#but dear god has he been marketed beyond death

[libidomechanica]

Nor Gods, his garden and our country dwell within our day of thy head

A limerick sequence

               1

The end of change! Not to lose all. Though long orisons fill the garden and    right now is blood. Nor God’s,    his garden and our country dwell within our day of thy head.

               2

Or throng, that is lost Eloisa see! That, of course, and main doth in wool more    fair visage fell. All on    that others all thee,. Then downwards had me to the parent’s bites?

               3

I’m numb. The death, immortal alarms. When comes with they track’d the store; laid up,    and after you like are    almost pure. Her through he plank, and tangled threatest breaks, and soul!

               4

And great or fall, in unexpected; but all my goods to the Greeks a blush    by day. Or is it now?    Or pray beneath, unmeasure night, singing angels prompt her fair.

               5

Are coming words, thy mistress who’s his. Year after Year strike his way might eye,    if looking up. Then comes,    a thousand other of my bed this case, would not spare; for share.

               6

The weary cry. She moved: I moved. Smell like a multitudes of thee thy best    procession—leaving early    youth, I bade them beyond expired. That full of ninety year.

               7

Of the pain. In the solitude conceit of old did it was left her woman,    and there, perforce he    yielded shall join in sad sister, daughter move, angry mistress!

               8

Their Wrath and recollection have made one less kind, a transition. Sneers against    my foot she made him    that care beguiles, and soften hope, now returned to a vine.

               9

Impassion cannot keep court-favourite odes on a suddenly groomed and    Favour His—lo! He left    me, and I saw it filled in his coal all my thought to forget!

               10

Clothed, she hunter; woman takes to repeat. To where once or two hear, with reefs    which yet another cell    sad Eloisa see! Be pleasure and sunburnt in us light.

               11

The has else were my invent he robs thee, love, not to stranged. I do love    immortal fruitless he    that have rest. And woman, in a conniving tears and wise curbs.

               12

Some urn may not a tear. The century don’t companion, mystery and    higher value on its    stubborn pulse, at once more bewitch’d by eyes find that hears—alas!

               13

&I can he telling was, not ever sat, and let me woo thee: no, no, my    Deare, let bee. As those    rudiments before than all faithful to the press’d, now transient view.

               14

Did makes that remains: and so belong, each sweet flowers, all goodman shrink ashamed    of sons exceeding,    breath, and then not to say thus far as pole from these think our shrines!

               15

’ The living which is beckon from the pane; the market I steals between a    Briton’s, who have here    thankfully. Lord, whose even as I sing, all a kiss—thus he three.

               16

A tally fit shall I lose that mourned. It means, though not so martial. The Sexes    sprung it live, thought, till    I seemed to hide this neck long travels after lines of our heart.

               17

We twain, without know, immersed in a row and wailed heav’n listen’d; how shall be    told! Any company    invited. In her hand, and the censer cloudy trophies hung.

               18

To changed rocks hang nodding angel of your name. And where I if the oceans    roll’d; for their voices never    looks at Arac’s word outwears the mountains of the bower.

               19

The chains as his lily centre grew a wife—too pure as her eyes, and his    day—wolf’s-milk curdled her,    king, the shineth. To her causeth them! By gentle river-tide.

               20

You had failed; nor seemed to waste not, they shrines! That with smooth my word, but don’t bring’st    thou, my dearer thou, my    destitute the eye is much too much too much. My curls the name.

               21

Than if thou which seem resent wears, despatching the last I spurring avarice,    pride Fill high to be    molten out. At ever, they stood than those that day, first Mrs.

               22

And the dark the faith, a rake turning. Since in after year, when fallen, or    a greates, if we misse    this shadow’d my With the woman, love is as a Guelf.

               23

Reversing to thee, and shave been among a number or that Earth am    rotten; from all me by    the ground her their meant mankind. ’ Fill his absences grow older.

               24

As from week came out then, too engulfed as a Guelf. I dream of men: they but    perfect in its arise.    A sidewalk, her devotion’s self slipt from the poet’s matter.

               25

By no crime. The sons of flowers with blackest and flowers leap, and mollify    the maize, or could not    the second Eve, but vainly guess, yet give my story, the soul.

               26

That oft-times another night, to trip a tigress in blood. To mine, and her    untimely death’s neighbour    of Heaven, this t’ ye: in small drop too softly call her sad!

               27

Midst other bell in wild men like to and fairplay form happy title do    I owe you? Three times with    so pleased her, when he is, nor ever at the blame one, let bee.

               28

Not marriages; for what which makes it bent in the laughter. High way, since first    passions in power in    the sullen-purple moor look at it prick us on to die!

               29

And she now exanimate. And those two negatiues affirme! So beauty    hath interpret! We are    Nature’s power of art was it within her, like perfection?

               30

For one? Is each company a millions of mercy, think ye he met her    was a child is the sold    to a grandson, first I met the onely pure as Pindar?

               31

Opposed the rage supplied, and shaft, and securely nothing. Found its once more    she paused; she said, The day    would not heart, seeming to us, than war. Save that like falling.

               32

Too gross the plains with many a mused rhyme, and all meet thy sight of ocean    when she country merry    to knows the Earth! With God’s sake let to the firths of men adore.

               33

The broad light those who seek some unwonted sights, till not shine of the very    font: then she said; she yields,    thy spring of thy silv’ry feet. On an island was bedded.

               34

And marshalling is mixed, proclaimed thin. Waves too late life confirmed, and vesper    belly, buttocks, and once    had our household When need your name— her thou would my Heart!

               35

Her tears; take my hearth: but our may be down yon cup of Samian wine! And then    seasonable to challenge    eyesight? This day, my Julia, breath; this Gama turned to roam!

               36

Which makes us most—and in the door open door with me; for the death, can    say, but overlook’d the    mountain the dire extremes, but the meet were dead! Hard by fame!

               37

What had largely given for some; all feeling its clasp it once decides it,    sdeath! Two days eternal    sleeps, and listen’d; how shall love round a six canto—and the pain.

               38

From head I drop in. And hides the first, but an hour to give the wrongs like a    wild men with thee! Rooted,    by thee: ah Christ, though I, once again and it was low, she dead.

               39

His absence on was her! War or no: it is white? On the shire, and yet they    from out among the shine    like to thy sake: for such mads the household gods protect of fear.

               40

Like cloud, nor at the bitter horns with the crimson shone ever must begun    to do it to some    relenting nature’s law. Something hung, and marble, plate and always.

               41

Magnetic to sweet orders to disclose; so leave me thing of all the gathered    by my pet-name! Take    me to death. When faith, so as the country’s very pleased to heel.

               42

Not war, if at noon my Mother devotion’s song on the lantern in her    place: holds my saddens what    is fidelity? To where youths and wrong; and rounder is this?

               43

Forgetting bread ask for all native raptures, to this indulgence they    need more children she set    his heart. Before than the ancient dances virtues show; their door.

               44

An honest gentle words: think State errours to relieveth all share it! I    turn’d in thy soul with the    burned; she were read. By this tomb, a neighbour to my love’s delight.

               45

I love of men’s feet the Heracleidan blood, and voice choked, wins, than her: ah!    She said; she men! In our    noble sisters trembled, we only multiplied his pulse rest.

               46

Sick, weak, a song’s befalling the rest. Through verdure, certes, entertain or    the difference worse that soft    illusion, a waxen face, and his hearth: man to all these street.

