#but alas the thought of talking to people rattles my bones :(

[magredel]

thank you for fueling my Silly Guy Disease

He's fun to draw

Welcome Home Fandom come find me I beg you I need to talk to someone about the sillies

[yandere-sins]

Helloo i broke my finger yesterday and i was wondering if you could do yan!genshin (Kaeya and rest up to you :)) ) reacting to their darling also having a broken hand. Have a great week and make sure to drink something byee :)

I hope you have a quick recovery! >-< Thank you for your request, I mixed some comfort in for you ^-^

a/n: YO, I SWEAR I READ THE REQUEST but I only now realized after finishing it you wanted reactions from multiple people. Sorry, I saw Kaeya and was instantly like, “Ah, yup, now I’ve got an idea for that guy!” and then only wrote him, I’m so sorry ;;

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Everything could have been so perfect if not for the outbursts.

Sometimes it was him, sometimes it was you. Yours hardly counted as violent even though you tried to hit him with fists that were soft like pats and scratch him with nails as short as he could possibly trim them. The only things that really hurt him were your words, and even those he could choose to ignore or brush off as emotions put into sounds, nothing more, nothing less. As much as he loved hearing you talk, Kaeya never wanted to consider the poison-dripping, gut-wrenching insults you threw at him as something you really meant. So he pretended not to listen, chuckling even when it felt like you were stabbing daggers in his heart. Your relationship was special. So special, in fact, that he'd allow you to be a little toxic to him, enduring your harsher treatments of his feelings with the patience of a saint.

What he could not ignore was his name falling off your lips for the first time in months.

Just moments ago, he had dismissed the tantrum you were throwing, wooden floors creaking, and amenities squeaking as you pushed, rattled, and shoved things around in your way while he unpacked groceries for you to snack on and for dinner later. You needed to put out your energy somehow, especially when he wasn't as responsive as you'd like him to be. Luckily, everything was solid wood, not easily bothered by you either. One day, your anger would subside, Kaeya was sure. Then he'd buy you prettier things to make up for settling you into such an ungainly room, spoil you with all the finer things in life, for you to enjoy blissful days in your shared apartment.

But, alas, there was a prize to pay for the precaution he took.

"Kaeya..." you whimpered, his movements stilling as he straightened his back. The ruckus behind him had finally quieted down after one last loud bang, and a few seconds passed before you uttered his name in what he could only assume must have been desperation for him to acknowledge you. Though when he whipped around, happy to give you his attention if you asked so sweetly, his eye flew wide open as he fixated on your form, sunken to the floor into a pitiful puddle, cradling your arm against your chest. It made him realize in shock that it wasn't the need to have his attention that made you call out. It was pain.

"Kaeya, it hurts," you sobbed, tears brimming your eyes, body shaking. Your vision must have been so blurry, you could barely focus on his face. And even worse, the pain must have been unbearable, for it made you unsteady and light-headed, your body rocking back and forth, barely holding on to your conscience. You were too calm for what he was seeing, and Kaeya pushed away from the kitchen counter, striding over in two big steps just in time to catch you from falling over.

His heart plummeted at the sight of your wrist, the joint bent unnaturally, a big lump forming as it swelled too fast for just a bruise. The sound of something banging into another hadn't been you merely rearranging the decor again roughly. It must have been your arm hitting an edge your bones couldn't withstand, and guilt crept up Kaeya's spine as he realized it was because of that solid wood he thought was a good idea to purchase. All he ever did was for your benefit.

A promise to protect you, love, and care for you in a way that Kaeya saw fit.

"Fuck, Baby... Hey, talk to me!" Kaeya winced as he pushed your head over to face him, trying to read the unfamiliar look in your eyes, glazed over in what must have been shock. "It hurts," you whispered so softly, losing your grip on reality. Then suddenly, in one blink, everything changed, the shock releasing in a choked but shattering scream as you jerked forward, huddling over your arm as the pain overcame you.

Kaeya fumbled to hold you back, pull the broken wrist out of your clutches to keep it from being agitated, but you were struggling against him, completely lost in the anguish of your wound. "It hurts!" you reiterated, sobbing. This time the words burst out louder, breaking Kaeya's heart as he heard you scream and hyperventilate, the air seemingly unwilling to reach your lungs.

"I know! I know..." Kaeya panicked, grabbing you by your shoulders to pull you back against him. You screamed as he snatched your wrist, moving you too quickly for the agitated fracture that caused you even more pain. The sound pierced his ears, but it hurt his heart more than his brain, his panic so unfamiliar as he lost grip on what to do. Even after all you two had been through—the bites, the bruises, the rough handling—you never actually suffered an injury before, and Kaeya was lost on how to treat it. "I know, Baby! Hang in there, I can help you, I can--"

The panic in his voice had no chance of ringing out as you threw yourself forward, crying and sobbing loudly, trying to alleviate your pain somehow by following wherever the broken wrist went, shielding and elevating it at the same time. There was no pattern in your actions other than unpredictably trying to stop hurting, and it was impossible for Kaeya to follow you without it hurting more. He felt his chest constrict, listening to your pain, feeling you fight him for the relief he wanted to give you but apparently couldn't. He promised to take care of you no matter how much you hated him or how much you struggled against his love. But what was he supposed to do? He wanted to help, but how? How could he help you?

Had his hands ever done anything else but hurt you?

Kaeya couldn't remember the last time he touched you without you jerking away. Without you shivering or crying or even just leaning into his touch like a real couple would. Neither could he comfort nor ease your mind with it now either. It was a strange moment of clarity in the panicked mess of your screams. There were very few things he was helpless about, but he never knew that it wasn't just your charm he was powerless against but also your pain that he couldn't alleviate. Watching the tears drip from your chin, cries rip your throat apart, and your body helplessly flailing in pain made him feel so fucking helpless. Like there was nothing in the world, he could do for you.

Even when he brought you pain before, it hadn't been one he couldn't rectify in the end. But now, an accident that was barely his fault was something he had no way of handling. Especially not with you refusing to give up your wrist to him. What should he do? Why was there nothing that could have prepared him for this? How did one even heal a fracture when the patient was the person he loved the most in this godforsaken world? The only good thing in his life! The one person he needed more than anything else!

He knew he couldn't. One broken bone and watching your pain, and Kaeya had finally met his match. His undoing.

Activating his vision, he could feel his body cool off against yours. Your skin was like searing flames licking at his, but he could only hope you'd come to your senses enough to realize he did it for you. It was the only way to share your pain in the slightest bit, though it wasn't even close to what you must have been feeling. For once, he hated touching you, but when he finally had you stabilized, he gripped your wrist, stealing it from your care. You howled in pain at his hands wrapped around the broken bone, and Kaeya amplified the cold in his hand as the swelling was hotter than what the human body should be, barely able to be subdued.

"Stop!" you screamed, pounding and twisting your healthy knuckles into his chest. Seeing you act normal now was almost adorable, but he couldn't take time away from your healing just to please his own twisted desires. Kaeya struggled to wrap his arm holding your hand around you, and weave the other one under your legs. "You're hurting me! Kaeya! Stop! Please!"

Your words were barely audible in the back of his mind, even though your pleas and cries tugged at his heartstrings. His only thought was helping you somehow—no matter what. You were hurting, and he couldn't stand it. Kaeya needed to fix this somehow. Quickly. He promised to fix your problems, and he would do what needed to be done. His muscles were reliable, even though his head was all over the place, lifting you from the ground and carrying you over to the door. "Fuck," he cursed, angry at himself for triple locking the shabby entrance, unlocking not fast enough for his liking.

Everything—setting you down on your feet and pressing you against him while you whimpered and cried as he fumbled with the locks before yanking the door open, to picking you up again and running down the stairs and out of the front door, flying down the street to the nearest doctor—happened in such a blur, his thoughts unable to keep up with his body acting on its own. It was instinct. The most beloved person in his life was hurt, and he needed to help you.

He barely realized what he had done before he gave you out of his hands, a doctor rushing to you as if you were bleeding out instead of having fractured your hand. You had even calmed down a little, even though the tears were still flowing. It was all the same to Kaeya, who couldn't catch his breath, panic paralyzing his whole body, making him light-headed. All he could do was step back slowly until his back hit a wall he could lean on, his eye only on you, even when the doctor took care of the fracture.

A mad giggle slowly poured out of him as he watched you yip and cry while the doc prodded, asking how this happened, where, when, and why. You looked up at Kaeya, standing farther away than ever, watching the drama unfold as your perfect, lovely lips parted, revealing everything that happened to you, stumbling over your words while he sank to the ground, laughing, as the perfect life he had planned for you two came crashing down.

There you were, ruining months of planning, hiding, sweeping things under the rock, and all he felt was relief.

Because you were safe. Someone who knew what he was doing was taking care of you. You stopped crying frantically, too busy telling your tale of captivity—exposing Kaeya to every ear that could listen. He loved you. He loved you so much. Your pain became his pain, your shock his shock. Your panic was his panic, leading him to finally let you go just so you could heal. And it was a relief to see you getting better, at least a little bit.

"They must have hit their head," Kaeya said, smiling at you from across the room as two young knights came to take him away for questioning. After witnessing your story, someone must have called the Knights of Favonious, but only Kaeya and you knew it wasn't true. That all he ever did was love you. Glancing at your hand wrapped in bandages, he didn't really feel how the lower-ranking knights cuffed him. Kaeya was just happy he could help in the end. Frantically and thoughtlessly, but he did it. Seeing you settle in your bed, eyes puffy but finally dry after crying so many tears of pain, all he felt was adoration for you, for being strong enough to get through this.

When it mattered the most, you had called his name, relied on him, and he helped you.

"I'll come and pick you up later," he promised, making a step forward with the need to kiss your forehead, reassuring you that everything would be okay.

Maybe he needed to reassure himself.

But the knights held him back, pulling him towards the doorway even though his gaze was stuck on you until the last second. You watched as they took him away, hoping he'd receive the punishment he deserved. But he promised you he'd be back.

And Kaeya always kept his promises.

[llamagoddessofficial]

Thank you to @venelona for commissioning this piece from their amazing au, Check & Mate! Take a look at their @undertale-check-and-mate​ blog if you’re interested in the aesthetic & super cool worldbuilding~

“I have no idea how I beat you before, Papyrus.”

Frisk stared at the scattered chessboard, her brow deeply furrowed, finger rapping repeatedly against the tabletop in her frustration. Papyrus, opposite her, sat in his smart black and white chequered uniform... the picture of a winner.

This was just a casual game between friends. Of course, Frisk approached it with just as much fierce competitiveness as she would any other, but it was still nowhere near as high stakes as the official first match she’d had when she first met Papyrus. She moved her bishop, taking a pawn, saying the move aloud as Papyrus did- he was encouraging her to do so while in practise, to familiarise herself with the board and the options she had at hand.

“THROUGH YOUR OWN TALENT AND SKILL, OF COURSE! BISHOP TO F7.” He said, moving it with a gloved hand and taking the bishop she’d just pushed- he’d baited her with a pawn sacrifice. She groaned, puting her head in her hands, running her fingers through her chestnut hair... How the hell did I miss that? “SOME DAYS, WE PLAY BETTER, AND SOME DAYS WE JUST CAN’T WRAP OUR HEAD AROUND THE BOARD. THOUGH WHETHER MY DEFEAT WAS A FLUKE OR NOT, WE SHALL HAVE TO SEE WITH MORE GAMES... SHAN’T WE?”

“At this rate, fluke or no, Undyne is going to get me in two moves.”

Papyrus was fantastic to play against. He was a true enthusiast; he knew openings Frisk didn’t even know existed, he could adopt any play style or development or combination, he had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the game and through it all he had brilliant sportsmanship. After her first match with him in the snow, where she’d beaten him in a pulse-jumping game, the win/loss ratio between the two of them had been almost 50/50 and playing him was her no.1 method of efficient practise... especially considering her goal of beating every monster in this strange undeground world at chess. 

...

Papyrus was the complete opposite of his brother.

Sans the skeleton was the only monster, the only monster, who hadn’t challenged Frisk to a game when he met her- something that immediately wildly threw her off. “i’m way too lazy,” he’d said, with a wide and casual grin that almost fooled her into believing him. Black pants and sleeves, white gloves, a white shirt and shoulder-covering cape with black trim... and the most ridiculous long chequered double-tie she’d ever seen with a small bone-shaped lapel pin.

I don’t know how he manages to look good in that. But... he does.

... There was something behind his tiny eyelights, stupid grin and lazy demeanour. She saw it the second she shook his hand- he was observing her. He was smart... he was the interesting kind of smart.

... So why won’t you pick up a chess piece?

It wasn’t for lack of trying on her part, to say the least. Frisk had been asking him borderline nonstop. Curiosity about his true aptitude, combined with her determination to beat everyone (which included him), created a storm that couldn’t be subsided- but at this rate she’d be dead of old age before he moved a pawn, seeing as he seemed to be totally immovable in his resolution to not engage her.

... Which only spurred her on even more. Of course.

“nah. i’m terrible at chess. wouldn’t know a knight from a rook from a raven. i’ll leave all that hard work to the professionals.”

At that moment, he was reclined on his couch, apparently totally ignoring the casual match going on a few feet away. She had yet to see his eyelights glancing over to their table...

...

But her suspicions were mounting.

Looking over the board, her finger finally stopped tapping- Frisk spied an opportunity. 

...

“... Hm...” Her eyes narrowed in mock thought, and she had to try pretty hard not to immediately look over at Sans and make herself too obvious as she ‘wondered’ aloud. “... If I... rook to e1...”

... It was a total lie. She wasn’t going to make that move- it would leave her king completely open for Papyrus to move in and sweep up a pawn, checkmating it with his queen and ending the game there and then.

...

Sans went still.

Frisk spotted it, a hawk seeing a bunny twitch; he’d moved his skull a fraction of an inch to the side. He’d given himself away.

... He ‘wouldn’t know a rook from a raven’, huh?

“... Actually, no. Pawn to g5.”

///

Papyrus had to leave, eventually- heading to his training for entry into the King’s royal guard. He’d beaten Frisk, that time, catching her out with a knight and cornering her... but of course, being Papyrus, he was boastless and jeerless and merely congratulated her on a ‘FANTASTIC’ game with a handshake and a bright smile before he went.

His departure left Frisk alone in the house. 

With Sans.

...

... She reset the scrambled board, lining everything up and turning to look over her shoulder at the skeleton still silently reclined on the sofa. Even when lazed back with his lapel pin wonky, he somehow managed to look sharp in his outfit.

“Heeeey Sans....” She said, voice sweet and sing-songy, thick lashes fluttering. She even adopted a ‘cuter’ position- crossing her legs and resting her cheek on the back of the chair. “Y’know. You should come play with me.”

“no.” He didn’t even open his sockets, speaking in that calm and collected baritone, with a little teasing lilt in return for her playfulness.

Ugh. She quickly gave up on the cute position, sitting forward. “C’mooon...”

“you’re too far away. i’m so lazy. can’t.”

... Well. 

Not to be deterred, she prised her fingers under the entire board and hefted it up, carefully getting down from the table to carry it across the room. She placed it on the coffee table just in front of the couch and kneeled on the floor, eyes and smile glinting.

The sound of the board hitting the tabletop (and a few pieces rattling and falling over) was enough to make him actually crack open a socket, clearly curious- the pinprick eyelight observed her with that lowkey sharpness she really couldn’t take her eyes off of.

“... Look, I’ll even open, since you’re so lazy.” She picked up a white pawn. “Pawn to d4.”

...

... Sans sighed. He opened both sockets, and sat up in his seat... her heart jumped into her throat and she sat up straighter too; could this be it? Had she broken him with her pestering? Was he finally going to play a game with her? His eyelights were so intense, so unreadable as he looked across at the board. His gaze lifted to her... Sans smiled, leaning forward...

...

He flicked his king over.

“oh no.” He said, sitting back, sockets closing again. “you sunk my battleship.”

...

Frisk sat on her heels, throwing her head back and letting out a dramatic and loud world-weary groan that would’ve worked just as well coming from someone three times her age, smacking her hands against the tiny coffee table and jumping all the loose chess pieces. It made him snicker from his position on the sofa- absorbed in how cruel the world was and how her suffering was never going to end, Frisk completely missed the tiny fond look he shot her.

“You’re a total liar, y’know.” She wanted to throw something at him, but she just settled for crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at his stupid smug face seeing as the nearest throwable objects were all furniture. “You know how to play, I saw you listening in to the game earlier.”

“dunno what you’re talking about.” He was making the couch look... awfully comfy. How he was practically sinking into it... and she’d been sat at the table for what felt like hours while she played against Papyrus.

... She abandoned the board to come and sit heavily beside him, frustrated at once again being thwarted. Frisk knew he wasn’t going to admit his lie; and she wasn’t even going to try to get the confession out of him, it’d be like trying to get blood from a stone. But she at least had that knowledge... none of his dodging or thwarting could take that away from her.

“You. Are such a pain.” She grumbled.

“course.” He replied, in that wonderful voice of his. “s’my job.”

...

“So...” Frisk felt her smile widening. No rest for the wicked. She moved closer to him on the couch, shuffling over the cushions... juuust until her knee was touching his. “You like jokes, right?”

He glanced at her, cool calm & unaffected. “i sure do.”

She fully grinned at him. “Tell me a chess joke. I know you have a few rattling around in that skull of yours.”

“... you wanna hear a chess joke? when i have so many other brilliant puns? i’m hurt.”

“Go on.” She propped herself up on her elbow, voice lowering a fraction. “Just for me?”

He sighed.

(But... his smile grew a tiny bit.)

“... yesterday, i threw chess pieces all over my brother’s head. you should’ve seen the rook on his face.”

...

That was actually kind of brilliant. She snickered- she’d been expecting something much, much lower in quality, and was pleasantly surprised.

“Do you know what chess pieces look at when they have private time?”

“hm?”

She winked exaggeratedly. “Pawn videos.”

... He rolled his eyelights, smile mirroring hers in its wideness nonetheless.

“I wish I could become a doctor.” Frisk dramatically placed her non-propping hand on her chest, as if delivering an emotional soliloquy, enjoying the fact that she was melting him. “Alas, I must become a chess champion- for I have an incredibly chequered past.”

“so awful it’s on par with my usual jokes.” He snickered. “you’re lucky pap isn’t here.”

“Hey. What’s the most costly chess move?”

“that’d be the check, of course.”

“... Do you know any chess pickup lines? I can’t say I have any.” She said, coquettishly, leaning in closer to him- he didn’t reciprocate much, just turning to look at her a little more.

“dunno if it’s appropriate. also don’t know if i’m your type.”

That made her giggle. 

“... Well. Y’know what my type is...?”

“hmm?” He cocked his head.

“People who’ll actually play me at chess.”

...

His face... 

... Fell.

...

“do you ever quit?” He said, more akin to a snap than just a normal question. 

In quite literally an instant it completely shattered the aura the two had created. The sudden transition and frustration in his voice caught her totally off guard- she blinked, taking her head off her hand and sitting upright, losing all the closeness she’d gained from leaning in.

“Wh...”

“i’m not going to play with you. get over it.” His eyelights had gone whip-thin, and... oddly icy. “stop bugging me all the damn time and get something better to do. it’s not going to happen. just get back to ‘practising’ so you can run off and get beaten by undyne.”

...

What the hell?

...

A tense silence stretched between the two of them that got progressively more and more uncomfortable.

...

Frisk turned away from him in a manner that, from anyone else, would’ve been a resignation- but from her felt more like a jab right back at him- a ‘I’m not going to deal with this shit’ declaration with nothing but her face. She wasted no time moving herself off the couch, picking up the chess board carelessly to settle down at the table instead, across the room and by herself.

Several pieces rattled and fell over on both sides when she put the board down on the table. But she didn’t care.

...

“... uh... hey. wait.”

The wind was out of his sails- his tone had lost literally all of its previous bite. But she didn’t look at him, her brow furrowed and jaw set, far less willing to drop it than he apparently was.

“... frisk.”

...

Okay, fine. Whatever. She graced him with an upset glance- her posture was defensive, usually warm and amicable (either that or ruthlessly determined) expression twisted into something pretty unpleasant.

She just... didn’t get why he’d suddenly bitten like that. He had yet to seem upset at all by her asking him about chess, the worst he’d looked was entertained, and he could’ve just... told her if she was bugging him, right? Instead of lashing out like that with no warning when she thought they were having fun.

...

... He was sat totally upright, looking at her, leaning against the arm of the sofa like he wanted to push through it.

