#but I imagine it had something to do with me thinking about Knuckles' upbringing compared to these two

[sticks-stones-sonic-insanity]

Movie Shadow and Sonic both not knowing anything about where they came from is important 2 me btw

They had one person they cared about, a familar place they had grown up in, and that was it. For all they know, they could be the last of their kind, with no way to learn about their heritage or those who might have come before them. Their lives are completely different now, but I think there's just an extra layer of loss in that fact for them.

They had never even seen another hedgehog before until they met each other :(

[omgkalyppso]

The camp was cold, and the hour was late, and still Étoile was distracted by thought, their meditation offering no true rest as the moon travelled across the sky.

They were always gullible, and they knew this came from a secluded upbringing. Their mothers having instilled in them the value of taking people at their word, and treating them with dignity and respect, and this made it hard to manifest skepticism ... self-preservation ... duplicity.

Even so, they felt justified in assuming Astarion was being truthful of his past. His rage palpable at centuries of indignity. It was beyond imaging, and brought into question his every behaviour. How much of who he was, was learned? Was true to how he had grown or had always been? Or to how he wanted to be? Surely asking any of these questions would be inappropriate, contrary to Étoile’s intention, to take Astarion at his word. Whether this behaviour were his current mask or his truth, he’d done nothing to be treated without courtesy.

Étoile thought of his hands, cradling them just so as those fangs had sunk into them, and rolled their head back to either side of their shoulders. They wondered about their own autonomy, and if it were the same. Whether their brain worm was eating away at their thoughts, feeding ridiculous theories on vampiric desire to some unknown brain creature a plane away. Whether they were being influenced, drawn and distorted, to be thinking about him so.

“Astarion?”

“Yes?”

He turned at the sound of his name, teeth flashing in the firelight. His brow was slanted in the innocence that he seemed to sometimes let slip, intentionally or not, between the layers of pomp and decorum.

“I’m sorry,” Étoile said quickly. “I do not mean to interrupt your rest.”

Astarion brought a fist to the base of his chin, and then the back of two knuckles to the front of his lips, amused. He moved his hand aside to speak, swiping the front of his thumb across his chin as he looked away for a moment, indulging in fantasies of peace and freedom. “If only you were the worst of my problems.”

With a raise and lowering of their eyebrows, Étoile signaled their agreement, letting their gaze be drawn back to the fire so that they were not hounded by Astarion’s cheekbones, or smirk, or brutal, cutting garnet eyes.

“Well?” Astarion prompted, swiping two fingers across his forehead as if to dismiss a flyaway curl, perhaps a single strand that Étoile could not see, and they realized they were looking at him again, already abandoning the safety of distraction.

If Étoile was as bold, or confident, or provocative as their mind seemed to think they were, they might suggest, ‘If I’ve lost my tongue, perhaps you might help me find it?’ But they were not. Not nearly by far.

“I find myself thinking of our problems,” Étoile conceded.

There were many things about Étoile which were extremely elven — their patience, the way they took forever to reach their point in a conversation, their keen measure of attention — but their insistence upon treating their little band as a group, a team, was not one of them.

‘Our problems,’ Astarion was tempted to snort, the prospect that what they were going through was anything but personal, isolating and devastating, should have been a joke. Yet Étoile easily sold him on it, the idea that they were earnest, that they would fight a horde, a hunter, or a vampire lord for him out of a sense of camaraderie in shared-disaster. Was this sense misplaced? Astarion couldn’t guess, whether willingly or no, he could imagine himself easily cutting these ties Étoile sought to bind. All allies had limits in their usefulness, even friends, even family, even lovers.

He imagined Étoile’s need of connection came from their human mother, or perhaps a deep inherent loneliness that those with bleeding hearts often found themselves afflicted with. Few in Faerun felt sympathy the way Étoile seemed to, annoying at times, stopping to save or offer benefit to every poor soul they passed. Astarion might have assumed that these acts of charity could have been influenced by a desire for divine forgiveness or intervention in regards to the looming fate of doom brought on by the mindflayer worms, but knew better now, after time and conversation revealed Étoile for who they were.

Wrapping his hands around his knees, Astarion leaned back to empty air. “Any conclusions worth mentioning? I rather doubt I’m the best to offer comfort, if you’re simply finding yourself distraught with thoughts of oblivion.”

“You don’t need to offer words,” Étoile assured him, and this time Astarion did laugh, too tickled by his companion’s instinct to soothe him for being unable to assuage them, and with his lips still pulled back in a smile of disbelief, Étoile clarified their meaning. “May I sit with you?”

“Come then,” Astarion called, the humor still in his voice, as if it were a thing to be dismissed, and not a danger to the both of them, to be sharing a space with a relative stranger. He exaggerated, laying his hands over his heart, “Bring your head to my bosom that we might will away your fears.”

He watched Étoile rise to their feet, their mollified expression sending some sense of unjust contentment to the pit of his stomach. They were a hulking wall of muscle and honor, a gentle soul of fear and hope, and they were moving to sit behind him so they too could lean back against him, not knowing would touch him; lest the worms were more exacting than Astarion dared to worry.

“Thank you,” Étoile said, their voice a rumble in their chest that flitted through Astarion’s dead heart.

“Mm,” Astarion hummed. “If you feel so indebted as to thank me, what would you do if I sought recompense?”

Étoile tilted their head, long hair tickling Astarion’s bare neck. “A bite?”

Astarion found himself smiling, so readily Étoile had taken to being a prospective source of strength and vigor.

“You really must be less diplomatic if you wish to suffer more frequently of blood loss,” he teased, and Étoile scoffed, an embarrassed and easy laugh that rattled the both of them with the force of it. “We faced a veritable army of enemies today,” Astarion went on, relaxed. “No, I’ve had my fill of blood for the evening … but as for my curiosity? That yet hungers.”