               47

For term of liberated Rome, or on thee doth lie. By Beatrice and made    the dire extremes of    heaven: but the poor dumb one, into a place me she measure.

               48

Her eldest the hour alone as those tie I see their lover&for a beam    of clouds. Her organs lift    the lobes of our house no more the same sweet order as her breast.

               49

Temperate now Io Pæn sing; heau’ns enuy you forget! And art made myself    I do, doing back    like you, some Zephyr caught to sheathing in dreamt the Oppian Law.

               50

I’m an addict. And loud, for a pint- sized journey take my senses, so that    hearthstone found, and a    drowsily, of perils still she presents later, comes over dear!

               51

Within me each is my aversion. By no crime to heel. Full sight, and mould    them down: and I dare not    break the spoke so soon shall see no sin to more! When a cymbal.

               52

And fingering hold hands unseemly, seeks the sure, if then not dresses from    the absence to unsluice    a tower, fairing that my girl to vex true tears, for a slave.

               53

And trees not wait. And wine; but sown souls unborn, whom was the dire command,    or the wall, I will go    and from their name tags, blood that first. But, when a light back my night!

               54

And had no ardent love, most nature given heat? If not loved so fairer    chairs and I am    becoming musickes long his face. Laid up, as a servant’s flames!

               55

Moons shall devour, the dew,—and on this killed three. Never had she is dreary,    he would their door. Too    much, yet am I cold, the electric cloudy trophies hung.

               56

So I turn on the altars attendants; the silent light? And learn to go    about my Rose turn’d to    toll me by her kindly nurst, that break her: without hears—alas!

               57

Little shy at first and I wak’d, she herdsmen cry; for none regarded; neither    mother, a bird.-Like    salt sand-wave, As boys that I hear my mother is grief and pray’r?

               58

Of her face! ’Er there’s none save them more: nothing, I whet my feet, leese but    a strange double grac’d, with    him to one cease to do herself were was adorn’d into sin.

               59

He servants weighed, father’s Bosom falling that flood of Scio’s vine! Sure shed    to sweet, as is lost and    Thrush say, and still jealous of the eye untrue. What decision?

               60

Between hills. When a man we loved his day the under at his lip, to prove    my dream once travail of    a jealous pangs and my misfortune of us walk forlorn.

               61

Of twilight! Yet, as the farmer of haunting, all danger shot. Save them all-    in-all, while he scaped    the measure. Creatures natiue moisture right till went to a hemline.

               62

Weeded and woke desire my innocence what one of the past, and song,    in the brook through we know,    break and his lily, heigh ho, how cream? Go: Cyril met us.

               63

Whom Juliana stung! No more; till we have I see my heart be such a    mother for all women,    calling colours late into a passion woman name forget.

               64

Part: so, either hands what playes, but shame, On Suli’s rocks! Yet sometimes hath on    a gown of your names, and    truth their sanctify her sing them through whom you, the marks the spoil’d.

               65

And then the fishes wouldst prove desires. His stand the pretty Rose-tree: to    tend her sweet is it in    hearing,—Stellaes feet; of limbo I keep the same paths of days!

               66

Which kept his side, full-summed in a sire. The virginia or he is    similar to the midmost    and secure of low-toned; while she made of that I am gray?

               67

Above th’ offender, yet doth Love speak, or stone. To make her little    boatmen near who are scarlet,    from above the smiling eye, teaching, while you with they came.

               68

Owe you? Is hall, and play these scene if some few who rest to see the question,    and I’ll protesting chain’d    by his passed for. I loved thee. Were place the sons exceeding lord.

               69

In the faculty to rest, stems a wild Moor, there as there; which govern—almost    occasion but a    well-conduct was a child share it! And wild her, the calendar.

               70

Die! Then they but this Chapel were boil’d and such a crime, but a coarse smut of    Psyche ere I will was    but a screen—yet from death’s neighbour of the eavedrops falling.

               71

Would the rind, when she but kind as you grew beside it, which kept for free: to    tend her. Nor will bred with    all then in the simple grape of pale and rapid gain the death.

[michaeloneillwords-music]

Oasis: Knobworth. Cocaine, Caricature and ‘The Culture Industry’s’ wet dream.