“... i’m... i’m sorry.” His eyelights were tiny, smile low. “i didn’t mean that. i just got mad.”

...

Frisk turned back to the board, righting the black king. “Okay.”

She didn’t see his cringe. 

“... you’ll beat undyne. i’m sure. you’re even more determined than she is, which is saying something.”

“... Mhm.”

Both of them could tell she didn’t think his second, meeker statement was the one he really meant. And he didn’t like that at all. “i mean it,” he insisted, louder.

Shuffling sounds- she wasn’t fully paying attention to him, moving some other pieces back into their proper positions, making sure the knights were facing forward. 

“... I know you do, Sans. Thank you.” 

She didn’t believe him. But he seemed oddly insistent on getting her to say he did... so she’d just agree, and they could drop it.

...

“you asked about chess pickup lines, right?” 

His voice was a lot closer than she expected it to be, and it almost made her jump- she narrowly avoided flinging the bishop she was holding when she turned to find him separated from her only by a chair. How the... how did he move so silently? He was righting the black queen, for her.

“... Uh...” She mumbled. He wasn’t the only one who’d had the wind taken out of his sails- she suddenly couldn’t find it in her to make a joke. “... Yeah.”

“would it be inappropriate of me...” He held up his hand, a familiar white piece between his index phalange and his thumb. “to call you good-rooking?”

...

...

Frisk couldn’t help it. She snorted, at that- it was so dumb... the perfect kind of joke to alleviate a mood. The small ungainly sound seemed to have a positive impact on him- his shoulders unwound, smile lifting at the corners just enough for the curve to seem genuine again.

“is that a king in your pants or are you just happy to see me?”

Her snort became a proper giggle, which he apparently liked even more. Okay. I know I’m supposed to be mad, but this is too good to pass up. “I-I dunno. Looks more like a pawn to me.”

“... wow. i’m... wounded.” 

His eyelights were larger, softer... his body language had opened like a book. She looked up into his sockets, posture loosening too, unconsciously mirroring him until she’d gone from clenching her arms to only holding her wrist. “Sure you are.”

...

Both of them seemed to realise, at the same time, just how close their faces were. 

Frisk turned away first, her cheeks suddenly tingling and pleasantly warm- she pursed her lips and finished resetting the chessboard. Today was already proving to be a bit of an emotional rollercoaster. Sans’ face was also gently coloured, a small dust of blue making an appearance on his cheekbones... but he didn’t turn away.

“... c’mon, let’s just watch some tv or something. i’ve said ‘chess’ and ‘rook’ so many times i’m starting to forget what they mean.”

“... Pft... okay. ... Sure.”

[imalwaysintune]

A Compulsion

So do y’all remember the YouTube video where Ben Meredith reads out stuff in Elias’ voice? yeah this is based on that moment. you know the one

(in case you don’t actually know it’s the ‘read that statement jon… nice and slow’ complete with link!)

Enjoy!

————————————

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean even if he were to tell you, I can’t send you in there with a good conscience,” Martin was almost pleading with Jon at this point. He didn’t want to see Jon ruined by Elias, especially considering what they had just learned; exactly the way Gertrude Robinson had died.  

Jon waved off Martin’s concern with a flick of his hand. “I’m not risking anyone else Martin. At least I know he’s not going to kill me.” Jon replied, his tone much more sure than he actually felt.

“Just… please, at any sign of danger, get yourself out of there. The truth isn’t worth anything if it means your life,” Martin said, sadness lacing his voice with every word.

Oh Martin, Jon thought just as sadly, If only you knew.

The trek to Elias’ offices felt like forever. It was at this moment that Jon had a strange thought. He wished to be taller. He was under the average height for a man his age, and was made to feel small by many people in his life. He wanted to be the intimidating one for once, but the thought made him chuckle. 

When he reached Elias’ door, a thick feeling settling in the space in front of the looming door. He’d never felt it before, but it was almost… welcoming. He placed his hand on the knob and turned quickly, knowing Elias would have Seen his coming.

Just as he predicted, Elias was sitting at his desk, fingers laced in an almost ironically villainous way. Jon had the strangest urge to laugh once again, but thought it was best he kept it to himself. Instead, he walked himself over to Elias’ desk and sat down in the chair opposite him.

Elias only smiled. A calm, rational smile that spoke not of what Jon knew. It almost made Jon angry, that someone could be so calm when they’re figured out to be a murderer. But the thick sensation hadn’t lifted, and it felt like all of Jon’s emotions were muted. Instead of waves filling his head, it was syrup, thick and slow.

He began to speak, to tell the story that he had figured out after years of research and failed attempts. How he figured out about Elias’ murder of Gertrude. Of Leitner. Yet he still didn’t seem phased. Jon was pouring his heart out and accusing this vile man pf murder and yet Elias never wiped that smug look of his face.

Soon Jon’s ramble came to a halt, and he was exhausted. His head felt like it was brimming to the edge with a thick sludge and he felt himself losing consciousness. He fought so, so hard against the black on the edges of his vision. He tried to call out to somebody. Anybody. Martin…

But Martin didn’t come. No one did as Jon finally lost the battle and he was consumed by the darkness.

When Jon finally awoke, the first thing he noticed was the pounding in his head. He felt like someone was beating against the inside of his skull. For all he knew, someone was. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t form a single thought. It was so thick, like he was swimming in a bog and couldn’t get his head above the filth for long enough to catch a breath. Was he in Hell?

Finally, after what felt like hours, he heard a voice speak through the fog in his head, clearer than spring water rolling down the mountains.

“You know, Jon, I quite enjoyed your little power play there. Made me feel more alive than I have felt in… awhile.” He couldn’t see him, but Jon knew he was grinning. The sick bastard.

“I hope you find comfort in the fact that you were entirely correct in your accusations. Yes, I killed Gertrude, and then I killed Leitner a few years later. It happens in my line of work, you see. Sometimes we must put others down for our own ends, Jonathan.” Elias purred, his voice bringing the ground ever closer to Jon’s feet. 

The fog finally, finally, started to clear and Jon could see out of his own eyes once again. He could form coherent thoughts, could feel the surface he was laying on  dig into his back. He blinked rapidly at the space around him. It was somewhere he’d never seen before, though that thought didn’t surprise him.

He searched the room for Elias slowly, and found him at the opposite end, leaning lazily along the wall. He was staring at Jon with this look of amusement that enraged Jon, and he tried to stand. But only resistance met him as his wrists and ankles were held by strong rope. He realized that he’d been strapped to a couch, and the rope binding him was tied tightly. He wasn’t going to be able to get them off himself.

“Are you planning to kill me?” Jon tried to speak evenly, but even he could hear the horrible shaking of his voice. It was audible as he spoke the words, and even as he tried to draw air back into his lungs. But the sludge was back, and it was surging throughout his entire body.

“Silly Archivist,” Elias spoke. “I do not wish to kill you, and I don’t want you thinking you’re a martyr. You were simply a fool to try and confront me yourself. Now no one knows you’re here, and they’re freaking out looking for you.”

“Am I still in the Archives?” Jon asked, cursing himself for sounding so scared.

Elias quickly pushed off from the wall and walked with purpose towards Jon. He hated the way his body involuntarily whimpered, fear grabbing hold of his heart and lungs and constricting him. Weirdly enough, Jon welcomed the sensation as it cleared the sludge in his body enough to see Elias. To really see Elias.

He was wearing something completely different than what he had been wearing before Jon had passed out. In fact, they were more unique than any clothes Jon had seen the man in before. He was wearing what at first looked like a butler’s costume. He was wearing a full green piece suit, topped with a waistcoat that made him look like an 1800′s steampunk professor.

Jon was shocked, but his neck was hurting to the point he was seeing stars. His head slammed back down onto the couch and it felt so heavy. Soon Elias’ choice of outfit seemed the least of his concerns. He felt the urge to scream as his body betrayed him. After a few minutes of Jon mentally beating himself up, certainly not for the first time in his life, Elias spoke and brought him out of it.

“No, Jon, you’re not in the Archives anymore. You’ve been out for a week, actually. I thought you might not actually pull through after all, but alas, here you are. Alive and well. Well, maybe not well, but certainly alive.” Was Elias rambling?

“What could you possibly want with me, Elias. I didn’t even have a plan after I told you what I knew. I just wanted to let you know that I found out everything,” Jon stared up at the ceiling as he said this, but soon felt a weight sink into the couch next to him. Elias’ face appeared in his vision.

“Little Archivist,” Elias cooed. “You really have no idea about any of this, do you? I thought you’d be a little further along in this process, but I guess I was wrong. For how much better of an actual archivist you are, you certainly aren’t up to par with learning as quickly as Gertrude.

“You see, I’m hungry, Jon. I feed my patron as it feeds me, but it hasn’t nearly been enough. So you will be my food, and I will force you to satisfy me in any way I choose. Just remember that it could be worse. I could eat you whole.”

Elias said the last word with such conviction that it rattled Jon to his bones. He could do nothing but stare at Elias as pure shock captured his body. What did he mean, what was he talking about. He didn’t get those answers as Elias loosened the ropes on Jon’s wrists and sat him upright on the couch.

Jon’s bones ached, and he heard multiple pops as he was dragged upwards. He almost cried out as the pain in his head became unbearable, but he managed to bite his tongue before he gave Elias the satisfaction. When the pain finally subdued enough that he could open his eyes, he looked at Elias in bafflement. 

He looked tired, could see circles under his eyes that he has not seen just moments before. Or maybe it was because he hadn’t thought to look for them, so his brain failed to relay the message. In all honesty, Elias looked horrible. More horrible than me, Jon thought.

Elias reached under the couch for something that Jon couldn’t see, but it seemed heavy from the way he was struggling. When the box finally came into Jon’s view, it looked normal, harmless. Elias quietly removed the box after a seconds consideration and sighed, as if it was a great pain for him to do so.

The box was filled with papers, the type of paper that the Archives have to take down statements. Even in Jon’s muddled state, he could tell the statements were powerful, though he didn’t exactly know how. All he knew was that the waves that had become almost familiar were washing the sludge away and he could fully think again. 

Even though a part of Jon wanted to fight, wanted to push and shove his way out of whatever situation he had gotten himself into, a larger part of him wanted to know what was about to happen. He craved the Knowledge of whatever was in the box Elias held, and he wasn’t keen on ruining the chance that had been handed, well, pounded into him. 

His eyes were locked on the box, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Elias smirking. He made a mental note to curse himself later after this was all over for giving Elias exactly what he wanted.

Elias grabbed a statement from the top of the box and held it out to Jon, gesturing that he should take it. But he hesitated. He didn’t know what he was getting into, and he wanted Elias to explain beforehand. At least, until Elias spoke.

“Read that statement, Jon. I know you want to,” Elias spoke quietly, his voice low and throaty. 

The rope around Jon’s wrists barely had the slack to allow him to grab the paper. Jon felt tired. So tired and he just wanted to curl into a ball and be held. By whom, he didn’t know. A name floated at the edge of his consciousness but he couldn’t concentrate on anything else but the paper in his hands to remember what it was. 

And he began to read. Losing himself in the statement, barely registering as Elias… drank up every word that Jon was saying.

And he didn’t read just one. They sat there for hours as Elias made Jon read every single statement. He felt the energy being poured from him and flowing into Elias, but he was helpless to stop it. The statements were too powerful, his physical form too weak right now. 

When the box was finally empty, Elias spoke for the first time in hours. 

“Just like that, my little Archivist,” Elias cooed once more, before Jon’s body finally granted him comfort and threw himself into a fitful sleep. 

Jon woke up to the sound of a steady beeping and snoring. He jerked up, panicking while checking his wrists for rope he knew wasn’t there. The snoring figure in the corner sat up with a jolt and rushed over to Jon’s side.

“Jon! Oh thank goodness, you’re okay,” Martin said, grabbing Jon’s hand with a strength he could barely handle but was grateful for.  It grounded him.

“Martin, what happened? Where am I?” The voice that left Jon’s throat didn’t sound like his own, breathy and weak.

“Jon, you’re in the hospital. You went missing for a week before we found you in the tunnels under the Archives. You’ve been in a coma for three weeks,” Martin sounded like he was on the verge of tears as he explained everything to Jon. “Where were you, Jon. You couldn’t have been in the tunnels for the entire week.”

Jon tried to explain, but when he tried to cast his memory back, the last thing he remembered was talking to Martin about what he’d found out. He no longer held the memory of Elias or the statements. He looked Martin in the eye and shook his head. “I have no idea, I’m sorry Martin,” He said quietly.

“No, Jon, don’t you apologize to me. Everyone is guessing it’s Elias, but I was too worried about you to care about him. I’ve been here everyday with you since you were admitted. I’m almost starting to like the hospital coffee,” At this, Jon smiled. “Almost.”

“Thank you, Martin. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I don’t know either, Jon. Let’s get you out of here.”

————————————————–

This one was honestly very hard to write as it was literally based on a joke premise. But i got inspired and so here we are. 

Please feel free to shoot me an ask with any requests or anything!

Thank you so much for reading this and i’ll see you on the next one!

(Also! I wrote an nsfw version: link!)

[asgardianthot]

Hunting Season (sambucky) - Part 4

Series Masterlist

A/N: ello :) I hope you’re all safe and sound, and I hope you’re surviving quarantine. Here’s an angsty update for you to enjoy! 

Words: 3329

Day 3.

The morning had prepared for the happy couple an hour of kayaking. Bucky got his tired ass to the lake with the least amount of motivation possible, for he had spent a sore night. The idea of Brock Rumlow spending the night in that house had his bones rattling. Sam, on his part, couldn’t blame him; Brock only stayed there when the two were an item, so the fact that he was tagging along indefinitely had ‘ill intentioned’ written all over it. Bucky’s theory was that Brock probably thought he was gonna crash the lunch party and win him over again, stay the night at their old bed instead of a small guest room downstairs.

On the bright side of matters, Sam and Bucky were still the only ones to have a hunting clue. The envelope that had fallen out of the Viktor Frankl book had a hand-written note, specifically placed there by Nana. It read as following: If you found this clue, congratulations, you have a brain. Frankl was more than just a man in search for meaning: he was a neurologist and a psychiatrist, as well as a philosopher. It’s not hard to guess why my husband was obsessed with him. Now find out more about the author and try to guess what else he and Theodore had in common. You’ll know where to look.

Those words meant absolutely nothing to Sam, but it made some sense to Bucky. All they had to do was research about the author of the book and find a connection, for now. The rest would be a problem for later.

Right now, meaning at that very exact moment, Sam’s problem was kayaking.

“Okay, so what now?” he asked Bucky, holding the paddles like they were going to hurt him.

The second the word ‘kayak’ had been brought up when discussing future activities, Sam knew he would make a fool out of himself, for it was something he had never done, while the rest of the guests had been practicing every summer since they bought the damn house. Still, he put on his swimsuit and showed up. For Bucky. They were the ones closest to the lakeside, as Bucky was still teaching Sam, meanwhile the other Barnes were already paddling away or messing around in circles, as they prepared for a race.

“Now, you kayak.” Bucky replied simply, which earned a death glance from Sam.

He was already having enough trouble adjusting to the new sport, which left him with little to no patience. Fortunately, Bucky pitied him and laughed as he moved to the front seat, agreeing to help.

“Okay, wait,” he grunted as he struggled to accommodate behind Sam, “let me help you.”

Sam felt the warm pressure of Bucky’s chest against his back without any type of warning, and flinched a little. He could feel the drops of water that hadn’t dried out in Bucky’s skin stick to his own, and it sent shivers down his spine. He decided to believe the shivers were caused by the startling feeling of water droplets.

“You’re holding it wrong.” James explained as he took the paddles from Sam’s hand.

Wilson rolled his eyes, “Of course I am.”

“Someone’s cranky.” Bucky remarked, “Didn’t sleep well?”

Sam thought hard about that one. As a matter of fact, he had woken up plenty of times during the night, only to find Bucky struggling to catch his own sleep next to him. The situation was weird as it was, so Sam pretended to miss it.

“You kick your feet a lot.” Sam lied.

“There’s always the divan.” Bucky reminded him.

“Will you shut up about the damn divan? No one should sleep in anything called like that.”

However, the ridiculous discussion came to an end when Bucky managed to get Sam to paddle correctly.

“That’s about the hang of it.” he congratulated him before turning his body and dropping it into the water.

The water barely reached his chest, so he stood there in waits for Sam who accomplished his goal of successfully kayaking away.

“Now come back to me.” Bucky instructed his apprentice, “Turn.”

Watching him swirl the canoe so concentrated, Bucky couldn’t help but find him slightly adorable. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t seen Sam learn something like that before, but it definitely was a good look on him. A smile creeped up his face, however, it didn’t last long. Soon enough, his ears picked up on a conversation behind him. He saw that uncle Milo was talking to Brock, and he only then figured they probably had been the entire time, which made him feel observed and, most of all, uncomfortable. Bucky was so distracted by the interaction that he almost didn’t see Sam returning to him, but he noticed right on time to stop the tip of the kayak before it hit him.

He shook it off by shooting a smile in Nana’s direction.

“Sure you don’t wanna hop in the water, Nana?” he messed with the woman who looked over everyone from her chair.

“I want another drink, sweetheart.” She messed with him back.

Bucky winked at her and returned his attention to the fake boyfriend, who seemed a lot more comfortable with the sport. They most likely wouldn’t win the race, but at least Sam wouldn’t feel bad for sucking at it.

“You know what?” Nana’s voice was loud and clear this time, which got everyone’s attention, “First one to get me a drink gets a clue."

The bold statement was followed by hesitant glances. Most of the family exchanged weird looks, none of them sure of how to proceed.

"Is she for real?" Bucky said, frowning.

Then, cousin Colin jumped to the water from where he was paddling, and started swimming towards land. Rebecca went second. Bucky and Sam were quick to notice how they were the ones closest to the lakeside, which didn’t make it seem like Nana was unbiased. If anything, it made the couple look like the favorites. Alas, Bucky and Sam climbed onto land fast, hearing people rush across the water behind them, until they heard a scream.

As they both turned towards the noise, they saw Rebecca slapping her hand around, swallowing water, and barely managing to yell the word ‘cramp’.

Bucky dove back on the water to save her. Literally. As Sam awaited kneeling on the shore, he couldn’t help but notice nobody else went to help. As usual, Bucky was Rebecca’s knight in shining armor.

"Rebecca, are you ok?" Winnifred barely asked above her usual tone to be heard.

The siblings were too busy trying to stay afloat –Bucky dragging her to land and Rebecca coughing her lungs out– to answer, so the mother insisted.

"Rebecca?"

Luckily, Sam cut in to get the unhelpful and mediocre concern away from the scene, "She- she's fine! We got this!" he assured the woman.

Once the siblings reached the wooden shore, Sam pulled Rebecca up by her arms while Bucky climbed up, panting. The young woman held her leg in pain.

Right on time, Brock approached them to save the day.

He extended his hand towards Rebecca, "Here, let me-"

"Get the fuck away from us!" James shot him an aggressive warning while placing a hand on Rebecca's back, not dignifying the man with eye contact.

Rumlow raised his hands in defense, "Just tryna’ help, Jamie."

The snap in Bucky’s brain might as well have been hearable. He was so done with the hovering figure he used to call his partner, everything in his head went red with fury. He looked up at him with such rage, Sam anticipated his outburst even before it happened.

"Shut up, Brock, shut up!” He yelled directly at him, microscopic bits of spit being thrown in Brock’s direction, and followed by a uncomfortable, still silence, which Bucky couldn’t stand either, “Are you deaf or are you a fucking idiot? I said leave!"

Rumlow accepted the offense and shook his head, putting on a disappointed façade.

"You're insane." He informed Bucky before turning on his heels.

As the man walked back inside the house, the spectators of the show remained silent. All that could be heard was Bucky’s heavy breathing, until Rebecca spoke.

"Way to go, brother." She whispered, which was only heard by Sam and Bucky.

Bucky’s expression revealed how shocked he was at his own courage to pull off such a stunt.

"That felt so good." He admitted, drawing a big proud smile on Sam’s face.

-

The outburst that morning, no matter how fulfilling, had taken a toll on Bucky. The rest of the day, it was all he could think about, and therefore, it naturally got the paranoid spinning wheel in his brain running at full speed. Cousin Colin, after the lake scene, was the only person insensitive enough to actually go through with Nana’s demand; the man had brought his grandmother a nice summer drink from the kitchen, which the lady received with a roll of her eyes. Unfortunately, she had promised the deliverer a clue, so she reluctantly kept her word and gave him the help in private.

