. He can’t tell if Lux really needs help, or if he’s just doubling down on catering to Emory by letting him come out and be close. Emory doesn’t even want to be himself, right now, he doesn’t think he can handle the added stress of being near Lux.

    please, can’t you ask anders?

He’s back to no capitalization, now. What if the way he was typing before made Lux nervous? What if he seemed bitter, dry? There’s no right way to do this. Everything he does buries him a little deeper. It’s fair.

    he would be better at it     and he’s safer to be around     lux, i can’t do it

yes you can i need you to, please it’s hard to type so please just come out i know you don’t want to mess up but i’m going to break up with you if you don’t come make this hurt less i’m fnfoit kid fing fig

Emory frowns, phone forgotten on the bed as he walks over to the door and pulls it open. “Lux?”

“I can’t, hnnn, type, the stupid - keys are so small - Em-mory help.”

Lux is sitting on the couch, as expected. His arms look fine, his shoulders are the right shape, not dislocated or anything. But he’s tense, and all scrunched up like he’s in pain, face pale.

“Can you - the thing you do? Fix them?”

He hesitates. Lux isn’t his boyfriend anymore, not really. They haven’t broken up, but Emory lost the right to feel at home up against Lux’s body, or anywhere near it.

Lux whimpers.

“Okay. Um - so I can touch your shoulders?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, I - I won’t touch anywhere else. And I’ll be careful. Tell me if it-”

A choked sob jumps out of Lux as one of his shoulders shifts slightly, the joint resisting whatever movement was attempted by grinding bone against nerves.

It’s no time to talk. Emory swallows past a lump in his throat and moves back behind the couch, hands on Lux’s shoulders, fingers digging into muscle pulled so tight it’s hard to work with.

Lux makes the kind of sounds reserved for the more unbearable agony Emory’s seen him in. It’s only been three days since they were okay together - maybe four, since he got his shoulders sorted out like this. All the stress of what’s happened must have really gotten his achy joints all bunched up wrong.

The moans and yelps that come out of Lux feel obscene. Emory is defensive about the sounds resembling anything like what might come out of him in bed - and he wonders if Lux ever gets paranoid about that, biting back sounds because he thinks he’ll get mocked for it, in that way.

When it’s done, the process blurring into one long moment, Lux melts. “Tha-anks,” He whimpers, one hand cupping around the more tender shoulder, the one that needed extra cracking and massaging to work again.

Emory starts to walk back to the room, hands in his pockets.

“D’you wanna stay out here?”

At the question, Emory slows to a stop. Why is Lux doing all the work here? Does it seem like Emory isn’t trying, like he doesn’t care about fixing this?

He stares at the floor and searches for words. “...I don’t… Lux, I broke it.”

A moment’s silence passes. “I don’t think you broke it.”

“I did. I ruined it. I’ve been thinking about it since, and there’s just… there’s no way it’ll get better. No way to get back to okay.”

Lux’s weight shifts on the couch. Emory can’t tell if he’s moving closer, or moving away - shifting in discomfort, or leaning forward, engaged.

“I didn’t know you were feeling like that.”

One shoulder shrugs up. Emory’s eyes are glued to the corner between two panels of the wooden flooring.

“Can you come sit down? Can we talk?”

“Uhh-mmm…” A long, slow breath. “Okay.”

The walk over to the couch is hard. Sitting down, and feeling the cushion shift under him as Lux inches away, hurts. He doesn’t let it show in his expression or posture, though. Lux will get nervous, and the power balance will shift.

“Why do you think we’re broken?”

Emory isn’t looking at Lux, but it’s enough to process, just to hear his voice. To hear the careful, worried question. He can’t for the life of him look up at his boyfriend, the man that he loves so much, the man that he hurt.

“Because I did… the worst thing I could do. I know you, I know what makes you scared, and that you’re probably flinching from things, and nervous about if I’m angry, and you’d be having nightmares, if you were sleeping.” He has to close his eyes to keep talking. The reality where he hurt Lux, and the one where they’re at home, on the couch, someplace safe and familiar, can’t possibly coexist. “...And I don’t think you’ll ever feel safe with me again.”

Lux is thinking. He’s probably watching Emory, eyes on him, since Emory’s got his eyes closed. It’s safe to watch him. Everything Emory does, or doesn’t do, impacts how safe Lux feels. It all has to be factored in, weighed, planned out. After the biggest mistake Emory’s made in his life, he can’t mess up again.

“You think we’re already over.”

When Lux puts it like that, Emory can’t disagree. It just sounds true. “Yeah.”

“I don’t feel like it’s over. I feel like… like I’m, I’m trying to figure stuff out, and put myself back together, so we can be… us, again.”

Emory raises his hands to bury his face in them. Having his eyes closed isn’t good enough, there needs to be a barrier between them. “I bet you did that with your last boyfriend, too.”

If he was looking, he thinks he’d see Lux flinch at that. It’s not the gentlest thing to say. But it’s what he thinks, and it’s important to be honest about that. Especially if Lux is used to being abused, and would let Emory hurt him again.

“You’re not like him. I don’t - I’m not… I w-wouldn’t let someone do that to me again.”

“Seems like you would. You didn’t leave me, for what I did.”

Lux’s weight on the cushion shifts. “You were half-asleep, Em. You never got it wrong before that, you just - you made a mistake. It’s not like I was crying and begging you to stop. It was… complicated.”

“No it wasn’t. I wanted it, and you didn’t, and I was too - I don’t know, too tired, too excited, to care. You had to hide in a corner and make yourself invisible and text me, the next day, ‘cause I scared you so bad. We should…” Emotion cracks his voice into silence. “We should break up. We can’t come back from this. I don’t deserve a second chance. I can’t look at you, even, I don’t get to, I - it feels like it’d be just as bad as touching you, which is just as bad as - what I did to you.” The harder it gets to force his words out, the more muffled they get, as he turns his head to press his face further into his hands, covering his mouth. If he cries, if he lets out emotional sounds, he’ll win Lux’s sympathy, and bam, the even playing field will be skewed. Lux will feel like he owes Emory sympathy, compassion.

“I don’t want to break up. And I… I don’t think you do, either. You’re just scared.”

“I’m not, I, I scared you.”

“...scared that you finally pushed me away. That you’ll be alone again.”

The stupidest little choked sound jumps out of Emory. He shoves his hands harder against his face, too late.

“Safer to just think it’s over, and get away, than to hope we’ll get better and watch me leave, right?”

“Stop,” Emory pleads softly. It’s so much easier to be the bad guy than to be understood.

Lux is closer, now, close enough to touch. His weight is pressing down the cushion by Emory’s knee. “The next morning, when you realized what happened, you felt like it was the end of the world. Because you ruined it, broke us. You thought it was over right that second.”

“It was. It’s over. I can’t take it back. I broke your trust, it’s too late, we’ll never - we can’t…”

“I was the one that got hurt, Emory, I get to say if I can get over it. I get to decide if I feel safe.”

Brown hands flutter, desperately quick, to wipe tears from Em’s cheeks before he hides in them again. “Ye-eah, you do.”

“...You know, I think I feel pretty safe right now, considering. I mean, you’ve been freaking out since it happened. You haven’t been taking care of yourself, coming out for food, going to work, getting fresh air. Did you even notice that? Or were you too upset?”

“I… dunno, I was thinking.”

Lux hums in knowing reply. “And you’re crying because you’re so upset about what happened.”

Emory sniffles. There’s no point in wiping at the tears again, they’ve soaked his palms and cheeks and trickled down his neck.

“No one’s ever broken down like this, from hurting me like that. Nobody’s ever worried about me, after they did it. I didn’t want it, but… it doesn’t feel like it was that, to me. I mean, if it was… if you knew what you were doing, and liked it, and wanted to do it again, I would’ve known. It was just… just a mistake. And, um… I, I think I can forgive you, ‘cause you can’t forgive yourself.”

Emory sobs. “No, you, L-Lux, you don’t ha-ave to, I’m not - asking for - fo-hor - for that, don’t… if you, y-, y’forgive me, then, hnn - it only works if I’ve never hurt you. How can I, can-n I, ever tell you you’re safe, if you, if I, hurt you, once? ‘f you, weren’t safe? Ho-ow…?”

Lux touches Emory’s back, and for the first time, Emory flinches. Then the hand stays, and rubs circles into his skin, and Emory crumples. Folds himself and tilts and leans against Lux’s chest, weeping.

“I forgive you, Em. I know you won’t do it again, ever. And you’re hurting so bad, right now, you hate yourself for it. I want you to forgive yourself.”

A lurching sob. “Ne-, nev-ver, never.”

The hand on his back keeps rubbing in circles, steady. Lux isn’t scared to be close, to touch. Emory can’t fathom it.

“I wanna go to sleep, Em. I’m… re-eally tired. I want… to fall asleep, in bed, with you. And I wanna hold you.”

“Ho-old… me? Like, like I’m the, the one, who needs comf-forting? You got - I - what I did to you…”

“Shh. You’re being stupid. We’re gonna go to bed, and I’m gonna be the big spoon. Blankets between us. No kissing or anything. Just cuddles, and sleep. Bet you haven’t been sleeping, either.”

“I, I, how co-ould I…” Emory whines as Lux guides him to get up. He stays loose, lets himself keep crying, lets Lux guide him. He doesn’t want to mess this up by moving at all, by doing anything unexpected. Besides, he’s way too broken up to want to do anything but what Lux wants.

Ten minutes later, after being maneuvered and shushed and wrapped around, Emory takes sleepy shuddering breaths and focuses entirely on not moving a muscle. By some miracle, Lux is close again - lying at his back, pressed up against him, holding him. As if Emory was the one hurt. As if he’s the one who needed to be coaxed back to bed, and comforted, and cuddled to sleep.

Maybe it helps Lux, to do the helping right now? To be the big spoon, to lead with reassuring words? Emory can’t imagine that Lux has ever had cause to do that, before.

It makes his heart ache, to be forgiven. He’s not ready for it. He doesn’t want it. He has no right to take it, to have his burden lifted.

But maybe, for now, he can let Lux comfort him. He can be cuddled, he can let the thumb running back and forth over the curve of his hip soothe him into a doze. He can relax knowing that Lux is in control, and there are two blankets between them, and there’s no desire left in Emory, anyway - it was all burned out of him the second he realized what had happened, it seems.

Emory can fall asleep, finally, feeling Lux’s slow exhausted breaths against the back of his neck. Knowing Lux is safe, and getting what he needs, even if it inexplicably, bewilderingly, includes having Emory close.

[vitamx]

the iron door: chapter 2

[ Also read on AO3! ] [ Chapter 1 ]

---

 the day went by swiftly as usual- mumbo tinkered with a few bits and pieces of sahara's tech and only slightly wondered if every machine he touched would start looking at him and screaming.

 in all honesty, he didn't know why he was getting so worked up over a- over a broken machine that just so happened to activate on accident.

it happened all the time with countless other redstone projects of his.

there was absolutely nothing strange about it.

 (of course, that's just what he told himself.)

soon the night befell him, and he wondered if it was really worth the trouble of going back over to the room with the iron door; to go back to that NPC, to go back to the chilling room it was kept in.

 though he really had no choice, in reality.

grian was counting on him to keep it in check while he was gone, to make sure it didn't break down more than it already had.

he couldn't just avoid the task he had promised to do.

 what would grian think if he came back to find he hadn't checked up on the thing all because it jump-scared him a bit?

 well- he'd laugh, first of all. then would come the disappointment.

and frankly, mumbo wasn't sure he could handle that.

 after half an hour of making up excuses to delay the trip over to the shipwreck, mumbo set off, the sound of rockets filling the starry sky.

 ---

 grian's giant, awe-inspiring base came into view in less than a minute, still standing out like a blue sticker on a red wall despite the darkness of the night.

 sucking in his breath, mumbo curved downwards, dunking into the icy, salty ocean water in a matter of seconds.

wincing from the cold, mumbo pushed through the water (thankfully coming into contact with the conduit's effects soon after), and squeezed through the gap that separated the water from the shipwreck.

 the garden afront it was still lovely and charming, and the faint smell of wood soon greeted him.

 he wasted no time in entering the ship itself, making a bee-line towards the iron trapdoor and ladder passage.

the trek down to bedrock was as tiring as it was last time, the temperature dropping more and more as he reached the end. a chill ran down his spine as he finally stepped away and into the room.

  the iron door greeted him silently.

  in the same spot as before, the communicator (which was likely grian's) lay untouched upon the cold stone ground.

leaning down, mumbo picked it up gently, wincing at how it felt like dry ice on his skin, with how cold it was on the surface. as the screen flickered on, he squinted his eyes at the bright light that accompanied it, quickly turning the brightness of the screen down.

on the screen was a new recording: "MCHECK_02.mp3".

 rubbing his eyes, mumbo walked through the iron door, communicator in hand. the door clicked behind him softly, and all of a sudden he felt very small.

it's not like the room was unfamiliar- there wasn't much to be unfamiliar about at this point- but rather what was in the room still disturbed him.

 a redstone torch was placed in the corner of the wall- right where he had left it last time. the NPC lay crumpled beneath it.

 raising the communicator up, mumbo opened the audio file and played it, glancing back at the NPC frequently as it loaded.

  "erm... so, uh, day 2, huh? thanks for coming back, i suppose! um... i- i really hope you're not too spooked about the whole NPC lookalike of me. but, it's harmless! ...mostly. um- the NPC, it can get a little violent at times, b-but only if you aggravate it! that's, uh, kind of why it got itself so messed up like that. i... really should have mentioned that in the last recording. oh well, too late to go back and redo it. but, hey! if you're listening to this, that means you did well last time! so, uh... yeah, good job, good job... ..."

  a pit of dread grew in mumbo's gut as he listened to more and more of the recording. pausing it abruptly, he exhaled slowly, trying not to linger too much on a few parts of it.

 "a few parts of it" meaning specifically the part where he mentions the NPC can get "violent".

what entails getting violent? does it mean more screaming and jittering? or does it mean the NPC could somehow get up and start punching him in the ribcage???

 mumbo really didn't want to find out.

 after a few moments of his thoughts swarming his own head, mumbo resumed the recording.

  "that being said! this time i think it'd be best to do a sort of... audio check? i don't think that's the right word for it- like, playing a sound and writing down how it reacts... if you're up to that, then you'd better get a pen and paper out- i'll play about three different sounds. write down if it reacts or if it doesn't. reacting can be like- its voice-box activating, or its eyes flickering..."

  pulling a face, mumbo reluctantly looked into his inventory, finding only a birch sign on him. he sighed, pulled it out, and figured it would have to do.

he'd make sure to bring a book and quill next time for sure.

 (though he wasn't really sure he wanted there to be a next time, if he was honest.)

  "okay... playing sound #1 in one... two... three..."

  instantly, a sharp ringing noise filled the dusty room, making mumbo flinch.

it sounded like a dog whistle almost, though more screech-like.

 the NPC did not move an inch- nothing had changed.

 he scribbled down a "no" next to the first bullet point he had drawn.

  "playing sound #2 in one... two... three..."

  this time, the sound was pure white noise- white noise that filled mumbo's ears and nearly gave him a headache.

looking up from the sign, mumbo froze.

  the NPC was looking directly at him, leaning forward ever so slightly.

  its eyes glowed with a red ring styled pupil, flickering in and out.

 a little shaken, and rightfully so, mumbo swiftly wrote down a "YES" in all capitals, his handwriting more messy than it usually was.

he glanced up at the NPC between every letter he wrote down.

  "playing sound #3 in one-"

  the audio cut into a quiet static, buzzing and humming in infrequent ratios.

slowly looking up, mumbo's blood ran cold.

  "he is a liar, you know..."

  the damned machine was talking- whispering to him.

 its voice was mangled and scratched, raspy and barely coherent.

it was deep and guttural, but quiet and placid all the same.

  absolute fear grabbed ahold of mumbo. he had to get out- had to get out fast.

  but the machine kept whispering to him.

  "he tells you i have broken myself."

  the NPC lets out a soft, almost silent laugh.

  "he lies to you."

  mumbo tried to move his legs, tried to run like hell.

 why weren't they moving?

 he didn't want to listen to any more of what this broken-down, glitched machine was telling him, so why couldn't he move?

the NPC looks him up and down, its head barely moving, and the damn thing smiles at him.

  "i am not mechanical. i am alive. i am waiting... breathing... listening..."

  "...can you hear me? mumbo?"

  mumbo resists the urge to hurl, and he finally gets himself to move.

he sprints out of the room, the iron door slamming behind him, and his hands are clasped over his mouth, his jaw clenched.

 the quiet room suddenly fills with a loud BANG- mumbo trips, stumbling backward as he swerves around to face the iron door.

the NPC is banging and punching the iron door, and in between the sharp clangs and banging that filled the dimly lit room, mumbo hears the same whirred, desperate, and rasped breathing and heaving he had heard the moment he pressed his ear against that iron door.

  he runs without a second thought, a lump in his throat and his hands shaking, and he flies upward.

his arms are scraped slightly by the ladders, but he could hardly care.

 even after he shut the trapdoor and collapsed inside the shipwreck, he could still hear the iron door banging from beneath the world.

 ---

[adarlingwrites]

Absolution

Summary:

noun: formal release from guilt, obligation, or punishment

The Capital Wasteland lauded the Lone Wanderer as a hero, a Messiah, a savior who's willing to give her life for the Good Fight. Beyond the legends, the propaganda, and the mythification that surrounded her legacy, there is only one person who knew her bare soul. She gave him his absolution, and now he will fight for hers.