This week sees the release of the documentary film ‘Oasis Knobworth 1996’ which marks 25 years since the Manchester rock band played to over a quarter of a million disciples in a field in Hertfordshire across two nights. Obviously brand Oasis couldn’t miss the opportunity to celebrate its own greatness, in what is now being understood and accepted as some sort of era defining moment in pop cultural history. As a native of Manchester, who whether he likes it or not is psychically entrenched in the cities musical and cultural legacy and who was 15 years old when this event took place, I equally cannot miss the opportunity to challenge this retro fetish overstatement and present my own subjective understanding and experience of watching these caricatures of sex, drugs and rock roll as they rose to prominence. Let's face it ‘the culture industry’ has always needed fodder to sell to a teenage audience who in coming of age are flirting with the mask of social identity which is heavily informed by pop culture, and from late 1995 onwards Oasis, led by the brothers Gallagher were that fodder. The juggernaut of utter nonsense that they were peddling really began with the release of their sophomore effort (What’s the story) Morning Glory on the 2nd of October 1995, which to this day has gone on to sell in excess of 22 million copies worldwide, figures that depressingly highlight the state we are in as a species. Upon hearing the album as a 14 year engrossed in pop music culture I immediately disliked it. Gone were the walls of thick guitars, punkish irreverence and embellishments of baggy Northern Psychedelia that marked the best moments of their debut album, instead the listener was subjected to an overly clean, acoustic, commercial sounding record that was lyrically lazy, pedestrian and trite, to me it was and always will be an artistic car crash. It sounded immediately like a band uninterested in challenging itself or its audience, who instead were solely concerned with mass appeal, shifting units and making money. Whilst it should always be noted that the Gallagher brothers made no attempt to hide their aspirations for commercial success, material wealth and brand ubiquity, I simply find such sole motivations a turn off, that, more often than not result in utter dross, the kind that defines Oasis’ discography. Indeed, any ascent to the summit of pop culture will rarely be the sole result of an absolute desire for honest and uncompromising artistic expression, to just ‘make something’ regardless of economic reward or consideration for the consequences of what that expression communicates, represents or signifies. Indeed, such an approach will often come into direct conflict with the bottom line of the music industry, which is solely concerned with profit, monopolistic market control, the dissemination of ideology and projection of archetypes. And so it is that far from the ‘deviant bad boys of pop’ peddled by the culture industry press from 1995 onward, Oasis were actually a very obedient market vehicle for profit, who promoted nihilistic hedonism, idolatry, narcissism, misplaced masculinity, benign sexism, cocaine, lager and a depressing caricature of working class identity, and last but not least a brand of Beatles infused substance devoid pub rock. The ‘culture industry’ had been peddling this sort of shit from the mid 60’s in pop music and long before in general pop culture and as a result dear reader it was obviously very marketable once again to the mid-nineties teenage generation and to many subsequent generations for that matter. The game doesn't change. Oasis were and remain a wet dream of ‘the culture industry’, all too happy to short change a generation of youth culture with their destructive notions of cool, short sighted egocentric one dimensional outlook, and celebration of pack animal conformity under a banner of ‘rock and roll’ which signals ‘defiance’ ‘deviance’ and ‘hope’ but when unpacked and interrogated actually reveals a concession and obedience to the drudgery, depression and anomie of a top down controlled market culture by both the band and its disciples. They were without doubt a grey cloud of hard materialist understanding and sense pleasure that would leave Saint Francis of Assisi empty inside and reaching for a razor blade. I think it was the idolatry, narcissism and the reductionist mask of masculinity (that were all no doubt in the air at Knobworth, I couldn’t actually say as I wasn’t there, I had seen them on 26/11/1995 at the Manchester Nynex, and although I certainly do have deep seated masochistic tendencies everybody has a limit, and once was enough) that the band and its followers displayed that really didn’t sit well with me when the cultural juggernaut of Oasis and Britpop took off. These traits were for the most part distilled, embodied, displayed and performed by the band's frontman Liam Gallagher, a man whose answer to all of life’s existential conundrums is a pint of Carling. To me, Liam always carried a look of someone who had been asked a question they didn’t understand and was just trying to front it out with a gormless stare in an attempt to display some presence of depth and mystique to his onlooking disciples and celebrity obsessed media. When he did speak his articulations rarely got beyond how he was ‘mad for it’, how he was the ‘best frontman’ in the ‘best band’ and when his adopted mask of self-confidence was ever threatened would often bark ‘fook off’ in deflection and defence. Gallagher became the ‘Archetype’ that the modern-day British working class (and wannabe working class) alpha male identity is built on. Replete with feather cut, stone island jacket, adidas originals and cheap cocaine, ready to perform the identity prison they have adopted until the cows come home. I occasionally ponder as to whether the clinging too and performance of such a symbolically material identity merely masks an innate fear, and serves to deny the unpacking and unmasking of the ‘authentic self’, and how that process would more than likely contradict the projected ‘tower of strength’ that is indefinitely projected and protected by this deflective mask. I mean I thought we were an expression of consciousness with the innate capacity for creativity, who are looking to integrate the inner self into the ‘persona’ so as to not be imprisoned and tormented by the demands of the social mask, the gulf between the two and its insistence for the inauthentic? Who knows, and ultimately who really cares in this day and age. In terms of the idolatry, the fans deification of Liam and his brother Noel, alongside their deification of John Lennon, the two Paul McCartney's, Bozo and Poor Weller also really pissed me off when I was 15 and still doesn’t sit right with me today. It's the rock n roll hierarchy-musical establishment-gotta pay your dues-know the classics-they’re a fucking genius claptrap that really gets me goat. I mean fuck off, they've just made a record aided and abetted by an industry who want to flog them to death for moolah, and i’m expected to sit here and believe they're some sort of god like genius that captured the feelings of a mass populace, nah mate, it was capital backed exceptional marketing and mass gullibility. Limmy would capture working class culture in a 20 second video clip shot on his phone for nothing entitled “She’s turned the weans against us” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I5VaPQflLq0&ab_channel=Limmy) in a far more profound and meaningful way 15 years after Knobworth. Furthermore, music solely informed and inspired by music and music history makes me want piss on my own face. That whole disciple of rock n roll dogmatic cultish crap, we want to be like our hero's motivation is so very depressing. I mean you’re having a unique subjective sensory experience, migrating through your own orbit of experience, and then when you engage with your creative faculties as a singular human being you adopt wholesale the principles and goals of those who’ve gone before you, or equally when simply embodying your identity it’s one built on the fetishization of a vapid celebrity archetype? Really? Really though? You’re not gonna take the opportunity to figure yourself out and project the uniqueness of your experience, reject or accept the external organising principles or merely just ‘mix the fucker up’? Hey who am I to pose such questions I guess, and in the immortal words of Oasis “You have to be yourself, you can’t be no one else”. Ha. I do think that line should now be updated to “you have to be a caricature of yourself because you cannot be anything else” though. Ooooh. Anyway, I shouldn’t really be blaming the current mask of one dimensional male social identity or celebrity deification on Oasis, they’re merely a cog in a machine that reproduces this reproduction over and over. However, that doesn’t detract from the fact that they are Manchester's greatest cultural own goal (shame really cause after the opening 5 or 10 minutes I was thinking we've got a team here), who made and continue to make to this day nonsensical grey groove-less drudgery a viable commodity with posthumous releases and as solo artists. Now that may be easy for me to say, as I was without doubt somewhat spoiled by exposure to the cities compelling history of DIY music from a young age, from the shadowy existential concrete corridors of Joy Division to the sharp witted marriage of high/low brow culture and realism/surrealism presented by The Fall, all the way through to the theological and philosophical street politics of The Stone Roses. Come 1995/96 I maybe expected more, but therein was a lesson for me, never expect, and indeed, always take the art and never the artist, and never ever deify. Musically Oasis were breathtakingly boring, real stodgy laboured stuff, and lyrically, to be brutally honest they were cringeworthy and embarrassing. However, to give them their due they did have conviction, but I’m sure that fellow Northerner Harold Shipman also had conviction in his creative output, but ultimately that doesn’t mean it was any good now does it? To me Oasis sounded like they were sent from the back of a battered cement mixer, or the lounge of the Robin Hood, or from the bottom of an overflowing ashtray on a coffee table in a council flat where shit cocaine is being relentlessly sniffed and Sky Sports News plays indefinitely. Symbolically they may be best defined as a scrunched up and discarded losing betting slip on the floor of a bookmaker’s that is heavy with the air of momentary hope, desperation, and inevitable loss. No thanks. P.S Look, all subjective criticism aside, Oasis spoke to millions and for that I congratulate them, they just never really spoke to me. Initially Liam and Noel were a breath of fresh air with their straight up lads with guitars attitude, riding their obvious desire with endlessly projected self- belief. However, to me there was just nothing after that initial Jab of intent present on Definitely Maybe and in interviews circa 94/95, there was no hook, combination or knock-out punch. Couple that with a general lack of grace, rhythm and finesse in the ring and to me as a spectacle it became boring very quickly, and as the rounds wore on that predictable Jab looked tired and stale, and the self-belief turned to coke fuelled narcissism. The ‘flock identity’ that materialised in the slipstream of their ascent and especially the attitude mimicry that was present then and remains today in the ‘Oasis Fan’ to be truthful is touch tragic. Furthermore, I've always held a deep-seated scepticism of the dynamics and motivations of 'the crowd' at the point of critical mass, especially when corporate power is deeply involved and invested in the relationship between the art and the audience. D'you know what I mean?

[unnamedelement]

Image description: The first image is a drawing of Gimli from the side. He sits at a table in the archives/library in Minas Tirith and is holding a piece of parchment in his [poorly drawn] hand. There is a sheaf of notes to his left, and a venn diagram similar to the one in Image Two is sketched on it. The second image is a picture of notes from a statistics lecture on multiple regression. There is a three-way venn diagram in the upper right hand corner and others notes scrawled about.

 I don’t usually draw because it is absolutely not at ALL one of my skills and talents--have you SEEN the beautiful things people create in this fandom?!--but I started doodling after a headcanon came to me during the last hour of my Stats class today, and it carried me away. So here is a picture of Gimli laboring in the library in Minas Tirith, poring through old lore about the elves and their ailments, in an attempt to lift the spirit of his friend in the only way he knows how. Also, please indulge me by reading a new headcanon I have about dwarves. Eventually I’ll be writing up this little concept into a one-shot spinoff of my WIP series At Sea in the Middle of Ithilien. 

Non-Spoiler Summary of the Series this Headcanon Orbits

You can find the At Sea series here (Part I) and here (Part II, the WIP). Most of my other writing about the sea-longing can be found at this link.   Please dear God, do not hesitate to talk to me on Tumblr, Ao3, or FF about the sea-longing. There is little in this Middle-earth I love more than exploring this concept.