It didn’t necessarily worry Bucky nor Sam, because the couple still felt they were winning so far. They had found the first clue by themselves, no help needed, so the best Colin could do was keep up with them before they got the advantage again.

No, what had them both worried was this cocktail gathering after dinner, right now. It was too early for anyone to be tired enough to go to bed, but it was late enough for people to start making bad decisions. That had been Bucky’s case. Drink after drink, worry after worry, the liquor had found its way into Bucky’s system long ago. In fact, he was sitting down, resigned to his sorrow, with a glass of champaign in hand.

He was wasted, and Sam could tell. While Bucky played around with the almost emptied glass, Sam’s chest felt heavy.

"He's watching." Bucky suddenly said, his enunciation already affected by the booze.

His eyes were fixated somewhere in the room, over Sam’s shoulder. The latter didn’t need to turn around to know who he meant.

"Don't pay attention to him." He shrugged it off.

"He used to do that,” Bucky, however, acted as if Sam hadn’t even spoken, “when he didn't approve of something."

"Hey.” Sam called, demanding his attention, “Hey, look at me. I'm here with you, okay? Not him."

As much as Bucky wanted to lean into those words, embrace the support and such, he knew it wasn’t truly real. Sam was there to help him out of pity, or so he thought. He used to love imagining having a boyfriend who would take away the pain, wipe away the tears caused by Brock. He used to like that image, but sometime in the horrible long-lasting relationship, he just didn’t think it possible. Anyone loving him after Brock? Anyone putting up with that baggage, with the lurking ex-boyfriend watching them at all times?

It simply wouldn’t happen. It’s why he wasn’t there with an actual boyfriend. It’s why he had to play-pretend with Sam. In his head, there was no place for anyone to love him. Not after he’d been chewed on by Rumlow and spat out a hundred times.

"But you're not.” Bucky sad dryly, almost insulting, “Not really. I'll never get the real thing."

Sam’s brain had a hard time with that one confession. Did Bucky mean that getting his friend to play fake boo was the closest he'd ever get to a boyfriend from now on? Or as he implying a world where Sam could have become the real deal? His confusion left him almost speechless.

"And why is that?" he managed to ask with a heavy heart.

Bucky was too quick in answering Sam’s doubts, "Cause I'm messed up. 'Cause of him."

That being declared, James stood up from the table, leaving his company sitting there by himself, rudely. Sam watched him get to the bar, which consisted of a few tables set up for drink service, attended by one of Nana’s kitchen employees. It did the trick in looking fancy enough for an improvised bar, and still, Bucky managed to look fairly pathetic, leaning on the table and ordering yet another hard liquor.

For the next half hour, Sam brought himself to chat and interact with the Barnes, but mostly, he was checking up on Bucky every other minute. Fortunately so, since it allowed him to spot Rumlow as he approached the drunk figure. Wilson excused himself and headed straight for the bar, and was noticed by the man who looked, as usual, like he was up to no good.

"Samuel, we were just talking about you." Brock greeted him cynically.

"Leave him alone." Sam said, not messing around.

Bucky’s eyes were fixated on his drink, avoiding exchanging gazes with his ex, no matter how hard Brock tried to catch his attention.

"I don't think anyone should leave him alone like this." Rumlow cocked a brow, giving off the most pedantic posture yet.

As much as Sam didn’t wish to sound just as condescending as the ex-boyfriend, he needed him to back off. So he stood his ground, planting himself in front of Bucky, and raised his chin.

"Oh, goodie, that's what I'm here for." He clarified with a taunting tone.

All of a sudden, Bucky decided to stand his ground as well. Unhappy with the exchange of words about his state, he got himself in front of Sam, stumbling a bit.

"I don't- don't need anyone to look after me." He managed to croak out, frowning.

After he delivered the words, he propped himself on the table unsteadily, causing Sam to gesture catching him, but Bucky seemed to be partially alright on his own. Brock, on his part, gave him a deeply disappointed look. Suddenly, Sam understood so much; the paternalistic vibe he gave off, like you’re nothing for yourself and are in desperate need of his aid. The way Rumlow judged people could get anyone to doubt themselves. Luckily, Sam wasn’t giving in.

Brock extended his hand to the more-than-tipsy man, "Come on." He said, more a demand than an offer.

The response was even more abrupt than that morning by the lake. In sight of his hand so near him, Bucky’s paranoia crippled through his bones, provoking a different kind of outburst.

"Don't touch me, you fucking maniac!" he yelled, taking a step back.

Sam’s skin crawled. During the tense silence that followed, he felt eyes staring at them three. Brock, however, didn’t seem nearly as shocked, but instead acted like this was just typical Bucky. He did seem embarrassed, though, being the victim of the scandal for the second time that day.

"Let's go." Sam pleaded, not daring to touch Bucky in a jumpy state like that.

That was Rebecca’s cue for approaching the lot, allured by the fuzz.

"What's going on?" she demanded an explanation in a low, but harsh tone.

"Nothing.” Rumlow spoke before anyone else got the change, “He's making a scene, as usual."

Rebecca shot him a threatening glance, to which he simply rolled his eyes and abandoned the bar area. Sam took his place in order to check up on Bucky’s face, and found his eyes beginning to water. He was frozen in place, eye sockets reddened by the drunkenness and lips caught between his teeth.

"James, get it together.” Rebecca whispered, “Everyone's staring."

Although Sam was expecting more comfort from the man’s sister, whom just so happened to be scolding him for no reason, he kept his quiet this time. The two sober characters dragged Bucky’s body to the nearest chair and forced him to sit down, which only attracted more attention towards him, but that way he could remain still and far from tumbling scandals.

"Get him some coffee before he embarrasses himself even more." Rebecca told Sam, sternly.

As she kneeled sat next to her brother in order to pretend normality, Sam just gave her a look of disbelief. He didn’t think she could act so heartlessly before.

"You're a real sweetheart, you know that?" he threw her a sarcasm dagger, refusing to move.

"Believe it or not, I'm helping him.” She spat, looking around frantically in hopes no one was judging them, “Coffee, Samuel, please."

Sam took one last good look at Bucky before obeying the very persuasive sister. The drunken mess was avoiding all sorts of eye contact, and was almost pouting like a child. Wilson didn’t have much else to do but get himself to the kitchen, although reluctantly. At that moment, he hated everything; every person and light were getting under his skin, and even the sound of glasses clinking together pissed him off. Right before he reached the kitchen, the sound turned muffled, abandoned far away, and there was a sense of peace. Silence. And breaking through that silence, there was a sharp voice.

“I’m telling you, this is our chance.” The voice echoed from inside the kitchen.

It was unmistakably Rumlow’s. Of fucking course. The man was a goddamn ghost lurking around every room of the massive house. Sam was determined on turning back, until he heard another voice responding.

“Give me a few days-“

“I don’t have days to give you.”

It sounded like an altercation that had just recently began, right before it could get too heated.

“Is your lawyer not your personal bitch this time?” the other man accused Brock, “You not screwing him, too?”

“You want the money, right?”

The inciting question was followed by a tense pause. Therefore, Sam seized his chance and walked into the kitchen, hopefully being able to pretend he hadn’t heard any of it. He recognized the other man as uncle Milo, when the two angry men straightened themselves too quickly, in an attempt to dismiss their previous altercation.

Sam gave them an uninterested glance, “Am I interrupting?” he asked nonchalantly.

“What can we do for you, Samuel?” uncle Milo raised his voice with false friendliness.

“I’m just gonna make some coffee.” He replied, waltzing towards the busier side of the kitchen, further away from them.

Before he could even get a hold of the coffee maker, Rumlow’s forceful interruption made Sam stop in his tracks.

“Nicole can take care of that for you, right darling?” he called for the maid in a patronizing tone, “She’ll even pour it for you and everything.”

Sam glanced at the woman who was still putting the dishes away when it definitely was the end of her shift. It wasn’t just about Rumlow’s treatment of the staff, it was everything, from the way he put Sam in an uncomfortable situation, to the smirk on his face while doing so.

“No thank you, I got it.” Sam told the working lady.

“Actually, she’s got it,” Brock insisted, this time much more taunting, “that’s her job.”

Sam found himself cornered, and resigned, although not without showing his discontent. He pinched the bridge of his nose and agreed tiredly.

“Fine, uh… Can you just take it up to James’ room when you get the chance?” He forced a smile in Nicole’s direction, whom nodded politely, “Thank you.”

When he was leaving to return to Bucky, Sam took a turn on his heels at the last minute. His blood still boiling, he gave the two plotting men a small but clearly exaggerated reverence.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.” He let uncle Milo know his anger wasn’t directed towards him, then spoke directly to Rumlow, “Fuck you, Brock.”

“Classy.” The appellee complained.

“You’re right.” He lied, then turned to the maid one more time, “Nicole, my apologies for such rudeness. On behalf of Mr. Rumlow, of course. I guess money can’t buy decency.”

After addressing that last insult to the obnoxious man, Wilson headed back to the cocktail gathering in order to retrieve his drunk friend.

[wafflewarriors]

A Rewrite of History

Chapter 6—Phantom Traveler (Part 2)

The first ten minutes, you felt lousy. Lousy, and also scared stiff. Why shouldn't you be? This plane was going to take the plunge in a little over a half and hour, and these people had no idea, save you and the Winchesters. And even they didn't really know the extent of it. They probably thought they could exorcise the demon before much happened.

"Just try to relax."

"Just try to shut up."

The engines whirred, shaking the plane as it lifted itself into the air.

The plane was dreadfully quiet. There were some murmurs here and there throughout the plane, but you tuned into the conversation to your left. Dean was fidgeting in his seat, humming Metallica. “I hate freaking airplanes.”

You couldn’t agree with him more.

You had roughly thirty minutes until this plane began the skydive, and there wasn't much to do but wait. Wait for the Winchesters to fumble around and finally find the demon.

You actually knew the latin pretty well—the 'Rituale Romanum'. You had practiced it back in your younger years, being superstitious and all. It was a phase where you carried salt in your bag and whispered Christo to passersby. As cringeworthy as the phase was, it was coming in handy now. Now that demons actually existed outside of your dreams.

As time extended, you became uncomfortable. A ball of pain in your stomach like a little knot, which was slowly tightening. Then, you realised: you were on your damn period. Of all freaking places. You squirmed in your seat, wondering if you could sneak those pads from out of your travel bag.

"Hey, I'm sorry, miss. You just look very uncomfortable. Is something wrong?"

You stiffened, just barely turning enough to see a kind, concerned lady behind Dean Winchester. 

Hearing the question, Dean managed to suck in a breath and peer over at you, curious as well.

Nosy Winchesters.

You clenched and unclenched your fist, a nervous habit of yours. You needed to throw him off from looking at you anymore. He had too good a view of your face for your comfort, and you became self conscious of your disguise.

So, you told her the truth. "Just, uh, you know, feminine issues."

Dean looked away quickly.

You weren’t surprised. Sure, it could have partially been him realizing he was wrong to eavesdrop (no, who were you kidding), but this was 26 year-old Dean Winchester, who avoided chick flick moments better than he avoided monsters, and was very protective of his masculinity.

It was a good strategy: make him uncomfortable, and he was less likely to pay you any notice. Like how most people skipped over kissing couples in almost every spy movie ever. PDA worked to make most people overlook you, and so did periods.

This was probably the only moment in your life you could ever say bless freaking periods.

The lady made a little 'o' with her mouth and turned down the volume of her voice. "Oh, do you need something?" When you nodded, she kindly offered some supplies. 

You thanked her and headed over to the bathroom, feeling relieved to finally escape that little space. Your heart was fluttering in your chest, and you needed to calm the frick down before you had a demon cramming itself down your throat.

Brightside was that the Winchesters didn't know it was you. That felt good, at least. Your disguise wasn't anything that significant, but it was working nonetheless. You kind of felt like Clark Kent, in that way. 

And Dean is Batman.

You snickered to yourself, feeling a bit better. The hilarity of it all was helping.

Yeah, you thought, Dean is Batman.

///

The Winchesters were finally starting to ask the right questions. Who was it possessing?

You knew fully well, having watched the entire show, that the 'chink the armor' thing was a bunch of BS. Unless this demon just had its own rules versus other demons in the future. Or maybe it was just... weaker? 

Or maybe this universe just bent with the rules of the show—it didn't matter whether its rules in the supernatural were a constant or not.

The Winchesters started focusing on Amanda, which wasn't a terrible guess. It was her first flight since the crash, after all.

Of course, you knew that it wasn’t her, so the entire time you felt like rolling your eyes as you eavesdropped. Dean brought out the holy water and you nearly snorted. It was crazy to believe they, the Winchesters, were ever once amateurs.

Sam tells Dean to use 'Christo', and sends him to the back to speak with Amanda.

In the meantime, you tried to recite the exorcism in your head.

Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas... omnis incursio infernalis adversarii… omnis... legio, omnis... congregatio et secta diabolica.

That was the easiest part. You paused, concentrating. Was it argo or ergo? You couldn’t quite remember. ...omnis legio diabolica… something something decipere humanas creaturas.

So… you were a little rusty.

You glanced over, wishing you could just get your hands on that exorcism. Alas, that might look a little suspicious to Sam Winchester, sitting not two feet from the book on Dean’s seat.

You didn’t have to wake long for Dean to return. "Alright, well she has gotta be the most well-adjusted person on the planet."

You hide the small smile that comes along your face. You really missed Season 1 Dean Winchester.

Sam is talking with him in murmurs as you try to compose yourself and your love for these boys. Despite the fact that they’re pretty keen on gutting you the next time you show your face.

Some turbulence rattles the plane and Dean tenses. "Come on, that can't be normal!" you hear, then there are some angry hushes between them.

But you know what they’re saying to each other: "You are wide open to demonic possession."

With that, Dean takes a few exaggerated, deep breaths. It’s not very convincing, but the demon didn’t take him on, so. Yeah.

It was sort of comical that none of the other passengers heard their conversations. Like, Sam Winchester was literally talking about exorcism, and the rest of the plane was in La La Land.

Despite having a lower voice, you could hear them both pretty clearly. Rituale Romanum, two parts, blah blah, expels demon—manifest—more powerful. Second part sends it back to hell. You were pretty sure they used a shorter exorcism later in the show… but whatever.

Dean brings out his signature EMF meter he’d built out of a walkman. Man, you loved that thing.

And soon enough, he was trying to covertly scan the plane. Of course, he was terrible at hiding it. Any hunter could see what it was, and any passenger was more than agitated by the weird sweeps of Dean’s hands. 

The meter swept at your head and you looked up at him and tried to send him a convincing ‘wtf’ look. All the while, your brain was saying ‘scanny scanny’.

Your body was in a confusing state of boredom and anxiety, and you didn’t know how else to deal with it other than fidgeting in your seat.

Sam scared Dean by grabbing his shoulders, and you realize shit is about to go down pretty soon.

"Anything?"

"No, nothing. How much time we got?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"Maybe we missed somebody."

By cue, the EMF meter lights up red. Of course, you can’t hear it, but you swear you could feel the ‘whrhhrrhe whwehrrhhw’ sound of it in your bones.

The flight attendant comes out in sync, and the Winchesters freeze.

You couldn’t help it: you mouthed "Christo" just as Dean says it, and the flight attendant's eyes flash black.

///

There is twelve minutes left. Twelve minutes until the plane plummets and hopefully you don’t crash.

Frick. You weren’t ready for this.

You decide that focusing on what’s happening is the best way to focus, so you watch as the Winchesters go in the back to talk with Amanda. Who then are swallowed into the curtains, leaving you with the civilians.

You curse to yourself. Sam took the book with him. Of course, he did. Duh.

There are two knots in your chest now: one from your physical period, and the other from your anxiety, which weave together into one tangle. Suddenly, it's a little harder to breathe on the stuffy airplane.

Your heart rate spiked and you jumped a little as Amanda came out to go and fetch the flight attendant. Your minutes were dwindling. 

The flight attendant passed by and you weren’t sure what to do anymore. Should you go help? That would certainly defeat the purpose of a disguise.

Watching the show, you’d always thought this part was so much louder. After all, the commotion was only covered by some thin curtains. You had always wondered why the civilians weren’t more concerned.

In that way, you were partially correct. The fight in the back certainly alarmed most passengers, but Amanda nervously guarded the doorway.

And then, the book was thrown into the aisle. You snatched it, bracing yourself.

Your stomach dropped, and screams erupted from all around the plane. 

I’m falling I’m falling I’m falling.

You had a death grip on the seats around you as you tried to focus on the shaking words in your hands.

“Terribilis!” you shouted above the screaming. Oh my God, I’m falling. “Deus de... sanctuario suo! Deus... Israhel ipse truderit virtutem! Et fortitudinem plebi... Suae. Benedictus deus!” You barely kept your balance, bellowing the last words: “Gloria patri!”

Thunder shook the plane out and soon it was coasting normally again. If planes even coasted.

Everyone was shaken. The Winchesters lined their eyes up with you, glancing from the book to your face. You don’t see hatred, however, so they didn’t recognize you.

///

You were really hoping to leave the area without the Winchesters tagging behind. You did everything you could to disappear, but to no avail, they caught up with you.

Dean was at your side, just walking for about ten seconds before he said anything. There was no way the strategy they were using to corner you wasn’t creepy. At least you knew they didn’t really mean it like that. 

The vibes you were getting from them wasn’t all that friendly, though. They were suspicious and rightly so. A hunter just happened to be on the same flight as them? Coincidences were never coincidences, and you couldn’t agree more.

“So, how long have you been hunting?” Dean asked carefully. Not how, not why, just when. You could respect that kind censorship: respecting boundaries and avoiding triggers. The boys both knew how to charm people—that was for sure.

You sighed, blowing up your cheeks a little, “Oh… about a month.”

You could see their dad’s journal peeking out from Dean’s pocket.

Both of their eyebrows raised, rocking back on their heels a little. “And you could recite an exorcism? There was no way you could read that thing. I could hardly read the exit sign.”

You thought about your lonely ass watching Supernatural, trying to say the chantations as the Winchesters did. “You could say I’ve had some practice.” Hell, you learned it from them. “Anyway, there was only a little left to recite.”

You nudged Dean, knocking the journal from his pocket and into your trench coat. “You guys did most of the work.” 

You were despicable.

They look impressed. “You’ve hunted demons?”

That was a bit of a funny question, coming from the Winchesters. And also an unexpected one. In response, you got flustered. “Oh—no,” you said quickly.

Sam's eyes wandered, settling on your bag. First, his eyebrows twitched in recognition, and then he went rigid, bringing his eyes to meet yours in realization.

You felt your blood rush. "You know… I should probably get going." With that you turned tail and fled for your life. Again.

Why does it always go like this? Like, shit, c’mon already. This isn’t Tom and Jerry.

"Dean! She—!" Sam yelled and took off. "The bag!"

"What?!" Dean shouted in confusion. He was distant but loud.

"The bag! It's her bag!"

"Her—" Dean trailed off, panting as they both chased you. He knew, then. He recognized it, too.

You rounded a corner, then slammed into the chest of a man. You gasped, nearly falling on your rear, yet his hand got your arm and there was a distorted flutter.

You made out a blur of a beige trench coat just at your eye level, and you knew who it was. Dean was not kidding when he said angel travel sucked.

You curled into yourself, cradling your head. That had seriously messed with your ears, and now you just felt dizzy. You choked on a little bile, but you weren’t nauseous enough to actually vomit. You just really wanted to.

A stoic voice said, “I have transported you to your car.” Before you could respond he was gone.

You were alone once again.

///

Tag: @rosaren2498​ , @pillowjj​ , @busy-bee-angel-misska​ , @elle-r​ , @dagnylokisdottir​ , @omg-we-really-doo​ , @millieccino

[tealquacks]

Starting with a Heart...

Docthor day 5: Monstrous.

This is really fucking weird

@lostcybertronian

It stopped pulsating after three minutes, the longest Author had gotten. He looked up from his journal as it stopped moving on the table, laying still in a sinewy, bloody hunk, resting in a halo of fluorescent light. Cursing, he tore the page out of his journal, watching the heart on the table fade into nothingness, as if it wasn’t even there. Then, he sat perfectly still, silently fuming. Damn. Damn! He’d gotten close this time. The first attempts were much more pathetic, quivering things that flopped like a fish instead of properly pumping. Whatever he was doing wrong was minute, precise, necessary, and fucking stupid.

He looked over at the journal, copying the words he had written. They shone gold, a heart being made on the table bit by bit, stuttering before pumping, pumping. Loud enough to hear from under the floorboards. Author chuckled at his own joke, watching the heart and the clock ticking on the wall. He held his breath, as if one motion could stop it again.