IV

September 17, 2277

I count how many people are aiming their guns at us. Twelve. A dozen people versus two. Out of instinct, I draw my shotgun and aim it at those pointing their weapons at my mistress, but she only holds her hands up calmly, and looks at me from the corner of her eyes.

“Charon, stand down,” she tells me, and as much as it frustrates me, I oblige. I put my hands in the air too, mimicking her.

“Doc Barrows, what seems to be the problem?” Percy asks, calm despite it all, but I can see the thin sheen of sweat on her brow.

“Percy. Good to see you. I’m afraid I would have to apprehend Charon for killing Ahzrukhal.”

“I didn’t know you were also Underworld’s sheriff, Doc.”

“Mayor. My civic duties take a backseat due to my obligations as Underworld’s sole doctor. Don’t worry, this is just a formality,” Barrows explains, lowering his gun.

“We’ll comply. I’m surprised none of you tried to shoot or apprehend us when it happened though,” Percy replies, glasses sliding down her nose, but her hands remain in the air.

“Normally, residents would be more than willing to attack aggressors, but Charon is still one of our own. People were shocked to see him murder his employer. They didn’t know what to do, and they didn’t want to approach the stranger with the high-powered weapon who acquired his contract either,” Barrows answers her, gesturing to the rifle on my mistress’ back.

“Some of us suspect that you had some involvement with his death, but you’ve been forthcoming with your dealings so far, smoothskin. A lot of the people thought we should give you a chance to explain yourselves.”

“That’s all I ask,” Percy mumbles, nodding. “I’m glad you think I’m trustworthy enough not to shoot on sight. So, what are we waiting for? Let’s settle this.”

I watch as Willow holds her arm, an apologetic look on the ghoulette’s face. “Sorry, tourist. Come with me, no sudden movements,” she tells the mistress. Percy took it all in stride, putting her hands on her head. “You don’t have to do that,” Willow rasps, leading my mistress inside the concourse.

“Willow, spending a month in the wasteland made me realize that trust is hard to come by. I want to keep yours.”

“You’re really something else, smoothskin.”

“Maybe. Or maybe this is one of the few places in the wasteland where there aren’t crazy people or animals or mutants trying to kill me. I’d like to remain welcome here,” Percy responds.

“Smart choice.”

Meanwhile, the other ghouls point their weapons at me while I walk behind my mistress. They’re right to be cautious. Although I’m still a citizen of Underworld, the contract dictates that my loyalty is now to Percy. Should they hurt her, I’d be forced to protect her from them.

Barrows lead us to the Ninth Circle, where the blood on the floor has been scrubbed, and Ahzrukhal’s rotting corpse is nowhere to be found. The stench of death still lingers, but I found it comforting, a reminder that I’m not longer under that bastard’s employ.

Willow drags a chair out for my mistress, and she sits down, while I remain standing, guns still pointed at my back. People gathered around us in a broken circle, and more onlookers started to flock to the scene, including Tulip, Winthrop, Greta, and Carol who normally did not like coming to the bar.

“What’s going on here?” Carol asks, weaving through the crowd. “Oh! Percy, why are they holding you and Charon up? Did something happen?”

“Don’t worry about me, Carol. It’s just a misunderstanding,” Percy replies.

“‘Misunderstanding’ is one hell of a word for murder, don’t you think, smoothskin?” one of the onlookers jeers, and the murmurs in the crowd grow stronger. “Maybe the others’ suspicions are right and you killed Ahzrukhal for Charon’s contract!”

“My, that’s a grave accusation! A sweet girl like Percy wouldn’t do such a thing, wouldn’t she?” Carol cuts in, worry etched on her flaking face. Her voice gets drowned out by the angry patrons.

One of them gets too close to Percy and I grab him by the throat.

“Charon!” My mistress holds me back, her hand pulling at my bicep. “Stop. Please, I don’t want any violence. We’re here to clear our names.”

“Charon, now a smoothskin’s little bitch boy,” the ghoul chokes out, and my grip on his neck tightens. “If it wasn’t for my mistress,” I rasp, looking the asshole in the eye. “I would’ve crushed your neck. Be thankful for her.”

“That’s enough. We’re not here to make accusations or engage in a bar fight,” Barrows asserts, and the crowd falls silent. I let go of the asshole, and stand beside my mistress. Percy looks at me, and I feel… guilt. I dragged my mistress into this mess.

“Mistress, if I haven’t killed Ahzrukhal…” I finally speak up, but Percy shakes her head. “You did what you have to do, big guy. I’ll help sort this out, I promise,” she whispers to me.

Barrows clears his throat. “You’ll have your turn to speak, young lady. I want to hear what Charon has to say. Why kill Ahzrukhal?”

“Talk to Percy,” I tell him, to which my mistress shakes her head.

“Charon. I’m not Ahzrukhal. I will not forbid you to speak to other people. You may answer Doctor Barrows’ question.”

“I-,” I tried to argue, but she is my mistress, and she is right. I’m no longer under Ahzrukhal’s employ, and any conditioning and methods I have learned from him, I have to unlearn so I may adapt to my new employer.

“Very well,” I start, my ruined vocal cords straining from being barely used. “I killed Ahzrukhal because he’s a danger to Underworld’s residents. I did all his dirty work for him while under his employ, so I speak from experience. When my mistre- when Miss Percy purchased my contract, I was free to correct the wrongdoings I committed while I was his employee. I thought the obvious solution is to kill him, and so I did. Miss Percy has nothing to do with this. She is innocent.”

Murmurs from the crowd start to grow louder once more.

“What do you mean by Ahzrukhal being a danger to Underworld’s people?” one of the people shouts, probably Ahzrukhal’s previous patron. “He’s just a bartender.”

“Hey, Charon has a point.” Another pipes up. Tulip. “Just a few weeks ago, Charon threw Patchwork over the balcony and broke his fingers. Ahzrukhal ordered him to do it. It’s the smoothskin who managed to get him to stop. She even dragged Patchwork to the doc and picked up his fingers.”

“Yeah, doc. It also doesn’t help that he doesn’t stop selling booze to the boy in the first place. It’s getting bad for him. C’mon doc, isn’t there something wrong with that?” another ghoul adds. Winthrop.

My mistress speaks up. “There is. Intervening with a patient’s addictions is a form of preventive care. I’m sure you’ve been telling him to lay off the booze, Doc Barrows, but no one’s removing him from the environment that’s enabling him. Hell, Ahzrukhal is fuelling his alcoholism. It doesn’t help that he’s hooking the others on jet too.”

The murmurs erupt to arguments. A few of Ahzrukhal’s former patrons called my mistress a meddling bitch, a snitch, a whore, and other unsavory things. Some of them accused me of being a traitor by siding with my human mistress. Others feigned ignorance about the jet trade, even when I saw them buying from Ahzrukhal a few times. Barrows had to shout at everyone to quiet down. Percy, silent throughout the entire ordeal, squeezes my hand, as if offering reassurance, and asking for it too.

“Enough! If anyone can provide solid evidence that Ahzrukhal is indeed hooking people on chems, it would be appreciated. As a doctor of medicine, the community’s health is my concern.”

“Check his terminal. He keeps his logs in there, but it’s locked,” I tell him.

“I know how to hack it,” my mistress adds, and Barrows motioned for her to work. A few keystrokes in, the mistress manages to unlock Ahzrukhal’s terminal, and Barrows starts reading the entries.

“Charon and the smoothskin’s accusations are true.”

“But is it enough to justify murder?” one of them shouts.

More arguments. Shouting. The entire thing was a shitshow.

“If risking the community’s health by peddling chems doesn’t convince you people that he’s a danger, I can prove that he wanted one of your people dead too,” Percy declares, and all eyes are on her. The room falls into a hush. She fishes out a small item from her pocket. A holotape.

“I didn’t trust Ahzrukhal after that incident with Patchwork, so I made it a point to look for blank holotapes to record him every time I stayed in the Ninth Circle.”

She slots it in her Pip-Boy, and a recording begins to play.

“-heard you’ve been poking around about Charon’s contract,” a voice says. It’s Ahzrukhal’s. “Perhaps, we can come to an agreement?”

“What kind of agreement?” Percy’s voice.

“You see, you might not like the deal that I have to offer. I don't like competition. Not at all. It goes against every principle that I have as a businessman. So, the fact that there is another source for booze in town is… troubling.” I fucking hated that voice.

“Greta, the waitress over at Carol's… Kill her. Make it quiet. Do it, and you can have Charon's contract.” A gasp rings out from the crowd, and it’s from Carol.

“Kill her? I- why not ask Charon to do that? Why ask me?”

“Loyal employee that he is, Charon would do it without question if I asked him to. However, the entire town would come down on me for it. Greta is quite popular too, and if Charon kills her, everyone will know that I ordered her death. I need him to be with me clear as day so I may feign ignorance.”

“With all due respect, Mister Ahzrukhal, but you can go fuck yourself. I’m not killing an innocent person. In fact, perhaps I should warn the other residents about your plans...”

“Your choice, madam. If you decide to blabber about our little deal, however, I won’t hesitate to unleash Charon upon you.”

Beside me, my mistress’ breathing is becoming irregular as the recording went on. The sheen of sweat on her forehead turns into a trickle. Seeing her distressed when she’s normally collected and smiling… I decided that I do not like it. I do not like to see her like this.

“In fact, I think it’s about time I give the good pup a treat… perhaps a bitch like you?”

“What.”

“Why not, miss? You seem eager to get your hands on my faithful employee anyway. I’d be doing you a favor. Did you know he’s still intact? It’s about time that this place gets a new source of entertainment. I’m sure the two of you will put up quite a show.”

My stomach begins to churn. Did Ahzrukhal really threaten her with something unspeakable… and he was planning to use me to do his bidding? I can’t imagine forcing myself on another individual, and doing that to the only smoothskin who was decent to me in the brief time I knew her too? I felt sick. If she hadn’t purchased my contract...

“You’re fucking sick. Whatever. I’m paying the thousand cap fee and getting out of here.”

“A thousand caps? Please, come back when you have a serious offer. Charon? Accompany Miss 101 out of Underworld… Charon. Get your thumb out of your ass. I said, accompany Miss 101 out of Underworld.”

“You said a thousand caps, you rat bastard.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, Charon’s contract is far more valuable to me than a thousand caps. Unless, you want to reconsider the offer I gave you previously?”

The recording ends. No one dared to say a word.

“If Charon hadn’t shot him up, and he finds a wastelander with a lesser conscience, Greta would be dead,” the mistress finally speaks up, unslotting the holotape from her Pip-Boy and handing it to Barrows.

“Here’s all the evidence you need. He did me a favor, he did Carol a favor, he did Greta a favor. Hell, Charon did all of you a favor.”

Barrows remained quiet, probably unsure of what to say after hearing all that. Carol runs over to embrace my mistress like a mother holding a child, weeping, thanking her. Percy lets her, and the ghoulette walks over to thank me as well, sniffling. People were shouting, arguing, and though some came to our defense, some still thought that we should still face punishment. One ghoul called us heroes. Another said I was still a murderer. It was pure discord.

In the end, the mayor decides to let us walk. The crowd dispersed after that.

Only my mistress and I remained in the bar. She’s staring at the spot where Ahzrukhal’s body used to lie, and sighs, relieved. The tension from her shoulders begin to melt. I’m still absorbing what the fuck just happened.

“Mi- Percy, may I ask you something?” I speak up. Percy turns around.

“You don’t have to ask permission, Charon. You’re free to ask me questions, make suggestions, anything. Just talk to me.”

“I will remember to do so,” I tell her.

“So, what did you want to ask?”

“I cannot comprehend why you would risk yourself for me. You’ve known me for less than three weeks, and I’ve been in your employ for just a few hours, but you’re more than willing to face an angry mob to come to my defense, when I should be the one serving you. Why?”

“Why not?”

I could not answer.

“You got my back, I got yours. It’s what partners are for.”

“Percy, the contract dictates-”

“I told you, let’s sort it out later. Let’s get out of here. I need my haircut,” she laughs, tossing her hair back.

My mistress’ motivations remain a mystery to me, but I am content to be by her side.

[bbrandy2002]

The Fall of Cordonia

Prologue

The Royal Heir AU

Summary: After a failed alliance and inability to secure a marriage pact between their children, King Bradshaw's forces attack and overthrow Liam and Riley's kingdom, leaving death and destruction in his path.

Violence and profanity.

Characters belong to Pixelberry.

Thank you @burnsoslow and @emceesynonymroll for giving me the courage to actually write this.

Auvernal 6:32PM

"Your Majesty, we have received word from General Phillips on the ground....the attack on Cordonia was a resounding success".

With those words, the delighted, King of Auvernal, knew he had dealt a massive blow to the small, neighboring kingdom. This is, however, what happens when your back is against the wall, using power and strength to gain even more. A failed alliance between his country and Cordonia, meant a desperate power grab for it's wealth and prestige was inevitable. Without a military to match, Liam's kingdom was a ticking time bomb.

Bradshaw remained composed as his informant shared the details of the surprise attack, that included toppling, simultaneously, each duchy, the communication grids and the Cordonian capital.

He adjusted his tie and slicked back his perfectly coiffed black hair, feeling an aura of invinsibilty, "And what of the King and Queen?".

"It is assumed they are both dead sir".

King Bradshaw turned confidently from the railing of his balcony, fingers steepled and a slight grin cast on his face, "Perfect......and the package was delivered unharmed to the Princess?".

"It is en route to Monaco as we speak, sir".

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

Cordonia-Underground Bunker 10:15 PM

A shaky hand tightly grips a bottle of scotch, while his bleary eyes study a picture in the other. Exhaustion, chaos, heartache and defeat had consumed every single fiber of his being and death would be a most merciful dweller. Slumped into the corner of a barely lit room, the weight of his losses had completely engulfed him. How is it possible to lose everything you love and live for in literally the blink of an eye. Was this all a cosmic joke, karma, a way for evil to overpower all the good that he had amassed?

Rubbing his thumb along the photo, his heart hurting more than he could withstand. His lip quivered as he thought about this morning, always a perfect day when one could rise as the sun barely broke through the clouds. He had placed a tender kiss on the temple of the most beautiful woman in the world, his rock and foundation, still sleeping peacefully. Shuffling down the hall, his Saturday routine included surprising his son in the nursery. He could already hear the joyous noise of faint cooing as he approached the door; nothing warmed his heart more than that sound.

Liam begins to sob uncontrollably as he falls listlessly onto his side, the cold concrete floor having no effect on him. The flashes of his son's large smile as he entered the nursery this morning, playing repeatedly like a cruel joke in his troubled mind.

Bastien sat on the floor across from him, two guards stood, heavily armed at the doorway, ready and willing to die for their King. All was quiet and still, except the whimpers of unimaginable pain that escaped Liam's lips and echoed throughout. Bastien knew there were no words to make any of this easier; a country abliterated was one thing, to feel the horror of your wife and baby's absence was another. If there was a way to make decisions, fight back and regain control, it would have to wait; Liam was present physically, but, emotionally he was a fucking mess.

Bastien clutched his communication device, making another attempt to speak with anyone in the outside world, to no avail. He tried to stop himself, yet, his thoughts meandered to the Queen and the young Prince in Valtoria, getting ready for the Lantern Lighting Festival that was scheduled for tomorrow. Riley had left with Nikolas after breakfast this morning, she was like....no...she is like a daughter to me. Bastien swallows hard in an attempt to keep his emotions in check. Getting the initial reports of the destruction on Valtoria was a huge blow, then having to share that news with Liam as Auvernese Forces were approaching the palace, was the most gut wrenching thing he had ever done. If Queen Amalas had not insisted on meeting with Liam this afternoon, he too, would have succumbed to the carnage.

Most of the court was staying in Valtoria in preparation for tomorrow's events. This attack, by Bradshaw, may have effectively eliminated the Cordonian royal line of succession. In his head, Bastien calculated the destruction of the nobility, Olivia, Bertrand, Maxwell, Hakim, Adelaide, Emmaline.....then there was, Drake. Bastien quickly shook his head of this distressing realization; he had to remain focused, he couldn't allow his mind to go there....not yet.

Hours passed before Liam's tears finally ran dry and his cries drifted away. Sleep was not an option, although, it would provide some solace. As the stage of denial and grief shifted, anger was the only emotion he could muster.

Liam pushed himself off the dusty floor, his body so weak from despair and a heavy dose of alcohol, he had to catch himself from falling over. His shouts of curses and rage bounced off the walls of the safe room, his hands sweeping clear a table of supplies.

Bastien watched with a careful eye as the King completely came undone, if he thought for one minute he could stop him, he would, but what was there to do?

Bastien hung his head low, the anguish was too much to witness, even for someone like himself, trained to ignore the emotional aspect of his job. He didn't understand exactly what Liam was dealing with, yet, his imagination took him to a very dark place.

*********

10:15 PM Valtoria

Drake pillaged through the massive rubble of a local dining establishment. A nearby fire from the explosion, lighting his recovery efforts. The blood that poured from the gash in his scalp, had seeped into his eyes, causing his vision to blur and sting. His brute strength was doubled by pure adrenaline and fear, as he lifted heavy beams and sheet rock.