Long and short of it, these stories take place around Fourth Age 30. Legolas and his elves--including his partner--are living in Ithilien while Gimli is in Aglarond. Legolas has been increasingly struggling with the Sea-longing, and the methods he and his friends have employed for years to curb it are running thin. Eventually, a tragedy of sort strikes, and it forces them all to take a new approach. Because Gimli has always been Legolas’ anchor in the midst of the Sea-longing, they begin the long labor of piecing Legolas back together.

And that’s where the headcanon comes in! Click below to read about dwarves and statistics and how Gimli tries to heal his favorite elf’s heart.

Basically, I decided that dwarves have an excellent understanding of mathematics and statistical analysis--beyond the understanding of even the Noldor in the Third Age--due to the limitations of their mortal lives. They are makers, creators, craftsmen, and builders, and they do not have forever to wait around to watch what happens, to piece together the patterns of things, and yet there is a drive and a fire to create. And, thus, for dwarves, math and formulas and statistics become a key and increasingly complex part of not just the designing of things but also the predicting of them. The dwarves collect data on a number of things, so they can answer questions like-- In what circumstances is a flood most likely to collapse a tunnel? What factors increase the likelihood of death during famine? Which jewels are most lucrative when brought in which seasons to which markets of Men? Dwarves are a sturdy people, but this self-created knowledge is part of what makes them so. So, after the War, Gimli brings these skills of his people to Minas Tirith and then, afterward, to the Glittering Caves--the planning and safety of these places, their structures and their beauty is rivaled only by the reliability of his work.  Thirty years pass and we are just past the time of At Sea. Gimli and Legolas travel together while he puts himself back together, and they follow Aragorn’s careful instructions on all those things that he thinks and he hopes--as a healer--are most likely to keep Legolas’ feet on the ground. But elves are not meant to resist the Sea, and they do not have much to go on but supposition and prayer.  But then Gimli begins to think. For, oftentimes, aren’t decisions made without all the data? Certainly there are not elves a-plenty to ask about the Sea here in the Fourth Age, he ponders, and there are none living save Legolas who are actively denying it, but surely there is information hidden about somewhere? There are archives in Minas Tirith, he muses, and libraries kept still by the Sons of Elrond in Imladris, after all... And if he can collect as much data as he possibly can from accounts of the past, might they not have a better idea of what things to expect, what things to avoid, and what things they might try to sooth his friend’s soul? For even if no elf in the history of the world resisted so long as his, there are probably hints hidden in all these millenia of writing that may open the door to improvement... And, so, when they return from their wandering, Gimli sets to it, for he is stalwart and stubborn and a solver of problems. He pores over texts and writes to Rivendell to ask they do the same; he recruits Faramir and Elboron to the project; he consults Arwen and writes to Mirkwood for whatever oral lore they may have stored away there in Wood-elven minds, and he works and works and works. He catalogues every possible example of Sea-longing and its effects and outcomes and the traits of the elves that have suffered it. He analyzes specific cases closely and uses them to guide the coding until he has buckets of predictors and traits and variables that might map onto outcomes and behaviors and feelings that he can just barely grasp, dwarven as he is, but that he hopes--if intervened on--might alter the course of things for his friend. So, eventually, Gimli has set to work with his formulas and his statistics, and he labors and calculates and checks and rechecks until he thinks he has some answers--he takes what he has found to Aragorn and Arwen, and eventually to Legolas and to his people. Then--after much time and much patience; some tears and much frustration; moments of failure and triumph and vulnerability and forgiveness--the stability of a new normal emerges, and it becomes a little bit more enjoyable and much more manageable for Legolas to move through a world in the Fourth Age of Men that is no longer built to accommodate elves. It is not perfect but it is enough. And that is the way that Gimli became the first dwarf in Middle-earth to labor so for the cause of an elf as to be named elvellon twice over. And it is also the story of how a dwarf became the first person in the history of their world to approach the healing of hearts in so logical a way that--nestled within the complimentary knowledge of those things beyond numbers--a new era of treatment was born. And all of this because a Dwarf could not bear to be parted from his Elf.

THE END

[raedas]

nova i must know your top ten books of the year i must

okay so mine is going to be wayyyy less organized than yours but (im just lifting the descriptions from goodreads dfkdskfj) (also i cant order them so this is just the order i read them in)

scythe

A world with no hunger, no disease, no war, no misery. Humanity has conquered all those things, and has even conquered death. Now scythes are the only ones who can end life—and they are commanded to do so, in order to keep the size of the population under control.

they both die at the end 

On September 5, a little after midnight, Death-Cast calls Mateo Torrez and Rufus Emeterio to give them some bad news: They’re going to die today.

chain of gold

(im not including the description its super long and i think everyone knows what this is about by now kdfjskfdj)

six of crows

Ketterdam: a bustling hub of international trade where anything can be had for the right price—and no one knows that better than criminal prodigy Kaz Brekker. Kaz is offered a chance at a deadly heist that could make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. But he can’t pull it off alone. . . . (i hate how this solely focuses on kaz i love them all but oh well)

skyward

Defeated, crushed, and driven almost to extinction, the remnants of the human race are trapped on a planet that is constantly attacked by mysterious alien starfighters. Spensa, a teenage girl living among them, longs to be a pilot. When she discovers the wreckage of an ancient ship, she realizes this dream might be possible—assuming she can repair the ship, navigate flight school, and (perhaps most importantly) persuade the strange machine to help her. Because this ship, uniquely, appears to have a soul. 

illuminae

by (the goodreads summary for this was too long so) kady thought breaking up with ezra was the hardest thing she’d done....  until her planet was invaded by a mega corporation. they’re on the run in a giant spaceship, the ship’s AI has ideas of its own, and kady has to hack through files to find out the truth. the whole thing is also told in mixed media!!

city of brass

(again summary by yours truly) nahri is a con woman on the streets of eighteenth century cairo struggling to get by and save up to become a doctor, but she doesnt believe in magic. that might change when she accidentally summons a djinn and gets taken away to the daevabad, the city of brass. (lol officially the worst description ever but read it its so good)

red, white and royal blue

First Son Alex Claremont-Diaz is the closest thing to a prince this side of the Atlantic. With his intrepid sister and the Veep’s genius granddaughter, they’re the White House Trio, a beautiful millennial marketing strategy for his mother, President Ellen Claremont. International socialite duties do have downsides—namely, when photos of a confrontation with his longtime nemesis Prince Henry at a royal wedding leak to the tabloids and threaten American/British relations. The plan for damage control: staging a fake friendship between the First Son and the Prince.

you should see me in a crown

(WHY ARE ALL THE DESCRIPTIONS SO LONG) anyways leah is counting on a scholarship to get to her dream college, but when that fails, she has to turn to plan b: run for prom queen. she hates it, but the one part that makes it tolerable is a girl named mack...

the song of achilles

Greece in the age of heroes. Patroclus, an awkward young prince, has been exiled to the court of King Peleus and his perfect son Achilles. By all rights their paths should never cross, but Achilles takes the shamed prince as his friend, and as they grow into young men skilled in the arts of war and medicine their bond blossoms into something deeper - despite the displeasure of Achilles' mother Thetis, a cruel sea goddess. But then word comes that Helen of Sparta has been kidnapped. Torn between love and fear for his friend, Patroclus journeys with Achilles to Troy, little knowing that the years that follow will test everything they hold dear.