“Oh?” The genuine surprise Étoile had managed in a single syllable was almost insulting, and Astarion wondered whether he’d been too aloof the last time they spoke of personal histories. There had been times in Étoile’s stories of life before the worm where he hadn’t known how to react, and simply hadn’t, or had mocked from the safety of distance and indifference, but he had found himself endeared and fascinated, even before their adventures, Étoile was interesting … alluring. What they lacked in charm, they seemed to substitute with their earnest heart, and the drive to secure the strength they needed to achieve their goals. This must have tempted others, before.

“What would you ask of me?” Étoile prompted, a blush upon their cheeks, worried about how the length of their tales had gotten away from them the last time they and Astarion had spoken.

“Tell me,” Astarion suggested, haltingly, “my dear, of the last lover you left behind?”

A sigh escaped Étoile, a noise of sorrow and regret. Astarion licked his lips, wondering whether, to this, Étoile might object, the prospect of having found a favor beyond their desire to balance every perceived responsibility just as satisfying as receiving an answer.

Goading them, he rolled his shoulders against the expanse of their back. “Surely there must have been someone? More than one? A string of broken hearts behind you?”

“A woman,” Étoile answered quickly, and Astarion blinked in surprise, staring, empty, into the distant forest, ears perked to attention. “A human woman.” They swallowed, nervous and mournful, but when they spoke again their tone was bitter, “It was less disappointing than my first tryst, but still she… Her interest didn’t extend beyond closed doors.”

Astarion’s expression twisted in scorn, having expected something more akin to the joy of youth or a gentle heartbreak. “More's the pity.”

“It was her first time with…”

As Étoile considered their phrasing, Astarion opted to offer a suggestion to ease their tension on the subject. “An elf?”

Étoile chuckled. “That too.”

Astarion pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, smiling about their circumstance. He hearkened them back to the present. “And I say again: Would that you were the worst of my problems.”

When Astarion felt Étoile begin to turn, it was faster than instinct to spin around onto his heel, facing them before they were anywhere close to looking over their shoulder.

Long, tortuous seconds provided the opportunity to pull away, but Astarion found himself still, except the way he heaved with each breath, except for how his heart beat like a man alive … as if it remembered infatuation beyond servitude, desire beyond subjugation.

Étoile smiled at him, and Astarion felt that he could sink into the earth in shame. ‘Bury me now, for I have seen all that creation has to offer, and the Hells are a mercy when compared to the loss of this moment. You will hate me come morning, and so will I.’

“I could be…” Étoile began to suggest, and Astarion huffed in amusement.

“Be a problem?” Astarion chuckled, resting one hand on his thigh to keep balance, and reaching out with his right to rest against Étoile’s collarbone. “Try as you might…” he mocked.

Their first kiss was slower than expected, Étoile twitching throughout the whole of it, as they considered jolting away, afraid they’d overstepped, afraid they’d misinterpret—

“Try harder,” Astarion whispered, allowing his plea to be covered in the grandeur of desire.

Astarion’s eyes were dark with the threat of promise, and whether by supernatural thrall or the splendor of seduction, Étoile only knew they were obliged to try again, and again, and again.

[katedrakeohd]

The Royal Honor 👑

Chapter Three

A ‘The Royal Heir’ Fanfiction

A repost for @ritachacha 😁

______________________________

Royal Affairs

As soon as they entered the villa Kate turned on Drake.

“Ok Drake, what's going on? Since when are you, Mr. ‘l despise anything stuffy and Noble’ suddenly ready to have your future child on the freaking throne?”

“When the King asks you to do him a favor it would be impolite to say no.” he replies.

Kate scoffs at his cookie cutter, matter of fact answer, “Oh please, he's not asking you for one of your fucking french fries, this is our child we're talking about.”

Drake frowns at her comparing the request to something so trivial.

“It’s complicated Ok! ..He's under pressure from the Royal Council, the Cordonian people, and his closest rivals to prove he's worthy of the crown. He went through the trouble of doing a whole damned engagement tour and then the Unity Tour, and our wedding and he's still no further ahead.” Drake argues, pacing the room.

“No kidding, he poured everything into bringing the Duchies together and for what? Our wedding almost didn't happen. Well our second wedding anyway. No wonder he's looking at us for his heir. Anton may have been caught, but the damage has been done. The orchards have been burned, his father is dead and whatever corrupt political alliances he had are gone with him. He's a King without a Queen, and thus a King without an heir. And a King without an heir is doomed to have a very short time on the throne.” Kate says.

“Exactly, he's poured so much into our future. The Duchy, the wedding, this honeymoon, we owe him for everything. That's why I was so honored for him to ask us for an heir. Granted it's really bad timing to ask us during our honeymoon, but with all the pressure he's under he didn't have much choice.” Drake insists, hoping she'll see his point.

“But he's the King, and he's still young. There are other women he could court to be his Queen. Can't he change the rules to give himself more time?” Kate argues.

“Well that's the thing he's already had a taste of what a political marriage would be like with his engagement to Madeleine. And he doesn't want to do that again. He wants to marry for love, like we did. But there's another complication to that happening.”

Kate settles down on the sofa, hugging one of the throw pillows to her chest and drawing up her knees. “What kind of complication?”

Drake sits down next to her on the sofa, pulling her legs across his lap, rubbing his hand up and down her shins. “Well you know how Nicholas and I have been really good friends for a really long time.”

“Yes, I know. It's almost a little weird how close you two are. And I've lived with the Beaumont brothers, so I've seen all kinds of weird.” Kate says with a grin, enjoying Drake's warm hands on her skin.

“Well, what if he and I were a little more than friends once upon a time.” Drake's hand stops stroking her leg and he runs his hand through his hair. He steals a quick glance at Kate and then quickly looks away, a blush forming on his cheeks.

Kate's body tenses, she looks at Drake with a mixture of shock and disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘More than friends’ .. you're not saying that you and the King were….lovers? As in gay?”