A river of red flowed by his feet and his heart pounded; Drake was never one to pray, but, as he moved a large piece of ceiling, he did just that. The mangled body was almost indescernable, but, the waiter uniform was sadly, a relief for him.

"Beaumont!.....Brooks!....Olivia!.....can you all hear me?".

Everything happened in slow motion, he last recalled the drinks, laughing, the witty banter between he and Olivia. He remembers Brooks calling the nanny to check on the baby, when she heard shouting and gunshots in the background. As she rose in panic to her feet, a sudden blast occurred that collapsed the building, scattering his friends to who knows where.

Drake removed his shirt and held it to his wounded head; he wasn't prepared to give up, but, didn't know where to start looking. He decided that anything he did was better than nothing.

His eyes suddenly shift behind him as a pile of debris begins to erupt; he steadily makes his way to it, assisting whomever was buried underneath. "Maxwell? Is that you?", Drake yelled out.

With a weakened voice, "Yeah....I'm stuck under something....I can't...I can't move it".

Drake sighs out in relief, knowing that at least one of friends was alive and accounted for. "Don't worry....I'm going to get you out okay? Just hang tight".

He works diligently as he clears the pile until he is able to see Maxwell, his legs trapped under a wooden beam and covered in blood from broken glass and splinters. Another patron, who was able to free himself, helped Drake lift the broken beam from Maxwell and pull him out to safety.

"Maxwell....do you have any idea where Brooks is at?".

Maxwell's sad eyes darted to a point ten feet away and he gestures in that direction, "She was thrown over there."

Drake and the other man step carefully to the location Maxwell pointed out and began cautiously clearing it away. Within minutes, much to his horror, Mara's lifeless body was discovered, and under her, the Queen of Cordonia. Drake immediatly dropped to his knees, his heart falling into the pit of his stomach, "Oh, Brooks".

*********

3:00 AM-Monaco

Princess Marguerite is awakened from her peaceful slumber. She eagerly gathers her robe and hustles to her bedroom door; once open, her eyes immediatly light up at the servant waiting for her.

With anticipation, she holds her arms out. Once satisfied, with the delivery, she dismisses her servant and closes the door.

She gently walks to the other side of her room; sitting on the edge of the bed.

She bounces the baby boy on her knees and smiles at his sleepy face, before speaking to him in baby talk "your daddy and mommy are not going to be happy about this.....oh no, no, no, they're not". After a brief pause, she chuckles to herself, "what am I saying...they're both dead....they'll never even know, you're my little boy now".

[chasseurdeloup-retired]

Ten CCs of Sass || Ricky and Kaden

TIMING: A few days after Ricky took on an asanbosam and after Kaden’s mime stabbing PARTIES: @ricky-corderbro and @chasseurdeloup SUMMARY:  Best roommates ever.

Kaden was starting to lose track of time in this stupid place. It was hard to know when was what when there were no windows in the room and time seemed to move at a snail’s pace. But he was pretty sure he remembered the layout of the room. And this was not it. Everything was similar but slightly off somehow. “Regan?” he asked, knowing full well he didn’t see her or Blanche or anyone else babysitting him at the moment. Maybe he hoped they would pop up around a corner or something. Still, no answer. But there was a fucking curtain halfway open and another patient on the other side. Putain de merde, just when he thought this fucking hell pit couldn’t get any worse. They must have moved his fucking bed in the night and now he had a goddamn roommate. And better yet, his IVs were taped down so thoroughly to his arm, he was pretty sure getting them off was going to take a solid ten minutes and take off hair and maybe even a little skin. He was thoroughly stuck. Fuck.

All in all it had not been Ricky’s favorite week. While thankfully they’d put him under for the harrowing process of putting his ribs back together and removing a portion of one of them from his lung, the pain afterwards had been almost enough to make him wish the asanbosam had finished him off. Sleep had been an elusive target, and it was only after a nurse had come in and given him something to knock him out that he’d managed a couple of hours. Waking up though, had brought a resurgence of pain everytime his heart beat and he took a breath, and it wasn’t until he heard a voice asking for someone named Regan that he realized how fucked his day was truly about to get. He recognized that voice, even if the last time he’d heard it they’d been on a rickety boat arguing about saving lives. He also knew that that voice was attached to someone he’d promised to try to kill, even if he was in no position to actually take action on the threat, “Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.” he rasped out, voice still not up to par, “Did I actually die? I must have. This has to be fucking hell if I’m stuck here with you”

Kaden’s brows knit together. Something about that voice sounded vaguely familiar. He turned to get a better look at his new roommate. “Putain.” He groaned. It was the fucking do gooder lifegarud boy who was probably some kind of monster. Or knew a few. Of fucking course they ended up in the same room at the same time. What a cherry on top of being stabbed by a mime a few times the other day. “You’re right about one thing, this is fucking hell.” Kaden wanted to throw something but there was nothing but the pillow in reach to toss and, uh, he didn’t want to have to call a nurse to come pick it up off the floor. “The hell happened to you, anyway? Have a run in with a perfectly innocent supernatural monster? Or did your dudley do-right routine finally screw you over?”

Through the haze of pain and pain meds Ricky could feel Kaden’s voice grating on his every nerve, “Jesus fucking christ. Of course it’s fucking you” He attempted to push himself slightly more upright and was rewarding with a white hot pain shooting through his chest, “God. Do you ever tire of the sound of your own fucking voice? I will reach into my chest, pull out one of the many fragments of ribs floating around in there, and stab you in the fucking eye with it if it’s going to net me a reprieve from your sanctimonious bullshit.” He resigned himself to staying laying down and sighed, “You know, fuckhead mcfuckstick, there are those of us capable of distinguishing between an animalistic monster that lacks sentience, and a perfectly harmless member of the supernatural community. I’m sorry you somehow failed Humanity 101”

This little shit really thought he talked too much? Kaden scoffed. “You should ask yourself that. I’m not the one ranting over there.” He started picking at the tape on his arm as the kid ranted the same bullshit grumbling he’d heard a million times before. More colorful than most, he’d give him that, but more of the same. “Fuckhead mcfuckstick, that’s a new one.” He shrugged and continued to try and peel the tape away so he could try and leave before things got any worse. “So how’d that distinguishing go for you? Broken ribs, you said? Sounds like you had a really wonderful encounter.”

“It seemed fitting, given that you are both a fuckhead, and a fuckstick, and I’m Irish so we add Mc to everything.” Ricky rolled his eyes and managed to find the controller for his bed, raising himself so he was sitting upright, “Well it went great. Since I very clearly distinguished that an asanbosam is not a contributing member of society and is instead an animalistic hunter. But these were things I knew before. But you know something about being an animalistic hunter don’t you?” His breath came short for a few moments and he stopped talking, breathing as deeply as he could and balling his fists to try to work through the pain, “We were ambushed. Broken ribs, punctured lung. But I lived so, that’s something. They’re not great ones to run into.”

Irish. Noted. Kaden was sure he’d have plenty of time to figure out what kind of monster he was sharing a room with. Unfortunately. “Asanbosam? Too bad no one was around to stake it. If only there had been an animalistic hunter nearby. Guess they were all at home.” Or stuck in a fucking hospital. “That or no one thought you were particularly worth saving. Shame, you clearly handled it so well on your own.” Still, sounded like the kid had it worse over there than he did. “You got lucky. Even with all that.” Not that he was glad he was okay. That wasn’t his concern at all. “Ran into one of those the other week, seem to be out in force with all the eternal darkness shit going on. Almost stole someone up into the trees.”

“I managed just fine. No deaths, so, that’s a win. It’s currently somewhere in the forest trying desperately to get the rosary I knotted around it’s ankle free. They’re particularly averse to religious iconography.” While most children had a childhood full of nursery rhymes, a solid portion of Ricky’s home education had been the various varieties of vampire that would inevitably try to attack him; he knew a fair few of them by heart. “Ah yes, there’s that good old Hunter “judge, jury, and executioner” mentality that we all know and love so much. Good to know whatever didn’t do a good enough job of killing you left you up on your high horse.” Ricky reached for his phone on the bedside table, scrolling through several texts in all capital letters before deciding that was a problem for later in the afternoon, “I always hated the idea of those fuckers.” He muttered, trying to find a more comfortable position that didn’t put pressure on, well, anything. “Iron teeth. Prehensile tail. They’re straight out of some dnd dungeon master’s nightmare. What the hell is a west African vampire doing in Maine, though?”

“Oh are they? Wow, gee, I never fucking knew that. Slayed my first vampire at age ten but wow, thanks for that riveting new information. Where would I be without you?” Kaden rolled his eyes. He just told the guy he’d encountered an asanbosam the other week, so he would’ve thought he wouldn’t go and explain the obvious to him but guess he was wrong. “Yeah well, sorry to disappoint you by my survival. But if you tell me where that fucking thing was I can probalby deal with once I’m out of here. Or get someone else to. You know, if you can lower yourself off that pedastool to cooperate with an animalistic hunter for two fucking minutes.” This was going to be a long goddamn day. God help him if was two. He wasn’t sure he could survive that. The tape on his arm must have been something akin to duct tape because it wasn’t budging. At this point he wasn’t sure he cared if Regan insisted he stayed the full two plus days. No way would he last that long. “They’re a pain in the ass. Species origin doesn’t really seem to be a barrier to entry in White Crest. I mean, for fuck sakes, the sky’s been dark for a few solid weeks now and you’re questioning how an African vampire got here? This place is fucking weird.”

Kaden’s abrasive voice was honestly on par with the subtle grinding and shifting of his ribs that he could still feel every time he breathed, “God. It just so fucking shocking to me that you’re top of seemingly everybody’s ‘kill him becore he kills us’ list. People skills like yours you should be in public relations. As to the where would you be? Fish food. We’ve gone over this. You’d be fish food.” Ricky let talk of killing a roommate fall silent as a nurse came in to administer meds and bring up his breakfast tray… which was seemingly full of things he didn’t want or couldn’t really eat. One insipid slice of ham seemed to be about the only thing he trusted, and he quickly ate it, keeping his face turned away from Kaden so there were no erstwhile glimpses of fangs, before pushing the tray and the rolling table away, “I don’t want the rest of that, if you’re feeling extra peckish.” He could feel the gentle wave of pain meds crashing on the beach of his mind and pulled his phone towards him, tapping out replies to texts as he listened to Kaden prattle on in the singularly sanctimonious way that he seemed to have cornered the fucking market on, “Yeah as long as there’s a fucking tree vamp wandering the forests near my home attacking members of my community I’m going to fucking question it. But in answer to the question that was sandwiched between the insults… it was the forests to the north of the Docks, bout half a mile before the bridge to Harris Island. It felled a tree right in front of my truck, blocked the road.”

“Yeah, yeah. And I thanked you already, alright.” Kaden bristled at the reminder that he was somewhat in debt to the other man for saving his life. Fucking hated that. Normally he made it easy enough for him to push that aside but then it would rear its ugly head. Still, he noted where that vampire was last seen; he’d be sure to kill it once he was out of there. Not long after, a second nurse came in to give Kaden his tray full of what he assumed was awful lumps of sadness pretending to be food. He wasn’t wrong. The food looked awful, alright, but that wasn’t what his eyes were focused on. No, his eyes went straight to the black and white striped shirt folded neatly with a beret on top and the red blood stains seeped into it. His eyes grew wide with confusion and his pulse picked up as he looked at the nurse. She gave absolutely no indication that anything was out of the ordinary and simply smiled and asked if there was anything else he needed. Kaden was stunned for a moment but it didn’t take long for him to flip the try, tossing it away from him the way someone might flick away a bug that had crawled onto them. He tried to quell the panic that was rising up in him. The nurse just looked confused, not like she was going to kill him on the spot. Which was good, but honestly he still wished he had a weapon in hand. Then she shook her head and looked around like she was unsure of what room she was in or what hat just happened. “Did I do that?” she asked, looking at the try and bending down to pick it up. “I’m sorry, I’ll bring you another tray. Is that your shirt?” Kaden shook his head. “Uh, no. Not-- No, that’s not my shirt. And you didn’t-- Sorry, I lost control of the…” He wanted to run more than ever, his hand reaching for the metal stand where the bags of fluids were hanging. It’d be a decent blunt weapon in a pinch. “Oh, that’s alright. I’ll be right back,” the nurse said, all the fallen food and tray in hand and left with a smile, like nothing ever happened. “Putain de merde, what the actual fuck?”

“It’s really hard to take the thanks seriously when it’s always tied to some sort of insane purge-and-purify human-centric rhetoric. Really sort of dulls the shine on that particular compliment.” He’d been focused on his phone and not on the speciesist fuck in the bed next to him when there was suddenly a ruckus that made him snap his head over to look at that side of the room. “What the absolute fuck you lunatic?” Ricky was so taken aback by the scene that he attempted to push himself out of bed to help clean it up, before bolts of white hot pain reminded him why he didn’t do that, “oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck oh fuck.” The nurse’s response to the whole ordeal was what really made him narrow his eyes, “What…. What the fuck is happening over there.” A tiny spot of red appeared on the bandage around his chest and started to grow fractionally, “Well that’s not good. But… that wasn’t normal. What the fuck landed you in here? I mean I had just assumed it was something along the lines of “finally got what was coming to him” but that was fucking weird.”

“Nothing, nothing, it’s--” he started. Kaden’s eyes darted back and forth between where the tray had just fallen and the door. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to slow his breath, bring his pulse back to normal. He let out a deep sigh, trying to rationalize that nothing else was coming in, no one else was there, it was probably safe. But Regan wasn’t back yet. What if something happened to her? Fuck. “Uh, shit. Don’t fucking laugh,” he told his current rommate as he rubbed his palms against the sheets, trying to dry the sweat off them. “I’m here cause I got stabbed by a fucking mime.” He thought about hitting the call button, get another nurse in here. But what if that didn’t help? What if that’s what brought another possessed person to send him more warnings and threats? Shit. He was more or less defenseless if someone came back for him. This is why he fucking hated hosptials (among all the other reasons). “So yeah, that striped shirt, it, uh-- Fuck.” He felt like such a paranoid idiot.

Ricky didn’t really think of himself as a cruel man. He tried to do right by his friends and his neighbors, be a good upstanding member of the community, and generally behave in a way that would make his mother proud of him; since she was his metric for what a good person should be. But the minute Kaden a) told him not to laugh and b) mentioned he’d gotten stabbed by a fucking mime, Ricky knew he was in a losing battle where all of his attempts to be good were going to falter in the face of a chance to ridicule his enemy. The laugh bubbled up inside of him and the piercing pain in his chest battled for dominance but he couldn’t help but throw his head back in laughter, shaking slightly in his bed, “Oh god…. Oh my fucking god…. I”m sorry I’m sorry… did you… did you… the great fucking hunter… bane of the supernatural… did you fucking get put in the hospital by a goddamn mime?!” His laugh turned into a painful cough and he bit down abruptly, a fang piercing his lip “ow fuck.” The laughter died down and he shook his head, “Ahh it feels good and at the same time fucking terrible to laugh. How… how did you manage to get stabbed by a fucking mime?! Was it even a real knife or was this just some A+ really top of the line pantomime that this fucker did?”

Well that was one way to quell the panic. Kaden could feel the anger rising up as the other man laughed. No, fucking cackled. “Shut it!” He looked down at the edge of the bed where his tray fell. Maybe there was still a shitty clementine or something he could chuck at Ricky’s fucking head. No luck. There was still a beret, though. It’d have to do. He scooped it up, scrunched it into a ball, and threw it across the room. He practically huffed as he stewed over on his bed, but a quick glance over to his roommate practically splitting his stitches and he saw it. It was subtle enough, but there was no denying those were fucking big ass fangs sticking out while he cackled. Well that answered that question he was pretty sure he already had the answer to: Monster. What kind, he’d figure out later. Couldn’t be undead if he had a heartbeat to monitor, he knew that much. And couldn’t be a wolf since he didn’t send all of Kaden’s hairs on edge. “Putain, yes it was a real fucking knife, connard! He was fucking possessed or cursed or some shit! Broke into the restaurant and just b-lined to stab me and wouldn’t fucking stop until he died.” It was goddamn karmic watching Ricky in pain over his laughter. Deserved at least that much.

“Oh no, Fuckstick McMimeChow, you have to deal with this fucking laughter because it is infinitely hilarious that a hunter got hospitalized by a motherfucking mime.” Ricky allowed the beret to hit him in the face if only because Kaden deserved at least that tiny victory, and as he held hit in his hands he took as subtle a smell of it as he could, but picked up nothing more than dollar store shampoo and dried blood, “Well… while you can make the argument that choosing ‘mime’ as your profession is in and of itself a curse… he was definitely human.” He threw the beret to the foot of Kaden’s bed, “but I’d wash your hands. There’s blood on that.” Pressing a slightly trembling hand to his chest; the pain was now greater than the mirth he’d received at Kaden’s attack, “That’s gotta be like… top three for shitty dinners. I mean I’ve had some bad fucking meals in my day and while I’ve had both a beer and a dinner roll thrown at me on separate occasions nobody’s actually stabbed me before. Did you kill this maniacal mime or did he just… I don’t know… suddenly expire after coming into contact with undiluted Blood of Douchebag.”