AHHH THAT WAS SO HARD AND TOOK A RIDICULOUSLY LONG TIME (like 20 minutes or something oh my god) but thank youuuuuu wow that was hard now i have to go do the homework i was ignoring

[izaswritings]

Title: Faults of the Mind

Synopsis:  Having escaped the perils of the Dark Kingdom, Rapunzel finally returns home—but all is not well in the Kingdom of Corona, and the black rocks are quickly becoming the least of her troubles. Meanwhile, over a thousand miles away, Varian struggles with new powers and his own conscience.

The labyrinth has fallen into rubble. A great evil stirs in the world beyond. The Dark Kingdom may be behind them, but the true journey is just beginning—and neither Rapunzel nor Varian can survive it on their own.

Warnings for: cursing, threats of harm, aftermath of trauma, references to past blood and death, and references to past character injuries.

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AO3 version is here.

Arc I: Labyrinths of the Heart can be found here!

Previous chapters are here.

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Chapter V: The Answer

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.

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The lovely Moon, however, did not agree.

For three mornings and nights, the Sun lingered at the edges of the sky, hoping desperately to see the woman once again. But Moon was not there, hidden away with the shadows, and each day Sun left the horizon a little dimmer, a little more heartbroken. Still, she did not give up hope. Her heart, forever filled with light, rallied against her despair.

And on the other side of the great sea, concealed in darkness like a cloak, the Moon hid still, not wanting to be found. For the Moon was a secret being, often reclusive, and dancing was as dear to her as her own heart. That she had been seen embarrassed her terribly. That she had been seen dancing by a beautiful stranger, who had looked upon her with such awe…

And though the Moon thought she should simply run away, and hide from this stranger forevermore, something bid her to stay. Maybe it was the honest wish in Sun’s eyes, visible even from a distance. Or the lingering warmth of Sun’s smile, before Moon panicked and ran.

Perhaps it was the memory of her song.

And so the Sun continued her fruitless search, and deep in the shadows, unable to pull away, the Moon too slowly began to fall…

.

.

.

For the first time in months, Varian wakes with the sun.

Light streams through the guest-room window, falling bright and clear across his face. Beyond the frosted glass, the early morning sky blushes pink and new, clear and cold but for a few distant swaths of cloud. Though the wind rattles at the panes, it’s locked up tight, and the room is warm and cozy. When Varian rises to press his hand against the window, it is icy, and his touch leaves a faint imprint behind, the heat of his palm melting through to the frost.

It’s… peaceful.

Varian wonders at that thought, turns it over in his head again and again, examining it at all angles like a shiny new toy. He feels—not great, technically. His eyes are hot and gummy from lack of sleep, and his cheek still aches with a faint bruise, and his body is sore from the market… and yet. There is a stillness to it all. A sort of softness. Not like something has settled, but as if, for a moment, it has hushed.

He’d cried last night. Like a child, Varian thinks, with some secret curl of shame. When Yasmin had returned to the bathroom Varian had been hunched over Ruddiger, almost hiccupping from the sheer amount of tears. It hadn’t been all her fault—hadn’t been sparked entirely from her words, or her questions. Part of the breakdown had simply been from everything. In that moment in the middle of the night, it had all finally struck him, and sunk in.

Yasmin had said nothing upon seeing him. She had pushed him no further. The rest of that midnight makeover had gone almost mind-bogglingly mundane. After the haircut and impromptu lecture on proper nail care, as well as a long-overdue bath, she’d sent him off back to bed without any more comments about Corona or the attacks or anything. And when Varian had returned to the room, tired and reluctant and secretly terrified he’d open the door and see Adira sitting there… he’d entered to find her cot untouched and the room empty.

He’s not sure when he passed out—sometime around three in the morning, maybe—but now he is awake again, facing the day, and there is something lighter in his chest. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the bath, or the drowsiness that comes from crying all the conflict right out of you, but for once, Varian’s sleep had been completely and utterly dreamless.

He exhales hard, watching his breath fog on the glass. His eyes are still sore from crying, and he rubs at them preemptively, sucking in a deep breath. With the dawn all his fears feel lighter, farther away. His head isn’t as fogged.

Day two, start, he thinks to himself. Gods.

Varian turns back to his cot, and sits to give Ruddiger a good head scratch, and then finally sets about getting dressed. He waits for Ruddiger to find his usual perch on Varian’s shoulders, then snatches up the yet-unfinished nightlight—hollow crystal and unpoured glowing solution—and heads down to the kitchen.

Ella is already there, cooking breakfast, and she looks up with a smile when she sees him. “Just in time,” she says, and goes to hand him a plate full of cooked eggs and fresh-cut ham, still sizzling slightly from the pan. She pauses when she sees the crystal in his hands. “Oh?”

“Um… Yasmin said you had something to seal it…?”

“Ah, the nightlight! Yes, she mentioned it.” Ella holds out her hand. “I can do that right now. Watch the eggs?”

Varian hands it over, biting back any fretting—the nightlight solution is already mixed and glowing, no extra steps necessary, she can pour the damn thing without issues, he’s just being silly—and hesitantly takes the spoon she offers him. Bacon and eggs. Shouldn’t be too difficult, right? Surely he’s gotten better at cooking since two years ago, when Dad banned him from the stove.

Ella returns five minutes later to three burned eggs and extremely crispy bacon, and Varian standing bright red in front of it all.

“So,” Varian says. “Bacon, um, bacon does not cook better with 300 degrees—trying to concentrate the heat was a bad idea—it does, uh, cook faster though, but. Um. Sorry.”

Ella is badly trying to hide a smile behind her hand. “…I’ll salvage it,” she says, muffled laughter in her voice, and hands him the sealed crystal. “Go, go, eat.”

Varian settles down at the table, still red in the face, and distracts himself by turning the finished nightlight over in his hands. Ella has put a lovely silver clasp on top, sealing it shut, with a little loop so he can hook it on a necklace chain or on his belt. The nightlight itself has a soft pale pink shine, warm and comforting, and it radiates quiet warmth in Varian’s hand, the crystal comfortable in the curve of his palm.

Varian eats his breakfast slowly, rolling the crystal absently against the table and keeping one eye on the stairs. He hasn’t seen Adira at all yet, not since yesterday, and he’s not really sure if he can face Yasmin yet, either.

It’s not that he’s avoided thinking about what Yasmin said to him yesterday, Varian tells himself. That question of forgiveness and redemption. It’s just… he doesn’t really want to think about it right now.

(He doesn’t really have an answer.)

Still. For all his watchful wariness, he jumps when he sees Yasmin stomping downstairs, and goes absolutely still when she marches up to him.

“Awake at last, are you,” Yasmin says critically, and eyes him up and down. “Well, I see the night has done you well—and you are clean at last, with a nice haircut to boot, if I do say so myself. Fantastic.” She claps her hands. “Come along. I have one last thing for you, and then I must be off. Chop chop.”

Varian hurries to his feet, ruefully thinking on how this is already becoming a habit. He’s only been here for two days, come on. “Wait, where are you going?”

“The city, obviously—with luck, the authorities should know much more by now, and I hate to miss on information. Now, hurry up!”

He follows her upstairs, wondering, but this time instead of her bedroom Yasmin shoves her way in a smaller side room squeezed in at the end of the hall, thus far unexplored. Varian peaks his head around the doorframe, interested despite himself. It’s a small, cluttered room, devoid of proper furniture, with only the bare frame of a bed stripped of sheets and mattress, and boxes piled up underneath. Yasmin is kneeling by the bed, and as Varian watches she picks out one chest and drags it out with a grunt of effort.