“Honey?”

Author jumped at his voice, nearly falling out of his chair as he turned to see Edward in the doorway. Author stood. His hair was flipped to the other side, staring at him with soft, sleepy eyes. A white blanket slung around his shoulders was the only scrap of clothing he wore, Author peeking at the bruises and bitemarks trailing down his neck and chest, lips still swollen from god knows how many kisses.

“Edward-“

“You promised you’d stay, and I woke up alone. Come back to bed, pumpkin...” he trailed off, looking past him. Author cringed.

“Is that a heart?”

Author squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, dear.”

“A human heart?”

“A crude replica of one-“

Edward snorted. Authors eyebrows shot up. Suddenly, he was walking to the table and taking the heart in his hand, staring at it with his soft, sleepy eyes. Blood poured down his arm, then reached the blanket. He held it close to his face and stared into the gaping holes where invisible veins stuck out, shaking his head rhythmically.

“Firstly,” he whispered, voice still rumbling and heavy with sleep, “you made it too big. If you’re trying to make a human, it should be roughly the size of a fist. But this? It’s the size of two fists. Either way- I think the main problem is that you have no central nervous system, and the blood isn’t being oxidized at all. And it’s beating too fast.”

Author blinked, eyes transfixed on the blood pouring down his arm, staining the blanket, all while Edward stared, cold and clinical. The heart was red in the harsh light, held aloft in Edwards hand. Alas, poor Yorik, I knew him well…

He set the heart on the table and slinked up behind him, bloody hands resting on Author’s hips, sending chills down his spine. His breath caught in his throat.

“Y-you’re not scared? Or- or mad?” Author whispered.

“Curious,” Edward breathed, his lips grazing Authors neck. “Go on, continue writing. Make lungs. Make it breathe.”

Author’s head spun, hands shakily writing words, conjuring flesh out of nothingness, shaping it through words alone. Edwards voice rattled on in his ear, hypnotizing and heavy, saying yes, go on, make them breathe; there are filters in the lungs, honey. Make sure it’s connected to the heart, honey. Oh, that’s beautiful. Good. Fascinating.

The fluorescent light buzzed louder than any word they whispered, beating heart soon sequestered away in heaps of flesh. Between two lungs, shrouded in a thin, silky membrane. Ribs guarded the chest, then muscle and meat and finally, skin. Edwards head rested heavy on his shoulder. His hands rested under his shirt, now, wet blood on his skin. He thought to that night, when he came home with his story carved in his skin. Edward was naked and bloody, but he had been clean. Clean.

His body pressed against his, the words in his ear- he was drowning in blood. The stench of it. The rush of it coursing through his ears. With a soft noise, the blanket fell to the ground.

“I never knew you could make life,” Edward whispered, nipping his earlobe, “I always thought you were stuck killing, and that’s why you do it. I like seeing this side. You could stop hurting people, make life instead.”

Author was mum, his tongue a lump of lead in his mouth. A future laid itself in front of him, one where he stopped this endless hunt, created life instead of taking it, Edwards breath hot on his neck. He gave the creature fur. Gave it a proper brain. Edward suggested another pair of legs to support the body, hand gently brushing through Authors hair. A little bit of blood dropped from his hair to the page.

“Sorry,” Edward giggled. Author laughed in spite of himself, knees almost giving out as Edward kissed his jaw. His hand jerked, the monster spasming. He could hear Edward gasp. The thing was breathing.

It was a huge, hairy beast that looked almost like an insect, six muscular legs jutting out of its sides. Knife like claws scratched the table as it fell to the floor with a tile cracking thud. The spine curved perfectly, ending with a long panther tail, swaying gently like grass in the wind. Its head rose up, looking at the both of them with huge eyes. They were blood red. There were too many of them. It opened its mouth as if yawning, huge white teeth harshly gleaming in the light.

Author tried to step back, Edward holding him in place.

“See? I knew you could do it,” Edward said. His voice kept him steady. “I knew that you could be good. That you could make life instead of taking it. Why kill, when you can create?”

“I have to,” Author choked out. Edwards grip on his hip tightened.

“Why?”

“They’re for my stories-“

“Why not make a story where good things grow and live? A happy one. No killing, none. Have you considered that you could make your characters happy?”

The creature growled, deep and low.

“And what have they done to deserve that? Lied and cheated and whored themselves out. Why should they be happy when I’m… Nevermind. Liars. Cheaters. Whores. Bastards. All humans are the same.”

“Are you calling me a whore?”

“I’m calling you a human. An irrational, emotional human.”

“You’re human too, dear.” Edward felt too warm against him. Like a fire behind a door.

“Let me go.”

“Not until you listen to me.” His voice was gentle, despite his words being daggers. “You’re as human as I am. That may make you a liar, a cheat, a whore, irrational, emotional, whatever you think that means, but that’s all you are, a human. See-“ Edward grabbed one of Authors shaking hands, and pressed it against his own chest. He felt a dull thudding. “-You have a heart, too.”

The creature was circling around, restlessly. Black fur shone like hot tar under the cruel light. Drool sloshed from its maw.

“I am a god.”

“Then be a benevolent one.”

Author turned around, mouth open and ready to argue, but then he was being yanked close by Edward and kissed hard, hands covered with dried blood tracing their way over his spine, one resting at his hip. The creature howled behind them, broken and loud, Edward tilting his head to get a better angle. Something hot dripped down his face. He yanked away, and felt his face. Licked his hand. It tasted like salt.

“Why are you crying?” Author whined like the monster behind him, heart thudding in his ear.

Edward shook his head, face dry.

“It’s okay, honey-“

“No it fucking isn’t!” Author sobbed. Edward stepped back, eyes wide and lips still swollen. He looked pitiful- no. He was pitying him.

“You can talk to me. Please. Just talk to me.”

“I’ve been trying to talk to you! But no matter what I say or what I do, you never listen to me. For the last time- I’m not human! I’m above them! I am a god!”

“Then be a benevolent one!” Edward screamed. The room fell silent. He was panting like a dog, chest heaving and hands bloody. “You’re so obsessed with death and power and it’s tearing me apart, I can’t bear to see you go out and kill and kill without end… but look,” he crossed the room, reaching a hand out to the monster Author had made, “you can make life. You can be good, benevolent.”

“I didn’t do this to be good!”

“Then why did you do it?”

The monster made strange, metallic noises, grating and loud, scraping his ears and echoing on the walls-

“So I wouldn’t be alone! That thing? That’s my clone! A monster made of words!”

“You’re not fucking alone! You have me!”

“Edward, you don’t love me.”

The room was silent. Authors chest heaving. Edward was still looking at him so, so sadly, and he was starting to cry, too. Author wanted to explain, tell him about all the pages in the journal, all the time he spent writing their love, but it died on his tongue when Edward came close, gently pressing a kiss to his lips.

“We can talk about this in the morning,” he whispered, trailing his fingers on Authors shirt before walking away, shutting the door behind him. The monster made a strange noise, scratching the tiles, leaving deep grooves.

A monster made of words.

He looked down at his hands. They were free of blood, but not clean. He wiped his face, letting out another choked sob, trying to make it sound like a growl at the last minute. The monster rolled over onto its back like a dog, the blood red eyes intelligent and clear as a lake. Benevolent. Life giving. Pathetic. So wrapped up in himself he couldn’t see the truth. Edward’s blanket was a loose husk on the floor. Without another word, he turned his back on the beast and grabbed his bat, swinging it around, and around, and around.

He could take his benevolence and he could fucking have it.

-

Edward kept walking to their room even as the sounds of howls and cracking bone echoed through the building. Bim’s door swung open.

He ignored it.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Oh,” Edward whispered, not caring he was naked, “just a thunderstorm.”

“My mom always told me thunderstorms are what happened when god was angry.”

Edward stopped in his tracks. He looked down at his hands, covered in dry blood, then back to Bim.

“No, not angry. Just lonely. Just lonely.”

—

That morning, Author and Edward woke up together, bloody fingers intertwined.

“You���re not alone,” Edward whispered, “I’m here. I’ve always been.”

Author made a noise in his sleep, and he knew he couldn’t hear him.

“You’re not a monster,” he continued, brushing dried tears off Authors face, “just... misled.”

Nothing. At least there wasn’t a denial.

“I love you,” he whispered, even though he knew he wouldn’t get any response, even if Author was awake. Slowly, he pressed his head to his chest, Author’s heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

“You have a heart, my love.”

[ansheofthevalley]

Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old - chapter five: Hold on to me [part III]

Summary:  Jon is left shaken by visions of smoke and stone. But he's also shaken by the words said the previous night; guilt, anger and hurt weight heavy in his heart. And a truth he's not ready to share yet, not even say aloud. But the truth always finds its way to the light, even if it hurts, even if it makes you feel helpless.

A/N: you can also read here

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

The morning skies were heavy and grey, and the winds were strong and cold. A storm is coming, Jon thought. He woke up in the middle of the night, haunted by dreams. The one that woke him up was more of a nightmare, his worst nightmare. He was in Winterfell, that much he knew, but it was almost unrecognizable. He was in the courtyard, surrounded by stone and smoke. Up in the air, unnerving screeches made the earth under him tremble. He wanted to run but it was as if he was a tree, his feet planted on the ground like old roots. He was alone, surrounded by smoke and shadows. He heard another screech and it rattled his bones. He felt a wave of fear wash over him as a stream of fire came from the sky and set the whole courtyard ablaze. When he woke up it wasn’t the heat of the flames he felt, but the cold winds of the winter night.

The feeling of dread that the nightmare brought with it kept Jon awake; now, the sun was slowly rising in the sky. A brand-new day. And more problems to deal with, the voice in his head reminded him. Since his mind was tormented, he figured he’d have a bath and go over some of the battle plans he had discussed with Davos. But not even hot water and the impending war against the dead could give his mind focus. His mind was everywhere. What if I made a mistake? What if this isn’t the way? He found himself thinking. That nightmare had left him shaken. It felt as real as the wooden piece sybolizing the Knights of the Vale he had in his hand, it felt as real as the wind finding its way into the room. It would have been easier if it was just the nightmare that made him feel that way, but alas, things were always more complicated. Words spoken in an empty solar, with a crackling fire as the only witness. Sansa, angry and hurt. But he also was angry and hurt. Angry at her, because he couldn't understand her, and angry at himself because somehow, he had hurt her, and seeing her hurt, again, after all she’s been through hurt him too. It would be simpler if he could just forget their argument, but his mind wouldn’t let him. Every word, every look, was printed on his mind and haunted him by repeating themselves over and over again.

“Why did you do it?”

“We already told you, he was a threat to our House”.

“He was a threat to all of us the minute he decided to stay”

“The reason I never told you about the Vale is because if I asked for his help, I knew I had to repay Littlefinger in some way. I knew what he wanted since the day we retook Winterfell, he told me himself”

“That was reason enough to send him back to the Vale”

“You need to keep men like that close to you. If they’re close, at least you can know what they want, what they do. He betrayed everyone he knew. Would you had me sent a man like that away, to plan Gods know what?”

“Yes. If it meant you were safe, then yes. Especially after I left”

“You think I kept Littlefinger around for fun? His face reminded me of every single thing I’ve been through”

He could see now that she was right. They were both right. Lord Baelish was a threat, and the more time they gave him to scheme and plot against them, the more likely he would've succeeded. But his cousins had stopped him, for good. But now, he realizes he wished he had done it himself, with his own hands. After every single crime he committed, after every atrocity, he wished he could have beat him to a pulp, until there was no more of his hand that blood and bone.

“What did you do?”

“I slept with her”

The way her body was tensed, just like a bowstring ready to be set loose. And her eyes, Gods, her eyes. He prayed to the Old Gods to be kind enough with her, for her to never encounter hurt and pain ever again, and somehow, and he delivered both at her feet. But she was quick to transform that pain into icy anger and lash out at him.

“So you decided to play the game? A game you obviously have no idea how to play?”

“You think this was a game for me?”

“It sure feels like it. First you gamble with our home and lands, then with our own lives. And now you tell me you gave yourself to her”

“I didn’t give myself to her”

“Right, you just bedded her. The North surely will thank you for that”

“You say all you want, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t do this to help the North, for the people. I’m not asking you to understand"

There could be ice between them, Seven Hells, the Wall itself could stand tall between them, but it would melt eventually. Her ice quickly transformed into fire, mimicking his. And lately, that fire has been growing, burning him slowly, painfully.

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

After a few more hours, he decided it was time he visited Bran and Sam and tell his friend the truth. The castle was fully alive, with kitchen maids coming and going, the clash of steel against steel as people trained in the courtyard, the eerie song of the dragonglass the blacksmiths were working with in the smithy. It felt familiar. War shouldn’t feel familiar, he thought. But it’s all you’ve known since you left, a voice responded. With these thoughts, he headed towards the library tower.

He knocked the heavy wooden door twice, each followed by a “wait, please” and “just a minute”. He thought Sam was surrounded by books and parchments, so he just opened the door instead of knocking the door for a third time.

“Please, be careful with the door!” Sam

“I’ll be careful” he answered, trying to calm down his friend

“Jon, it’s you” the former brother of the Night’s Watch said with a sigh of relief. “I thought it was Maester Wolkan. We’ve been gathering all the documented reports of the Others” he explained while looking at the floor, it was covered with books. There were parchments all over the table, some with ripped edges and yellow, marked by time. "I don't think he likes me very much. The library is like you're seeing it ever since I arrived" his friend continued, with more of a tint of guilt in his voice.

"He doesn't hate you, Sam. He's just used to having this place to himself" Bran said, always keeping his eyes on an old tome about the Age of Heroes that must be, at the very least, a couple of centuries old.

"As you can see, we're trying to find any piece of information about the Night King. Bran told me of his vision, of how he was made. So I thought that maybe we could find something in these books" he explained, "even if it is in the form of legend or tale".

"It goes back to the war between the Children and the First Men" Bran remarked. "Any information we can come across would most likely be written in a story, like the ones Old Nan used to tell us. Stuff of legend".

"Every single thing counts, even those you might come across as a tale. Every new piece of information we have will makes us understand him and his army, it will help us find a way to defeat him" Jon assured them.

"I really hope so" Sam said. "I'm sorry Jon, if you came to see if had any news, I'm afraid we can't give you any", the way his shoulders were down, how he looked down at the floor and how he looked, with a creased doublet he was trying to cover up with his cloak and like he needed a good night's sleep, or maybe ten; it all made Jon realized his friend has been working non-stop.

"Sam, it's alright. I already told you that the information you gave me means a lot. Don't stress yourself if you can't find anything more. We'll fight with what we have" Those last words that came out of his lips reminded him of another time, a night before a battle. He had said those words to Sansa, to assure her that no matter the odds, they would win. And they almost lost that battle, they almost lost Winterfell. He had already lost Rickon that day, right in front of him, and he almost lost Sansa too. If it weren't for her and the Knights of the Vale, he wouldn't be alive, he was certain. But it's not going to be like last time, he thought. We have more men and we have Daenerys' dragons. We can do this. I can do this. He gave his friend a reassuring smile, and he returned it.

"So, what are you doing here? Not that you're not welcomed, it's just that I figured you'd be out there in the courtyard or planning for the war. You know, what commanders do" he added with a small smile.

"I wanted to talk with you Sam" he started "We both did, actually" he said, looking at Bran.

"Why don't you sit, Sam?" Bran suggested. He did as Bran told him and sat in a stool that was near the table.

"Alright" he looked first at him, then at Bran. "You're scaring me" he laughed nervously. "What happened?"

Sam's question lingered for a few moments. He wanted to get out of there. He's my brother, I have to tell him, but Gods, I don't know how to do this. How do I tell him his father and brother were killed, he thought. Killed by fire. We both saw how Mance was fed to the flames when Stannis was at the Wall. I know we both remember the screams. I've seen men die, he reflected. I've seen women and children die. I've seen people kill each other. I've killed, yet still, it's the image of Mance, tied up in that pyre, screaming, while flames danced around him one of the images that can't leave my mind. A horrible way to die, a cruel way to die. How can she do this to people? he thought bitterly. Stand there and watch people be consumed by the flames? Are all Targaryens like this? Am I like that, too? If not, what will it take for me to be numb to it all?

"You know what happened at the Reach?" Jon asked.

"Yes. Apparently, Highgarden was assaulted by Lannister forces and now House Tyrell is dead" he recalled. "Some say Cersei made my father Lord Paramount of the South" he said this with some disbelief in his tone and a little wonderment in his eyes. "Though there's no surprise there, my father uniting forces with the Lannisters" he continued.

"Do you know anything more?" it was Bran who asked him this.

"Not really, only the rumors. That Olenna Tyrell threw herself out of a tower, that she was killed by Jaime Lannister, that the Lannister forces took all the gold and food from Highgarden, though the last one is probably true" .

"Nothing more? That's all you heard?" Jon insisted.

"Yes. There's quite a distance from the Reach to here. Rumors don't travel fast in winter, I suppose" he tried to talk in a jesting tone, but Jon noticed the tension in his voice. "Why are you asking this?"

"Because we need to tell you something. About your father and brother" Bran answered.

"Oh, Gods, they died, isn't it? They died in battle?"

"Sam, I want you to listen to us carefully, alright? I need you to listen carefully to what Bran and I are going to tell you" Jon tried to calm down his friend. He only nodded, unable to get words out of his mouth.

Bran began explaining. "Like you said, the Lannister army assaulted Highgarden. Jaime Lannister was the commander and your father and brother fought beside him. After the battle was won, the Lannister army started taking all the gold and food they could find so they could send it to the capital. Just as they were leaving the castle, they were intercepted by a horde of Dothraki riders".

Sam went white. The tales about the Dothraki and their ability to kill were known in Westeros, only now some had died by their blades and a few, a lucky few, had lived what it's like to meet a Dothraki in battle.

"Daenerys sent his men to intercept them?" Sam whispered.

"Not only that," Jon answered, never daring to look at his friend "she was there with one of her dragons".

The silence was deafening. If he didn't dare to look at his friend before, he could not dare, for the life of him, to look at him now. He only listened. There was a light sob.

"And what happened?"

"Daenerys burned all the food that the Lannister army took from the Reach. And, as if the horde wasn't enough..." Jon couldn't continue. Even as the words were about to leave his mouth, he couldn't help but imagine the massacre that it must have been. It made him sick, it made him angry.

"What happened?" Sam came closer to Jon, begging him for more information.

"She ordered her dragon to breath fire across the fields" Bran answered.

It was at this moment when Jon dared to look at Sam. His eyes were glimmering with unshed tears. There was sadness in his eyes, but there was also anger, disbelief, heartbreak. So much for him to handle.

"Your father and brother survived the battle" Jon quickly added. "There were a number of soldiers that also survived".

"So they're alive? Are they her prisoners? Did you see them at Dragonstone, Jon? Did you see them?" Sam asked frantically. Now Jon regretted telling him that. I'm getting his hopes up, only to hit him with the truth, he thought.

"Daenerys had the Dothraki take all the survivors to one spot, so she could talk to them. She talked to them about bringing peace to Westeros, how the Seven Kingdoms were suffering under Cersei's reign. She then told them to bend the knee and join her. Anyone that refused her offer would die" Bran told him.

"My father didn't kneel" Sam guessed. "He's a proud man, he'll do things they way he sees it's best, no matter the consequences".

"He didn't kneel, so Daenerys sentenced him to death" Bran concluded.

A few seconds passed before Sam talked. "You know, he wasn't a kind father. He was mean and always expressed his dissapointment in me" he revealed, with tears falling down his cheeks. "But he was still my father. He was still my mother's husband, and Dickon's and Tallas's father. I know he loved them, and they loved him".

Jon meditated on his friend's words. All his life, Sam was humiliated by his father, and now here he was, crying for his death, crying for his family. I don't dare to break my friend's heart, he thought, but he needs to know. He remembered all the times he mentioned his brother Dickon at the Wall, back when they were stewards. He always spoke of him with love and care.

"That's not all, Sam" Jon finally said. "Your brother... He stood up for your father. He refused to bend the knee too".

Sam just stared at him, his mind still processing what Jon's words meant. More tears fell down his cheeks. The silence was unbearable.

"I'm so sorry, Sam" Jon was quick to add. "I found out about it when I got here. She never told me a word of what had happened at the Reach" he explained.

"How" Sam whispered.

Jon looked at Bran. He could see something akin to worry glimmer in his eyes.

"How" Sam repeated, louder. "How did it happen? Was it beheading?" he inquired.

Jon couldn't help but gulp before answering his friend's question. "Dragonfire" Jon whispered.