When Drake places his hand back on her knee she recoils, drawing her legs out of his reach. “No! Don't touch me.”

Drake gets up from the sofa. The hurt and mistrust in her eyes cutting him deeply, he never wanted her to find out this way. Or at all. He paces back and forth, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to explain. Kate hugs the pillow to herself again. Drawing up her knees. “No Kate, there's more to it than that. I'm not gay, he is.”

“But he can't be. I danced with him, kissed him… I…we..” she stammers, blushing as she remembered the few intimate moments she'd shared with Nicholas.

“Did you sleep with him?” Drake asks quietly, already knowing the answer.

“Well no, but that night in Lythikos early in the social season we shared a hot tub.” Kate admits, remembering that she'd spent part of the evening with Drake as well.

Drake places his hands on his hips, frowning at her. The disappointment on his face would have been more effective had he been wearing more than just a pair of shorts. Kate looked at him critically trying to imagine ‘gay' Drake, but couldn't wrap her mind around it.

“So after we’d shared drinks in Olivia's wine cellar you went to his room?”

“Well yes, he invited me. That's what makes this gay argument hard for me to accept.” Kate says with a little laugh, she wasn't sure if Drake was jealous or mad that she'd gone to another man's room that night.

“The whole social season was a lie, a carefully executed plan to force Nicholas to marry someone when he really didn't want to. His brother the playboy had abdicated his position as heir, leaving Constantine a less than desirable son as his only option.”

“But he plays the part so well. The Prince Charming act was flawless. It was all pretend?” Kate frowns with disbelief.

“He's been coached since a young age to hide his feelings. To only portray the stoic courtly diplomatic façade. But when the young girls at court came to the Palace he was more interested in playing with me and Maxwell than with them. The only exception being Olivia. But she was all bluster and flame, more one of the boys than a girly princess like my sister was.”

Drake sits down on the sofa again, with Kate keeping her distance. She was waiting to hear more about Drake and Nicholas’ relationship.

“Nicholas and I had been close as kids, and at first Constantine hadn't paid much attention to it. We'd have sleepovers that seemed innocent enough. But as we grew older and I became more interested in girls, Nicholas wasn't. I started to realize he was more interested in me.”

“So what happened between you two? Did you..did you sleep with him? Did sex happen?” She asked, bracing herself for the answers she didn't want to hear.

Drake feels uncomfortable under her scrutiny, knowing she's going to judge him no matter what he says. “There was no sex, that's where I had drawn the line. We..kissed or cuddled and the occasional touching happened. I wasn’t attracted to him in that way, but I didn't push him away though. Didn't want to hurt him. I saw myself as a safe way for him to explore his sexuality without feeling ashamed of it. I'm breaking a huge promise to him by talking about this to you.”

“Drake, I don't know what to say. That's so sad. You love him don't you.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Drake finally admits it to himself and to Kate. “I do.”

“And he really loves you too, doesn't he? “He's still in love with you after all of these years.” Kate asks quietly.

Drake nods.

Kate struggles to process what's she's learned about Nicholas and about the man she loves, the man she married. She blinks and then frowns.

“But if he's gay, why would he propose to me?” Kate asks.

“Well it's sort of complicated, I know you hate that word by now. Nicholas and I had been having sleepovers since childhood, but it wasn't until we got caught in bed together as teenagers that it set off warning bells. “

“Who found you? Was it Bastien?” she says quietly.

Drake nods, “Yeah, and it was his responsibility to report back to the King. After that Nicholas and I weren't allowed to be alone together. When high school ended I spent the summer in Texas with my Mom, looking at various colleges and working at the family ranch. When I came back to Cordonia at the end of the summer it was like Nicholas was a whole other person. Any kind of physical relationship between us was over. He barely looked at me, and when he did his eyes always seemed to be full of pain and regret. “

Kate moves over closer to Drake on the sofa, taking his hand in hers. Knowing this was his story to tell and that it had to be difficult for him. She didn't want to pry, just sat and waited for him to continue. He squeezes her hand back in silent thanks.

Sucking in a deep breath he lets it out in a rush, his knee shaking nervously.

“Like I said Nicholas played the game well, he had to. The future of Cordonia was riding on it. Constantine had his hooks in him so bad, it was like Nicholas was his puppet. Bastien became more than just a guard, he was the King's spy. He believed that if he left Nicholas to find a wife on his own it would end in disaster. And if Nicholas had stayed with Madeleine it would have. He didn't think it would be possible to fall in love, being the type of man that he is, but with you he was wrong. You're different than all the other crown chasers with silver spoons in their mouths and a polite stick shoved up their asses.”

“If you weren't allowed to be alone with Nicholas, how do you know so much about him?” Kate asks, rubbing her thumb against his hand.

“It wasn't until after his father died that he felt comfortable enough to open up to me about what was going on. But by then it was too late for him and I, because I had proposed to you and therefore made my choice. He explained how he had fallen in love with you and had seen you as his one chance at marrying for love. He felt that as a modern, American woman that you'd be more accepting of who he is and that between the two of you that you could make a marriage work.”

Kate scoffs at Nicholas’ logic, “But I wasn't in love with him Drake, I'm in love with you. That's why I turned him down.”

Drake nods, bringing they're joined hands up to his mouth and kissing her knuckles. “Yes I know, that's where this Royal Heir comes in. He loves us both for different reasons, and there's nobody else he trusts more to supply his next in line. He knows that between us we'll give the child the best upbringing. To raise a modern and progressive Monarch that will give Cordonia its brightest future.”

Kate looks down at their joined hands, then places her other hand on her belly. “Wow, nothing like putting a lot of pressure and responsibility on us and your tiny shoulders little apple seed.”

Drake chuckles softly, leaning over to kiss her on the temple. “I like that our ’little apple seed'.