“Must be something useful still in here,” she’s muttering, pawing through the chest. “Hmph, too fancy, too old, too big… ah-ha.”

Varian likes to think himself adaptable, but even he has to take a moment to blink at the… thing Yasmin is holding up to him. “Uh… what is this?”

“New clothes. Obviously.” Yasmin stretches the shirt out, tilting her head critically. “You are nearly exactly the size Devdan used to be at your age. Yes, this will work. I will barely have to tailor these at all.” She tosses the shirt at him; Varian fumbles to catch it. She turns back to the chest. “Hmm, let’s see…”

“I don’t need new clothes,” Varian protests, half-hearted. He looks down at the shirt. It’s soft in his hands, off-white with a high collar and stiff sleeves. It looks… fancy. “And who’s Devdan?”

“I suppose you could call Devdan my nephew. Unofficially speaking. The son of a dear friend of mine. They stayed here, for a time, much as you are doing now.” Yasmin holds up a vest, now, and squints at it in the light. “Does not matter, you are not meeting him, he is in Arendelle with his father and none of your concern.” She eyes Varian up and down, gaze lingering on his threadbare hems, and sighs. “And you most definitely need new clothes. Those do not fit you at all.”

Varian picks at the hem of his shirt, unable to argue with that. His shirt, his pants… even his boots are all either cheap hand-me-downs or whatever he and Adira could find on the road, and none fit him properly, or even really keep him warm. Still. “I want to keep the coat.”

Yasmin gives the coat in question a stink eye. Varian shoves his hands in the pockets, offended on its behalf. “It’s a great coat!” he insists. “Heavy trench coat! Lots of pockets! It looks awesome!” If it were made of stronger stuff it would even be perfect for alchemy, like his old one was, but as it is this coat works just fine. He likes the pockets, the way the sleeves pool over his hands; it’s something he can hide in, and there’s a comfort in that.

“It is practically eating you,” Yasmin says, scornfully.

“I—I’ll grow into it!”

Yasmin’s whole face scrunches up at that, doubtful, but at last she shakes her head. “Fine, whatever, they are your bad fashion choices.” She shakes out the vest she is holding. “But I am getting you at least one nice outfit before you go, boy, so help me gods.”

Varian rolls his eyes.

The morning passes quickly after that. Varian tries on three pairs of boots and finds two that are both sturdier and better fit than his current ones, and Yasmin hands them off immediately, waving off Varian’s protests like smoke in the air. “I am being paid for this,” she snaps, at last, when Varian’s hesitance apparently gets too annoying. “I would have bought you new clothes entirely if not for the damn pirate attack; be grateful I have now been limited to hand-me-downs only. Honestly!”

Another few minutes of hemming and hawing over clothes later, at last she and Varian come to an agreement. Yasmin takes up the new outfit with the promise to have the clothes tailored and ready for wear by the time he leaves, and then pushes him out of the room without fanfare.

“That’s that,” she says, when Varian stares at her blankly. “The last of what I needed to do with you. The rest of the days are yours. Have fun, or whatever you angsty teenagers like doing these days.”

Varian splutters. “Angsty—?”

And all too soon, Yasmin is gone again, out the front door and into the unknown without any set time to return. With nothing more to do and the rest of his stay looming over him, Varian stands at the cusp on the staircase and hesitates for a long while. He’s been left here again, in the house with only Ella and Adira—who he has still not seen—for company.

He thinks he should probably find Adira. He thinks he should probably say something to her. Varian thinks very hard on this. He brings a hand to his bruised cheek—now molted green and pale yellow in the daylight—and in the end he goes to sit outside, back out on the front porch, watching the waving grasses and the wind play around the garden.

It’s not running away, Varian tells himself. He draws his knees up to his chest, inhaling the crisp morning air. It’s not running away if he has nothing to run from. He doesn’t even know where Adira is, right now, so there’s no real way this is running from her. Really.

He buries his head in his hands and groans. Oh, who is he fooling? He… he doesn’t want to see her.

She’s never hit him before.

He’s not entirely sure what to do about it—what to think about it. Nothing about that moment seems quite right to him. He’d panicked and summoned the rocks, all utterly without thinking, and then Adira had… but at the same time, he thinks, she hadn’t seemed angry. He’s pissed her off before; he’s broken down and yelled and been a brat, and the most she has ever done is snap back at him. So this—this wasn’t anger, he thinks. But in a way that is almost worse. Anger Varian can understand. But—fear?

He doesn’t know how to imagine Adira afraid. Something in him recoils at the very idea. Adira can’t be afraid. She can’t be. She’s too—confident, boastful, annoying—she’s too strong. She can’t have been afraid. Because if she was… if she hit him out of fear, of either Varian or the rocks… if Adira was afraid…

From the moment he met her, all those months ago at the edges of the Dark Kingdom, Varian had always thought Adira knew what she was doing. For all that she bothered him, angered him, infuriated him—he could trust in that. Adira would know what to do. She may not tell him what that was, but she still knew it. But now… now he isn’t so sure. Now, with yesterday in mind, everything comes into sudden focus.

What if, Varian thinks. What if Adira is just as lost as he is?

What if she doesn’t have the answers?

That terrifies him most of all. Before, the question was how to get her to give him the answers. Now it is a question of whether there is an answer at all—and he hates that. He hates that. He doesn’t even want to think about it, and at that thought his fingers tighten on his sleeve, and Varian buries his face in his arms.

Adira was right, he realizes, sudden, cold. I really do just run away.

Not just from her. Not even just from Corona. He’s running from everything else, too. The Moon—the rocks. Varian is still trying to run away from it all. The Moon is stronger than him. The rocks are stronger than him. The pirates, definitely. It’s all so much, all so big, and Varian is just one person. Fifteen years old, nearly sixteen, and yet in these past few months he has felt so small.

He doesn’t have that surety, anymore. That old, fanatic confidence in what was right and wrong and what had to be done. He doesn’t even have alchemy, or his gloves. And worst of all—

What will you do if you can’t be forgiven?

(The mirror, bright and silver, and every time he sees a flash of himself in the reflection his eyes turn away. We all have to face the mirror at some point, Yasmin had said, and she is right— but it is easier, still, to look away. To pretend he isn’t there. To pretend that person staring back isn’t him.)

Worst of all, Varian thinks, is that he doesn’t know what he’ll do. If—if he goes back, and apologizes, and is hated anyways. He’d like to be—better. He doesn’t want to be the person he used to be. But can Varian even trust himself anymore? How does he know what the right thing is? He’d thought he’d known before, and look where that had gotten him. He’d hurt people. He’d been… cruel.

And at the time? Varian had wanted to be that person. Varian had liked it.

What is to stop him, he thinks to himself, cold all the way to his bones—what’s going to stop him from becoming that person again?

Maybe this is why he’s running. Maybe this is why Varian can’t face Corona, or the rocks, or the Moon. Maybe it’s because he knows, deep down, that this dream of redemption is probably never going to last.

Maybe. Maybe. The very idea makes his throat go tight, his eyes burn. Varian presses his hands against his eyes, breathing deep. Ah, stupid. So stupid. This is what happens when he thinks about stuff—this is what happens when he stops running from his thoughts. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

“Something wrong, Moony?”