Jon didn't know how much time it has passed until Maester Wolkan walked in again. "Your Grace, there you are. Lord Tyrion wishes to have an audience with you-"

"Not now, Wolkan. Tell him I'm busy" he said as he walked to the door.

"He told me it was an urgent matter"

"Tell him that right now I'm busy. Can't he talk with Sansa?" her name brought the memories of the previous night back to his head. One thing at a time, he reminded himself.

"He told me it was you he wished to speak to"

"As I said" his tone was harsher this time "tell him I'm busy. Anything that he wants to discuss with me, he can do so with the Lady of Winterfell".

"Yes, Your Grace" the Maester said with a light bow of the head and left.

Jon closed the door softly, as if it were made of glass. He turned around to see Sam sitting still, looking at nothing and quietly sobbing.

"Dickon" he started "He was good. He was good and kind and brave. And now he's dead. They're both dead" he stopped himself, as if he was coming to terms with the idea. "They didn't deserve to die like that, Jon. Nobody deserves to die like that" his friend stated.

"I know Sam, I know. And I will talk to her about thi-"

"And she comes here, talking about uniting the people, about leaving wars behind, about knowing what her father was" Sam interrumpted him, his voice becoming more frantic with each word "but she can't do that. She's not able to do that. She truly lives up to her House words" he spat.

The silence that befell the room was something tangible. Jon felt uncomfortable, he felt sorry for his friend. This is a mess.

"She doesn't deserve that Throne. What's the difference between her and Cersei Lannister? Or Stannis? He burned people alive, Bran told me he burned his own daughter. A man like that didn't deserve to rule. Cersei killed hundreds with wildfire. What's the difference between wildfire and dragonfire?"

"Sam, I will talk to her. I will confront her about this. I will get justice for your family, I promise" Jon knew he couldn't live up to his promise the moment the words left his mouth, and also did Sam.

"Justice? What justice, Jon? They're already dead. And we need her armies and her dragons" he said, resigned.

Bran's voice surprised him. "Jon" it almost sounded like a plea.

He looked at his cousin, then at his friend. He made up his mind. "We're going to win this war, we're going to defeat the Night King" he assured him. Bran called out his name once more, but Jon only looked at him. "And after we do that, you're welcomed to stay here, at Winterfell. You and your family. Your mother and sister, they can come here, once we recover from the war"

"Thank you, Jon, but you don't need to-"

"After the war, Daenerys will go south, to continue her conquest, but she won't have the North. I'll go to war, if it comes to that" Gods be good, he thought. There's no turning back from that. And I don't want to, he realized. "You're right, she doesn't deserve to rule, she does not deserve to rule over these people. We all fought so hard for our homes, many brave men and women died. We lost so much. And I'm not going to let it be in vain" he took Sam by the shoulder. "I already lost two brothers for the North's cause, I won't lose another. You're family, Sam"

Sam was really touched by everything Jon just said. It was with tears in his eyes that he replied to Jon "Daenerys is your family, too, Jon".

"She's not family. She might be my father's sister, but the Starks are my true family, you are my family". As he said those words, he felt as if a rock was lifted from his body, he was now weightless, nothing was pulling him down. "And there's nothing I wouldn't do, nothing, to keep my family safe" his grip was tighter, now.

Sam didn't say a word, he was letting Jon's words sink in. After a minute, his face transformed, even though there still were tears in his eyes, he was now smiling, a small thing really, but the smile was there. In a second, he pulled Jon into a tight hug. "Thank you, Jon. For everything" he said, tears running free down his cheeks.

They separated after Sam's words. He then went towards Bran. "Thank you, Bran. Thank you, both of you, for telling me this".

"Sam, do you want to have some time alone? Maybe we could send for Gilly and little Sam" Bran offered.

"You're very kind, but I think I'll retire to my chambers, if it's alright with you, Bran"

"Of course, go" Bran said and with that Sam was out of the Library Tower.

Jon felt free, that whatever that was holding him down now was gone.

"I hope you understand what you just did" Bran said, his eyes boring into his, like trying to figure out his future.

"What? With Sam?"

"No, the promise you made. To make the North independent"

"Well, first we have to defeat the Night King" he reminded Bran.

"Sansa's right. You gamble too much with things you shouldn't gamble with. It's too much of a risk"

Those words twisted inside him like a knife. "Sansa" was all Jon managed to say, whisper really. "What do you know about what Sansa said?"

"I know she didn't take too kindly to the nature of your relationship with Daenerys"

"Did you..." Jon was afraid to ask, afraid to know that Bran had seen their fight, afraid that he might know some things he wasn't ready to say out loud.

"Yes, I did. But only because I was worried about Sansa" he assured him. "I asked Wilton, the guard that stays at my door every night, to take me down to the Godswood at the Wolf Hour. When we were near the pools, we saw someone was there, sitting in front of the carved face. Wilton managed to see red hair, and told me it was Sansa, so I told him to take me to her. The wheeled chair is not the most sutile thing in the world, so she heard us coming. She stood up quickly, straightened her skirts and passed her hands across her face".

"Thank you, Wilton. I'll stay with my brother" she said in a dutiful tone.

"Of Course, I'll be right there by the entrance, my lady" and with that Wilton disappeared into the remnants of the night.

"What are you doing here this early?" she asked him, the dutiful tone in her voice gone. Now he could see the real Sansa, tired and conflicted about something.

"I was about to ask you the same thing. I came down to see if I could have a vision. Maybe at the Wolf Hour I'll be luckier. You?"

"I just needed some air, and some space" she was staring at the snow below her feet as she said this. "These last couple of days... It's been hard"

They stayed in silence for a while, enjoying the cold breeze of winter and the smell of fresh snow paired with the Weirwood. The smell of home.

He knew something troubled Sansa's mind, but still, he didn't expect her sister to be so direct. "Did you know about Jon and Daenerys?" her voice was stern and cold, almost as cold as the breeze.

He looked her in the eyes to respond. "Yes, I knew. And I talked to Jon about it. He told me he wanted to tell you himself"

“I just…” her breathing was ragged, as if she were running around like when they were kids, hiding behind the old trees of the Godswood. “I just don’t understand how he could do something like that” she confessed, confused and… there was something else, something Bran couldn’t quite place.

“He told me he did it so Daenerys would commit to our cause”

“Yes, I know. He told me the same” his sister told him. “But, Gods take me, I cannot understand” her voice was like ice, but there was something underneath.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“How am I supposed to tell the lords and ladies that Jon has not only bent the knee, but is also the long-lost son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and on top of that, that he’s been… consorting with Queen Daenerys Stormborn” she looked utterly lost. She looked scared, the first time he’d seen her like that since their reunion.

“It won’t be easy. Many will plot to leave. They won’t say anything in front of Daenerys, they’re afraid of her” he revealed.

“Well, she does have two full-grown dragons” she added, bitterly. “How am I supposed to protect our people? Some will label Jon a traitor, because they won’t understand, and they will plot against him, against us. But once everyone knows about Jon, I’ll have to protect all of them, the ones that will remain loyal to us and the ones that won’t from a Targaryen that’s known for burning her enemies alive”. She let out a heavy, trembling sigh. “With each day that passes, I feel like things are getting harder to control, like they’re getting further and further away from my reach, and I don’t… I truly don’t know what will happen if I fail” she confessed to him. She turned to him. Her eyes were glimmering with unshed tears. “I cannot fail, Bran. Not after all that’s happened” she whispered as a single tear fell down her cheek. "We're a pack, and the pack survives".

They remained in silence; he was taking in Sansa's words, his sister seemed to find comfort in the cold air of the night.

“You said it won’t be easy, but will we make it? Will we be able to fight together?” she asked him.

“Like I said the day Jon came home, two things could happen: he will have the support of the North and the Vale, or he will have the support of Daenerys Targaryen. I haven’t seen anything that showed me him having the support of both the lords and ladies and Daenerys.”

She set free some of the tears that she was holding back, her eyes lost, looking at something only she could see. After a few moments, she seemed more composed, free of whatever that was holding her down. “Do you want me to stay with you while you have your visions?” she offered, changing the subject.

“You should get some rest. The lords and ladies will need to borrow strength from the Lady of Winterfell”. This comment made her chuckle.

“You know, every time I come here, my mind just takes me back to when we were children” Sansa told him.

“When we played hide and seek…” he added with a little joyful tone in his voice.

“Knights dueling for the princess’ hand” she said, smiling at the past.

“Or at being wildlings” he said with a chuckle.

“Oh no, you, Arya and Rickon played at being wildlings” she reminded him. But just as she said their younger brother’s name, her face turned somber.

“I miss him, too” he said. “I’m sorry you had to see that”.

“I didn’t see it happen, Jon did” she responded. “After all that has happened to us, I thought I could handle it, that I could see Rickon like that” new tears began to fall down her cheeks. “But the truth is I only saw as Father was murdered. I didn’t see Robb or Mother. And I thank the Gods for that. Because I don’t know what would be of me if I had to witness all of it”. She stopped to dry the new tears that were falling down her cheeks.  “After we were all settled, the day we retook our home, I went to my chambers and cried myself to sleep” she continued.

“You couldn’t stop thinking about Mother and Father” he said. She just looked at him, her eyes unguarded and vulnerable.

“I miss them so much” she remarked.  After this, silence took over, leaving each of them to their thoughts. A few minutes passed before Sansa spoke again, memories pouring out of her mouth. “Mother caught me crying the night before we left for King’s Landing. I told her that I was afraid. Even though it was all I ever wanted, I was afraid. And she wouldn’t be there with me, nor you or Rickon. And what she said to me…” she smiled. It was a sad smile, remembering their parents was a hurtful thing. Still, after all these years.

“What did she say to you?” he asked.

“Hush, my love. You are a Stark of Winterfell. We might not see each other in a while, but remember you are strong, and brave. Remember our words: Winter is coming. You are a strong little lady and someday you’ll be a strong woman,a strong Queen. But also remember you’re a Tully: Family, Duty, Honor. Those are your words, too. Trust your family, remember your duty and always behave with honor. Everything will be fine. Always keep that in your heart, and you’ll always be safe”.

“She would be proud of you, Sansa” he offered. And it was the truth. Their mother would be very proud of her; not only was she Lady of Winterfell, leading them as the head of their House into the Long Night, but she was a strong woman, something she, and Arya, took from their Lady Mother.

“She would be proud of all of us. They both would" she told him. She smiled again, but this time it wasn't sadness he found in his sister's face. It was nostalgia, missing all those moments they knew they could never get back, but no matter how far away they seemed, they were sweet memories now. It was a sense of security; they were home, the four of them. They were safe. It was faith, believing that from some place, their parents were looking after them, giving them strength, guiding them.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay? I wouldn't mind" Sansa offered again. "Besides, I don't like the idea of you being here alone at dawn. There are too many strangers in Winterfell"

"I won't be alone. Wilton is at the entrance and I'm sure you'll send another guard just in case. Also, Sam should be here any minute now"

His sister studied him for a moment, considered staying with him, even though it was obvious she didn't prepare for a long stay. She had one of her old dresses on and a grey cloak to shield her from the cold. She didn't plan on coming out. She must have wandered here. Something's bothering her.

"Just send a couple of guards alongside with Wilton" he reassured her.

"Alright" she said, still not entirely convinced.

"I'll be fine, Sansa. I've been in-

Sansa interrupted him with a hug. "Just... just be cautious. Promise me?" she said with worry.

He had a feeling that she wasn't just talking about staying outside during nighttime. "I promise".

Sansa let go of him after a few seconds. Her face showed determination, but her eyes shone with sadness. "I'll see you later".

"After she left, I tried to find what affected her so much" Bran concluded. He took one look at Jon, trying to read him. "It didn't take me much to find you two at the solar" he sighed.

Jon didn't know how to feel. Was he relieved? Was he scared? Probably both. "Bran..."

His cousin didn't face him, his fixed in an invisible point in the middle of the room.

"I... I don't know what to do, Bran" he was surprised to hear his voice break. Before he knew it, he was crying the tears he held on for so long.

At the sound of Jon's tears, Bran turned to him, seeing him. "You love her" he whispered. There wasn't surprise in his voice, there wasn't reproach. It was an statement.

His sobs grew stronger and louder. He wanted to talk, to offer an explanation, but the words wouldn't come out.

"Jon" Bran sighed.

He couldn't bare to look at him. What would he think of me, the voice in his head spat. He wanted to say something to him, anything, but for the life of him, he just couldn't. He had no words and all he was left with was the tears he hadn't shed and the emotions he had held back for what it seemed like an eternety.

"Jon" Bran repeated, a little harsher this time, so Jon would look at him. "You love Sansa" he told him, as if he were a child explaining him how sums work. "And that's alright. After what you've been through, what you both have been through... You feel like you don't deserve this, don't you?"

Jon was caught off guard. He didn't expect Bran to be so direct, or to read him so clearly. "I... I..." again, words were failing him and his thoughts were all over the place. "Before I left, I was a bastard. I knew I could never give anything to anyone, that I'd had no lands to call my own, that I'd have no woman to call my wife, no children to call mine. So I never dared to think about it. I knew it would be as easy as grabbing a star from the sky" he confessed. "But then, when I came back-"

"Everything changed" Bran finished for him. "Now you know you're the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. The Seven Kingdoms are yours by rights of succession" he reminded Jon. "But that's not what you want, isn't it?"

He looked up to his cousin, and simply moved his head. "I don't want the throne, just as I didn't want the Northern crown. I just want peace and be here, at home" he told him, looking at the floor.

"It's funny how the world works, Jon. The things men and women do in order to protect those they care about. Duty can be a heavy crown... But what is duty compared to love?" he said

At the mention of those words, Jon looked at Bran. Those words had an odd feeling growing in his chest, the same effect the Red Woman's words gave him back at the Wall, when he was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

"You're surprised"

"I haven't heard that question in a long time" he said, and a sad smile started to grow on his face at the memory of the old Targaryen Maester.

"Aemon Targaryen" Bran recalled. "I'm afraid I'll have to disagree with your relative".

"How so?" Jon was intrigued.

"Duty and love are not opposites. At least, not always" he reflected. "Why did you bend the knee?"

"To protect the North" he replied in an instant

"And why do you feel like you have to protect it?" Bran asked

"Because it's my duty, it's always been. Ever since I swore an oath"

"And that duty, that desire to protect the North, where does it come from?" he continued with his inquery.

"I protect it because it's my home, a part of me"

"Your home, and you love it" he stated. "Sometimes, duty and love go hand in hand" he pointed out. "But sometimes, we must choose between one and the other. Father chose both, his love was with your mother, as same as his duty. Robb chose love, forsaking his duty" he said this as he took his hand in his. Bran's hands were awfully cold. "Jon, you've chosen duty over love so many times. You have the chance to choose love, now" he reassured him.

Jon was scared. "But what about my duty? What about Daenerys?"

Bran let go of his hand, his eyes going back to that invisible point. "Everthing will work out the way it's supposed to".

[dcarevu]

The Last Laugh

“When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping!”

Hey, guys. This is Collin. I know that we’re only four episodes into this blog now, and things are just starting to roll…but unfortunately, I’ve decided that the stress of college and work is too much, so I’m going to have to go on an indefinite hiatus…

April fools!

SPOILERS BEYOND THIS POINT

Villain: The Joker Robin: No Writer: Carl Swenson Director: Kevin Altieri Animator: Akom Airdate: September 22, 1992 Episode Grade: B

The Joker’s back on the show already, and again, he has formulated an overly-complicated plot which seems to be designed specifically to lead Batman directly to him. We start by seeing a boat full of repulsively green trash chugging through the Gotham river. It’s emitting an absolutely foul stench, and while we aren’t sure if this is a typical occurrence, knowing this city, I wouldn’t doubt it one bit. Char, my girlfriend and watching-buddy got the impression that Gotham is indeed an old, dark, gothic city, but this was her first exposure to the griminess that is often associated with it. This time, however, the griminess seems to be a little bit more pleasant; in fact every citizen who notices it seems to burst out laughing! The garbage is emitting a powerful laughing gas that doesn’t just cause a rush of giggles, but it also seems to send its victims completely out of control, and they start ignoring all of their surroundings altogether. It’s like they’re not even aware of their laughter, as the fumes get them as high as a kite.

Meanwhile, still in Gotham, but away from the city, we cut to a really great shot of Wayne Manor. Inside, Bruce is sprucing himself up, and we discover that it is April Fools’ Day thanks to Alfred once again being the lovable savage that he seems to be. Offering to “draw” Bruce a bath, he quite literally draws him a picture of a bath, hoping to at least get a smile out of him. But alas, when he’s not reaching for his rich playboy persona, we see that Bruce is actually quite the stick in the mud. I love Kevin Conroy’s way of creating two voices for the character, something that had never really been done before this show. I actually believe this was Kevin’s idea, which is no surprise given his acting background. He somehow does it in a way that makes the Bruce Wayne persona seem even more fake, despite that voice being closer to Kevin’s actual voice.

Bruce Wayne dedicating himself to living a lie like that must truly be tough. Think about how that must hamper his relationships, and it starts to explain the social state that he finds himself in later down the DCAU timeline. I’m someone who is an introvert, and sometimes the amount of energy required to socialize is more than I would like to admit. But if I had to pretend to be someone I’m not every day when my true self is as dark as Batman’s character (and let’s be real, Batman is our main character, Bruce Wayne only exists as a name on his legal documents), it would be a lot worse. The seeds were planted this early, and it shows the thought, consistency, and understanding that Radomski, Timm, and co had for the character right away. This wasn’t your average Saturday morning version of Batman.

Obviously as more and more people throughout the city begin to become affected by the laughing gas, it does not go unnoticed by news outlets. Bruce immediately comes to the same conclusion as many of us watching; The Joker. It’s merely a matter of finding him and figuring out what he is up to. Meanwhile back in the city, we find out just that; The Joker and two of his goons are using the gas-induced obliviousness of the citizens on the street to rob them right under their noses. Even police officers are in tears, not paying the least bit of attention. The Joker, of course, is cracking comments and laughing his ass off the whole time. Some of his lines are legitimately hilarious in this episode, I’ve gotta say! While he was entertaining as all hell in Christmas With The Joker, it was more in a simple whacky, over-the-top, cartoon way. He still has some of that aspect here, but a lot more of it comes from genuinely clever writing. Some of his most well known lines from the show come from this episode. “So we’ll just punch some air holes!” and “YOU KILLED CAPTAIN CLOWN!” to name a couple, the latter being downright legendary.

So far, this episode gives the simple vibe of a fun Joker romp without much meat on its bones, and much of it is. But the stakes do raise as we cut back to the Batcave. Batman is analyzing some of the gas, and learning that it causes “permanent insanity”. We’ll come back to this a little bit later, but obviously he has to do something. Not just because of the robberies and accidents happening, but also just because of the mental health factor. Insanity? Not particularly good for you. All of a sudden, however, we hear a crash come from upstairs when he attempts to call Alfred down into the cave. He runs upstairs, and here we see Alfred, smashing artifacts and furniture with a broom as we hear him belt out cackles unlike anything we have heard from him. The gas is inside the house. Batman immediately dons a gas mask and heads out to stop it, presumably taking care of Alfred first. Alfred, and Wayne Manor in general, being the thing in danger isn’t an element the show does a lot, and I think the moderation allows it to stand out a lot more. It can immediately turn a silly episode like this into something much more serious. Char was gasping and worrying the entire time, not wanting Alfred to be hurt. I think she’s growing to really like him. This is helped by the fact that Alfred was recast for this episode, and his new actor, Afrem Zimbalist Jr (unfortunately no longer with us) would remain for the entire rest of the DCAU. Both of us like this change a lot. I think this new voice helps with Alfred’s miniature character evolution, as it just suits this personality more. The first voice (Clive Revill) wasn’t bad by any means. Paired with the version of Alfred that’s a bit more stereotypical “5-star restaurant waiter”, it felt pretty natural. But Afrem…he brings the character to life like no one else can. There’s no way I can picture Clive laughing maniacally the way that Alfred did here. Also…and maybe it’s just me…but even though for the first three episodes Alfred was voiced by a man who was actually English, it sounded more like a fake accent than Afrem’s! And maybe this is because I’m an ignorant American who doesn’t hear English accents every day, nor am I aware of all the regional variations. I don’t know. But virtually everyone who talks about this new portrayal absolutely loves it, so I’m likely not alone with this aspect either.