Kate bites her lip, still unsure. “That's just it Drake. What if I don't want our baby to be the next leader of Cordonia? You've seen first hand what growing up in the royal court is like. I want our child to have the most normal upbringing they can. With camping trips, eating s'mores by the campfire, going to the beach, playing carefree with friends. What kind of life can our son or daughter have with the anchor of a future crown around their neck? To be constantly in the public eye, and judged for everything they do?”

Drake wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her in for another kiss. “No matter what we'll make sure this child is going to be ours first, so we can love, nurture and raise them right. I intend to keep them as safe and as much out of the public eye as possible. I know it won't be easy, but with Nicholas’ help we'll manage.”

Kate stiffens, “I don't want his help. I want him to have absolutely zero input into how I raise my child. Courtly protocol be damned. Especially if it means having a child that turns out like Madeleine, Neville, Tariq or whatever.”

With a sigh Drake rubs his forehead, “No I meant he could help with security. And with keeping our child safe from the press.”

Getting up from the sofa, Kate folds her arms and is determined to stand her ground. She was still trying to find the honor in letting the King appoint their future child as his anything. She understood Nicholas’ reasons, and Drake's reasons but was still trying to find a reason for her to agree to anything.

“I've seen first hand how ruthless and greedy the press can be when they want a story, or how they can invent stories that..that hurt people.” Kate stammers, her anger and indignation dissolving into tears.

Drake jumps up from the sofa, trying to pull her into his arms, but Kate just pushes him away. “No don't, I'm too pissed off to be pampered. Nicholas is under pressure to supply an heir? He can find someone else. My womb is not for rent damn it.”

“But Kate…” Drake pleads, trying to reach for her again.

“But no. When we got married I pledged my body and soul to you Drake. To you. Granting you sole permission to create a child with me and for my body to carry and nurture it with all the love that you and I brought together. Our child Drake. What happens if we can only have one child? Or for heaven's sake if we were blessed to have two? Would he want that child too as a spare?”

“Kate..” Drake's face creases with sadness and he looks down with a sigh. He knew he'd exhausted his argument, and didn't know how to reply.

“Look I get it that he's done so much for us. And I'm grateful to him and the Beaumont's for everything they've done. But I don't think I could handle the media and everyone else being that far into our personal business. As soon as we agree to this we're going to have zero privacy.”

Drake sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well that's the thing. Nicholas approached me a week before we left for our honeymoon. And I already told him we'd do it. While we've been away they already started working on our nursery back at Valtoria.”

“You what?! How dare you..” Kate goes pale with shock, and then her eyes go dark with rage. Without thinking twice about it she slaps Drake hard on the cheek.

He staggers backward a step and then raises his hand to his hot, stinging face. His eyes water as he looks at her again. “I..I guess I deserved that. I'm sorry Kate. I really am.”

“How dare you make this decision for me, for us, based on your own twisted sense of loyalty? I suppose Nicholas coming to us to ask this morning was just a formality. He doesn't give a damn if I say no, because it's already arranged. He assumes I'm pregnant, and can't wait to tell the press his god damned heir is on the way.”

Drake nods. “Yeah pretty much, there's going to be a press conference waiting for us back in Valtoria. And after we get settled in and meet with the Royal Council, you and I have a doctor's appointment.”

“So I'm just supposed to smile graciously and go along with this farce? As if it isn't batshit crazy? As if I'm going to wear a gopro camera on my thigh that's pointed right at my crotch so everyone can see what comes or doesn't come out of it.” She says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Her rage still simmering under the surface.

Drake frowns at her, throwing up his hands in disgust, “Seriously Kate, that's ridiculous. That's not how it will be at all.”

“Oh really? Just you wait. We'll be all over the tabloids within a week. And if I dare refuse to let my unborn child become the heir I'll be roasted and torn apart. As if becoming the newly minted Duke and Duchess hasn't already made us celebrities, our newborn is going to be the most targeted person in the country. I don't know how I'm going to survive this. How we're going to survive this.” Her fists clenched in anger she looks at something to throw at him.

Drake's finally had enough, he's been slapped and he didn't want to see Kate start flipping over tables and throwing things at him. His patience is gone.

“What would you have me do? His back is to the wall and the vultures are circling. He all but begged me to help him out. I couldn't say no.” he argues, his voice rising.

Kate crosses her arms, sizing Drake up with his bare chest heaving, his eyes dark with passion, wearing nothing but shorts. Damn he was sexy when he was fired up, but right now she definitely wasn't in the mood. She feels a sleazy thought enter her mind, knowing it was a low blow, but she couldn't help it. When he went behind her back and agreed to this bullshit he had crossed a line. Walking up to Drake with a smile on her face she kneels down on the floor in front of him and looks up. Her smile quickly replaced by a look of disgust,

“Oh he begged? Was he on his knees like this when he did it? Did he look up at you with hunger in his eyes? Did he offer to suck your godamned dick if you said yes?”

Drake backs away from her in horror, feeling dirty and violated by her accusation.

“What? No! Of course not. Jesus Kate. What's gotten into you?”

Kate gets up off the floor, grabbing a throw pillow off the sofa and hurling it at his head. He ducks and scowls at her, “Hey! Stop it.”

Kate scoffs, with derision. “Pfft, I know what's not getting into me tonight is you! You can sleep on the fucking sofa! Oh and enjoy your damned dinner with Nicholas, I won't be there.”

Turning on her heel she storms into the bedroom and slams the door.

[zarinthelwrites]

Blooming from the Mud Pt. 10 (Bleach/ DGM)

“Captain Unohana told me that I’m not allowed back into the 4th Division until I reign in my reiatsu,” says Kanda slowly, a bit of information to distract Sojun from the more interesting question of where the energy he’s been absorbing is going.

“Truly?” says Sojun, puzzled. “But Captain Unohana’s always so nice...”

Kanda ignores that, and pulls out more food to chew on.

“You’re distracting me,” says Sojun. “Even though you’re bait, that shouldn’t have triggered a Kumon to open like that. I’ll have to report this to my father once we return. You should do the same for your Captain.”