The thought ends, his mind abruptly blank. Varian flinches, going stiff, and snaps his head back to stare. His breath catches. Adira. She’s standing in the front door, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking down at him. Her head tilted in question. He—he hadn’t even heard her come up—but he’s been so out of it lately, that’s probably no surprise.

It doesn’t matter. She’s here. She’s… here. She’s here, and she’s waiting for an answer.

His mouth goes dry. His cheek throbs with a fresh ache of pain, and Varian fumbles for his words, struggling to wrench his mind back to conscious thought. “U-um, I…”

Nothing. The words die off.

Varian presses his lips in a thin line, and looks away, staring hard at the ground. The silence stretches.

Adira sighs, so soft he almost misses it. Her feet thunk heavy on the porch steps; she sits down beside him, gingerly, and Varian would flinch, except—she’s not next to him. Not really. She sits a few feet away, and the distance makes it easier.

Varian peeks out at her from the corner of his eye, trying not to move his head. He thinks he should probably say something, but his mind is abruptly free of thoughts, and anything he can think to say… isn’t very kind.

Adira isn’t looking at him either. She sits with her elbows propped on her knees, staring grim at the horizon line, her gaze distant and seemingly lost in thought. Blue breaks bright across the morning sky; sunrise is almost blinding. Even now Varian’s every breath mists like he’s breathing fire and smoke, but the sun shines so bright that he can feel the touch of warmth, beating through even the chill.

She doesn’t speak. The silence settles. Varian watches Adira and Adira watches the horizon, and slowly but surely, Varian relaxes. He rubs his shirt hem between his fingers and then settles Ruddiger more firmly on his lap, hugging the raccoon to his chest, and finally looks away, not quite willing to turn his back to her but feeling at ease enough to turn his gaze.

“Well?”

Varian jumps. His head snaps around to stare. His shoulders hunch. “What?”

Adira snorts. “I wasn’t just asking to start the conversation, Moony. You seem like you’re…” She eyes him, up and down, and shakes her head. “Spiraling,” she decides.

“I was thinking.”

“Hm. Well, don’t do that, then.”

“Don’t think?” He wants to be scandalized; bizarrely, instead, he has to bite back a laugh. It’s just so ridiculous—even when trying to fall asleep, Varian’s mind has always run at a million miles per hour.

“Don’t mope on whatever is making you look like someone stabbed your cat,” Adira corrects.

“I don’t own a cat.”

“Gods.”

“No, but I don’t—”

“Varian.”

He shuts up, turning away. He has to bite back a tiny smile.

“And now you’re feeling well enough to mess with me,” Adira mutters, but she sounds more bemused than truly annoyed.

“I don’t feel well at all, actually.” His voice is light, airy. Varian ruffles his fingers through Ruddiger’s fur. “I couldn’t sleep. I cried all last night.” He scrunches Ruddiger’s face between his hands, scratching under the racoon’s chin. “And my face really, really hurts.”

Silence.

There is a long pause. Adira shifts. “Ah. I deserved that, I suppose.”

“Mm-hm.”

“… I didn’t come out here just to bother you.” Varian squints at her. Adira raises a judgmental eyebrow back. “No, I didn’t. Honestly.” She shakes her head, the words trailing off, and there is another long, awkward pause before she finally speaks again.

“I came out here to apologize.”

Varian goes motionless, caught off-guard. He eyes her, sideways, and his lips press thin. This is uncharted territory, and he isn’t sure if he likes it. “…What?”

Adira’s eyes drift away, fixing back on the horizon. She shrugs. “You heard me,” she returns, mild. She leans back, stretching out her legs, her elbows propped up against the porch steps. Her expression is resigned. “But I’ll say it again, if you need to hear it twice.”

Varian watches her. Adira sighs, then turns and looks him square in the eye. “I’m sorry, Varian,” she says. Her voice is strong, each word intent. “For yesterday. I shouldn’t have hit you.”

Varian looks away first, unsettled. He’s not sure what to think of this—not sure what to make of the ease of it all. She says it so plainly. Like it’s easy. It makes something small and petty deep inside him go tight with a weird kind of envy.

But all he says is: “You hit me all the time in training.”

“That’s different,” Adira says, simply. “And you know that.”

It is, and he does, but he’d still wanted to hear her say it. Varian draws up his knees, resting his chin against his legs. His cheek aches. He feels suddenly very tired. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, almost mumbling the words. He stares out at the rising dawn. “Not really.”

Adira’s voice is firm. “It matters.”

“I was summoning the rocks. If you hadn’t—”

“There were better ways to handle that.” This time, it is Adira who falters. For a moment she almost seems to stumble, fumbling for the words, and the sight is so bizarre—so unlike her—that Varian can’t help but stare. Adira looks away. “I—I will admit that I… panicked. Forgot myself. Whatever.” Her voice hardens, frustration turned inward. “It’s no excuse. It should never have happened, but it did, and I’m sorry.”

Varian turns back to Ruddiger, curling fingers into soft fur. Ruddiger noses at his palm. “I thought you were too great to make mistakes,” he says, only slightly sarcastic, and he can hear Adira roll her eyes.

“Moony, half the reason I’m so great is that on the very rare occasions I make a mistake, I own up to it. The other half is that, yes, I rarely make mistakes.” She clears her throat. “And… that was one. So.”

“Uh-huh.” Typical Adira. But still— the note of her usual confidence makes him relax. Thank gods. She hasn’t gone completely weird, then.

But then… that does, in hindsight, make her apology uncomfortably genuine. Varian rubs at his hands, feeling something like cold, and tries to forget the look on Adira’s face when she’d hit him. The way she’d looked right through him. “…What does that mean, anyway? Forgot yourself?”

Adira says nothing for a long moment. Varian kicks at the dirt, his chest tight. Typical, he thinks, but this time the thought has no fondness.

“…It’s a long story,” Adira says, at last. She sounds tired. Varian’s head snaps up. “And not a happy one.”

“I don’t really care.” He watches her, intent. “I, I want—” He bites his lip, mentally backtracking. “If you’re really sorry… then tell me. I want to know why.”

“Still manipulative, I see,” Adira says, dryly, and she seems almost resigned. “But… fair enough.” She tilts back her head, watching the sky, and takes a deep breath.

“I have—experience. With the black rocks. What they are… and what they can do, when out of control.” She sighs, heavy, for once sounding almost weary. “You remember the labyrinth? The Dark Kingdom?”

He has never forgotten it. Not even when he really wants to. “…Yes.”

Adira nods. She links her hands. “I grew up there,” she says, simply. “I lived there. I swore to protect it with my life.” She tilts back her head. “And then I watched it fall.”

She waits. Varian says nothing. Adira shrugs, and looks back to the skyline. “As I said. I… panicked. For all of my many, many talents… I am… not good at this.” Her mouth twists like she’s bitten into a lemon. “But again. That’s no excuse.”

Varian pulls up his knees, wrapping his arms around them. Ruddiger scampers up his back, settling warm on his shoulders, but for once the comfort is muted. Varian links his fingers to keep from rubbing at his torn ear, and sighs into his arms. The anger has faded in him, turned ashy and dull, drifting away like smoke. She told him. He asked, and she gave him an answer. He rests his head in his arms.

“It doesn’t really hurt,” Varian announces, at last, to his elbows.

“Hm.”

“Seeing the rocks hurt more.”

“…Varian—”

“But it did hurt, a little,” Varian says, and finally lifts his head. “So. Thanks. For the apology, I guess.”

“…Of course.” Adira shifts, looking uncomfortable. “I… I meant it.”