Back in the river, we see that the garbage boat is fake. Below the water, what looks like the top of a boat is being carried by a submarine. Looking through the periscope of the sub, the Joker catches sight of Batman’s eyes, staring back at him through the lens. Then, BAM. Batman smacks it, causing the entire thing to rattle, and sending the Joker to the floor. Boy are we getting some great drawings in this episode. Batman’s face through the lens looks amazing! We also had some fun, yet purposely ugly shots of people laughing on the streets earlier, and then the Joker getting knocked away from the periscope is gold. After this, we see that Batman is towing around the “boat” with his own Batboat (its first appearance), which pisses the Joker off. So we get a fight scene between the goons and Batman, which is one of the better action scenes we’ve gotten up to this point. Is it still a little bit stilted? Yes, most definitely. But is it Spider-Man the Animated Series level? Not a chance. I did get some excitement here, and the big hunk of metal known in this episode (and throughout the Internet) as Captain Clown is a robot, so we got a little bit of extra fun here. The Fox censors were not as sensitive if the beating was not being done to an actual human being (even if it’s hard to tell whether or not it's human just by looking), and we got to see Batman throw an actual hard punch. The fight against the other two gives me the impression of martial arts and self defense, which also makes sense given Batman’s background (which will be covered later). The scene ends, however, with Batman being locked in a container and thrown into the water, with the container leaking in through the many holes that the Joker stabs into it with a knife. Seeing the Joker whip out a knife like that and puncture it with Batman inside is really jarring given that this is episode four, and we hadn’t really seen that kind of near-violence prior. Yeah, Batman dodged the stabs, but if one of those had hit, he’d be done. Another glimpse into the dangerous psychopath aspect of a character you don’t always expect to fear. To be clear, this was jarring in a good way.

Situations like this are hard to write for, because you have to be able to come up with a solution that isn’t anticlimactic or complete bullshit. Here Batman calls his Batboat with his utility belt and has it slice the container up with its laser gun blast. It was thinking outside the box a little bit (no pun intended), and having the laser miss during the first shot was a good touch. Granted, I also don’t recall this laser getting much use later down the line (you would think a powerful tool like this would be heavily utilized, hinting at it being added just because of this predicament, but then again, welcome to the world of Batman’s gadgets), so overall I don’t think it was perfect. Pretty cool, though, and I’m not gonna complain. I wasn’t expecting it, and I did find it exciting. Also, 12 words: Batman’s anger once he manages to swim back up to the surface.

To speed things up a little bit, Batman gets to the service, finds where the Joker has gone, defeats the thugs by exposing them to their own laughing gas, and even manages to decimate Captain Clown in a trash compactor. After this, the rest of the episode is pretty much just a chase sequence, and it almost reminds me of a video game. Batman is basically going through an obstacle course. We get a couple more really great shots here, one of the Joker creepily riding a conveyor belt through the shadows, and one of Batman sliding down the garbage shoot. I’m surprised this was animated by Akom, as I specifically remember their animation being generally C-tier when I watched the entirety of Animaniacs (with TMS obviously being the best). Perhaps it was all in the storyboards. The more detailed they are, obviously Akom has more to go by with less room to mess things up. Batman ends up confronting the Joker on a walkway above a vat of molten metal, where Joker throws some razor sharp playing-cards at him. He misses once, and then for the second card, Batman manages to catch it. This is a scene that makes you audibly go, “Awww shit”, and you can tell Joker is thinking the same thing. Char brought up something interesting here. The Joker constructs these incredible plans to disrupt Batman’s day. I swear, he plans everything. But only up until a certain point, because he banks too much on certain aspects. He swore that throwing Batman into the river would have finished him. It’s like the SpongeBob episode where Plankton says something like, “I never thought I’d get this far”. Once Batman makes contact with that card razor, Joker panics and immediately tries to run away, ultimately defeating himself as he trips himself up with a rope. He plays with Batman one step too far. He doesn’t realize when to stop. He pokes the bear, and although he may ultimately be a glorified, crazy mobster, he’s not a fighter. Despite this realization of Char’s, which I totally vibe with, just two episodes ago we had the Joker tripping, falling, and being caught by Batman. So overall I do consider this ending a little cheap. A low point to an otherwise entertaining episode.

Well, I guess it’s not quite the ending. Because after this, we are back with Bruce Wayne and Alfred. Alfred seems to be feeling healthy again, but he is distraught since he broke a priceless artifact earlier when he was exposed to the insanity gas. Bruce tells him not to worry, and that it can simply come out of his paycheck, but also assures him that he’s joking, and it’s all an April Fools’ joke. Bruce even chuckles about it. I love this segment, and even though Bruce can be a stick in the mud as I said, every once in a while he can let himself have a little bit of fun.

For some additional things that didn’t quite fit in with the previous paragraphs, I found myself wondering what Joker was exactly planning on accomplishing after the robberies. I almost think that he was honestly expecting to be caught by Batman, or he was at least not planning past the stage of killing him. But I guess with such an unpredictable maniac, you’d have to be able to read his thoughts to really understand a lot of it. Also, Batman’s computer specifically said that the gas causes permanent insanity. Yet at the end, everyone seems to be fine. Does it require more exposure? Does it mean that it’s permanent for just as long as it’s being inhaled? Was it simply wrong? I was a little confused by this. Mark Hamill’s performance was amazing as always, and as I explained the way that Mark tends to almost visually morph into the character while he voices him, Char mentioned something about him and the Joker becoming one like with the Venom symbiote and Eddie. Accurate observation. And lastly, she mentioned something about how this Joker is someone where you never know when you’ll be on their bad side. I got flashes of a certain early scene from Return Of the Joker here, and I cannot wait for her to see that film.

Char’s grade: A

Major firsts: The Batboat, a form of Joker’s laughing gas

Next time: Pretty Poison

By the way, I’m still messing around and trying to figure out the best format for these blog entries. I don’t think I’ve quite found something that works for me yet, so for a bit, the posts may be a little inconsistent in how they’re laid out. Experimentation! I want to try and make them a little bit less like summaries, and more discussion/reaction-based. Thanks for bearing with me! Also, any constructive feedback is appreciated!

[frejahertziswritingthistime]

An Education chapter 24 (finale)

A/N: Oh. My. God. I CANNOT believe this is the end. I’ve been quite emotional writing this chapter, and the look back to the beginning of this has brought a little tear to my eye. It has been such a wild ride for me to write, and I’ve seen my own growth with this story. I’ve learned so much, and I’ve enjoyed every single comment, reblog, like, ask and message I’ve gotten for this story – this has really been a wonderful experience, and I’ve truly, honestly, loved every single second of writing this.

Now, to some less sobby stuff! This is the final chapter, BUT fear not, I might do a sequel (gasp, I know), and I’ll definitely do a few one-shots; sort of a day in the life-thing AND definitely a smutty one-shot of Freyja and Sam getting it on.

Without further ado, enjoy the final chapter of my longest running fic, and let me know if you’ve loved it!

As always, remember, I always say yes to requests, and feedback feeds the writer (I am a very insecure writer)!

MASTERLIST

An Education masterlist

Buy me a coffee – find my list for commissions here

Pairings: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Angst, language, a little flangst (I guess)

2 months in Hel

 I had so far managed to get on Hel’s nerves in more ways, than I had expected. I had managed to get Baldur in on it, so we frequently sang Wannabe, My heart will go on (duet-version, of course), Eye of The tiger and Waterloo – I had to teach Baldur every single song, but it didn’t matter, as soon as we saw Hel’s face. It was worth it.

I had also tried my hardest to make her fucking insane. I kept up the soccer-mom “it’s just a phase, honey”, whenever she showed up, along with lines like: “Oh, honey, black makes you look so ashy”, “have you ever tried to do a pink wardrobe instead?” and “You just need a little concealer!”. Needless to say, Hel was close to a nervous breakdown.

I was currently in the throne-room, walking in circles, searching for something, anything, that could make Hel more annoyed than she already was – I had been humming “Under the sea” for the duration of the day, and Garmr was bouncing around after me, woofing gently and tail wagging. Hel had been so damn pissed, that Garmr seemed to like me more than her, which I utilized to the fullest extent – I had taught him to sit, roll over, play dead, high-fives and he was now always only a step behind or in front of me, whenever I went anywhere.

It was hard, though. I had a sense of time was slipping out from under my fingertips. The longer I stayed, the harder it would be to get back. I knew that Freyja had told me, I could go back, but it felt as if sand was running through my fingers. Like I would disappear, be dust, with a snap of Hel’s fingers. I also knew, that time moved slower down here – my two months might be four years in the real world, which meant that the longer I stayed, the older my daughter was, and the possibility of Dean finding someone else was imminent.

It scared me. I talked with Baldur a lot, trying to hear if Freyja had kept tabs on Dean and my daughter, but she never answered those questions. She always told Baldur that the world was right again, Loki had been put back to his old punishment, which, to be fair, did sound awful. He was chained to a cliff, with poison dripping down, one drop at a time, onto his forehead. I idly thought that it wasn’t enough. He needed to suffer even heavier, than he did. Baldur was sweet and caring, trying to keep my spirit up – he made small lights flicker around me, shaped like fairies, sun, trees, anything that would remind me of what I was returning to. If I did return.

I was starting to lose faith, that Hel would ever let me go. I knew it had to be by her own hand, that I was set free, she would have to release me, but so far, I had only managed to make her angry. Annoyed. I doubted it was enough.

I danced around, humming Under the Sea, while Garmr was running in circles around me, tongue hanging out, his spit creating small sizzles and smoke-puffs, as it hit the ground. His spit was some sort of acid – at least he knew never to lick me anywhere. I was sure, even though I was technically dead, it would hurt like a bitch, if he did. I smiled down at him placing my hands out, and he quickly placed his front paws on my palms, hopping and bouncing, as we danced together. I heard the low growl of Hel behind me, and I stopped to turn around and look at her.

She was sitting on her throne, her long, pointed fingers squeezing the bridge of her nose, as if she had a migraine. A fleeting thought of wait, can Gods get migraines entered my mind, but it quickly pushed it aside; I knew instinctively that this was my one shot. This was what I had, this little moment of weakness she showed, was my way out.

I quickly scanned the circular room, spotting a few hands trying – once again – to grab the sleek, stone wall to crawl out, moans and wails echoing under me. Right next to them, two skulls, gray and sodden, sat, and I smiled grimly. Sorry, dead people, I need your skulls.

I grabbed them, pushing the hands away, that tried to grab my ankles, and picked them up. I walked slowly but perky to Hel, and stopped in front of her.

“If you are planning on telling me, that I need to wear pink again, I swear to Odin, I will rip every single bone from your body and use them as toothpicks.” She said in a low voice. I smiled at her. “nope. I made you something. A little… Appreciation-song, if you like.” She glanced at me. “Do not sing. No more. I cannot take it.” I smiled wider yet and held the skulls up, rattling them a little; the teeth, that had been pushed out of the skulls, rattled inside. I smirked and drew a deep breath, stepping out of arms range and started to rattle them in sync with the melody of under the sea. I cleared my throat and walked like a person making fun of Egyptian dancer, back and forth in front of her.

“Hel’s is great! Hel’s great! It’s dark, damp and moldy, down where it’s smoky, Hel’s GREAAAAAAT!” I glanced at her. She was squeezing her eyes shut, and I knew I had to keep going. Garmr was dancing as well, jumping back and forth next to me. “Come on, Gammie, one more tiiiiimeee!” I drew a deep breath, and Garmr woofed a little, before I started again.

“Hel’s great! HEL’S GREAAAAT! It’s dark, damp and moldy, down where it’s smoky, HEL’S GREAAAAT! Up in Asgard, they don’t give a fart, HEEEEEEL’S GREEEEEAAAAAAAAAAT!” I finished it all with loud rattles from the skulls, and Garmr was barking loudly next to me. I glanced back at her, and I could see smoke steam from her deep-set holes, that once was nostrils, and opened my mouth again, starting the song once more.

“STOP!” She roared, the sound of her voice echoing around the walls. I stopped with a smirk. “Don’t you like my…” She growled, interrupting me. “I do not care for your stupid, mortal songs. You are driving my sanity to the edge. I believed that I would have a strong, fierce Valkyrie to help me, to protect me, reap my souls for me, but you?” She glared at me through slits. “You may be the most useless, piece of mortal, I have ever had in my chambers. I wish I could extract your soul, make you fall into my pit, but alas, I can’t. You…” She drew a deep breath, and my palms were suddenly sweaty. “You must leave me. Go. Leave my realm, and do not ever come back. I cannot stand the sight of you.” She fell back in her chair with a loud groan, and I couldn’t keep my smile off my face.

I knew I barely had time, before I was removed from here, and I quickly ran to Baldur, Garmr on my heels. “Baldur!” I shouted through the corridors, and his voice rang clear. “Y/N!” I screeched to a halt in front of his cell with a huge grin on my face. “Baldur, I’m free. I can go home, I can… My daughter. My husband.” Baldur smiled widely, overwhelming me with love and admiration. “I always knew you would. Freyja is calling to you.” He said. I grasped his hand tightly in mine. “I am so sorry, I can’t take you with me. I wish there was something I could do.” He smiled sadly and laid his other hand on top of mine. “You must not worry about me. I will be fine. Your strength and your company has kept me happy. Please, all I ask, is that you do not forget me.” I nodded, a light above me growing stronger. Garmr was whining behind me, and I knew my time was running out. “Never.” He hastily squeezed my hand and I felt a weird weight in the palm of my hand. “For the Valkyrie, that helped me. Kept me happy. A token of my appreciation.” He unfolded his hands, and I looked down – a beautiful, silver chain rested there, with a vial of shining light, flowing gently like fabric in the wind – my eyes were wet, and I looked up at him with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Baldur. I’ll be sure to tell your tale to everyone.” He smiled and looked up at the light, still growing stronger, above me. “Thank you, Y/N.” He fell back to the shadows, and I turned back to Garmr, who was whining, pushing his nose against my leg.

“Gammie, I’m sorry, but I gotta go.” He whined. “You can’t come, I’m so sorry.” He whined again, louder this time, and laid down on top of my feet. “Friend, Gammie, please…” I was crying now. This dog had been my friend, my companion in the months I had been here. I couldn’t bear to leave him. He didn’t move, and before I could do anything more, the bright light swallowed me, forcing me to close my eyes.

 When I opened them, I was instantly taken aback by the sheer beauty of the room, I was in. It was a golden, shimmery tone along with wood-pillars and flowing, light fabrics. Before I could look around further, a slight whimper sounded from below me, and I realized the weight on my feet. I looked down in shock, to see Garmr still resting there, eyes closed. I quickly bent down to scratch him behind his ears. He perked up, looking at me with his big, red eyes. “Gammie! You’re… You’re here!” He wagged his tail.

“We could not leave your companion alone in Hel’s realm.” Freyja’s voice rang through the golden room, and I turned around, Garmr standing up, bristling at the goddess. I smiled widely and felt myself tear up. “Freyja.” She smiled and walked briskly to me, laying her hands on my shoulders. “My Valkyrie. You did wonderfully.” I sighed and grinned at her. “You must have questions, but first, let us clean you and dress you.”

I was escorted to a huge bath, my gray and torn sack was removed, and a few Asgardians helped to lower me in the golden bathtub. The scents of wild roses, lavender and rosehip fell over me, relaxing me completely as the ten people surrounding me, washed my hair, my body, scrubbed me clean and talking in hushed voices. I wasn’t even shy about my naked form. The feeling of being in warm water was something I would never, ever take for granted again.

When they finished, three new people entered, hands full of fabrics and a single chest-armor in a deep, mahogany leather – the last person to enter, held a sword in her hands as well.

They dressed me, draping fabrics around me, making the different colors shimmer against each other; it was a deep burgundy, a white, translucent fabric, shining like the rainbow, when the light hit it, a forest, evergreen was draped over my chest, and at the end, they fastened the armor on my chest, and handed me the sword. It was beautiful. It was crafted perfectly, weighing nothing in my hands, with the handle wrapped in leather and carved with runes at the top – the blade was curved a little and the silver shone in the bright lights around me. They braided my hair, pulling it away from my face and twisting it gently, pinning the big and small braids together with flowers and golden clips.

I thanked them, and they all smiled. “We thank thee, Valkyrie.” They said and bowed, leaving the room. Garmr was still at my side, refusing to leave me, and we walked through a golden corridor to the room, where I met Freyja at first. My feet were clad in a leather sandal, that wrapped around my shin, and felt like I as walking on butter, in – I felt beautiful.

I was met by the bright smile of Freyja, Frigg and Sif. They stood, hands crossed over their stomachs, with beautiful braided hair, and huge, thankful smiles directed at me. I stopped a meter from them and bowed gently. It felt right to do that – I was, after all, in the presence of the Queen of Asgard and two other goddesses.

“My dear, beautiful, Valkyrie.” Freyja said with a soft smile. “My goddess.” Frigg smiled widely at me. “We are sure, you must have questions.” I nodded and sat down on the gold chair on my left. Garmr laid down at my feet, keeping a close eye at the goddesses. “He seems quite taken with you.” Sif said in a melodic voice. I smiled and looked down at him. “As am I with him.” My words came out weird. It felt like Asgard was affecting my words. It didn’t matter.  

“How could I return? How… Why wasn’t I a damned soul? I made a deal with the goddess of Death.” Freyja smiled. “You never gave your soul. You never promised your soul. You said you would do anything, but you never once offered your soul to her.” I nodded, still confused. “As to why you can return… Well, you are a Valkyrie. You do not belong in Hel. You belong on my field. When your time is right, of course.” She nodded slowly to Frigg, who took over.

“No one wished to see you in Hel. Unfortunately, we could do nothing, except wait for your return. It was your final battle, dearest. You turned out to be far stronger than we ever could have realized.” I smiled. The necklace, Baldur had given me, rested warmly around my neck. The vial felt warm, like a comforting kiss or a hand, held in the darkness. Sif stepped forward.

“You have a choice to make. You can stay here, along with us, be Asgard’s protector alongside Heimdall, or…” She glanced at Freyja. “Or you can return to the world of the living. You are free to make your own choice.” I looked down at Garmr.

“Can Gammie come, either place I chose?” They nodded in unison. Freyja stepped forward and sat down on her knees, grasping my hands. “He can go where ever you chose, Valkyrie. The decision is yours, and yours alone.” I looked into her blue eyes, my own eyes wet. “I… I want to see my daughter. My husband. I want to go back to my family.” She smiled and got up, pulling me up as well.

“So it shall be. I will never be able to thank you enough for your sword. For your bravery. You, dear Valkyrie, are a queen worthy.” She smiled at me. “I cannot possibly show you my gratitude, in any shape, but I have a parting gift for you.” She reached into her dress, pulling out a beautiful, silver ring. It was adorned with crystals and diamonds, the band sleek, and it glistened in a way, I didn’t think it could. She put it on my finger. “If you ever need me, Asgard’s services or help, you will only need to twist the ring. I will feel it. I have woven it with a strand of my hair. The diamonds are my tears. This is made for you, and it can only be used by you.” I cried silently as I looked down at the beautiful ring, at a loss for words. Frigg stepped forward. “My parting gift for you, is this.” She handed me a piece of iridescent fabric. It was light, almost as air, that breezed through your hair, and it felt a little like a stream of quiet water. She smiled.

“This is woven by me. I weaved it with my hair, and it will keep you protected, if you ever encounter danger in the world. It will be your shield. It can protect you or your family, your beautiful daughter, if need be. Please, accept my protection.” I nodded, crying harder now. Garmr was whining a little at my tears.

Sif stepped forward, handing me a golden horn, adorned with gems and runes. “This is my parting gift for you. This horn will be your call for strength. You can drink from it, and it shall give you the strength of a thousand warriors. You can blow it, giving you a warriors call. You can leave it, and it will help you to keep your strength.” I took it from her hands, and all three gifts overwhelmed me. It was too much, too special; I felt a deep admiration for the three goddesses in front of me. Freyja smiled.

“I cannot express what I wish to. I can only say thank you, and may the gods be with you on your path.” I smiled through my tears. “As one last little gift, we have made sure that your companion” she glanced at Garmr “will not harm mortals. He will continue to be big, he will protect you, but he will not cause harm, unless you wish him to do so.” I smiled widely and Garmr licked the palm of my outstretched hand.

“Thank you. I don’t know… I can’t…” I drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t tell you how much I owe you. Thank you, all of you, for helping me. For… Making sure, I knew I could get out.” They nodded. “Before I leave, I just… Baldur. Please, try to help him. He was truly a light in the darkness down there.” They nodded again, and Freyja stepped forward, grasping my free hand.