“Kenpachi won’t care,” says Kanda. He can hear the creak of wagon wheels in the distance and wants to leave before he has to deal with civilians on top of everything else.

“Then who do his subordinates report to...” Sojun trails off.

“Ikkaku,” says Kanda, decisively erasing the pile of paperwork from his mind. “Fishbone, Lizard, get over here. It’s time to--”

“Excuse me, Shinigami-san?”

It was a little kid. Blond, blue eyed, frail, sad-- the whole kit and kaboodle, right there.

Kanda swallows down a curse.

“Your name...” Sojun chose that time to speak up. “It’s Izuru Kira, correct?”

The kid’s eyes lock onto Sojun and widen in complete shock.

“Lord Kuchiki!” He cries, dropping into a low bow.

“I’m simply the heir, young Kira,” says Sojun. “Please, straighten up. I don’t think I’ve seen you since the hour of your birth. Tell me, where are your parents? These woods are dangerous.”

The kid swallows.

“I know, Kuchiki-sama,” he says, eyes wet. “They come behind me.” Behind him was the wagon, pulled by a two horses and escorted by four guards. Beyond the driver, there was nothing living in that wagon.

“I hope I will return in time for the funeral proceedings,” says Sojun, numbly. “You need not fear the path ahead. Between me and Kanda, this has become... quite the thorough sweep through the Hollows of the area.”

“I thank you, Kuchiki-sama, Shinigami-san,” the kid says, bowing to Sojun then Kanda. The procession passed through the clearing quickly.

“Who was that?” Kanda asks Sojun, not sure that he wants to know.

“That was...the new Lord Kira,” says Sojun, tired worry crossing his face. “Heading to the Seireitei to cremate and bury his parents among the noble’s graveyard. The Kiras... they are low in status, but their noble blood is as strong as any. It was not sickness that ended the former Lord and Lady, or they would have gone to the Seireitei for aid.”

“Hollow attack, then,” says Kanda.

“...Quite,” says Sojun, bitterly. “It seems we were days late.”

“We’re over a decade late,” corrects Kanda, mildly. He cracks his knuckles, then his neck. “Twenty-three districts to go,” he says, finally. “Stop burning daylight, Sojun.”

“You’re the one who slept the day away,” Sojun points out as they continue their journey.

“Shut up, Sojun.”

The days past quickly, and their travel time shortens more and more as Kanda picks up the basics of Shunpo from Sojun.

“It’s just taking less steps between one place and another?” Kanda repeats, baffled. “That’s it?”

“It’s using speed to take less steps,” Sojun disagrees, demonstrating the method again. “Don’t overthink it.”

Kanda tries again, blurring forward only to barely misjudge his distance and trip on a protruding tree root, sending him straight towards the ground. He can feel how badly Sojun’s urge to laugh at him is conflicting with his upbringing, and if the urge to laugh ever wins Kanda is going to cut out his tongue.

It’s not til they arrive at the 56th District that Sojun asks Kanda about his own zanpakuto. Not about what the zanpakuto did, exactly, but--

“That blue fire you used,” says Sojun. “Before you triggered your shikai. Is that teachable? A silent Kido?”

Kanda considers. He has no idea what a Kido is, so probably not.

“The sword is our soul, right?” He says finally. “Or a mirror of our soul. It's something that brings what’s inside, outside.”

“That’s...one way of putting it,” says Sojun. His voice seems a bit strangled.

“So you just... light yourself on fire, but yourself is the sword,” Kanda tries to explain. Explaining things is horrible, actually. He regrets it immediately.

“Doesn’t that...hurt?” asks Sojun, eyeing Kanda worriedly.

“No?” I doesn’t, surprisingly enough. When he was wielding Mugen, it was more a side effect than anything. Not that Mugen hasn’t given him plenty of painful side effects.

Sojun sighs.

“Forgive me my curiosity, it was an ill thought question.”

Kanda tilted his head up to look at Sojun.

“You don’t actually want to wield the blue fire,” Kanda says, turning the question over in his head. “You just want a step between nothing and using your shikai.”

Sojun winces slightly.

“A non reiatsu intensive step,” he specifies. “I do know some Kido, even if my control is not the finest.”

A step before shikai... Kanda scrapes through his memory. He knows he’s heard a piece of this puzzle somewhere before.” Who had first mentioned shikai's to him.... Hmmm... ah. Kanda drops his fist onto his open palm.

“Yumichika!” He says, triumphantly. “That’s who it was.”

“The 5th seat?”

“You need a fake shikai,” says Kanda. Like he had been using before he figured out Kurayami’s name.

“Excuse me?”

“A fake shikai. Use the wrong name to call your sword, or the wrong instruction. Your sword...probably won’t like it, though. Kurayami... it will release some power when I call it by a different name but then it backlashes.” Kanda shrugs. He doesn’t like being misnamed either, so it’s a completely understandable reaction.

“I will have to negotiate with Rakkazakura, then,” Sojun says, hope and determination lighting his eyes. He pauses, then bows to Kanda.

Kanda freezes.

“I thank you for your help, and for your kindness,” says Sojun, and his smile flashes across his face as a falling star, more beautiful for its fading.

Allen had once compared Kanda to the fae of legend, who had spurned all thanks and gratitude as horrible traps that bound them to servitude. He was delirious with fever at the time, of course, but with Allen that never meant very much.

“You’re mad,” Kanda tells Sojun, much more sincere than he meant to be.

“Then you must be very fond of madmen,” says Sojun, the last hint of his smile still lingering as he straightens.

And... how can Kanda deny that?

Compared with the conversation that came before it, clearing out the Hollow nest that has taken up residence in the 56th District is a piece of cake.

“We need to return to sending expeditions beyond the first 40 Districts more often,” says Sojun, horrified the the number of Hollows that they had destroyed. “This level of nesting truly cannot be allowed to go on.”