If Kaden had something else to throw, he would have. Instead all he could do was glower at the laughter. “Congrats, Detective pain in the ass, I figured that much out. Of course he was human. Problem was you didn’t see him. The look in his eye. It was like the lights were out but he was going through the motions anway. Really fucking determinedly, too.” At Ricky's evaluation of the beret, he looked down at his hands and decided to just wipe them off on the side of the bed again, in case there was any blood. “We barely got to wine let alone dinner. So yeah, I’d say so.” He sighed, thinking about the poor chardonnay that was the only thing that was murdered that night. What a waste. His head snapped to face his current roommate at his last comment. “Hey, I did not kill him! I mean I didn’t take it lying down, but I’m not a murderer, alright!”

“I’m really feeling like you’re not putting the same energy into this rivalry I am, Kaden. I come up with Fuckstick McMimeChow and you counter with Detective Pain in the ass? I’m a little hurt.” Ricky shot as withering a look as he could manage across the room, “Are you sure that was a curse/possession and not just… you know… people’s kneejerk reaction to being in your presence? I know I always get the urge to stab you repeatedly.” Watching Kaden wipe his hands on the bed he listened before chuffing a sigh of a laugh, “Wait wait wait… did you get stabbed by a mime on a fucking date? Jesus fucking Christ talk about just compounded shit luck. That’s just… woof. I don’t even have anything cutting or scathing for that… that’s just… that’s just rough.” Any pity he might have felt for the other man quickly evaporated however, “Oh yes. This old chestnut. I spend my life hunting things down but am somehow not a murderer. What is this… verse 78 now?”

“Sorry, what can I say. I don’t spend as much time thinking about you as you think about me.” Kaden rolled his eyes at the remark. “He came into the restaurant seemingly just to stab me. I know I’ve pisseed people off but that just doesn’t track, alright. I never saw the guy before. And yeah I was on a fucking date, alright. Shocking as it may be. Still not sure if it’s one of the worst dates I’ve been on.” He sighed at the remark. Of course, couldn’t get through one conversation without the bleeding heart bullshit. “Look you don’t have to fucking agree with me but don’t act like you don’t know where I stand. Murder is when you kill people and monsters aren’t people. Been over this.” There was a long stretch of silence and it seemed like they might be done snipping for the moment. Fine by him, but the whole place was too quiet. And he couldn’t bear to sit and watch this shitty infomercial. He waited a moment, maybe he could just sleep or something. But he wasn’t tired. “Hey, uh, I think you have the remote. Can you change the thing. The Price is Right is about to come on.”

“Jesus. And I thought my fucking love life was grim. You make me look like a fucking Casanova if that wasn’t one of your worst dates. Am I surprised? No. But still… blech. Poor woman. I’m just assuming you’re straight because I’m fervently praying you’re not gay. We don’t want you on our team. Please stay far the fuck away.” It was still a little surprising how robotic and immediate the return to the hunter party line was. There was almost a moment, for just the briefest of seconds, where Ricky had thought that they were actually on the road to… well whatever was one step above immediately homicidal. But all of that was swept away in an instant as they returned to ground zero. A zone which did not net Kaden any tv privileges. “Sorry.” He picked up the remote and plucked its batteries out, tossing the powerless shell to the other man, “Sharing is what people do.” He smiled a wide bright smile, every perfectly maintained fang shining in the horrible hospital lighting, “and I guess I just don’t qualify. Besides…. Price is Right with no Bob Barker? One of us is the monster here and it isn’t me.” This was going to be the longest hospital stay ever.

[wasalwaysagreatpickle]

Wednesday 27 May 1829

7 55/60

11 1/2

The coach maker come about the injury done to the rumble behind the carriage, on Monday – the iron work too light – not strong enough – broken and the seat let down on the off side – just put on my dressing gown and had the man in – could build a britzka even for 2000 francs but would not recommend such workmanship – the misfortune was, people would not pay for good workmanship – could make a britzka for 3000/. or 4000/. but would make a capital one, boxes and everything fit for travelling, and very handsome for town use, the best that could be made for 4500 francs in 5 months – asked him about a remise – recommended D’agart rue neuve des Mathurins – a remise at 18/. per day or 350/ per month and give the coachman 2/. but he ought to clean the carriage and best to pay him handsomely – 2/50 or 3/. would be very handsome – some people only gave 1/. but then they thought that like nothing and never minded to be careful of the carriage – they are paid by the master of the remise 3/. a day – asked about the keep of horses – everything now so dear a horse would cost 4/. a day – could get a good strong pair for travelling for from 1800 to 2000/. D’agart would sell me them, and though he would charge perhaps 100 francs more, yet he was a man of character, and would take them back again, if, after a fortnights trial, I did not like them – 

Then M. Séné sent to know if I could see him – no time to dress – received him as I was, and he sat about 1/2 hour – said a few civil things about having his apartment, and on what terms he would let us have that in the rue neuve Saint Augustin – he praised it much – at last I offered him 4000/. he paying all taxes, the porter and [every] etc. and letting us have all the furniture we have here, which would do very well, except for the drawing room – he seemed to hesitate – at last he said the entresol was let for 400/. a year – then said I the thing is over; for I hope to have a friend with me and the apartment would be too small – on which he said the lady had not a lease, and if the apartment would suit us, and I would pay the additional 400/. of rent, he would la congedier, and as he considered her much would give her another apartment! – I made no objection to this if the apartment suited us – he very civil – it was not to be let till his return – we might try it for any length of time we liked apparently at the same price for the time of trial that we have this apartment? 

Then reading from page 21 to 35 volume 1 Hallam and at 9 55/60 dressed – breakfast at 10 3/4 – at 11 1/4 took George to drive in 1/2 hour (per fiacre) to the jardin des plantes – saw M Royer – asked him about attending M Geoffroy - Saint-Hilairés lectures (which began at 12 on Monday) on the histoire naturelle des mammifères – took George into the room with me at the cabinet de l’histoire naturelle and there he sat all the while – just before the lecture began the livery servant in waiting shewed me to a seat near the table with 2 ladies – the lecture began at 12 and last just an hour – M Geoffroy Saint Hillarés a shortish fattish person – with an affected rhetorical manner of speaking? and provincial though I am not French enough to make out from what province – spoke rather low at 1st – could all those behind us hear him? has lost a tooth or 2 – rather indistinct or speaks rather thick at times – one must be accustomed to him – a stuffed specimen of a small duck and a hare on the table and a skeleton of a monkey – he argued on the apparent differences between the 2 first then proceeded to explain the analogies between them as being of the vertebral order of animals – je trouve les organes du même rang etc. etc. et une repetit[io]n des mêmes organes – semblables, non – analogues, oui – then produced the skull of a monkey – une tête – qu’est ce qua c’est un tête – une chose bien compliquée - ….. toutes les chambres …. chaque chambre propre à chaque sens – then he went to the poitrine separée dans les mammifères de l’abdomen par la diaphragme – formerly said birds had no diaphragme – but they have it en débris i.e. in partridge – a little bit being to be found on each side – in birds it does not confine the lungs – this a good character of birds – birds have a bag, besides the lungs, containing air, communicating with the lungs where the air can dilate and swell out the body – thus the air breathed by birds is more elaborated and they breathe an air more [concentrate] than that breathed by the mammifères – and their circulation is quicker and their blood warmer – mammifères have 7 vertebra at least (with one exception to be mentioned hereafter) and birds have 9 vertebra at least – Les organes sexuels des oiseaux agissent avec une rapidité extrême and with much more intensely than in the mammifères – just beginning to point out the analogy between feathers and hair, the former the result of a greater quantity and more accelerated circulation of the blood? 

When the hour was expended and the lecture closed – went again to M Royer to ask if there was any book published that could be any guide to me for M. Geoffroy Saint Hillarés’s lectures – no! none – he used to lecture according to an established rule, but now he was all for a philosophical system his head was a head for system – he had all his own way – there was no guide – he talked as if by inspiration, and said what ever came uppermost – I had observed that he had no notes – neither, in fact, has Laugier, but M. Desfontaines has – Mr Royer seems to regret that the Institution is not made as useful as it ought to be – gave me 12 billets to admit any of my friends at any time – Friday a public day – better not bring my friends on that day – Cuvier could not possibly attend any day but Sunday – Desfontaines the present Directeur général, and he therefore worth vant tous les professeurs – a director chosen from among the professors every 2 years – Cuvier will probably be chosen next – 

Got to Mrs Barlow’s in 56 minutes (walked leisurely) at 2 10/60 – sat talking to her and Jane – all went out at 3 3/4 to see an apartment au premier rue d’aguesseau corner of rue [Suresne], opposite the [embassy] – funished maybe had for 4000/. per annum though the woman (an English widow of a Frenchman) asks 500 francs a month with each house and stable – in bad condition – carriage could not turn in the court – did not seem to think much of it – said it was too dear though Mrs Barlow thought it cheap – declined seeing the widow herself – then saw a furnished apartment in the rue neuve de Luxembourg, then 2 or 3 in the rue Mont Thabor, not worth attention – 

Then went to take an outside peep at M. Sénés apartment rue neuve Saint Augustin – met him – said Mrs Barlow be on your guard – perhaps he has not let the entresol – only says so – you will have trouble with him – he will furnish to you en marchand – when you were away, I was only afraid of your frightening your aunt into taking the apartment where you are for another year by telling her that if she did not they must give her notice and quit etc. etc. – then looked at a very nice [court]-looking [into] premier at what used to be the hotel de Windsor rue neuve Saint Augustin nearly opposite Monsieur Sénés apartment – the 2nd let at 3500/. coach house and stable might perhaps get it for 4000/. per annum unfurnished –

Said to Mrs Barlow I might after all decide to stay where we were – I had been musing of this all the way from the lecture this morning – pleased with the lecture, and with my attendance altogether at the Jardin des plantes – this will occupy and amuse me – je renonce à la société pour le présent – je peux m’en bien dispenser jusqu’au [mom[en]t] d’avoir quelqu’une chez moi qui me plait et qui peut m’accompagner partout dans le monde – 

Home at 6 – dressed – the message from Esme Tridon 15, rue du Rocher, au bout de la rue Saint Lazare – un cabriolet 14/. per jour, et 1/. per jour au cocher = 15 francs per jour! ou 400 francs par mois! eh! bien, je disais à George, the man dreams – 

Found on my desk a note from Miss Hobart 2pp. of 1/2 sheet thanks for my ‘little note of inquiry and information’ – not the worse ‘except a little gruff in my throat – and maugré the vile weather, I am delighted to have seen Mortfontaine, and in your company’ – the whole party ‘going tomorrow juncketting to Versailles’ – so must put off going to the jardin du roi – goes chiefly for the children – would rather put it off to next week – ‘and she will like to have M. de Noé very much and M. Desfontaines with you, but more of this anon and I am desolée to put off Madame Galvani tomorrow, and pray tell her so with all mes complimens les plus distingués…..your affectionate V. Hobart’ dated ‘Wednesday’ – 

The most friendly note I have had from her – 

Dinner at 6 1/4 – came to my room at 8 1/4 – wrote out journal of Monday to bottom of page 53. Coffee at 9 1/4 came to my room at 10 – very fine day – M. Royer told me M. Andoin’s lectures on geology to begin 4 June – no book to help me on this subject – the subject quite new – geology quite new, only known within these 30 years – M. Royer n’est pas tout à fait au courant de tout -

[izaswritings]

Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis:  Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience. 

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Notes: Thank you so much for your patience and support! Here’s the sequel I finally promised. 💖

Warnings for: mentions/hints towards PTSD and related symptoms, past character injuries, past temporary character death in Labyrinths, and some family arguments. If there’s anything you think I missed, please let me know and I’ll add it on here.

-

AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

-

Chapter I: Kingdom Come

.

Once, in a time long before us, there was a woman known as the Sun.

The Sun was the most radiant woman in all the world. She had long golden hair and a golden heart that burned with warmth. Her soul shone so brightly that it lit up the whole world, and each day she would sing out to the sky, dazzling all the heavens with her light.

The world heard her song, and was enchanted by it, honored to have witnessed her lonely lullaby. Each time the Sun sang, the forests bloomed with color, the trees and flowers growing to new heights, the seas sparkling like jewels for her eyes alone. And so, though the Sun hung alone in the skies, she found comfort in watching the world below, and was happy despite her loneliness.

But one day, as the Sun slipped below the hills to rest, she saw a beautiful woman dancing on the seas…

.

.

.

“Are you nervous?”

Corona Kingdom at sunset is a sight to behold. High above, on the tallest hill just before Corona’s great border wall, the whole kingdom sprawls out below them. As the sun sets and the shadows lengthen, the sky colors from red to midnight purple. The stars peek out from the horizon edge, and the far-off setting sun casts dark shadows against the mountainous hills, painting the roiling bay a deep shining gold. Against the slowly darkening sky, the capital city of Corona seems almost like a mountain itself—a twisting spiral of ancient stonework and cobbled roads, lights dancing up and down the streets, turning the fabled trading city into a beacon in the fading sunlight.

Together, their small group huddles in the shadows, watching that distant sunset fade away. Their eyes track the meanderings paths of the light, the clusters of villages and the beaten roads. The wind whistles low and crooning through ice-laden trees, snow pooling at their feet, slushy from the warmth of the coming spring. The scent of salt blows in from the far-off harbors, the smell so strong it’s like standing right by the sea.

Rapunzel closes her eyes to the sight, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Not really,” she replies, in answer to Eugene’s question. She takes a breath and opens her eyes, her gaze distant and dream-like. She isn’t so much looking at the city as she is looking beyond it, through the sunset and past the horizon, onwards into the stars. The last rays of sunlight catch and gleam in her heavy braid of golden hair. “I’m just…”

She doesn’t finish, the words trailing off into silence. Beside her, Eugene reaches out and hooks his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. He looks as tired and disheveled as Rapunzel feels—his usually styled hair rumpled from sleep, his traveling vest turned a dusty gray from the road, a wan pallor to his usually unwavering megawatt smile. The three days of rushed traveling hasn’t done him—or anyone, really—any favors. Rapunzel is well aware of how badly he smells right now, and just as aware of how bad she must smell. Seventy feet of unwashed hair: a nightmare for everyone involved.

At the time, when they were still on the road, once they’d realized how close to Corona they actually were, the rush had felt only natural. Why wouldn’t they race back? But now, three days later and lacking sorely on much-needed sleep, feeling aches and pains in places she didn’t know could have aches and pains, Rapunzel has a very different opinion.

Even so, they can’t be blamed for their haste. Home—it’s like a siren song, an irresistible pull. To be so close to Corona, yet so far—the need had been irresistible. But now they are within reach of the walls, and Rapunzel’s mind is clear.

They are tired, sore, and dirty—and home, no matter how sweet it sounds, isn’t likely to be the dream arrival Rapunzel once hoped for.

Still, the warmth of Eugene by her side makes something deep in her chest unwind, lightens the heavy load of her thoughts. She lets herself be drawn back into his hug, making herself comfortable in the nest of his arms.

Eugene laughs, rocking her back and forth. “You’re weirdly cuddly when you’re tired, Blondie, I ever tell you that?”

Rapunzel smiles into his arm. “No,” she says. “Because I’m always cuddly.”

“Oof. A solid rebuttal. Can’t argue with that.” He rocks her again, and then his head lifts, tired eyes trailing back to the horizon. Rapunzel follows his gaze. They look at it together for a long moment.

“Drinking it in?” Eugene says, after a pause.

“Overwhelmed,” Rapunzel decides. She tucks her head under his chin, breathing in the faint scent of pine from his vest. Dusty and dirty they may be, but Rapunzel has long since gotten used to the trials and troubles of living on the road. The smell comforts her, in its own way. She sighs against his chest. “It’s not nerves, really…”

Footsteps crunch in the snow behind her. Cassandra slips into view by Rapunzel’s left side, her short hair stuffed up under a winter cap and the soles of her snow boots caked with wet mud.

“Packing is all done. Maximus and Fidela are set to leave when we are,” she announces, smacking stray specks of ice from her coat. She glances up, casting a brief side-eye at Rapunzel. “Though to be honest, we could’ve left hours ago. Gotten back before sunset, even.”

Rapunzel dithers. “I’m sorry, I was just so tired—”

“Raps.”

Rapunzel looks away, shame hot in her throat. Her excuse sounds weak even to her. Rapunzel can be clumsy, yes, but her “mishaps” during their last break—dropping the water pail over the saddles, tripping dirt into the fire, losing her pack—well. In hindsight, it’d been a very, very obvious attempt to stall. She’s not surprised they caught on.

Nevertheless, Cassandra’s prodding makes Rapunzel shrink back. Her smile is forced and thin, her eyes dropping down to the dirt. Her gloved hands twitch with the urge to reach up and tug at her hair—an old habit, a nervous tick—her hands rising up before Rapunzel can even think about it.

But Cassandra has already noticed. She reaches out and takes Rapunzel’s raised hands in a grip that is light yet firm. She brings both their hands back down by their sides.

Rapunzel blinks fast, looks down at their joined hands—and her smile flickers.

“You are nervous,” Cassandra observes, ever merciless, bringing back that question from earlier. She squeezes her hand, a gentle pressure above the wrist. Her pale eyes search Rapunzel’s face intently, as if looking for the answer. “Aren’t you?”

It’s not really a question. Rapunzel bites at her lower lip, half-pulling away from Cassandra’s hold. She wraps her arms around herself in a makeshift hug, and looks aside, not wanting to see the knowing expression on Cassandra’s face.

“Well,” Rapunzel says softly, and shrinks a little more into Eugene’s arms. He holds her up without comment. “…Can you blame me?”