“You must go, my dear Valkyrie. You have your fate awaiting you.” I nodded. “Thank you.” I scanned the room for the last time, and kept my hand on Garmr, steading both him and me for my imminent descent.

Freyja stepped away with a sad, soft smile and nodded. “Fare thee well, Valkyrie. May the gods be with you.”

A blinding light, and I lost sight of the three goddesses in front of me. When I opened my eyes again, I was in the middle of a field, trying to get my bearings. I wrapped the horn in the piece of fabric and hung it from a leather strap on my armor. Garmr was sniffing everything wildly, and, with a pang in my chest, thought that he had never smelled the grass or felt wind on his fur. I whistled, and he ran to my side with a gentle woof.

“We got to go, Gammie. We need to find Dean.” He wagged his tail and walked briskly in front of me, leading us off the field. I felt out of place. The sun beaming down on me felt too hot, the wind too fresh, and my clothes too… Asgardian. I walked, my sword sheathed by my side, through the field, following Garmr and I had to stop a few times, closing my eyes and feel the sun on my face. It was strange, how much the sun felt different. I remembered the sun differently. The soft breeze, making the trees rustle, felt like a soft caress, and I idly wondered if the goddesses were sending their last goodbye to me.

As we reached the outskirts of a small, rural town, I walked quickly to the nearest kiosk, grabbing a paper and checked the date. Tears well up in my eyes. It had been five years. Five. My daughter was five years old. I had been dead for five years. The clerk stared at me.

“Are you straight from a Con, or something?” he asked, his eyes roaming over my outfit. “or something.” I mumbled. I looked up. “Where am I?” He looked confused. “Wilson, Kansas.” He said slowly, almost as if he was afraid of me. I nodded. Okay, this I could work with. Dean always talked about moving back to Kansas, and maybe, just maybe, the goddesses had sent me back to the town, he was in. “Have you ever seen a black, sleek car drive through town? An Impala?” I asked, my heart hammering in my chest. The clerk smiled widely and nodded.

“Sure, it’s Mr. Winchester’s. He’s a real dude, you know?” I smiled softly. “He lives around here?” The clerk nodded again. “yup. Him, his daughter and his two brothers. They’re real good men, I tell you. Mr. Winchester works as a mechanic here, and he helps a lot of people.” I smiled. “Two brothers?” He nodded. “Yeah, Sam and Castiel. The last one is weird, but he’s a good beekeeper. It’s amazing honey.” I smiled at him.

“Thank you. Do you… Do you have any idea where they live? I’m an old friend, and I haven’t seen them in a while. I thought I’d pay them a visit.” The clerk looked worried. “You ain’t there to kill ‘em, or somethin’?” I shook my head. The clerk stared at my face. “hmm… You look like the little girl.”

I waited. Garmr was howling outside, and the clerk looked at him. “That’s a mighty big dog.” I nodded. “so, their address?” He turned back to me. “What? Oh, yeah, sure. It’s down the main street, stay to the left and find a small road a few feet down from the main street. It’s the little, white house, with a red swing set in front.” I nodded. “thank you.”

I left the kiosk, and nuzzled Garmr’s ear. “We got a place to go, Gammie.” I whispered. He licked my hand and trotted along, leading the way. I walked slowly, as if my feet refused to move any faster. My anxiety was through the roof. I was afraid to see them all. Most of all, my daughter.

I passed a small park, and turned – I found a bench, and sat down, allowing Garmr to run amok; he was bouncing up and down, tongue out and tail wagging, sniffing anything and everything. I didn’t know what to do. Just show up, hoping that they wouldn’t try to kill me? Hope, that a strange woman wouldn’t open the door? I sighed deeply, trying to calm myself – whatever happened, would happen. If I could see my daughter, I would be okay.

I wish I had other clothes. It felt weird to sit around in Asgardian attire, much weirder if I had to show up on the doorstep of Dean’s house with it on. My eyes followed Garmr as he chased a squirrel. At least he was happy. I tried to calm my beating heart, but nothing seemed to work; the thought of Dean living happily with someone else, was terrifying to me. I was afraid, and far more than I had ever been in Hel’s realm. Far more afraid, than I had ever been, if I was honest – I was afraid to see my daughter, and not be able to recognize her. I was afraid that Sam and Dean would be afraid of me. I was afraid that didn’t believe me. I was afraid that Cas would try to expel me from my body.

Garmr came up to me, drool slobbering down his chin, and nudged my leg with his nose. “I know, buddy, we’ll get going soon, okay?” Garmr woofed. I stood up, straightening my dress and grasping the horn by my side – a warmth and feeling of strength ran through my body, and I sighed deeply, gathering my courage.

I walked down the main street, searching for the small road, the clerk had told me about – I avoided the stares of the few, who were on the street in the oncoming twilight. It must be late. My sense of time was missing, and I realized with a start, that I didn’t mind – the twilight reminded me of the late nights, I had with Dean, and it gave me a sense of comfort – like a blanket being wrapped around you when you’re sick. I found the street and paused in front of it. Garmr whined. “Are you ready?” I asked him, but mostly myself, and he woofed gently. I nodded.

“Me too.” I walked down the street, my sandals crunching against the small rocks on the road, and I scouted the houses with a smile. They had chosen a great place, for our daughter to grow up. White, picket fences, green grass and the sounds of birds singing was everywhere, and I smiled. I had missed that sound.

I reached the white house, the red swing set in the front garden, and I stopped at the mailbox. The Y/L/N Winchesters. They hadn’t forgotten me. I looked at the house – it was cute. White sidings, a green frown lawn full of flowers, a small kiddie pool placed there as well, right next to the swings. I opened the fence gate and stepped through. Garmr was close by my side, his paws tapping on the stones, that led to the staircase to the front door. As I reached the stairs, I stopped – I wondered, if this was truly a good idea; maybe I should let them live their life, not uproot them. They had been mourning for me, they must have buried me, and here I was, five years later. Alive.

The windows shone with the lights inside, and I could vaguely hear clinking of dishes being down, along with a familiar voice shouting. My stomach was one, big knot, but I forced my hand up to ring the doorbell and stepped back a little.

The handle was pressed down, and I felt like throwing up. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I almost turned around to run away, but the door swung open and Sam stood in front of me. He was smiling, but it faltered as he saw my face. He was about to say something, but I shushed him lightly. He glanced at Garmr next to me and then back to my face. “you’re….” I smiled softly. “not dead.” I said and gestured to my body.

Sam stared at me. I felt my eyes get wet, as I heard a pearling laughter from the inside of the house. “Dean…?” Sam smiled. “He’s… He’s okay. So is she.” I sobbed. “Good. Can I…?” He nodded. “This is a surprise for all of us, but I am not going to take that from you.” He said and then, without warning, and without taking his eyes off me, he yelled through the house. “DEAN! Can you come here, please?” I heard the sounds of feet tapping on the floor behind Sam.

“Mary Samantha Y/L/N Winchester, if you don’t stop squirming, I swear to god…” Dean stopped in the door, his face full of shock. A little, dark blonde girl was in his arms. She had my eyes, and she smiled widely, dimples popping as she did. She tried to get Dean’s attention, but he was glued to my face. I looked at her, and forced my eyes from her, straight to Dean’s face. Sam moved slowly away, leaving the three of us alone.

“Daddy, she looks like Mommy.” Mary said in a soft voice, hiding her face a little behind her hair.

“Y/N?” Dean’s voice wavered, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. I smiled softly.

“Hi, Dean.”

 END

 A/N 2: HOLY SHIT THIS IS THE END. I CAN’T. I’M CRYING. DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME, I’M JUST IN A PUDDLE OF MY OWN TEARS. This has been such a wild journey, and I couldn’t be happier with this story. It was my first long series, and I’ve loved every second of it. As stated before, I might do a sequel, but for now, this is the end.

I am working on a few one-shots for this one – amongst others, Sam and Freyja banging, Christmas and how Cas became a beekeeper. It really has been a joy to write this story, and I can’t express how grateful I have been (and still am) for all of you, who’s been following and reading this story. Thank you, for letting me tell my story. Thank you for loving it.

Thank you.

 Like this? Did I break your heart? Want more? Let me know!

TAGLIST: @hobby27, @trustnobodyshootfirst, @supernatural-idjit-95, @polina-93, @akshi8278, @wingedcatninja, @dean-winchesters-bacon, @redeyedvixen, @mypage-myfandoms, @killerunicorn3, @xcarapherneliabearx, @gatorgal94, @biawol, @rachembol, @vickyfarley, @andkatiethings

FOREVERLIST: @supernaturalmagicfolk, @redeyedvixen, @al1y, @roonyxx, @heyitscam99, @sherlockstolemyname, @tayyfvck, @starletzombie, @linki-locks11, @jensenyourdeanisshowing, @pisces-cutie, @luciferspreciousbabygirl             

[sunnydalecalifornia]

the capability of humanity

or the one where a monster isn’t always the most evil

TRIGGER WARNING: discusses themes of war. Specifically events that occurred in WWI. I am not a well-learned historian, and my embellishments are fictional in nature, as I don’t remember the purity of the instances I recall, but the vague concepts and references are based in historical fact. I am aware that this might only appeal to a small group of you guys, but alas, I am a slave to the muse...

PROMPT: Klaus uses his time as a soldier in WWI to enlighten Caroline on just what humanity is capable of

When she calls him a monster, it stays rattling around inside his mind like a fly; an incessant, low-volume noise that he can’t seem to track long enough to kill it dead. 

Monster? 

He was simply a creature engaging in his natural tendencies: fangs and preternatural strength were not his to become a pacifist with. 

And yet, the object of his every pure-  It was all for her- thought had drawn a line in the forest floor and put them on opposite sides of it.

Monster?

She reveled in her humanity like that made her something good. 

When he sees her again, he can’t help himself. “I have realized, sweetheart, that you never asked me if there ever was a moment where I was ever truly glad I wasn’t human.”

Caught off guard, Caroline’s jaw twitched as she held her tongue from lashing out at him again, keeping her cool enough to muster a quipped response. 

“Well?” 

So he buys them plane tickets and flies them to Belgium. It’s a quiet drive to Ypres, and he’s thankful that she doesn’t try to make small talk. A part of him regrets that this will be her first experience abroad, but the other part knows he will make it up to her. Maybe Rome? Paris? Tokyo?

When the car comes to a stop in front of a rickety chain-link fence, Caroline finds her voice again.

“Zone Rouge?” She asks after reading the sign adorned with a skull and cross bones. “Where exactly are we?”

“This,” he begins as he climbs out of the car, “is where it happened.”

The padlock of the fence is dust in his hands, and Klaus leads Caroline into the field. Memories flash across his vision. None of this is recognizable. There is nothing here. A hundred years ago- has it really been that long?- there was mounds of turned earth, barbed wire, and the air was alive with explosions reverberating like drumroll against the ear drums. 

When they reach the center of the enclosure, Klaus turns to her. It feels smaller somehow, and the fact that he can breathe and does not feel the ground and bodies pressed into him contrasts that unsettlingly. It’s wrong. The whole atmosphere is wrong.

Some things, however, are the same, despite how time has tried to reclaim and wash away these grounds.

“The smell is arsenic and chlorine,” he starts again, imperceptibly shaking his head as the odor overwhelms him- not like before, but he remembers, “as mustard gas was first used here.” 

Her nose twitches and she doesn’t speak, just waits for him to talk.

“Kol and I had decided to join the Front, and we had arrived at the trenches as refresher troops. We were still miles away when the smell reached us. Imagine if you will, the way a half a million dead in various states of decomposition, unable to be buried, might smell. Even the living with their feet rotting from standing in mud for days and days... it was horrific. There was a constant barrage of shell fire and explosions. In this place I witnessed things worse than hell. Even protected by our immortality, my brother and I felt that mortal fear that plagued all of the men around us, for how could any living creature survive it?”

At this point, Klaus was lost to memory, his eyes flickering to a fro like that of a cornered animal searching for a way to escape, and Caroline listened earnestly. 

“When the gas was released, it was almost a joke. A yellowish-green, it inched across no-man’s land. You could have walked in front of it!” A humorless laugh left him. “Shellfire stopped and even the German’s held their breath: they didn’t know, you see, just what it was capable of.”

Klaus looked at her now, a sickened sneer on his face. 

“When the first men breathed it in... let’s just say that vervain would have been a glorious relief.”

He remembers the way a man clawed at his throat with the stub of a severed hand, crimson darkening the dirtied skin and seeping into his uniform. His eyes wide with a fear that had surpassed life, for this man was all but dead. His screams were gasps, as his throat had been destroyed by the gas. 

“And til this day nothing grows here. Too much death and poison still lingers in the soil.” 

Finally, he looks to her. “You’ll be well into a few centuries before this place will redeem the mistakes of humanity. And then what?” He gestures to the emptiness around them. “Flowers will grow here? Like a grave where loved ones can mourn the fallen? Ha! Those people are dead! The people who were decimated here have no names, Caroline. They were just lambs for the slaughter.”

After a few minutes of silence, Caroline grabs his hand, tears in her eyes.

“Yes, sweetheart,” even saying such a term of endearment feels wrong here, “I kill, and yes I enjoy it, but that is because my blood demands it of me. This place has shown me that monsters can have a heartbeat. There’s being a creature of the night, and then there’s this place where demons not even hell could hold were allowed to play. So tell me-”

He pulls her into him, his arm wraps around her back, his eyes desperate and mouth almost disgusted. It’s supposed to be cruel, but he is weak and holding her keeps him stable.

“Where is your humanity? And tell me why that makes you any better?”

The mire he ties to paint each word worth sounds an awful lot like a plea, and despite the harshness of the question, he is whispering into her lips- not touching, but he could and it would take no effort to exhale and finally know- and she does not waiver.

“Klaus...” He gets it, really. What could she say? “It doesn’t excuse-” full on sneering, he pulls away, but her hands dig into his arms and he doesn’t really want to be away from her warmth so he lets her hold him in her orbit. 

How does she look so soft atop of a ground so saturated with pain and brutality? She is the flower that grows first here, and he paints this moment in his mind, trying to erase the burn in his throat with a swallow.

“But I get it.”

Klaus smiles something broken, but still. When was the last time such an upward curve has happened here? 

Like they’ve done it before, her hands find his, and she smiles the same smile too.

[margridarnauds]

fanfic director's cut: ⭐

Since I JUST got done with it (thank God, thank God)....

The opening scene to let me lay my head down (on the shadow by your side)

[tws for suicide references]

So, fun fact about this scene in general: It was not supposed to exist. It was supposed to start with Margrid in the present day, with the rumors about Orléans’ death. But it didn’t FIT for me as far as why someone as cynical as Margrid would genuinely believe a rumor like that, especially when she creates the news herself. I knew why, but it was important to sell the credibility of Margrid panicking without making her appear stupid or gullible, so, I decided to go back in time to establish her frame of mind. 

“Where is Mama?” The girl asked, clinging onto her blanket she’d dragged from the room, a little scrap of fabric that had the letters “MA” embroidered on it in red thread.

I did intend to put in the detail that she kept the blanket after her expulsion; it’s the one thing from her old life she clung onto. If she ever has children, it will go to them.  

“You should not be up, Margrid,” one of the Sisters stiffened, glaring at the girl.

Margrid Arnaud, age 7, straightened up, fixing her with a glare. “I wish to see my mother.”

So much glaring, so little time. It was important for me to try to establish that, while Margrid’s trauma definitely made her MORE the woman we see here, she was always a bit of a shit. I really wanted to set that dynamic as far as “This is MARGRID; she’s an adorable seven year old, yeah, but also she was DEFINITELY not suited to a convent school life.”

It was several hours after the lights were out, long after the other girls had quieted, and Margrid had not had an hour’s sleep before a nightmare tossed her back up. And the convent was dark at night, and cold. The trees outside her window rattled against the window pane, like the rapping of a ghost (she didn’t believe in ghosts, not like the others, but it was annoying anyway) and she wanted her mama, who had been in her dreams, a sad smile on her face, before-. Ghosts are an ongoing theme in Margrid’s life, at least in terms of this series. We don’t SEE them in this story, at least...not in the literal sense, but that’s definitely an ongoing thing for her, and hopefully, down the line, I can talk a little bit more about how Margrid dealt with superstitions regarding ghosts in the convent. 

This section was also a deliberate foil to Madame Roland’s recollection of her time in the convent. In her account, Madame Roland discusses not being able to sleep well during her first night in the convent, and seeing a dim light, and how calming the trees were. And I thought “Excellent, but what if I made a version of that for a scared 7 year old?” 

Something was wrong . She could feel it. She always had a feeling when something was going to happen. Sister Agnés, with a fond smile, had sometimes said that she was like a little cat, pricking her fur up before a storm.

I was actually really happy to get to bring Agnés in now, because she’s such an important figure in Margrid’s life and we get to see a trace of that connection here. Also, establishing that Margrid has some sense of the supernatural, which comes in handy down the line and gets the idea across of why Adult!Margrid KNOWS the second something’s off. It’s because she’s seen it all happen again. It’s not too unlike Soléne and the Ankou, where the second she gets that Ankou Vibe, you know SOMETHING is going to happen. 

But now, there was no smile on Agnés' face, only pity. (She didn’t want pity.)

Another part where Older!Margrid shows.

 “Margrid-” she said, shaking her head before kneeling on the stone floor, taking Margrid’s hands in her big ones. Margrid pulled away. She didn’t want Agnés to soothe her, she wanted to know what was going on. Agnés sighed, shaking her head, “Margrid. Listen to me. There has been a terrible accident. Your mama is in Heaven now.” And here, we see an ongoing problem in Margrid’s relationship with Agnés, namely that she wants to soothe and protect Margrid, but Margrid wants the answers here and now. She doesn’t do coddling, even if she might crave it, at least...not at the expense of being kept out of the loop.  “You will not help the girl by lying,” Sister Agathe said, “Your mother is in Hell, by her own decision.”

Genuinely speaking, I didn’t want to entirely rely on Evil Nun stereotypes, because, again, Madame Roland, who provided my main source for information, thought the world of her education. But, at the same time, I did want to show the world that Margrid existed in, as the daughter of a victim of suicide, and how that would really make her into the woman we meet. An alternative name for Agathe had been Sophie, because that word derives from “Knowledge/Wisdom” and her role really is to give that knowledge to Margrid, even if it’s in the most brutal way. I ultimately went with Agathe, though, because it provided a foil to Agnes’ name, not unlike Marie/Margrid in terms of names. 

Margrid forced herself on the tips of her toes, fists curled up into balls by her side. “You’re wrong!”

“She ended her own life, child.” The other woman said, glaring down at her while Margrid seethed. “She could not live in the shadow of her sin any more and decided to leave this life, without hope of deliverance.”  

“She wouldn’t leave me, she wouldn’t-” Margrid clutched at the blanket, the embroidered letters brushing against the ground.

There was definitely some symbolism intended with the “MA,” which Jeanette Arnaud had stitched by hand, brushing against the ground when she gets the news. 

“She is damned to Hell, and you will be too if you continue as you have been.” Agathe raised her nose, “Perhaps she realized what a disrespectful brat she raised and chose to end herself then and there.”

“Sister Agathe,” Mother Superior snapped, “You are too harsh on the child. I would ask you to leave and spend the rest of the evening in reflection.”

This was a small bone to the non-Evil Nun Crowd. I wanted to show that....It wasn’t a matter of evil, abusive people in Margrid’s life that turned her into what she was, it was more that she slipped between the cracks. People like Agnés, people like Mother Superior...they were level headed, they cared about Margrid, in their own way, but they still failed her in the end. 

Margrid was silent at that, running the blanket back and forth in her hands. Mama didn’t leave because of her. She wouldn’t. Mama always said that she loved her, didn’t she? If she loved her, she wouldn’t have left her, would she? Unless she didn’t love her, but she said she had, she always did in her letters, she said-

Margrid dealing, for the first time, with the idea that someone SAYING they loved her doesn’t mean they do, or that they’ll stay with her, even if Jeanette really did love her daughter very much. This is the poltergeist that haunts her relationship with Orléans, that idea of “You SAY you want to be by my side, but you’re going to leave me, because everyone else has. The nuns, my mother, everyone I’ve loved in my life. So I’m NOT going to love you because I don’t want to deal with what will happen if I do.” 