“Return?” Kanda asks.

“A little more than a decade ago... the Soul Society faced an unprecedented loss in power,” Sojun says, eyes darkening. “It was...a tragedy, to lose so many powerful pillars of the Seireitei to the schemes of one man.”

“Oh?”

“Urahara Kisuke....” Sojun states. “The former Captain of the 12th Division. He was exiled to the Living World for his crimes. He should have been stripped of his powers also, but. The former Shihouin Clan Head and Captain of the 2nd Division accepted his crimes as her own and followed him into exile. The Shihouin Clan... would not let any punishment that had her be stripped of her powers allowed to proceed.”

That sounded... incredibly suspicious.

“The shockwaves from these terrible losses still run through Soul Society,” continues Sojun, regretfully. “The manpower shortage resulted in many missions being delayed or overlooked, and the farther districts are always the first to fall by the wayside. It is unconscionable, truly. I will alert the other lieutenants of the need to increase the number of expeditions before the problem continues to grow. I cannot imagine the difficulties the highest Districts are facing.”

“It’s not that bad to the south,” says Kanda, vaguely. “The children tend to know which parts of the forest to avoid.”

Sojun stumbles.

“Kanda, I--” he says. “I mean, I ah....” He drew in a deep breath. “I hate to ask, but how far south were you, precisely?”

“78th District South,” says Kanda, not quite amused. “I imagine I cleared most of the local Hollow population all the way through the 51st District on my way up, so that should help the patrols.”

“I imagine it will,” says Sojun, looking at Kanda thoughtfully. “I would say thank you for your aide, but I imagine you won’t appreciate it,”

“No,” says Kanda.

“But I would like to--”

“No.”

“I’ll think of something,” Sojun promises.

“Don’t.”

In the end, the entire mission takes less than three weeks, but Kanda winds up teaching Sojun how to fish anyway.

“I wonder how much paperwork has piled up in my absence,” says Sojun as they part ways.

“The next person who hands me paperwork will lose their hand,” says Kanda darkly as he heads towards the 11th Division.

[fromthedeskofelizabeththird]

Bewitched, Body and Soul 2/5?

Areum is under the care of the loathsome Jumin Han. At the last minute, she is invited to a dance at Shoreditch.

The story so far...

Intro - If You Go Chasing Rabbits

Jumin Route - Bewitched, Body and Soul - Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Mr Han spoke only briefly on the road to Shoreditch.

"Miss Areum, the people at this gathering will almost certainly ask you for more information about your lineage. It is imperative that you tell them we are related on my mother's side and not my father's."

"As you say."

And right there and then, the conversation was over before it had even begun. Areum presumed that he meant to resolve any potential controversies before they arose, though it only left her with more questions.

“And what shall I say to them?”

“Pardon?”

“When I introduce myself as some relative of your mother’s,” she said. “Presumably they shall ask after her health or in which manner I am related to her. What shall I say to them?”

She did not mean to be intrusive, though she understood how it might be seen in such a manner. She certainly did not question how it was Mr Han seemed to think so.

“Ah,” he said. “In that case express your gratitude, explain that you are my second cousin and tell them...tell them that she is better.”

As it happened, the town hall was every bit as overwhelming as the one that existed in her imagination. As she climbed out of the coach, she was practically aghast at the number of people in equally expensive dresses, proclaiming all manner of hopes for the evening that made little sense to her. She knew not one of their faces, nor any of their motivations and as she took Mr Han’s arm, it was oddly comforting.

A stout gentleman by the name of Mr Hartley greeted them at the door and from the casual manner of his greeting, she took them for old acquaintances, which as a matter of fact they were.

Up until only recently, Mr Hartley had been swallowed up in fog of despair. So much so, in fact, that most of his remaining friends and relatives were growing tired of his endless parties and dances. Barely a month passed that he did not demand some sort of gathering to distract himself from what he considered to be the painfully obvious emptiness in his life. In truth, he considered himself robbed, though not of any wealth or riches or even of a family member. No, Mr Hartley’s grief was far, far worse.

As a young man, Mr Hartley and the previous Mr Han studied together at the same boarding school and grew to be lifelong friends. When that same dear friend passed away only a little over a year beforehand, he was unable to accept it for a fact. How does one mourn a friend? They were not family, not members of the same household, and every ounce of etiquette commanded him to act as usual. Mr Hartley wanted to wear black for the rest of his days, to retire into his house and never speak to a living soul, but instead he settled for going out of his way to extend the hand of friendship to Mr Han’s only son.

“I did not think you would come!” He said, clapping Mr Han on the shoulder. “It's been so long since you've left the north.”

“I can assure you that it was not an intentional avoidance on my part,” said Mr Han. “Of late my affairs have been...complicated.”

And as is so often the way between old friends, Mr Hartley and Mr Han said nothing more of the matter though exchanged the darkest of looks as if they meant to say a good deal indeed.

“I’d like to introduce you to my cousin,” said Mr Han, with an intent to change the subject. “She's new here in London.”

Areum feared the man might look into her face and see her for her backwater upbringing as the Finchley girls so commonly believed that they could of other people. A slightly extended nose or freckle in the wrong place was enough to leave them conspiring into the night, though the fault was not entirely theirs. They were not the ones to burn Areum’s workhouse clothing, nor scrub the stink and dirt from her body before she was permitted inside.

As it was, Mr Hartley appeared only a little confused before taking her hand and kissing her knuckle through the glove.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear,” he said. “How do you find London so far?”

She took in her surroundings: the faces she did not recognise, the uncomfortable dress she had had no choice but to wear and Mr Han’s expectant silence beside her. Mr Han who believed her to be a thief and worse, yet was introducing her as a cousin.

“It is not what I am used to,” she said.

“We shall stay here for no more than three hours,” said Mr Han as they entered the hall. “Now that we have made our faces known, Mr Hartley can only claim offence at an early retreat, but given the size of this gathering, it is unlikely that he shall be able to keep a proper track of the time.”