Cassandra doesn’t answer that. Her lips press in a thin line, and her eyes dart away, a quick glance over to the burning horizon. She makes a face at the air.

“Yeah.” Rapunzel understands the sentiment almost too well. She looks back over to Corona’s shining, distant light, and gives a heavy sigh. “Oh, I hate feeling like this. I spent all that time missing home, and now…!”

Cassandra gives a wordless hum of agreement. Eugene’s arms tighten around Rapunzel, a quiet hug. They don’t say anything more, but then—they don’t really need to.

Behind them, a loud snap rings through the woods, a branch broken under the weight of iron horseshoes. Maximus trots up to their side, huffing white steam from his nose as he swings his head around to take in the view. Pascal, perched up like a king on the white horse’s head, is wide-eyed and watching. In the shadow of the trees, Fidela grazes quietly at the few grasses poking up from the melting snow.

Rapunzel smiles at them, reaching out. Pascal leaps off Maximus’s head and into her hand without mishap, and she brings him to her chest, cradling him close. “Sorry,” she says, stroking a finger down Pascal’s spine. “Didn’t mean to leave you all waiting.”

Pascal gives her a scolding sort of squeak and races up to her shoulder. Rapunzel laughs.

“Yes, yes,” she says. “I know.” She scratches at his chin and hums lightly under her breath. “What do you think, Pascal? Doesn’t Corona look just as we left it?”

She keeps her voice light and airy, and her smile stays strong. But Pascal stares at her with an uncertain expression, and next to them, Cassandra looks up and exchanges a glance with Eugene, wordless and indecipherable. Rapunzel doesn’t bother trying to translate the look, though she does resist the urge to roll her eyes. She hates it when they do that. It’s one of the things that followed them out of the Dark Kingdom—Pascal’s constant worry, Cassandra and Eugene’s wordless communication, and Rapunzel’s…

Well.

“Are you sure you want to wait until midnight?” Cassandra asks, finally. It’s a tactful change of subject, but Rapunzel’s frown only deepens. She doesn’t really want to talk about this either. “It’s not too late. If we hurry we can arrive by the last evening bell. I’m sure the people would love to see your return.”

“I’m sure.” About this, at least, Rapunzel is certain. She fiddles with her gloves, the leather stiff and warm against her skin, a new addition to her wardrobe that Rapunzel is still getting used to. In lieu of messing with her hair, tugging at her gloves is quickly becoming Rapunzel’s newest bad habit.

Sure enough: Cassandra zeroes in on the fussing. Her eyes narrow, her scowl disapproving.  Rapunzel smiles faintly at the sight.

“Cass,” she coaxes, drawing Cassandra’s attention back to her. “I’m sure. I miss them all so much, but…”

She trails off again, and her eyes draw back to that distant silhouette. On the black horizon of a now dusky evening, Corona’s distant capital city shines like a pale star. The late hour means most of the light probably comes from only the castle and the streetlamps, now, as the rest of the city slowly falls asleep—but still, the light remains. Even if dulled by distance and half-swallowed by the rolling hills and great woods, there is no mistaking that light and the city it belongs to.

In this light, in this view—Corona is beautiful. But for all that some part of her is singing home, home, home at the sight… despite the beauty, Rapunzel feels cold in a way that has nothing to do with the winter wind.

“The rumors,” Eugene realizes, and he stills as he says it, a careful sort of stillness he only gets when he’s bracing himself for a blow.

Rapunzel looks down again. “…Yeah.”

There is a long silence. Their breathing is almost too loud in the night air, quiet but for the distant chitter of birds.

“It could be nothing,” Cassandra offers, carefully neutral, but even she doesn’t sound like she really believes it. “I mean— rumors of this sort are commonplace in politics. It could simply be an attempt to… to make Corona lose face. Nothing more.”

“Maybe,” Rapunzel allows, and turns to meet Cassandra’s eye. Her handmaiden, guard, and dearest friend looks haggard, and the press of her lips doesn’t speak of optimistic thinking. “Do you really think so?”

Cassandra’s mouth twists. She looks away.

Rapunzel folds her hands in front of her, fighting the urge to lace her fingers. “Still,” she says, after a pause. “I mean… even so…” The sun has almost set now. The sky is stained a beautiful ruby red, and Rapunzel smiles to see it, wishing not for the first time for some canvas and paint. “I—I am glad. To be here. To be home.” She almost sighs the word, and her breath catches on a sudden giggle. “I almost didn’t think we’d ever make it back!”

“Hah!” Eugene says, and he squints at the distant city. “Doesn’t feel quite real, does it?”

Cassandra scoffs. “‘Course it doesn’t feel real,” she retorts, dry as a desert. “It’s been—what, over half a year since we’ve been gone? Six extra months to make it back! I’d consider it weirder if it didn’t feel off.”

Over a year, Rapunzel thinks to herself, and her smile slips. She looks down and rubs absently at the palm of her hand. Eight months in total, she knows, give or take a few weeks. Eight months away from home. Eight months, come and gone. What has changed in her absence? Is it better or worse for things to be different?

Eugene must notice her mood turn, because he squeezes her to his side, his hand rubbing circles against her shoulder. “C’mon, Blondie, don’t look like that. It’s not your fault it took this long. We were in way less rush to return, anyway. Racing ourselves to the ground to get back, the same way we did leaving? Man, we’d be miserable.”

Rapunzel hums, unconvinced. “I know, I know.”

“Snow makes it hard to travel,” Cassandra adds, pointedly. Rapunzel eyes her. Cassandra refuses to back down. “There’s plenty of reasons why we were delayed. The King will understand.”

Maybe. Hopefully. The lack of communication after Rapunzel informed him of her late return doesn’t speak well to that. That isn’t really what worries her, though.

Rapunzel presses a little harder at her palm, feeling the rough pull of scarred flesh through the glove. It hurts, a little. Even after all this time, the wounds still ache, even if the scar tissue has built up after the months of careful care. Her fingers feel stiff and tight. “Mm,” she says. “But… I didn’t really help there, did I?”

“Don’t look at it like that!” Eugene protests, shaking her a little, as if to chase that thought from her head. “Don’t you remember what the doctor said?”

“Which part?” Rapunzel asks, smiling a little at the memory. On her shoulder, Pascal shakes his head, still annoyed over it. The doctor had said many things upon seeing Rapunzel’s hands, most of them rude and unrepeatable.

“Damn impossible!” Eugene quotes, pitching his voice in an unconvincing falsetto. “Meaning, in normal circumstances… Our return should have taken even longer, so! Six months? Blondie, we were speeding.”

Rapunzel snorts despite herself, biting her lip hard against a fit of giggles. “I wouldn’t say that!”

But she’s smiling now, truly and honestly, her heart lightened, and she can tell by Eugene’s pleased grin that was his goal all along. She lifts on her toes and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “But thanks for making me feel better. You’re right. You’re both right. I’m home! That’s the important thing. I really am being silly, aren’t I?”

They both smile at her—Eugene, dopey and sweet; Cassandra, exasperated but fond. Rapunzel smiles bravely back and slips out from under Eugene’s arm, stepping up towards the lip of the hill.

The grass is cold and frozen under her bare feet, still wet from melting snow. The salt on the sea breeze burns in her nose. Rapunzel wriggles her toes in the dirt and looks down over her sleeping kingdom. “And I know that. I do.”

Pascal nudges her cheek. She turns into the touch, and her smile fades. “I know that,” Rapunzel repeats, quieter now. “I know. But still, I…”

She sighs again, long and heavy, the sound dredged up somewhere deep in her chest. She turns away from the horizon and looks beside her, reaching out to press one hand against dark stone.

Even with her leather glove as a barrier, blue light sparks bright at Rapunzel’s fingertips, traveling up the length of a towering spike. Crosshair patterns glow white-hot and deadly. The tip of the spire, a perfect edge, pierces the sky like a sword. They scour the hills, clutter under the trees, break up through the road—enough to turn the whole Coronan countryside into a spiny deathtrap, tearing the horizon in two.

Caught in the dim red glow of the setting sun, the black rocks burn with a sinister light.

“I just can’t help but worry,” Rapunzel says sadly, and finally turns away.

.

There is darkness all around him, cold and cruel. It presses against his eyelids like lead weight. His dreams are formless and golden. There is pain prickling up his leg, searing from his ear, lightning under his skin that burns him alive. A pressure sits heavy on his chest, pressing down. He can’t breathe. He can’t speak. He can’t even scream.

“Hey, you.”

The darkness breaks open, shattered by pale light. The silent dream gives in, replaced by the faint whistling of the wind. There’s a hand shaking his shoulder.

“Child. Little boy. Hey!”

When Varian blinks his eyes open, the world is blurred, a mess of color and shadow and light. Burning sunlight silhouettes the vague form of a stranger standing over him. There’s a buzzing in his ears, a fog sticking to the edges of his thoughts.

Even in the midst of the haze, though, Varian recognizes enough to know the stranger is annoyed with him. His own nose scrunches up on reflex. Hey yourself, he almost snaps, but then he notices the heavy weight of Ruddiger sleeping curled up on his chest, and his irritation fades. Ruddiger will be fussy if Varian is mean for no reason. He suspects it’s the raccoon’s way of scolding him.

“You cannot be here. Wake up, boy. Wake up!”

This shout is accompanied by a soft nudge to the ribs, like he’s been poked by someone’s shoe. It’s not a painful blow, but it’s enough to effectively break the last of Varian’s dozing. He lurches up with a yelp, sending Ruddiger falling into his lap and the stranger—a small woman about Adira’s age, with sun-darkened skin and a heavy scowl—leaning back, hands on her hips.

“Well?” she says shortly, her accent clipped. “Are you up? Go on, then.”

“What?” Varian says blankly. He blinks and rubs hard at his eyes. The strange woman is still there. He has… no idea who she is. “W-what?”

“What do you mean, what?”the woman snaps back, like she isn’t an absolute stranger yelling at Varian for no good reason. Her dark hair is cut short, curling wildly about her face; her eyes are as black as ink. Her foot taps restlessly against the dock. “You cannot sleep here, it is not allowed. You are lucky that I am the one who found you. Go, before the dockhands come and chase you out.”

“What?” Varian repeats, bewildered, but even as he says it the fog has lifted, the tinged exhaustion of sleep bleeding away. He rubs again at his eyes with one bare hand, pushing up from the wall to stand unsteady on his feet. Ruddiger rolls off his stomach to fall in a heap by Varian’s toes, snuffling sleepily in the sun.

Varian squints up at the woman, yawning absently into the sleeve of his arm. His mind feels stuck in molasses. “I…” Her words finally register, and Varian shoots bolt upright. “Oh.Oh.”

He scrambles to regain his presence of mind, sweeping Ruddiger off the ground and cuddling the pile of sleepy raccoon close to his chest as he edges his way out of the corner. “Oh, um, sorry. I didn’t…”

He looks around, wincing in the light. The docks are alive with life and light, people shuffling back and forth on wooden walkways. The small corner Varian had slept in—a shaded space wedged between a cargo hold and a warehouse—is one of the few places left untouched by the sun shining high, high above.

…Very high above.

Oh, damn it. Last thing Varian remembers it was morning, the sun barely starting to rise, but judging by the heat and that shine, it’s now either noon or a few hours past that. He’s screwed up. He’d only meant to lay down for a little bit, just rest his eyes, but by the looks of things, he’s severely misjudged his own exhaustion.

Adira, too, is no-where in sight. She’s left him here on his own, once again.

Varian takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His teeth grit. His fingers curl deep in Ruddiger’s thick fur, holding tight, his hand shaking—then slowly, slowly steadying, the tremors easing away with every calming breath.

“Sorry,” Varian says again, to the woman. A thought strikes him, and he sucks in a sharp breath, one hand slamming down to check his satchel; the weight of the wallet at his hip, still heavy, nearly makes him wheeze with relief. Oh, bless, he hasn’t been robbed. “Um, I’ll go.”

“Good,” the woman says shortly. She looks severely unimpressed with Varian’s everything, and she’s still tapping her foot. “You are lucky no one tripped over you. Very lucky indeed. What sort of fool…” She trails off, and abruptly squints down at him, her scowl falling into a frown.

Varian eyes her warily. “…Look, I said I was sorry, I really didn’t mean to—”

“What’s your name?” she asks abruptly.

A flash of fear strikes through him, and he has to take a moment to regain his breath. “W-what? I’m—V-Vell. Why?”

The woman is still frowning. She pushes one hand back through her hair and scratches at her scalp. “Vell… hmph. Do I know you?”

He blinks blankly back. “Uh. No? I just got here.”

She considers him, chewing on the inside of her lip, and for a moment—for a moment, despite the sunshine and the chatter and the crowd, Varian no longer feels warm, and no longer feels safe. There is something about the look in her eye, the angle of her head, that makes him feel bizarrely targeted.

Then the woman shrugs, and the strange intensity breaks, the threat gone as if it’d never been. “Hmm, well. Do avoid sleeping on the docks in the future, yes? The shopfronts are much kinder.” She gestures, waving on hand to the streets. “Off you go.”

Varian takes a shaky breath and leans down to brush off his coat, trying to hide the tremor in his hands. “Okay,” he says. He feels faintly ill. What on earth was that?

He pushes past it and straightens up, turning away so he doesn’t have to look at the woman, shading his eyes from the sunny glare. It’s still achingly cold out, but this far down south the coming spring season is both brighter and hotter than anything Varian’s used to. His borrowed clothes, leftover winter wear from caravans and cheap merchants, are practically scorching him. “Okay,” he repeats, quietly, to himself. He takes one last breath and turns back to the woman. “U-um, where’s—where’s the market?”

He gets his directions in-between bouts of scolding and suspicious squinting, and then skips off the docks before the woman can think to question him again. Behind him, he can hear a sudden intake of breath, as if in realization, and a sharp “Wait!”—but Varian is already gone, vanished in the crowd.

He hurries through the throngs of people, keeping his head low. His breath rattles in his chest. Ruddiger is silent in his arms. Thankfully, the woman doesn’t reappear again, and after a little while Varian relaxes. He must have gotten away successfully, then.

He’s not sure what she wanted, or what she realized—but he’s glad he didn’t stick around to find out.

Safe and now firmly awake, Varian tugs up his coat collar to hide his face better and moves back into the heart of the crowd. The once-empty harbor is now bursting with life—dock-hands and merchants and ports stuffed full of ships, sea spray soaking the aging wood and colorful banners waving high in the air, their colors mingling into a mish-mashed rainbow. The pound of feet and raised voices creates a steady drumming din in his ears.

The harbor of Port Caul is one of the busiest in the country, if Varian remembers correctly. Small, close-knit, and placed securely between miles of flat farmland, the coastal city is apparently well-known for shipping fresh and bountiful fruit out and bringing in just about anything. If you wanted something strange, out-of-the-way, and downright bizarre without having to leave the western continent, you went to Port Caul.

Varian hadn’t known this before maybe three hours ago; everything he learned about this town had been in the dead hours of yesterday night, so late his eyelids had drooped and his head felt fuzzed, as Adira lobbed random city facts at him and repeatedly mused aloud on his inattention. There had been plenty of other facts about the city in her spiraling story, but whatever color the war flag and whatever the decoration in the churches, all Varian can remember now is the bit about the harbor.

This is, of course, probably because Varian was just sleeping on it.

For all that it was a rather comfortable sleep, dreams aside—the dock had been so, so warm; no matter how brisk the winter chill or how merciless the sea spray, those wood planks, warmed from the glaring white winter sun, had made for a nice and cozy place to curl up and nap—Varian wishes he’d managed to stay awake. Or, perhaps more accurately, he wishes Adira had actually cared enough to wake him up.

This isn’t the first time she’s left him behind, given him a job and then skipped off to let him fail alone, but it doesn’t get any easier no matter how many times she does it. It doesn’t make waking any less horrible, and it doesn’t make dealing with her any easier either.

He doesn’t even know why he’s even here. He knows Port Caul is a nice town, he knows there’s a bookstore he has to find and a package he has to pick up, but why he needs it and why they came here now—the things he needs and wants to know—these things, Adira does not tell him.

He hisses under his breath at the memory and aggressively dodges pedestrians as he marches onward. At his shoulder, Ruddiger gives a big yawn and blinks sleepy eyes at their surroundings, more and more awake as they head away from the docks and into the city proper. When Varian reaches up to pet him, the raccoon’s pelt is warm from hours in the sun, and Ruddiger chitters in his ear. Varian almost smiles.

“This place got busy, huh?”

Ruddiger gives a sad little coo at that. Which, yeah. The city isn’t looking any better than the docks—the streets are crowded, the air buzzing with noise and life.

And to think. Varian isn’t even at the market street yet.

Varian sighs, already dreading it. Damn Adira and her useless errands anyway. “Yeah, I know. Hang in there, buddy. It’ll be quick.”

Ruddiger curls up and settles, and Varian goes back to navigating his way through the streets. Port Caul, while smaller than other cities Varian’s seen, has become something entirely new under the midday sun. The amount of people walking around could rival the busyness of even Corona’s capital city, the market stalls flung open and the shops stuffed full of people.

Despite himself, Varian cannot help but compare it to Corona. If not for the strange styles of dress and the heady scent of foreign spices on the breeze, it would be almost a mirror image. The patterned brickwork, the way the streets spiral out like a conch shell, the buildings built tall and close like clusters of towers. It is not entirely the same: the banners flapping in the wind are black and blue rather than purple and gold, the houses built taller and the ground too flat, the horizon empty and endless, but even then—

It looks like home.