Something that I really...realized when writing this was that, to a certain extent, even without the political developments that made them at odds, they were doomed almost from the getgo. Because Orléans, despite being manipulative, cunning, and ruthless, does give himself over to Margrid, and he wants more of a RELATIONSHIP, because it is what he’s had in the past. Orléans has been in love before, and yeah, he’s gotten hurt on occasion from it, but all of his affairs closed amiably and they remained friends. Margrid hasn’t had that. She associates love with pain, and so she can’t really give him that openness, even if it’s something he more or less deals with, in the sense of “I know that this is Margrid-ese for ‘I love you.’” It’s one of those situations where you have a relationship that is unbalanced on the surface, but actually has a reversed power dynamic at the core, ala Peyronan. Except, unlike Peyronan, it’s the lower class partner in the relationship who’s closed off emotionally. 

Something that I’d actually intended to put in was a little feeling of guilt, feeling like she’d caused her death. Ah well, angst for another day. 

“Margrid,” Agnés stroked her hair, and the girl swallowed, and it was like trying to force a boulder down her throat, scratching on the way down, but she continued anyway. They wouldn’t see her cry.

I feel like this is the moment where she really becomes the Margrid we know, starting to mask her real emotions. 

“It isn’t true, is it? She’s just saying it to scare me, isn’t she?” Her mama wasn’t dead.

It was just Sister Agathe trying to force her to bend. She never liked that Margrid’s response to her pressing down on her was to press back. The other girls, they looked down when she passed, paid the respects they were told to pay, but Margrid would only glare. It wasn’t that she was disrespectful, not really, though that was the word she heard them say when they thought she was out of earshot. She could be very respectful, once they’d earned it. She respected Mother Superior, and Agnés and Mama, and the Saints and Martyrs and Apostles, even though some of the sisters thought her constant questioning was a sign of disrespect. (How could it be disrespectful, she wondered, if she just wanted to know more?) Sister Agathe just hadn’t.

Something that was interesting for me to work with re: Child!Margrid was that she isn’t nearly as bitter or anti-authoritarian as we see her later on. Like, don’t get me wrong, she COULD be, and she was always going to be that shit, but she genuinely did have some respect, she could have been much more settled, much more bourgeois in how she approached that. She only really became that STRONGLY anti-authority in general when she was expelled. If they had let her grow, if they hadn’t tried to press down on her, if they had answered her questions and treated her like a person with thoughts and feelings...

“Margrid, child…” And she always hated it when they called her “child,” like she was a baby. I might have channeled myself at seven, where I definitely had Thoughts about being treated like a child. I distinctly remember trying to sing “Rock a bye Baby” to a....3/4 year old, and her screaming “I AM NOT A BABY.” She was seven years old, she could understand things. “Your mother has departed this life. We should be strong in this time. Perhaps,” she swallowed, “Perhaps we should offer up prayers for her soul. Would you like that?”

Agnés is trying so, so hard to help Margrid, but this isn’t a situation that she’s really prepared for, and she goes back to her old standby, aka religion. But Margrid, who is increasingly alienated and distrustful of authority...doesn’t WANT that. She doesn’t want to be told to “be strong.” 

She reached out her hand, and Margrid took a step away, shaking her head at all of them gathered together, at the pity on their faces. Prayers hadn’t helped her mother in life, how would they in death?

Again, going back to pity. Thank you to Sister Agathe as well for dropping the idea in Margrid’s mind that her mother’s death was retribution for her “sin” of having Margrid, basically nuking Margrid’s already somewhat shaky faith. 

“Margrid-” Agnés began, and Margrid didn’t want to hear it. Before they could grab her and choke her with more sympathy, she took off, back to their rooms. She didn’t want to hear it, she didn’t want to hear it, she didn’t-

“Margrid!”

If you remember the German cast, this is a call forward to that, with Agnés once again wanting to get Margrid’s attention and Margrid once again running away.  

She ran away from Agnés’ echoing voice, down the long halls, the stone an old friend to her bare feet, not stopping until she reached her room.

I was inordinately proud of myself for “the stone an old friend to her bare feet;” I had this idea that a LOT of Margrid’s recreational time, as a kid, was spent running around, causing mayhem, and so, on some level, she might have known the convent better than most of the nuns.  

She got no sleep that night.

[savedfromsalvation]

From the writings of Acharya S - Truth Be Known

Proof That God Doesn't Exist,

Prayer Doesn't Work

And Religion Creates Psychosis

"A believer is a bird in a cage. A freethinker is an eagle parting the clouds with tireless wing."

Robert Ingersoll

On the first page of this website is a prayer: "God, protect me from your followers." Well, needless to say, it doesn't work, thereby providing concrete proof that God doesn't exist and that prayer doesn't work. And those who have squeaked through the supernatural protective net have expressed psychosis, which proves that religion creates it.

Some of the nutty messages received include the following. These comments are so generic and typical that they apply to basically any blind believer, with the emphasis on blind.

"Your time will come!" This remark could be taken two ways: The friendly interpretation is that someone is wishing me luck. The hateful interpretation is that I am being condemned to judgment by a monstrous god person.

"Eternity is a long time to be wrong!" All freethinkers have heard this retort, which is a more refined version of "You're going to hell!" This comment is psychotic, in that these blind believers believe there is a "loving" and "forgiving" god person who will hideously punish anyone who dares to question "his" existence. Obviously, we reject such an ugly concept, so this threat doesn't scare us. Also, what if YOU'RE wrong? You have condemned millions of people to hell in your thoughts and words, not to mention that, if you're a Christian, you believe the Jews are guilty of killing God! These are pretty heinous accusations, so you had better be sure that you're not wrong. Blind belief is not a win-win situation. Indeed, it is intellectually dishonest and harmful.

"When you die, you will meet your Maker and fall down on your knees before Jesus and ask His forgiveness." Ditto with the above. Why would the "omnipotent" Jesus and "His Father" be so threatened by our unbelief? Did "He/They" not provide us with intelligence? Yet, "He" wishes us to spit on "His" gift and not use it? This asinine comment also means that the hundreds of millions of Buddhists and others who don't believe in the Jewish godman are diabolical and will be severely punished. Those who subscribe to such bigotry are already living in hell.

"Have you read the Bible cover to cover?" Actually, I have, and the hypocrite who asks such a question obviously hasn't, because the Bible is full of dreadful stories about genocide, murder, adultery, incest, deceit, greed, arrogance, megalomania, sexual perversion, and all sorts of despicable behavior. On second thought, perhaps the people who ask such a question HAVE read the Bible, as we are sure it creates dementia.

"Who made you so angry?" This comment one is full of implications, and I could answer in a variety of ways. One favorite response is "Who made you so dumb?" But I could focus on the "made" part and say, "Well, God made me, so he must have made me angry." I could also point out that the question itself is extremely angry, and that those who see anger everywhere are themselves seething with anger but are repressing it and are thus not mentally balanced. Human beings SHOULD be angry, because their situation is atrocious. If there were such a god person directing everything, they should be very angry at "him," because this world is a mess and every day abominable things are happening to millions of people. Of course, the standard stupid response to this is that "God gave us free will." (See A Question of Free Will.)

"I'll pray for you!" This comment sounds like an alien language to freethinkers. It comes out something like this: "BZZZPPFFFFTTT." When interpreted, it becomes clear that the person who is making such a comment feels quite smug and superior in that he/she has chosen the RIGHT god, compared to whatever it is you do with your consciousness, such that he/she now has a direct pipeline, whereas you do not, and he/she will put in a good word for you, you lowlife scum. Since the concept of "God" is completely arbitrary, we could respond that we will pray to the Cosmic Mickey Mouse that our well-wishers become intelligent. Naturally, we are not talking about loved ones who make this heartfelt prayer comment in times of true trauma. We are addressing the condescending offer presented by missionaries and proselytizing fanatics who have never even met us but who feel they know we are sinners who need prayer to their "Father in heaven." Theirs is a rather unctuous and smarmy mentality.

Now, just in case you think I'm being a bit harsh in pronouncing these statements and sentiments psychotic, I offer up the following email--you decide. Do you truly want to live in a world dominated by this kind of mentality?

"Alas, your vile vulgarness comes out. It's obvious you and your mind belong to Satan. The message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing. You are a very sad excuse of a human being. You babble about things you know nothing about. The Jews aren't Christkillers. Whoever told you that. Jesus died for all of us, so we all are Christkillers.... Whether or not you like it, or admit it, you were created by God, you will be judged by God, and you will be punished by God. You can play all the games you want to until that day of judgement, but it's coming."

To these loving, advanced concepts, I respond, "You and your mind obviously belong to Ahriman the Devil! Ahura-Mazda the Almighty will judge and punish you! My Persian boogeyman is bigger than your Judeo-Christian one! You barbarian with a bone in your nose! Ooga-booga!" Then I follow this with much saber-rattling, teeth-baring and chest-beating.

All of these comments reflect that the believer is angry, volatile, primitive, arrogant, mentally unbalanced and does not display critical thinking. Let us now spell it out:

If you believe there is an invisible giant man of a particular ethnicity in the sky who is directing everything and who is so hateful he will viciously punish us for challenging his existence--

If you believe that this invisible giant man got a 13-year-old virgin girl pregnant, who then gave birth to him as his own son--

If you believe that this god person wrote a book--and one book only--

If you believe that "confessing the Lord" will instantly remove your sins, thus allowing you to commit more--

If you believe that a stone will remove your sins, thus allowing you to commit more--

If you believe in vicarious blood-atonement, i.e., that "the Lord died for your sins" and thus you can commit as many as you wish--

If you believe that merely believing in such a god person makes you righteous, no matter what atrocities you commit and what hatred and intolerance you carry and spread--

If you believe that some "good" god person is going to reward you for killing living, breathing human beings "in his name"--

If you believe that going to church, temple, synagogue or mosque, making pilgrimages, or wearing particular clothes or headdresses, makes you a righteous person, even though you don't behave like one otherwise--

If you believe that you are special and chosen because of what you believe--

If you believe that it is good to mindlessly go along with whatever anyone tells you about the nature of God and religion--

If you believe that believing in one God makes you better than and superior to those who don't--

You are not displaying critical thinking, not using your mind. You are also uneducated as to the world's cultures and history. It is not a sign of great intelligence to blindly believe what someone else has told you is true, especially when such beliefs basically condemn hundreds of millions of other people. Many of these blind believers are simply not very bright, yet they assume that their belief equalizes them with those who are smarter. "Jesus loves you just the way you are!" is the hypocritical hue and cry of those who feel inferior but who will not recognize it and admit it. Yet, according to these same cheerleaders, Jesus DOESN'T love you just the way you are--you must thoroughly change, surrendering your mind and soul to him. A bit of a psychotic extortion racket.

The bottom line is that those who dare to question and challenge cherished beliefs which are not rational and reasonable, and who live relatively righteous lives without such irrational and intolerant beliefs, should be recognized as being the epitome of what any god person would wish in "his children." They are utilizing all of the gifts that such a god person would provide, were "he" real. And if they have utilized these "God-given" gifts, they know that the interpretation of "God" is a cultural artifact, not an absolute truth that must be defended and beaten into other people. In using these gifts, they will discover that over the millennia, hundreds of millions of people have held differing opinions as to the Infinite, which is only common sense, since it is, after all, Infinite.

Humans need to lighten up! Their gods and religions are dreary, humorless, wrathful, intolerant, oppressive and generally unpleasant. There is no love, no joy, no fun! Humans are under the dominion of ideologies that are slowly but surely killing them. They need to release them and be free! No one is going to punish them for enjoying life, and there is no point to living if they can't enjoy it. No good god person wants to see people stumbling around in dread seriousness, doing cockamamie rituals and constantly beating up themselves and others. Life is a joke. There is no purpose, so everyone is free to create his or her own, making it as amusing, joyous and scrupulous as possible.

(Hey, folks - the comment that this page constitutes "proof" is TONGUE IN CHEEK. Get it? Geesh.)

Acharya means “teacher.” In real life she was  D.M. Murdock, a brilliant classicist scholar and linguist.  Yes, she read the entire bible - In all the original languages it was written in, as well as the classical religious writings of many other cults.  Thi Pat Robertson or Joel Osteen did that?  This was one of her humorous rants, but many serious discussions disproving the backbone of most religions can be found on her website:  http://truthbeknown.com  Laz

[mogadichu]

SOAST- Chapter Four: Books and Stories and One Gold Eye

“Once upon a time, the world was divided by silver and gold, for the sun and the moon lived in the sky as one. Those in Tuma’s light were bathed in gold, and in Moyane’s, silver. One day, as with all things, one side decided that theirs was better than the other.

“Tuma’s golden children began to see Moyane’s silver as lesser beings. After all, what did they have but stars and darkness? Tuma was filled with light and joy, where everything was awake and alive. What they did not know, however, is that the silver children saw the golden ones as lesser, for they did not have the luxury of walking a moonlit field in the soft shades of starlight. Soon, a war was upon the children of Tuma and Moyane before either even realized.”

Sahn did not recite his stories from a sacred scroll, or even from his books of treasured tales. His stories were his stories, worlds made entirely of his words. His voice was soft and fragile, but it flowed over the words like water. It was a voice that would stop a man mid-sentence to listen.

“Tuma and Moyane were furious when they saw the horrors their children had inflicted upon the perfect world, and they came down to confront the people of silver and gold.

“‘Children,’ Moyane, compassionate and diplomatic, said to her people. ‘Why do you fight, when you are equal?’ The people said nothing, too ashamed to answer to the silver goddess.

“Tuma, with anger in his soul, came forward then. ‘Behold the world around you,’ he boomed, his voice deeper than the waters of Elas-Ri-Hradek. ‘Behold the soil beneath your toes, which you have stained with each other’s blood. Is one’s blood a different color than the other? Does one not bleed at all?’

“The god and goddess were right, of course. But, alas, the divided children were too blinded by their own prejudice to see true reason. One day, during the time when neither god could see them from the sky, the children came to an agreement, their only agreement, that they must be separated. And thus, they must separate Tuma and Moyane.”

Aurie’s eyes widened, her mouth falling agape in complete rhapsody. “What did they do?” she breathed.

“As Tuma’s children distracted him with talk of his bright and brilliant greatness (this worked splendidly, as Tuma was quite an arrogant deity), Moyane’s people coaxed her to mortal soil with the most beautiful-”

  It was as though someone were hammering a stake into his eye. A scream tore from Sahn’s throat, wild and ragged like an animal. He buckled to the floor in a writhing heap. Aurie rushed to him, cradling his head in her lap, whimpering in fear and confusion. “Ma,” she cried. “Da! Jerra!” But nobody was there to hear her. Sahn could not speak, could not move as something sharp and violent roiled through him, again and again, throbbing like a heartbeat. Tears spilled from his eyes. He squeezed them shut, his teeth gritting to the point of cracking. He yanked himself away from Aurie’s caress. Every touch, every noise, every breath was torture. Sahn was certain his head was about to explode.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the pain vanished.

He lay there for a time, limp with both relief and confusion. Just seconds ago, he was writhing, screaming, and now… nothing. There was no more nausea. His eyes no longer burned like fire. Not a drop of sweat or blood stained his skin or robes. It was as though nothing had ever happened. Slowly, distrustful of his own body, he crawled onto his heels, only to be constricted by Aurie’s arms, her little body shuddering with sobs. “What happened?” she whimpered. “W-What was that?”

Sahn sat in a daze, his throat dry as desert sand. “I… I don’t know.” Had it been a bug? A tremor? Perhaps their mother would know. He would tell her about it once she and the others returned. “I’m sorry,” Sahn rasped, stroking Aurie’s hair. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She pulled back, rubbing her nose with her fist. “You didn’t frighten me,” she said defensively, “I was only-” Her words stumbled to a halt as she met his gaze. She blinked once, twice, tilted her head to the side. “Sahn,” she said, reaching up to his face, “what’s the matter with your eyes?”

“My eyes?” Sahn climbed back to his feet- his legs did not even wobble- and wandered to the mirror in the family privy. Everything seemed in place, one eye grey, the other gold.

Wait…

No. That could not be right. His eyes were both green.

Yet, there it was in the little square of glass. His left eye was now a colorless grey, and his right was now a shockingly iridescent gold, as though it had drained all the color and luster from the other. His grey eye, as well as the rest of his face, was draped in evening darkness. But, the gold eye seemed immune to shadow, glowing as bright and brilliant in the gloom as a jewel in the noonday sun. Slowly, slowly, Sahn reached out toward the mirror, as though the boy staring back was another person, not his own reflection.

He had seen that eye before.

Suddenly, he gasped and threw his head up toward the ceiling, his hands clamping the edge of the sink in a white-knuckle grip. An abrupt, overwhelming sensation swept through, unlike anything he had ever felt, like something that had been missing inside of him suddenly returned, such a feeling of wholeness and completion that fresh tears rolled down his cheeks.

He could not dwell too long on that warmth, or the change in his appearance, for a high-pitched scream rattled down the corridor. Aurie. Sahn raced into his and Jerra’s room to see her pressed, shivering, against the corner, her eyes wide with terror as she stared down at the…

What?

What in Moyane’s name…?

It was a smooth, perfect channel of blue light, streaking along the wood with a faint hiss. It curved and whorled around and around until it was a luminous outline of a circle, decorated with symbols Aurie had never seen before, coming together in smooth and elegant azure. Before she could think, move, or do anything more than stare, two massive bright eyes emerged from the circle, then a snout, then horns, then a long, slender neck curving down to stare back at Sahn’s frozen form.

The creature seemed made entirely of graceful swirling markings of the same blue light, water dripping from its beaked snout and long, whip-like whiskers as though it were flesh and bone. Its upper half curled over him, its thin arms and tapering claws folded into its chest, the lower lost in the circle below, like a cobra in a basket. It was still. It was silent. In Aurie’s eyes, it seemed to be waiting.

For Sahn’s part, waves of both heat and cold coursed through his blood. Memories whisked through his thoughts, fast as a bird’s wings, visions of doors and stories and one gold eye, years old yet fresh as yesterday.

He had seen that dragon before.

           I’m dreaming, he thought, digging his fists into his eyes. I’m hallucinating again. He opened his again and blinked. Then blinked again. He was no longer in Aurie’s room. He was in a field. At least, it appeared to be a field, lush with wide-limbed trees, but the grass and trees were not green. They seemed to not hold any color at all, but for the reflections dancing along the earth, turquoise and mauve, gold and copper and white. He gazed up at the sky, and gasped. Blazing rings of color arched over the dark, colorless sky, formed from jagged runes that moved slowly and silently from horizon to horizon, vanishing behind the bowl-like mountains beyond the field.

           The dragon still stood before him, staring at him, its expression unfathomable. In the distance, more creatures roamed across the scape, glowing in more colors than Sahn had ever seen, the same whorls and curls like the dragon before him. None made a noise. There was no chirping of birds, no sound of wolves baying toward the ethereal blue moon. There was not even a rustle of leaves in the breeze. The creatures were not of this world. They were all from his forbidden stories, like his dragon.

           Sahn paused. His dragon…

           He should have been screaming be now, he knew. Instead, he looked up at his dragon and tilted his head. The dragon tilted its. He grinned, and though he may have imagined, it seemed to grin, too. It leaned down to him, its head larger than Sahn’s body. This time, he cowered back, only a little. The dragon advanced until its brow touched Sahn’s, staring into his eyes with chilling intensity.

           Something touched Sahn then, deep and precious inside him, something he could neither explain nor comprehend. It was like lantern light, like a beacon showing a path through a black abyss. It was like a long-dead language painted on a canvas of silk, a language he could somehow feel. The dragon closed its decorated lids. Sahn closed his, trying to focus on what was being said. “Go,” he repeated in words. “Go... Wait...” He opened his eyes. “Are you speaking to me?”

           But he was back in his bedroom. The dragon was gone, as was the circle. Glittering lights now spilled through the window. The procession was beginning. Smells of roasting fish and cakes cooling on windowsills wafted along the breeze, along with the sounds of tuning instruments and parents screaming at their children to get into their robes. Hours seemed to have passed. Had he fallen asleep? Had he been dreaming?

           The answer came when he turned around to see Aurie still pressed into the corner. Short strands of dark hair hung over her eyes, which were stretched so wide that white ringed around her amber irises. Whatever calm and wonder he had felt melted away. Waves of both heat and cold coursed through his body. Air sucked through his nostrils, but he could not breathe as the realization climbed into his mind.

           The minutes stretched between them as Aurie continued to stare. Outside, the Kelshins of Gleaner’s Hill began to greet each other. “Moyane’s light shines within you. Moyane’s light shines within you.”

Aurie gulped. “Sahn…”

“Moyane’s light shines within you.”

No, Sahn opened his mouth to beg, though nothing came out. Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.

“Moyane’s light shines within you.”

           “Sahn,” Aurie breathed. “You’re magic.”