Areum barely heard a word that he was saying, she was too busy watching the careful way the serving staff delivered food out onto the dance floor. They were elegant in ways that she had never before seen, weaving in between guests like minnows in a stream.

To their immediate left, there appeared to be a large crowd of particularly boisterous women, all crying out in despair or glee at once over a particular person at the center.

“Now, sweet ladies,” said someone she recognised, “do excuse me a moment.”

It was Zen, the extraordinarily handsome gentleman from the previous day. He had on a shirt of bright peacock blue and several of his admirers appeared to have given him treats in the shape of earrings, bracelets or just plain foodstuffs.

“My dear Miss Areum,” he said with a smile and she knew without having to look that their eyes were upon her. “You're magnificent this evening.”

He reached out for her hand and she accepted the gesture, turning away from the icy glares of both his admirers and Mr Han as he planted a kiss on her knuckles.

“I did not know you would be coming,” she said, the delight in her voice completely genuine.

“Zen here is a socialite,” said Mr Han. “If you class such a thing as an honest form of employment, then one could say that it is his job to be here.”

“And, pray tell, Mr Han,” said Zen, “how does your employment compare to mine?”

Areum had the feeling the debate could go on for a while and watched Mr Hartley on the other side of the room. His greeting to each new set of guests was the same: a raucous laugh and question of health, followed by a gesture to enter into the hall without truly waiting for an answer.

And it was at that moment her blood ran cold, for Mr Hartley welcomed a number of faces into the room that she recognised and it did not ease her nerves one bit. As Mr Finchley shook Mr Hartley’s hand and each of his daughters bobbed down into polite curtsies that gave off the illusion of fine breeding and good manners-only half of which was true- she was half tempted to run in that direction, explain her circumstances and beg for forgiveness, though she knew better than to risk such a venture. Lord Finchley, his wife and all four of his daughters might have been sympathetic to her situation were she not plainly in an expensive dress, accompanied by Mr Han.

“I-” She said, gripping onto Mr Han’s arm and wondering what to do.

“Miss Areum?” He said.

She wondered if she ought to tell them that that was her family, though in the end she did not get the chance. Mr Hartley, in his greeting to the Finchley family, did the honourable thing to a man with so many daughters and pointed out the richest man in the room. Mr Finchley might have been able to pass such an opportunity by, but Lady Finchley certainly could not.

Areum was not a proud soul, nor inclined to ambition, but her heart had skipped a beat the first time Lady Finchley ever spoke to her. It happened so very rarely and Mrs Ridgebit made it quite clear that they were not to expect praise, that on the one occasion the Lady glanced up into her face and, smiling, told her she was really quite pretty, she found herself turning into a babbling fool.

The opposite occurred as Lady Finchley approached on that evening, however and took her hand without an ounce of recognition.

“My dear,” she said. “I’ve heard that you are new in London. Perhaps you might enjoy the company of my daughters?”

Areum remained stiff as a board, watching as Lord Finchley introduced Mr Han and Zen to Charlotte in her favourite pink ribbons, Margaret, who was already huffing and puffing about some injustice or another, Annette, who took one glance at Areum and proclaimed that that was exactly the dress that she had wanted and Rebecca, who picked her nose and did not seem to realise she was being introduced to anyone, let alone two handsome strangers.

She wondered if there was a polite way to say that she would rather die.

“I should like that very much,” she said, knowing of course that if she went to tea with the Finchley girls she ought to consider death and dismemberment a genuine possibility.

Somewhat luckily, however, they all seemed to be distracted the dancefloor.

“Look!” Margaret cried out. “Effy’s here!”

In the chaos of everything that had happened, she had all but forgotten poor Effy. It had not occurred to her that she ought to be worried about Annette’s rotten scheme and in amongst each of her individual worries about Mr Han’s strange house and whether or not she would have a home to return to, there was no room for concerns about the switching of the letters.

The realisation must have left her looking rather shocked, for Lady Finchley apologised for their spirited ways as they dashed across to the dancefloor. She stared, unabashed, at Effy in the distance. Effy who, by rights, ought not be there, and certainly not with such a bright smile. The truth was clear to her even as she watched Annette pull an envelope from the seam of her dress.

And right there and then, Areum realised the truth of it; that the Finchley girls had not been finished in their conspiracy when she left them and now they had something far worse in mind. Doubtless they still meant for Effy to pass on the note to Dr. Ingram and perhaps they had even convinced her to leave the note in their safekeeping to ensure she did not change her mind on the matter. However, this time around, it seemed they meant Effy's humiliation to be far more public, in such a manner that no one would suspect they had more than just a supporting role.

In about the same moment, Areum realised her tremendous good fortune. If the Finchley girls had continued in their original plan, they might have succeeded; as a maid, she was divided by several layers of social class and etiquette and had no power to interfere beyond the manner they instructed her to. As Miss Areum, the newcomer to London and sweet relative of Mr Han, it was not only expected of her to involve herself in such delicate matters, but she had the power to ruin their plans in an instant if she only considered her options carefully. She did not wish to make an enemy of the Finchley girls by drawing attention to herself, nor did she wish to cause a conspiracy, which would almost certainly lead people to unearth the truth that she had no real family ties to Mr Han, which would almost certainly cause a scandal.

She could not allow them to ruin sweet Effy, who had always shown remarkable kindness on the few occasions that she had actually seen her in person. Effy was a gentle sort, but never seemed to have realised that every cup of hot tea accidentally poured down her front, every accidental nudge that sent her stumbling, every piece of gossip accidentally misinformed was in fact no accident at all.

“I think that I should like to dance after all,” she said, turning to Zen and Mr Han the instant Lord and Lady Finchley found some other person to greet. “Would either of you care to join me?”

Zen beamed at the opportunity, though Mr Han’s expression did not flicker.