The thought, unbidden, sends him stumbling to a stop. He lurches on suddenly frozen feet, his hands rising to his head, tugging at dark hair. He pulls hard and vicious at the strands, furious with himself. No, no, no. Corona again. Damn it, he’d thought he was past this!

The slip darkens his already sour mood. Varian shoves his hands back through his hair, inhales sharp through his teeth, and then tears his way through the streets as if he can outrun his own nostalgia.

His jaw is clenched so tight it aches, his head lowered, his eyes drilling holes into the cobblestone. He can’t—he needs to stay focused. He’s not here for sight-seeing: he’s here for a reason, no matter how useless or uneventful the errand is. He doesn’t have time to waste on—on silly things like memories of Corona.

This is all Adira’s fault. He wouldn’t be here if not for her.

Port Caul is a beautiful town, belonging to beautiful country. But like all the others, all it does is remind Varian once again of the places he’s left behind. Corona, mainly. But also…

His hands tremble, and he shoves them deep in his pockets. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, worrying the skin between his teeth. Even now, after all this time, the memory makes his heart seize up, sends fire burning up his leg and pain sparking in his half-ear.

Even places like this, sunny and bright—the sheer contrast draws these memories to the forefront. Memories of a darker place. The Moon’s tower. The labyrinth. That dead, withered wasteland, and the monster that lived there.

Has it really only been six months?

It feels like a joke, sometimes. Six months is so long, and yet, in a way that time feels as if it’s passed by as quickly as days. In comparison, the two months he spent traveling with Rapunzel and the others should be nothing. The week in the labyrinth…

Varian shuts his eyes at the memory, breathing deep through his nose. No. No, he’s not going to think about that right now. He has a job to do, after all, and he’s already six hours behind as it is. As nice as that nap was, it’s put him way behind schedule. Adira will be insufferable when he finally gets back.

Varian shakes his head and sets back his shoulders. He grips his satchel in one tight fist to ground himself. Okay. No more day-dreaming. It’s time to get to work.

For all his determination, it still takes him another half-hour to find his destination. The many market streets are bustling and the signs difficult to read. In the end, it’s Ruddiger who spots it first. It takes Varian himself a few more tries to spot it in the swelling crowd, but eventually the mob eases and he gets close enough to see the sign: the image of an open book painted on an old sign.

Varian pumps a quiet victory fist into the air, and then slips inside the shop with a sigh of relief.

The old bookstore is a quiet, crowded place—cramped and cool in comparison to the midday heat. The dark wood shelves cast long shadows, the shop smelling strongly of salt, aging paper, and ink. When Varian pushes open the door, an old woman snaps around to face him, moving so fast her neck creaks. Her eyes are milky and pale, and wrinkles line her dark skin. She looks Varian up and down and her mouth puckers, one eyebrow raised high at his attire.

Varian tries not to bristle at her look. Really, he does. He can’t even blame her for it, because he’d be the first person to admit what a mess he is: his hair is down to his shoulders and tangled from his impromptu nap at the harbor; he’s wearing oversized clothes made of cheap weave and threadbare cotton; and, of course: Ruddiger. Ruddiger, who while fantastic and wonderful and absolutely awesome… is also a raccoon.

But just because he understands the judge-y eyebrow doesn’t mean he has to like it. He shuffles on his feet, shrinking back, then realizes what he’s doing and straightens deliberately, trying to make himself seem taller. “I’m here to pick a package,” he says. “For—Adira?”

Another eyeball. The old woman looks him up and down again. “…You sure you got the money for that?”

He tries not to sound offended. He tries.“Yes!” A whole wallet-full, even.

“I don’t take dirty money.”

“It’s Adira’s money,” Varian says, trying to quell the sudden thrill of fear in his gut. What if she turns him away? What will he do then? Returning empty-handed—the idea makes him feel sick.

God. It’s been one stressful thing after another today; doesn’t Varian deserve a break? He has bad days and good days and then days like this, the in-between, which are almost worse. He’d been up early to feel rested, he’d been left alone and abandoned to pass out on the docks, woken up from dark dreams to the scowling face of a stranger and then nearly driven himself into having a breakdown in the middle of the street and—and he’s tired. He’s so tired. He’s sick of this.

Adira’s fault, all of it. In the early days of traveling, he’d thought she had the key to what he had to do next. He thought she had the answers, the direction, a purpose to give. But all this time, and he still has nothing to show for it. Nothing at all.

He is sick of this most of all: of being left in the dark, of feeling useless and small.

“I’m the carrier-boy,” Varian tells the shopkeeper, nearly desperate. “I don’t know what it’s for, okay? I’m just here to pick it up!”

She glares at him for another five seconds, as if to judge whether Varian is actually unimpressed or just faking it to steal her stuff, then grumps under her breath and turns away, shuffling into the back. “Stay there.”

He shuts his eyes tight in relief.

From there on, thankfully, the exchange is quick and painless—ten minutes later Varian exits the bookstore with an empty wallet and a heavy package in his arms, the tome wrapped securely in paper and water-proof oiled cloth. It’s big and heavy, too large to fit in the satchel, and Varian hefts it in his hands with a sigh.

It’s only been two hours, and he’s already narrowly avoided having a breakdown over a book. This day is shaping up great.

Ruddiger coos at him, batting at his hair. Varian tries for a smile, and playfully shrugs his shoulder, sending Ruddiger rushing to his other side with a squeak and an earful of fretful chittering. Varian’s smile grows, settling into something stronger.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, and tilts back his head to the sun. “I’m okay, buddy. It’s okay. Let’s just go.”

Ruddiger croons at him. Varian keeps smiling, but when his eyes fall back to the busy street, his smile falters and then falls.

He hefts the package in his hands and gives the streets a weary look. Six months. How strange it all looks. How bizarre. Some days—most days—he wonders if he’s even here at all.

Six months, he repeats, to himself. Hard to decide if it feels more like a lifetime or just days ago. It’s been so long, in a way. His hair is longer. His clothes are different. He’s taller, a little bit. Stronger in some ways, but… weaker, too.

His left ear burns at the thought. Varian lifts a hand to rub at it, and the uneven edge catches under his fingertips. It’s long healed, perfectly sealed, but he can almost feel the painful prickle of a raw wound.

Everything—everything is different. Everything is new. He no longer has a home, now, no house and no proper bed; his life is spent out on the road, cities experienced and left behind in less than a day. His whole world has shifted on its axis, and yet—despite everything—

He still feels exactly the same.

He’s gone to more places than he can bother counting. He’s spent six months living on the road, traveling from place to place to place. So why, then, does it feel as if he hasn’t gone anywhere at all?

It’s been almost half a year, and still—sometimes when Varian wakes up, he can see iron bars. Stone walls, prison-cell cold. On the worst days, the worst nights, when he opens his eyes, he sees the darkness of the labyrinth instead.

And despite the warm sun, despite the midday heat, a chill crawls across his neck like the press of an icy hand.

A loud noise in his ear drags him away. Ruddiger is chittering up a storm, his little claws pulling hard at Varian’s hair. The world swims into focus, the darkness beaten back. Busy streets. Murmuring crowd. The book in his hands, and sunlight in his eyes.

Varian shakes his head, taking a deep breath through his teeth. The icy touch at his neck fades away. He rolls his shoulders, shaking off the ache, and finally slips back into the crowd.

It’s probably better not to think about it.

.

Rapunzel’s return to Corona is made in silence.

By the time they reach the gates of the capital city, it’s so late in the day it’s practically tomorrow morning already. The sky is pitch-dark, and the city, once bustling, is now silent and tranquil. The few lamps still burning are dim and flickering, and a heavy fog has drifted in from the harbor, low enough to tangle at their heels. The whole world has turned fuzzy and distant in the midnight darkness, vague shadows flicking at the corners of her eyes.

There are guards at the city gate, of course, and they see her enter—Rapunzel doesn’t want to sneak her way back home. Their eyes go wide when they spot her, their faces slack, and though they look surprised and confused when Rapunzel asks for their silence, they obey with little complaint. These are not the guards she knows; none of them will question an order from their Princess.

As Maximus and Fidela clop their way up the winding uphill roads, Rapunzel tilts back her head and soaks in the sleeping city. The gray cobblestone and the echoes of Maximus’s horseshoes on the ground; the painted shop signs and wooden houses; the flowers hanging from the iron-wrought balconies. The ivy crawling sideways up the houses has turned withered and brown in the winter chill, but some flowers are still blooming—droopy-headed snowdrops, a few pale sprigs of daffodils. It looks—it looks just as Rapunzel remembers it to be. It looks just as she left it.

But Rapunzel is not blind. It looks as she left it, yes—but she remembers the black rocks, tall and gleaming, right on the city’s edge. Not quite at the capital, not yet… but not gone, either. A danger delayed, rather than ended.

Her heart clenches in her chest at the reminder, and Rapunzel has to look away to catch her breath. Her mouth is dry, stomach wound tight. She’s sitting up high on Maximus’s saddle with Eugene just behind her, and yet she has never felt smaller. She has never felt so alone.

There’s a touch at her lower back, light and warm. Eugene rubs at her shoulder, and his arm loops around to tug her back into another hug. “Hey, Sunshine, you doing okay there?”

She lets out her breath in a shuddering sigh. “Yeah.”

He’s quiet, for a bit. Still holding her, just breathing. Rapunzel closes her eyes and sinks back into his arms, drawing strength from the beat of his heart in her ears.

“You don’t have to talk to them alone,” Eugene says at last, into the air. “No one’s asking you to. I can—”

But Rapunzel is already shaking her head. “No,” she says. “No, I—thank you, Eugene. Thank you.” She sits up, turning in the saddle so she can cup his cheek. “That means so much to me. But I—I don’t want to be protected. If they’re… if they’re mad, then, I don’t want it to be at you.” She can hear Cassandra inhale as if to speak, from beside her, and adds, quickly, “Or you, Cass.”

Even in the dim light, she can see Eugene frown, the way his brow furrows. His exhale tickles through the leather of her glove. “Well, all right,” he says finally. “If you’re sure. But—even then, we’ll stay close, yeah? Even if you won’t need it.” His eyes search her face. “They… I’m sure they’ll understand. They won’t be… that angry, you know. Normal parent outrage at worst, I’m positive.”

“Upset, then.”

This, he cannot deny. Eugene doesn’t even try—just reaches up and cradles Rapunzel’s stiff hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. His touch is so gentle it doesn’t even hurt, and Rapunzel smiles despite herself. “I—”

A voice calls through the fog, cutting her off. “Princess?”

The words catch in her throat. Rapunzel jolts, spinning back around—even Maximus lurches, missing a step, surprised by the call. Eugene catches her around the middle, and Pascal, falling from her head, catches himself on her hair. He swings back and forth by her face, his beady eyes wide with surprise.

“Princess, is that really you?”

This time, she recognizes the voice. “Xavier?” She peers down the street, squinting hard through the fog. Barely within view, she can see a dull silhouette, the fuzzy outline of a large man shadowed by a distant blacksmith’s flame. Her eyes widen. “Xavier!”

The figure moves away from the distant forge-fire, drawing closer to where the fog is thinner. She can see him fully, now—the moonlight glinting off the tools he still holds in one loose fist, his wiry beard streaked with soot, his apron blackened with ash and spotty from flying embers. Xavier the blacksmith, the storyteller, the one who helped guide her through that strange winter storm almost a full year ago.

Xavier laughs, short and soft, that familiar raspy chuckle. “Ah! I know that voice. So it is you.” His eyes are alight with a smile. “What familiar faces, though it’s been a while since I last saw you. Princess Rapunzel, Eugene Fitzherbert, Cassandra of the Guard… you have returned!”

“I…” Rapunzel stops, shaking her head, her smile glowing. She’d meant to avoid anyone she knew this night, but Xavier’s presence is soothing rather than nerve-wracking. There is something about him, ever calm, that makes it a relief just to see him.

It hits her suddenly how dearly she’s missed him—missed everyone. How could she have forgotten how kind he was, how reasonable his advice and his counsel? “Yes! This very night. Oh, it’s been so long—how are you? How are things? Has—”

In the background, Cassandra pointedly clears her throat. Rapunzel stops herself mid-word, feeling the heat climb to her cheeks. “Ah. I, um, probably don’t have time to chat right now. But—everything’s okay, right?”

Xavier’s smile is warm and fond. “Of course! There is always need for blacksmiths, Princess, and I am in good health. Even got myself an apprentice!”

“Really!”

“Yes! Skittish child, but she’ll do well in time. She’s new to the town, came in when the rocks…” His smile flickers, the good humor fading from his face. His eyes go wide. “The rocks. I— Princess, it has just occurred to me, but—if you are back—did you find a way to destroy the rocks, as you promised? Are they truly gone?”

It’s like a flash of icy water, like a slap to the face. The happy glow of returning stamped out by the reality. Rapunzel’s smile slips and falls.

Xavier doesn’t miss the shift. His eyes widen, and he looks back and forth between the lot of them, seeing the truth writ across their faces. “Ah,” he says, suddenly hushed. “I see.”

She has to answer him, Rapunzel knows. She must tell him why. Xavier—her parents—all of Corona deserves an answer. But the words stick in her throat, too heavy to speak.

“Not yet.”

Xavier looks up, away from her. Rapunzel startles.

Cassandra doesn’t quail under the weight of their attention; her chin lifts, her voice clipped and firm. Her eyes brook no argument. “Not yet,” she repeats. She says the words like a dare. “But we’re working on it. Sorry, Xavier, but we really should go. We need to report to the castle as soon as we can.”

“R-right, of course. But if I may—”

Something in Cassandra’s face turns calculating. “Just a thought,” she says, abrupt. “…Xavier. In these times, with what’s being said… would you be late to the castle?”

Realization flickers across Xavier’s face, followed by something much darker. He nods slowly, and doesn’t refute this; his frown is almost troubled, his glance back at the castle wary. Rapunzel’s heart drops to her gut.

It could be nothing. It could just be a coincidence. But it could also not be, and that possibility leaves her cold.

“…I understand. My apologies. This old man won’t keep you any longer.” Xavier steps back into the firelight of his shop, and the glow casts his whole face in shadow. She can see him hesitate. “I—please, tell me one thing. Men like me, we put too much faith in old myths… it would ease my mind to know.” He glances between them, his eyes lingering on Rapunzel. “Princess, if nothing else, at the end of that road… did you find your destiny?”

Cassandra sits up straight, pale eyes flashing in the moonlight. Behind Rapunzel, Eugene has once more gone carefully still, his hand heavy on her shoulder. “She doesn’t have to—”

“Yes.”

Cassandra’s mouth snaps shut. She glances back, but Rapunzel can’t meet her eyes. She looks at Xavier, instead, and wills her hands to stay steady. “Yes,” she says. “I found it.”

It’s the truth. It’s the truth as she knows it. The Moon said it herself, after all: the Dark Kingdom, finding the Moondrop—this was the beginning of Rapunzel’s path. This is the start of her destiny, whatever it shall be.

It still feels like a lie.

The smile that breaks over Xavier’s face—the sheer relief—only makes it worse. “I see,” he says. “I see. Thank you, Princess, for humoring me.” His smile is wide and bright. Rapunzel feels ill. “And—ah, forgive me for not saying this sooner—welcome home!”

She forces herself to return it. “Thanks,” she says. Her voice is a whisper, scraping in her throat. Eugene’s arm tightens around her waist. Cassandra’s eyes are a weight on her back. Pascal nuzzles her cheek. “Thank you, Xavier.”

They leave Xavier there, the firelight of his shop dim and his smile glowing. Maximus nips gently at Rapunzel’s skirts in comfort, but everyone else is hushed. No one seems to know what to say, or how to say it. The silent night around them, once comforting, now seems stifling. The cobblestone houses close in like a cage. The fog, a trap. The winding roads: a labyrinth.

Her skin itches, the back of her neck crawling with cold. A dull ache throbs in her hands. Rapunzel forces her fingers to curl into her skirts, but even that can’t stop her from shaking.

Why does she feel this way? It hadn’t been a lie, what she told Xavier. It hadn’t been untrue. But it feels as if she’s given something away, or maybe hidden something else, and it makes her hurt all over.

How funny. To think—only six months ago, leaving the Dark Kingdom behind had felt like a victory.

Even now, it makes a lump rise up in her throat to remember it. Upon first leaving the Dark Kingdom behind, seeing that tower and mountain of black rocks destroyed, Rapunzel had assumed—hoped, prayed, pleaded—for that to be the end of it. The black rocks broken, the tragedy finally ceased. It wasn't until they made their way home, and found the way still marred by unnatural black stone, that Rapunzel finally understood that things wouldn’t be so simple.

I left to take care of the black rocks. I left to save my kingdom. To set things right. Instead she found her destiny, but even that, Rapunzel has cast away and scorned.

She doesn’t regret it. She can’t, not when that destiny would have destroyed her every moral belief, left Varian dead and Moon the victor. So she doesn’t regret it, but—still, it burns. She’s found the Dark Kingdom. She’s faced the Moon, she’s faced herself, her own fears, and conquered both. She’s done so much, and yet—it feels as if she’s accomplished nothing at all.

A low warble in her ears pulls her from her thoughts, and Rapunzel looks beside her. Pascal, perched up on her shoulder, rubs his small head at her cheek. His little face is pinched, his eyes knowing.