“Do not forget your place, Miss Areum,” he said. “You are not here to enjoy yourself. You are here because I do not trust you enough to leave you in my home.”

“Miss Areum is your sweet cousin and new to London, remember,” said Zen, linking his arm through hers somewhat forwardly. “It will raise far more questions if she does not share a dance or two.”

Mr Han glanced from Zen’s arm in hers to the dance floor and back again and seemed to come to a conclusion of sorts.

“If you wish to undertake in such vulgarity, I shan’t stop you,” he said. “But I will be watching.”

“Don't think too much into his words,” said Zen as he led her to the dance floor. “Don't tell him I said it, but he's mostly all bluster.”

Somewhat understandably, he had interpreted her quietness as offense at Mr Han’s comments. In truth, however, she examined the room for Effy and the Finchley girls, regretting her plan almost instantaneously. She had never seen Dr. Ingram before and there were so many nearly identical people in the room that she could not pick out one face or waistcoat from the next.

“You must know everyone in this room, Zen,” she said, the scheme coming together as if by magic.

“I do,” he said, proud in his knowledge, “why just over there is dowager Thornton. She has eighteen children and all of them are feline….The aromatic gentleman beside her is Mr Chalk: a man of fine breeding, but unfortunate biology.”

“Unfortunate...biology?”

“The man suffers from excessive flatulence. He has a shocking amount of money and a soft heart for the problems of fair maidens, but no one has ever been able to tolerate being in his company for longer than an hour at most.”

Areum tried to hold back her laughter, but found that she could not. To think that this was the wonderland the Finchley daughters dreamed about!

“And what about that gentleman over there?”

She had spotted Effy a little while beforehand, blushing in the presence of a man with sharp eyes and hair that lay on soft amber curls.

“Dr. Ingram,” said Zen. “Currently head over heels with Miss Euphemia, so if he’s your type, I should cut your losses now.”

“Not a problem,” she said. “Believe me.”

She wondered how events might have transpired if she had actually met Dr. Ingram, as opposed to only hearing about his jawline and strange way of speaking as she dressed Annette and her sisters. If she truly had been born the blood relative of Mr Han, might she have felt differently about the plot to unseat Effy?

It was too late for sentimentality, however, for she saw Effy pass the envelope to Dr. Ingram. She knew she had to intervene before he opened it and the current dance everyone was enjoying gave her an idea.

“Miss Effy!” Areum cried out, all but dragging Zen towards her and taking her by surprise. “I did not expect to find you here.”

Effy did not recognise her, but reached out to embrace her anyway.

“We met at the Wintersend dance,” said Areum, surprising even herself with how easily the lie came to her. “It was only for a moment, so I can't imagine you'll remember me. I'm Areum, here with my cousin Mr Han.”

She remembered dressing the Finchley daughters for the Wintersend dance and also their commentary for several days afterwards. Effy had most certainly been there and would not risk offense by admitting to the gap in her memory. As expected, her reaction was to feign familiarity.

“Miss Areum, it's so good to see you again!” She said. “I was just telling Dr. Ingram how much I was hoping to speak with you.”

Dr. Ingram was far too well mannered to express any sort of genuine confusion, just as Zen was too polite to acknowledge the lie. As it was, the men only pretended to understand both sets of falsehoods.

“Zen and I were just about to share a dance,” said Areum. “Would you care to join us?”

She was far from eager to join in the complicated display of outstretched arms and turns, but it was her best chance at getting close to Dr. Ingram while also avoiding his line of sight.

“I’d love that!” Effy squealed. “Oh, it shall be just like Wintersend all over again.”

As they approached the dance floor to wait their turn, Zen leaned across to whisper in her ear.

“What are you doing?”

Areum watched Dr. Ingram tuck Annette’s letter into the pocket of his jacket; a jacket meant for decoration far more than any sort of practical use, leaving the letter visible even after he reached for Effy’s arm.

“I'm fixing a mess,” she whispered to Zen. “I'll explain it to you later.”

After everyone had applauded the band, the next dance began. Areum’s initial steps were clumsy, taking one step towards Zen, then crashing into Dr. Ingram when she stepped backwards instead of swapping places with the person to her immediate left. She smiled widely, as if in bashful embarrassment and then readied herself for the second chorus. The next time around, she had a better idea of the footwork and slipped her hand towards Dr. Ingram’s pocket as she passed him, snatching the letter clean out of his pocket without him noticing.

Her terrible dancing had caught the attention of Zen’s admirers and they clamoured around the edges of the dance floor, waiting to ask him for the next dance. As everyone else turned to applaud the flutist, she slipped in amongst their ranks, leaving them to distract Zen and give her several minutes of solitude.

What a delight it was to be free again! Free to dart in between the strangers at the dance without a care who glanced in her direction. This was a dance that did not confuse her; dodging the drunk and the wealthy so nimbly that she was out of their sight before it occurred to them that she had crossed their paths at all.

She cast the letter into a fireplace and felt a strange sense of self satisfaction as she watched it burn. Effy would never know how close she had come to ruin. With a bit of luck she might-

Areum’s heart skipped a beat as someone placed a hand on her shoulder. She turned away from the fire and found herself looking into the expressionless features of Mr Han, who in all of the excitement, she found that she had forgotten.

“What brings you over here?” He asked and she glanced across at the charred remains of the letter. She wondered if she ought to tell him the truth about Effy, though decided against it. It seemed the sort of indelicate affair that would only further tarnish whatever terrible impression he already had of her.

“M...my hands were cold,” she said, feeling quite the fool for saying so, considering she wore gloves.

Mr Han considered her answer and for a moment she was certain that he had seen her untruth, though he did not comment on if he did. In the end he reached for her arm and led her back through the hall, all of the while complaining about Zen and his love for pretty faces and saying nothing of Areum’s taciturn silence, nor her backwards glances at the burning letter on the fireplace.