Rapunzel lifts her hand and cups his head. She forces her fingers to bend, to curl inward, a careful hug. He leans into the touch. Her smile trembles.

“It’s been so long,” Rapunzel whispers to her friend, her voice shaking. “Hasn’t it, Pascal?”

She hadn’t wanted to say it to Eugene and Cassandra, even though she knows they’re eavesdropping on her now regardless. Eugene’s arms are secure around her waist, and she can feel him stiffen at her back. But it’s okay to admit this to Pascal, to pretend the others won’t hear. Pascal alone will understand what she really means. He spent all those years in the tower with Rapunzel too.

And it matters, in this moment. The tower matters. She has spent eighteen years locked away and only one full year in this kingdom. The rest of her freedom, she spent it out beyond the walls, in these past eight months of pain and discovery and healing.

Compared to that… Rapunzel doesn’t really know Corona at all.

Her eyes prick with tears. Things have changed. Of course they have. But Rapunzel doesn’t know this place well enough to tell, and it makes something stick in her throat to realize that.

“It’s been a long time,” Rapunzel says, voice cracking, and Pascal closes his eyes and leans against her cheek, silent comfort.

She’s not sure if this feeling is homesickness or fear or exhaustion. In the few times she has daydreamed her return, she always thought it would be triumphant, victorious, a relief. And yet—

And yet. All she can feel is ill.

She doesn’t say anything more, though, and the rest of the journey to the castle is in silence. But Pascal’s comforting weight on her shoulder, Eugene’s grounding warmth at her back, Cassandra’s unfaltering and watchful gaze, the echo of Maximus and Fidela’s hooves against the cobble—they keep her company amongst her fears, and their support gives Rapunzel strength.

They approach the main gate to the castle, and Rapunzel pulls herself tall, pushing back her hood, letting the guards’ lantern light catch in her hair. She buries her fears in the back of her mind, and leaves her gloved hands folded in her lap. She meets the eyes of the guards and doesn’t look away, watching their faces as Cassandra dismounts and presents their papers, the proof of their identity.

Their eyes go wide. Their faces slack. The lamp-light flickers, and Rapunzel looks up into the shadow of the castle and ignores her pounding heart.

She’s home, now, for better or for worse. Her journey to the Dark Kingdom, her search for the Moondrop, is no longer. That road has finally come to a close.

This chapter of her story has ended. It’s time for her to start anew.

“Hello!” Rapunzel says, and gives the guards the brightest smile she can muster. Even if her fingers shake, they won’t ever know. “Please, if it’s not any trouble—Could you let the King and Queen know I’m back?”

.

Adira waits for Varian outside the city.

He sees her long before they’re close enough to speak. She’s leaning against a tree on the edge of the city limits, her arms crossed and eyebrow raised, face paint in place and dressed in almost the exact same outfit she wore when he first met her. A little ways away from her, off to the side, there is a loose circle of traveling carts and caravans, a makeshift camp of canvas tents and horse-drawn carriages.

Once a strange sight, these off-city camps have now become almost familiar to Varian—a grouping of merchants and travelers, come together to share food and stories around a fire. For all that they’d left behind a merchant caravan only just this morning, it seems Adira has already found another one to slip into. Around the fire at her back, there are as many as ten others, a cooking pot set over a pale flame and blankets spread out for seating. The people themselves are engaged in their own dealings; playing cards and taking drinks, stealing food. One man in particular is already rubbing his wrist, looking sullen and scowling at Adira’s back, no doubt already realized the folly of trying to best Adira at anything.

Rather predictably, once Varian is close enough to hear her, the first thing Adira says is, “What happened, Moony, did you get lost?”

Varian stares dully back, too tired to rise to the bait. None of Adira’s jokes ever strike him as funny; from the awful nicknames to the sly sarcasm, everything about it feels condescending, like she’s laughing at a joke in his expense. The months they’ve spent travelling—and wow, isn’t that a trippy notion, because it sure doesn’t feel like months—have done nothing to endear them to him.

“I fell asleep,” Varian admits, a little sour. Adira lifts one eyebrow, silent and judging, and he bristles. “I was tired! We left that last caravan really early.”

This last bit he adds pointedly, with all the irritation he can muster—but all Adira does is shrug, looking like she wants to laugh at him.

He’s not getting anywhere with this, Varian knows, and drops the conversation with a scowl, kicking the toe of his boot against the ground. What little he’s learned of Adira over the past few months—and it is, quite infuriatingly, very very little—has taught him enough to know that he just can’t win any argument against her, mainly because Adira doesn’t seem to care about Varian’s grievances one way or another.

“I got the package,” Varian says, instead, and hefts up the book. His arms are killing him. “Um, can I ask—why do we need this?”

Adira hums absently under her breath and turns her back to him, heading back to the main glade, set up with tents and a few camping fires. The trees here are few and sparse, and horses and the caravans line the horizon. She heads towards the biggest fire and calls, “That’s for me to know and you to find out, Moony. Consider it training.”

Varian considers throwing the book at her head. He really, really considers it. “Was getting the book and lugging it over here ‘training’ too?”

“You catch on slow! Didn’t you already figure that out?”

Varian takes a deep breath. His fingers tighten on the book, and for a moment his vision blurs, faint with sudden rage. It would be so easy. Just lift the book and throw it, right at her stupid head, how hard can it be—

Adira looks over her shoulder at him. Her smile is all teeth.

The fantasy fades, driven back by that smile and Ruddiger’s fearful chittering. There’s a burning phantom pain in Varian’s left ear. No. He couldn’t. No matter how much he hates her, Varian knows this well: Adira is a better fighter than he is.

He lowers his hands. The weight of the book drags at his arms. Ruddiger fusses at his hair and Adira’s smile curls into something smug.

“Hm,” she says. She turns away and sits down by the fire, effortlessly inserting herself into the conversation and company of the merchants. Varian looks around the camp and falters at all the people looking back, but reluctantly approaches the circle, unsure of what else to do but follow her.

“Are we staying here tonight?” he asks finally, sullenly, but even as he says it he casts his eyes around, trying to find their stuff—the answer is almost always yes. But instead of their usual camp, he finds their bags in a pile off the side. He blinks blankly at it, confused.

“No,” Adira replies, light as the weather. “Just for lunch.” She looks him up and down. “Drop off the package and get some food. You are skin and bones, kid.”

There’s no bite to the words. Whatever Varian’s violent thoughts, all has apparently been forgiven, if Adira cared about it at all. It should comfort him, but instead—it feels like dismissal, like a mockery. It burns sour in his gut, angry words pressing against his tongue. He swallows it back, rolls his eyes instead, and marches away. “Whatever.”

“Such a teenager,” Adira remarks, and laughter follows after him, mingled in with the snickering of the nearby merchants. Varian’s cheeks burn. His chest is tight.

After everything he’s done, this is apparently all his life amounts to: vague errands and mocking laughter.

He stomps over to their stuff, piled in between two wagons, and sets both package and Ruddiger on the bags so he can change. This far out of town, the air is colder, the sunlit warmth lost somewhere in the endless plains. Where the city was too hot, here he is too cold—the chill sinks deep in his bones, stiffens his fingers.

It’s a relief to put on something warmer. Varian changes quickly into the heavy and warmer cloth clothes Adira bought for him weeks ago from one of the caravan merchants, and slips back on the heavy overcoat once he’s done. His shoes, also spares from Adira, are too big for his feet, and he rolls on two pairs of socks before slipping them back on. The end result is rather ridiculous—a small, unkempt boy with pale skin and twig-thin limbs practically swallowed whole by draping and oversized clothes—but at the very least, he’s no longer so cold.

Ruddiger jumps up on his shoulder, and Varian manages a smile, petting Ruddiger’s head absently as he makes his way back towards the fire. The sky has gone dim for now, the clouds moving over the sun, and it makes the already frigid air even icier. Adira passes him a bowl with the day’s stew and he nods in mute thanks before taking it. He has to wrap his hands in the sleeves of his coat to keep the heat from burning him.

Around them, the mix of merchants, traders, and travelers speak together in low voices. This sight has become commonplace to Varian, after six months of living with Adira’s weird looping travel techniques. He sips at his bowl of broth and does his best to ignore them, letting the conversation wash over his head.

“—see the harbor? Less boats every day.”

“Now, that’s the thing, I went by Echo’s Pass just last fall and it wasn’t nearly so—”

“—winter storms have been a problem in Arendelle for almost twenty years, didn’t you hear—”

“Port Caul may be booming but it won’t last, they must know…”

“…gonna reach Corona at some point. Hasto. No way around that—”

Varian pauses mid-slurp, his interest spiked. He puts the bowl in his lap, turns towards the current speaker—an older man, with a full beard turned white from sea salt, his eyes solemn and voice gruff.

“I mean,” the man is saying now, “awful as it is to say it—sea-faring routes are closing up, all around. ‘S not only Valencia anymore. Even the Southern Isles are starting to pull back, not to mention Wesselton…”

The group titters around them, low murmurs of agreement. Varian stares down at his bowl. His fingers are white around the wood.

“Still,” another adds, “Corona’s the main trade kingdom… that capital city’s trench-deep in water. If it reaches that far—well.” She makes a sign over her heart. “Sun bless us. Hope they don’t get those guards of theirs to start taking ships.”

“Hah! Just what we need, right? Soldiers searching the boats.”

“What if they close their harbors?”

“What! You kidding? They wouldn’t dare. A trade-kingdom like that, closing harbor… it’d be tantamount to suicide.”

Adira’s hand falls heavy on his neck. Varian freezes. “Finally listening in?”

He sips at his stew to keep from snarling at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She hums, nonchalant. “They’ve been talking about this issue for weeks. It’s a growing concern.” She waits. Varian doesn’t say anything. “I just find it a little interesting, Moony, that you’ve only started paying attention to the conversation now.”

He scowls down at his bowl and shrugs her hand off. “It’s—fascinating, that’s all.” She snorts, and his eyes narrow. “By the way, you going to tell me what that package is for?”

“Haven’t figured it out yet?”

“No.” He hasn’t even been thinking about it. He has better things to do than play Adira’s games.

She sips at her broth, not even bothering to meet his eyes. Varian could snarl. “Bribery.”

The admission is so startling that Varian can’t help but stare. Adira— Adira never admits things that easily. She hasn’t—six goddamn months and all he’s gotten out of her is that she used to know his dad and knows something about the Moondrop, and now she just—

She gets a kick out of frustrating him, he’s almost sure of it. “What?”

“Bribery. As I said. Are you having trouble hearing? Infections can cause nerve damage if—”

His torn ear prickles, and Varian glowers at her. It’s only the prick of Ruddiger’s claws through his jacket that keeps him steady. “My hearing’s fine.”

She shrugs. “If you say so.”

He waits. Adira sips at her broth. Varian— Varian breathes. Even Ruddiger’s calming croon isn’t enough to quell the rising fury in his belly. Adira is just… infuriating. Six months, and he still knows almost nothing about her.

He’d thought, back then, when he first met her—when she ambushed him on the side of the road, thrown his dad’s name out like a lifeline and called him Moondrop with such surety his heart stopped in horror—he’d thought, then, that if he waited her out, he could learn what she knew and then leave. He could do something. And yet—he’s still here. Training and running errands and doing whatever he can to prove he’s worth the answers, because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Who is it a bribe for?”Varian asks, and he means for it to sound angry but he just sounds tired instead.

Something must bleed through his voice, because this time Adira actually looks at him. Her gaze is scrutinizing. “An old acquaintance,” she says, a little softer now. “I’m afraid I’ve probably upset her, so this is— a bribe for forgiveness, I suppose.” She sighs and sets down her bowl. “That’s where we’re staying tonight, with any luck. You know, after lunch.”

It is an answer, but it’s not much of one. Even when she tells him things, there are always holes in the stories, obvious lies in the gaps and pauses. Varian rubs the strap of his satchel between his fingers, trying to keep calm. The worn leather is soft against his skin. This is Rapunzel’s satchel, and she gave it to him. Rapunzel wouldn’t get angry.

But instead of calming him down, this thought only fuels the growing pit swelling up in his chest. Rapunzel would not get angry—but Varian, Varian is not Rapunzel. He is not forgiving.

And he’s tired.

And all at once, he doesn’t care to pretend otherwise.

“No training today?” Varian asks sarcastically, and he can’t help the bite. He hates training. He doesn’t want it. Like most things, it’s something Adira decided he needed on her own.

Adira is— blank. Calm. Always, always, calm. “Do you want to?”

“No.”

This last word is a shout.

Adira pauses. Conversation around the fire stalls. Everyone is looking at them now, and Adira’s eyes are dark with warning. “You all right?” she asks, mild, but her expression has gone cold. “You’re in quite the mood today.”

“I’m in a mood?” Varian repeats. His voice is rising, almost shrill. “I’min a mood? You’re the most—” He can’t even finish, he’s so angry. There are no words strong enough to describe Adira.

Adira is outright scowling now. Her glance at the surrounding merchants is quick but pointed. She rises to her feet and tugs at Varian’s arm to pull him up with her. “Let’s take this elsewhere, hm?”

But Varian isn’t in the mood to comply with her wishes, and he doesn’t give a damn about whatever secrets she wants to hide. He’s tired of following her lead. He’s tired of not knowing. He wrenches his arm from her grip and stays stubbornly seated. “No.”

“Listen, kid—”

“No.”

“Varian!” Adira snaps. She grabs his arm and drags him roughly to his feet. He fumbles on his footing, his half-eaten bowl dropping to the ground. Ruddiger screeches loud and alarmed in his ears. Adira’s voice is rising too, now. “This isn’t the place for this. We’ll talk later. Whatever issue you’re having—”

“Whatever issue I’m—my only problem here is you!”

“What!?”

“You’re always like this,” Varian snarls, the words torn rough from his throat. “Later? When’s later? I’ve been—I’ve been traveling with you for almost six months and you’re still a stranger to me! I don’t know anything about you, or what you know, or—you promised me answers!”  He feels raw, worn thin. He’s almost shouting. “You promised me answers but you haven’t told me anything!”

Adira scowls right back. “You aren’t ready for answers,” she snaps, sounding furious. “This little—tantrum—is only proving my point, kid. If you can’t even handle this—”

“I don’t even know you. What gives you the right to—to come into my life and tell me what to do—”

“I’m not talking about this with you.” Adira slashes her hand through the air, ending the conversation where it stands. “Go—watch over the package or something, I don’t care, but we are not yelling about this in the middle of the day—”

“You,” Varian says, suddenly, furiously, “are not my Dad.”

Adira stops cold, just as Varian knew she would. It’s an awful card to play. It’s a terrible thing to throw into her face, not in the least because it hurts Varian to bring it up as much as it must hurt to hear it—but this is all he has against her. This is the only thing he knows: that whoever Adira is, once upon a time, she knew Quirin of Old Corona.

“You’re not my dad,” Varian repeats. The anger has deadened, turned cold and ashy on his tongue. “So stop acting like you are.”

Adira stares at him, utterly unreadable, pale under her face-paint. The fire is utterly quiet, the strangers silenced, dark eyes flickering between them. For this one second—one brief, blink-and-miss-it moment—her breathing stutters.

The moment stretches… and then it breaks. Adira steps back and draws herself up tall with effort, steady once more. Whatever effect his words had, she buries under an icy mask, a blank anger. Her eyes are burning; her mouth unsmiling.

In less than a second, her weakness is gone, as if she’d never faltered at all.

“I see,” Adira says. Her voice is flinty. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, if you’re done throwing a tantrum, can we get back to the matter at hand? We’re leaving in three hours tops. Do whatever the hell you want, just be ready to go.”

Varian stares at her, open-mouthed in shock—but before he can even think to argue, she has already turned away, turned her back to him. She sits back by the fire and ignores him entirely, shutting the conversation closed with a resounding slam.

Varian stands there, alone and helplessly aware of all the eyes boring into his back, the strangers looking back and forth between them. His jaw works, angry words rising up, but this time he swallows it back.

Of course this is her response. Of course she just—brushes it off, just like that, like she does everything.

He’s not sure what he was expecting.

“Fine,” Varian says and the bite is gone, now. His limbs feel heavy. His eyelids hurt. It seems to take all his strength to stand. The flash of anger and hurt that fueled his outburst has cooled into something dull and disappointed. So stupid of him. So foolish. So goddamn pathetic, the fact he was expecting anything from Adira at all.

“Fine.”

He’s so tired.

Varian turns away without another word and makes his way back to their pile of stuff, the two bags and one paper-wrapped package. He curls up on the blankets, the book beneath him, his boots still on and jacket still heavy on his shoulders. It helps, to have the coat. It helps, to have the shoes. It helps, to have open air and the fire flickering in the corner of his vision. It helps to have Ruddiger there.

But even then, Varian still cannot bring himself to close his eyes. The silence around the fire, muted and faltering, makes his skin crawl. Adira’s distant and clipped responses make his fingers curl. But most of all it is this: the ashy taste of anger on his tongue, the rasp in his throat from shouting, the quiet way Ruddiger curls around him in comfort, as though afraid to upset him further—it is this that makes his throat close up, tight with shame.

All these months. All this time.

So why, then, does it feel as if he hasn’t changed at all?

The day passes by, and Varian does not sleep.

.

Here is the thing: despite Eugene’s fears, despite Cassandra’s worry—Rapunzel isn’t afraid.  Not really.

There are—there are things she is bothered by, yes, and things she doesn’t want to face. This is true. But fear is not the same as worry, and despite it all—despite the answers she’ll have to give and the fallout that will come from it— despite everything, Rapunzel is simply just delighted to be home.

So when she sees her parents—when they rush out of the palace doors, wide-eyed and still rumpled from their beds—Rapunzel doesn’t flinch, or look away, or falter. She doesn’t even think to hesitate. She sees her parents at the gates and it’s like seeing the sunrise for the first time: perfect, bright, and unfathomably wonderful.

It takes all she has to dismount safely from the horse. It takes all she has to approach the gate slowly, to avoid crashing into the guards. But the moment her feet are on the ground, the second she’s within reach, Rapunzel throws herself forward and into their arms, and knows that everything is going to be okay.

In this moment, Rapunzel’s fears are nothing more than ashes in the wind. Her uncertainties and anxieties are dissipated, gone without a trace. Even that lingering knot in her throat from speaking with Xavier has unraveled. In this moment, nothing else matters—because they’re here, her parents are right here.

She’s home.

She’s crying, Rapunzel realizes distantly. Her face aches from the effort to hold the tears back; her cheeks are wet. But that’s okay, because her parents are crying too.

“I’m back,” Rapunzel says, choked. “M-Mom, Dad, I—I’m so sorry, it took me so long, and I—but I’m back. I’m back.”

“That’s all that matters,” her mother says. Her arms are tight against her back, long hair soft against Rapunzel’s cheek. She is hugging Rapunzel the same way she hugged her when they first met, when Rapunzel first returned to them, almost a full two years ago.

“My dear girl,” her father says, and pulls back to cup her face. His smile is disbelieving and warm. “Oh, my dear girl, you have no idea how overjoyed I am to see you.”

Her father’s hug is warm and safe. Her mother’s laughter echoes in her ears. “Oh, Rapunzel,” she says. “You took so long!”

“So much happened,” Rapunzel admits. “A lot—a lot happened.” Her hands itch. “But I’m back, I came back.” A sudden realization like a hit between her ribcage, and she sinks deeper into the hug to hide her face, the growing despair. “Mom, Dad, I… the rocks. The black rocks. I’m sorry. I couldn’t…”

This time, it’s her father who shushes her, stroking gently at her hair. “It’s alright,” he says. “It’s—they have stopped growing as quickly, at the very least, and any other issues can be dealt with.” He thumbs a tear from her cheek and smiles. “Oh, my dear. Welcome home.”

Rapunzel can’t trust herself to speak. She makes a small noise and sinks into their embrace, drinking in the warmth and the security of their arms around her. Home. She can finally believe it. The smell of her mother’s perfume, the soft silk of her father’s fancy robes—these simple things, these whispers of familiarity, convince her in a way nothing else could. Home is here, right in her arms. She has finally, finally made it back.

She buries her face into their shoulders. She doesn’t cry. She just—stays there, holding them, letting them hold her. Letting the truth of it settle in her bones.

“I’m here,” Rapunzel says, quiet as a whisper, and some knot of tension within her finally falls loose.

When they draw out of the hug, they are smiling, all three of them. Rapunzel wipes at her eyes and her mother dabs at her face, and her father shakes his head, his cheeks wet, his smile worn and oddly old. He gestures towards the doors. “Let’s head inside, then? You… probably have much to tell us.”

“Yes,” Rapunzel admits. She keeps the smile on her face, trying to ignore the growing pit in her gut. Questions, and the answers she doesn’t know how to give. “Yes. I, I can… Can we go inside?”

“Of course!” her mother says, smiling, and Rapunzel smiles back—but she doesn’t miss the stiffness around her eyes, or the way her father’s smile has almost become a grimace.

They turn away, heading back to the doors, arms linked. Rapunzel moves to follow, but a hand touches at her arm. Rapunzel pauses, dropping back—and turns to meet the eyes of her friends.

In the nighttime hour, most of the castle staff are gone—beyond the two guards at the gate and the two with her parents, the courtyard is empty but for them. Eugene is alone in unsaddling Maximus, and Fidela is still loaded with their bags and traveling gear.

She meets Cassandra’s eyes and understands the wordless question. Cassandra and Eugene are busy here. They cannot go with her.

Rapunzel holds her gaze and nods once.

Cassandra searches her face and then steps back, silent acquiescence. Eugene frowns down at the bags he’s holding but says nothing, just lifts one hand to give her a thumbs up. Pascal, still riding on her collar, nudges at her cheek.

“We’ll unload the horses and get things settled,” Cassandra says, lowly. “We’ll wait for you in—the main hall?”

“Main hall,” Rapunzel confirms. “Yes. Yes.” She is struck with a sudden wave of gratefulness, and takes Cassandra’s hand, squeezing it tight. “Thank you, Cass.” She lifts her head, meeting Eugene’s eyes again, and beams at him, hoping her meaning comes across.

His eyes crinkle at her, bright with love. Cassandra gives Rapunzel a thin half-smile. “You’re welcome.” She squeezes back. “Chin up, Raps.” You can do this, her eyes say, and behind her Eugene is smiling, soft and sure.

“Yes,” Rapunzel says again, and sucks in a deep breath. Pascal puffs up proudly on her shoulder. She lets go of Cassandra’s hand and smooths down her dress. Pascal’s weight on her shoulder, slight and near-unnoticeable, makes it easier to breathe. This time, her hands don’t shake. She smiles tremendously back and then turns away, walking with sure steps after her parents.

She can do this. She can do this. She must.

They go to one of the sitting rooms, the usual one for debates and treaty signings, with plush red couches and wide doors. Rapunzel pretends it’s a good sign, as she gingerly sits herself down, her parents seated together across from her. It’s not an interrogation. This is not a room for interrogations. This is treaties, conversation, compromise. It’s only—questions, for all the things Rapunzel hasn’t said and hasn’t known how to properly put into words.

Only questions. Nothing more. Nothing frightening.

Rapunzel is so exhausted she can barely keep her head up, but she still gives them her best smile. She’s missed them. Even with all this—she’s missed them so much.

Her mother smiles back, ear to ear, and even her father’s eyes are warm despite his serious expression. “Oh, my dear,” her mother starts, warmly, “you have no idea how happy we are to have you back.”

Rapunzel matches her enthusiasm. “You have no idea how happy I am to be back!”

Her mother’s smile widens, her hands clasped before her. “I’m sure. When I traveled alone for the first time—oh, the homesickness I felt then…!” She shakes her head in memory, and her eyes cast down, something shadowed passing over her face. “And you were… gone for a long time. I assume coming home was even more of a shock.” She lifts her head, but her smile has gone pale. “Oh, I hate to ask this of you so soon, but… Rapunzel, what happened out there?”

Rapunzel takes a breath. Pascal gives her an encouraging little poke with his tail. “A lot. A lot happened. It was—” She grimaces. “You… you must have a lot of questions, don’t you.”

“Among other things,” her father sighs. He sits back in the chair, rubbing hard at his brow. “Rapunzel—I truly hate to ask this of you so soon. But you have been gone eight months. The black rocks are still here. That boy—Varian—is missing, after the last report says he attacked you, and you have given no reason, location, or explanation of his absence. You—communication with you and your group cut out for a whole month, and you have given no reason for that beyond a mention of ‘complications.’ None of your letters since have been written by you. And—and there are reports, Rapunzel, of bright lights and explosions and—and it took you six months to return.” He drags his hand down his face. “I don’t want to sound accusing, but…”

“It doesn’t paint a pretty picture,” her mother finishes, her face creased with worry. Her lips are pressed thin. “It—to be frank, dear, it doesn’t paint much of a picture at all.”

Rapunzel swallows hard, looking down. “I—that’s—” She stops herself. “Mom, Dad… I’m sorry. I know our letters were—less than helpful. And I… I know I said I’d go out to stop the rocks, and—and obviously that didn’t. U-um. Happen. I—I—”

She takes a breath, and starts from the beginning.

“I guess… I guess it started maybe a month after the start of our journey. When we found the ruins.”

She tells them—the warning, the cryptic song telling of the Moon’s tower. The dying land. The rocks, and the makeshift mountain.

She doesn’t tell them who translated the poem—she doesn’t mention Varian’s attack, or the strange symbols she found in the ruins and the labyrinth, the mirror image of her tower. But what she does say is more than enough. Her throat is sore. Her head feels stuffed full.

But her story is not even close to finished, and Rapunzel steels her heart. “We approached the… the mountain of rocks,” she says, breath shuddering on the memory. “And—a-and then…”

Her voice catches, and she has to stop. She closes her eyes and tries to breathe, gritting her teeth past a blinding spike of pain. She’s so tired. Her eyes feel hot.

There is a long, painful silence. Her mother sighs.

“I… It’s all right, Rapunzel. You don’t have to tell us the whole story right now.”

Rapunzel looks up, startled. Her father’s eyes are wide, just as shocked.  “Arianna—!”

Her mother gives her father a sharp look, then turns back to fix Rapunzel with a comforting smile. “You don’t have to tell us now,” she repeats. “Just, before you go— tell me one last thing, please. Rapunzel, darling, are you all right?”

Rapunzel stares at her. She swallows, and her shoulders slump. “Yes,” she says, soft and shaky. “I am. Just… tired. It’s been, um, a—a long few months.” Her voice cracks halfway. She tries to smile through it.

Her mother’s eyes are hurting for her, but when she reaches out to touch Rapunzel’s cheek, her hand is soft and her face is gentle. “I understand,” she says.  “Go, Rapunzel. Rest. We can talk more tomorrow, whenever you’re ready.”

Rapunzel manages a weak smile. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. Thanks, Mom.” She lets herself lean into her mother’s gentle touch, her quiet concern. Then she stands up. “Good… good night, then.”

Her mother smiles back. Her father is frowning. “Good night, my dear. And welcome home.”

Rapunzel nods and moves away. She is not quite smiling but she wants to, in a way—can feel the pull of it at her lips, the way her heart lifts and soars. The chance to sleep, to think things through, to rest… that they will let her tell them when she is ready… it appeases that final lingering fear.

But just as Rapunzel is reaching for the door, her father’s voice stops her in her tracks.

“Rapunzel, wait. Please.”

Rapunzel hesitates. Her heart sinks. She closes her eyes and takes a breath for strength, and then she meets his eyes. Her stomach is twisting itself into knots, and her throat is tight—but she can’t understand why, not really. She doesn’t know why she braces herself, except that something in his voice makes her every instinct scream.

A distant memory echoes in her ears, another mother’s shrill command.

Wait, Rapunzel!

Her father notices. She can tell by the way he winces, the way his eyes shut as if to prepare himself. His jaw works on the words, his voice tight. “Rapunzel, daughter, I— I know you aren’t ready… ready to talk about what happened out there, not yet.”

She watches him. He manages a weak smile. “And that is fine. Take as long as you need. But… there is one issue we must resolve post-haste.”

Her mother is frowning too, now. “Frederic—”

“No, Arianna. This is a matter of kingdom security. It cannot wait.” He turns to Rapunzel, grave-faced and grim. “I have asked you, ordered you, again and again through the letters of the last six months. You have ignored this order.” He looks old, tired. “Rapunzel, I—please. I do not wish to fight with you, not again. So tell me. The boy alchemist. Varian. Where is he?”

Rapunzel stares back. Her mouth opens. She says nothing.

“I do not know why you insist on covering for the boy.” His expression is grief-stricken. “Rapunzel, please. Will you not answer?”

She should answer. She should tell him. But her throat closes up, and all she can think of is labyrinths and gods and the weight of a dead boy in her arms, and nothing comes out.

How can she tell him? How can she put this into words? It’s not that Varian became better, or even an ally. It’s not that she’s forgiven him, or him her. She has no proof beyond her own experience, her own belief. She has no real name or explanation for what she did or why, just the feeling that it was the right thing to do—the only choice Rapunzel could make.

Not the choice of a princess, in the end. Not the choice of a Sundrop vessel or a figure with a destiny. Just Rapunzel, the girl from the tower, the simple nobody with a hopeless dream—and how can she tell them, this King and Queen, her newfound parents, such a thing as that? That she made the choice not as their daughter, but as herself?

Not a princess, in the end. Not the Sundrop. Only a girl.

She can’t tell them that. She can’t.

“…I see,” her father says, and he sounds very old, then. He leans over the chair and breathes out slow, his back bowed, his head in his hands. When he finally straightens, his eyes are dark and his face is set.

It’s not quite anger. But it’s close enough.

“If I asked it of your guard Cassandra,” he says, coolly. “Or Eugene Fitzherbert. Would they tell me?”

There’s an awful pressure building behind her eyes. She feels choked. Even Pascal’s presence can’t keep her steady. “I—”

“Rapunzel.”

“I asked them not to say,” she whispers, and the look on his face is terrible.

“Oh, Rapunzel,” he says. He rubs his face, a momentary pause, but when he opens his eyes again, his face is cold and his tone unyielding. “I am sorry to do this when you’ve—” His voice stutters, a momentary break. “—you’ve just returned. But for your silence, and your friends’ compliance in your deceit, for the threat that boy poses to this kingdom and to ensure our continued safety, I must take action.”

“Frederic—” her mother starts.

“Your restrictions within Corona limits will be reinstated,” King Frederic says. “You cannot travel beyond the walls. Excursions from the castle must be with an escort. Cassandra will have to be reassigned; for now, a new guard will be assigned to you indefinitely. Eugene—”

“Frederic!”

The king stops mid-word at her mother’s shout, blinking fast. He stares at Rapunzel, momentarily mute, and Rapunzel stares back, all the blood drained from her face. His breath shudders. “I— never mind. Never mind. These… these conditions are non-negotiable. Until you give me a viable reason—”

Rapunzel’s horrified silence finally breaks. “Dad,” she blurts out, “Dad, please you can’t, I—I don’t need a new guard! Cassandra didn’t do anything wrong!”

“She gave her word to keep you safe and to keep that boy under watch. She has failed at both, and your refusal to elaborate on what’s occurred, and her complicity in your silence, is proof enough. I cannot have untrustworthy guards in my castle.”

“Dad—!”

“That is enough, Rapunzel,” he thunders, and Rapunzel’s mouth snaps shut. She flinches back, and his lips thin into a grave line. “I—we can talk more on this in the morning, if you wish. But it is late, and you are tired.”

“You can’t—!”

“Good night, Rapunzel.” The ice in his tone is damning. Any warmth in his face has turned hard as stone. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns his back to her and sweeps out the opposing door, and he doesn’t look back.

Rapunzel stares after him, horrified, and turns to her mother, but her heart is already sinking. She is not surprised by the angry look in her mother’s eyes… but neither is she surprised by the shake of her head, the silent refusal.

Rapunzel closes her eyes. She ignores Pascal’s desperate tugs at her hair, his futile attempt to distract her, to keep her calm. She waits until the door has shut behind her mother, then turns and exits through the opposing door, into the main hall.

She closes the door neatly behind her, sinking back against it, her hands loosely curled around the doorknobs. Her fingers ache like a bruise from her grip on the slick metal, old wounds searing like fire across her palm.

Eugene and Cassandra are waiting for her in the hall, as they said they would—Cassandra, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed; Eugene, pacing back and forth, leaving indents in plush carpet. The floor-to-ceiling windows are pitch black, moonlight painting the hall a ghostly silver. It catches on their eyes, highlights the fretful edge to their expressions. When the door clicks closed, they startle and turn to face her.

“Blondie?” Eugene asks, turning from his pacing. He looks frazzled, hair sticking up from where he’d run his hands through it. Cassandra looks up from the wall. Rapunzel can’t meet her eyes. “How—how did it go?”

“Raps,” Cassandra says, quiet and wide-eyed. She looks stunned, her face white with anger or maybe horror. “Raps, are you—crying?”

“I’m fine,” Rapunzel whispers, but the words stick in her throat. She folds her hands, linking her stiff and shaking fingers. She closes her eyes against the burn of tears, and tries to forget the distance she had felt in that room, that awful sense of being alone, even with her parents right there with her.

She lived in Corona for only a year. So little time, in hindsight. Can she really say that she knows them, either?

Eugene reaches out, his face fallen open and hurting for her. “Rapunzel,” he says. He sounds helpless.

“I—I guess I just hoped—” she starts, and swallows the tears back. “Just—those tall tales, those s-stupid stories about—about how the King’s angry all the time and arguing with the Guard, the in-fighting, the—the fear, it’s, I guess it’s—”

They’re silent. Pressed lips and grim faces. They all suspected. They all knew there would be fallout from their choices, consequences for their secrets. They all knew that coming home would not be easy. It’s not a surprise.

It’s not a surprise, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“I guess they weren’t just rumors after all,” Rapunzel chokes out, and runs for her room before they can see her cry.

.

.

.

The world turns slow on its axis, and in the blinding sunlight they go unnoticed. Settled in the shadows of her in-between world, bare feet brushing an endless sea, the Moon weaves her plots and smiles with every one of her knife-like teeth. In a dark cage beneath a shining castle, the prisoner in the dungeon shifts in his shackles and hisses threats beneath his breath. The pirate checks her maps with pen in hand, bold black marks crossing out the coast. The man in the woods guards a Great Tree, his cunning mind consumed by a terrible plot. The schemer in Vardaros rolls gold coins between gloved fingers and hums.

And in the deepest depths of the world, chained beneath the endless sea, Zhan Tiri sits back and smiles.