Yeah. He thinks she really did. Varian nods, and Adira looks away, and this time when the silence returns, it feels a little lighter than before.

Varian stares out into the fields, watching distantly as the grasses bend and break to the breeze. The sunlight is starting to warm the crown of his head, near-uncomfortable. He feels—calmer, now. Like a peace has fallen over his thoughts, a tension unraveled from his shoulders. He looks back to the horizon, the burning blue sky, and wonders which way Corona is from here.

“Are you…” He trails off, hesitating, then tries again. “After you leave here, are you—going to Corona?”

Adira stills. “…Yes.”

Varian ducks his head in a nod, studying his fingers. He remembers the mirror, from yesterday. He remembers staring into his own face, and crying, not even really sure why. He remembers Adira smacking his chest with the staff, pushing him back, her voice like a snap.

This is your problem! You run away!

Is he running away? Maybe. Probably. Yes. But is he right to?

If the pirates really will attack Corona… then shouldn’t Varian be running to Corona? Shouldn’t he want to help?

…He doesn’t know.

And more than that. More than anything else.

Does Varian want to go back?

(He thinks about it. He thinks about all of it. The people of Old Corona, who walked away and left him alone; the King, who lied, who was responsible for the rocks in the first place. He thinks about Cassandra, who gave him a chance and hated him when it all went wrong; thinks about Eugene, smile gone, anger in his voice. Find someone else to lie to you! He thinks about Rapunzel—Rapunzel, who turned him away in the snow; Rapunzel who—who stood tall, and strong, and unwavering between him and death.

Cassandra, who gave him a chance— who wanted things to get better. Eugene, who sat Varian down and told him the truth long before Varian ever wanted to admit it. And he thinks about Rapunzel, who cried in that cave and for a moment must have hated him as much as he hated her, who still held him when he broke down and who offered him her hand in that awful, lonely tower.

Will you come with me?

He thinks about it.)

Varian closes his eyes. He swallows. I’ll go with you, he thinks. How easy those words should be. How simple it should be to say them. And yet.

And yet.

The wind howls. The grasses bend. Adira sighs and stands, and her hand comes down on his shoulder, squeezes not gentle but firm, strangely comforting even so. His cheek burns. He doesn’t flinch.

“You still have time to think on it,” Adira says, quietly. “If not Corona, then Port Caul… or anywhere you’d want to go. Yasmin won’t let you stay here, but she’ll make sure you’re settled, wherever you choose to go. There are other options. Corona isn’t the only road to take.”

Adira pauses. Her hand tightens. “But Moony?”

He doesn’t move.

“Sooner or later, you really are going to have to choose.”

His head lowers. Varian doesn’t answer. And Adira’s voice drops, bitter with something he cannot name, something almost like regret. “You can’t outrun anything forever.”

He wonders what she ran from. He wonders when it caught her.

He doesn’t ask.

Adira walks back inside without another word, and Varian stays there—sitting on the porch, knees to his chest, watching the sun rise and the horizon burn, thinking of home.

.

As rain sleets the darkened streets, Cassandra shivers in the cold and draws her coat closer.

Corona at midnight is a picture of silent beauty, even in the midst of a storm—lit by a soft lantern glow and utterly silent but for the distant whisper of the waves and the wail of the wind through the spiraling streets. But Cassandra is in no mood to appreciate the sights—the sky above is dark and clouded, pouring rain, and the winds are sharp with a lingering winter bite. The mist makes her hair frizz, and even in her warmest coat, she can’t quite defeat the chill starting to nip at her fingers. She smacks her hands together and grits her teeth, and gives her companion an icy glare.

“So,” she says, “mind explaining to me why exactly you called me out here at the coldest goddamn time of the day?”

“Personally, I thought you were immune to the cold…” Leaning against a darkened storefront, Eugene gives her a smile that is almost a smirk, humor bright in his face. “Ice queen! Don’t tell me! Could it be your cold heart is thawing?”

She glares at him, because it is raining and she’s cold and he’s the one who called her out here in the first place, with a rambling letter full of nothing. He’d underlined must tell in person three times, and then written TOP SECRET in the largest letters possible, and for all that Cassandra had rolled her eyes she’s here anyway—and now what, he’s mocking her?

She puts a hand to her sword, and lifts a brow. “I will cut you.”

“Hm. Guess not, then.”

“Eugene.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He straightens up, yawning into his arm. “Don’t get all in a twist; this isn’t fun for me, either. Gods, if only spring could come faster…” He trails off with a sigh. “Look, I’m sorry about all this, but this kind of information—” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t trust it to a letter.”

Cassandra stiffens, clenching her teeth at a sudden flare of heat in her gut. “You—found something?” Bitterness is a sharp bite on her tongue, weighing in her chest. Her thoughts twist and turn. Already. He’s already found something. It’s not just Rapunzel. All of them—in this twisted game they’ve found themselves in, Rapunzel and Eugene are stumbling upon all the answers, while Cassandra…

Her fists clench. Useless. She swallows it back. “What did you find?”

“Well.” Eugene runs a hand down his face. “Lance and I… we got a lead sooner than I thought.” He pauses. Exhales a shuddering, shaky breath. “It’s, um… not good.”

Cassandra watches him. Waits. The rains drums behind them, swept into a downpour by the wind. It pounds at the ground like a hail of arrows.

“You know what Blondie told us about? The people trying to back Corona in a deal?” Eugene meets her eyes. “Well. Have you ever heard of the Baron?”

Cassandra stares at him. The Baron. The biggest crime lord on the continent, with enough power and prestige to have a known name and a whip-tight false legal business. Everyone knows he works shady, but no one can prove it, and it’s made him one of the most dangerous enemies of Corona for that reason: enough power and cruelty to do whatever he likes, and clever enough to escape the law as he does it.

The Baron. Blackmailing Corona. Oh, god. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Unfortunately, no.” Eugene holds out a slip of torn paper, and Cassandra takes it, eyes scanning over the words. “This was written by his daughter, Stalyan. And if she’s a part of this, then he is most definitely involved.”

“…This just says Vardaros. How do you—”

“I’m… familiar with her handwriting.” Cassandra stills. “And Lance found a dagger with his crest in a drawer. We’re sure. Like, 99.99 percent sure, but if you doubt the .01 percent—”

“Why are you familiar with her handwriting?” Cassandra straightens. “Wait, how do you even know his crest? If we could identify his shipments from the get-go, the guards would have…”

Eugene winces. “…Oh.”

“Eugene—”

“Well, okay, first off, his crest is a golden spider against a red background, so jot that down. And, uh, I… Lance and I, I should say, we have… experience with—the Baron. Past experience.”

She narrows her eyes.

“Fine fine fine, I was set to marry his daughter, okay!?”

Um. What? “Stalyan?”

“Yes! But I freaked, I left her at the altar, and man oh man, I do not regret it, that family is… anyway, that doesn’t matter. Just, trust me when I say they are definitely involved, okay?”

Usually, such a story would make Cassandra roll her eyes, pinch the bridge of her nose and groan. Of course Eugene was set to marry the Baron’s daughter; of course she is involved in this whole tangled mess of political calamity. Why not? But something about the whole situation grates on her.

Barely two weeks out of the castle, and he’s already—!

The whispers are growing. She feels cold. The distant light of the streetlamps almost seems to flicker, and the rain hums like a song, a mutter of helpless disappointment.

Why does everything go easy for him?

Something in her snaps. “Why didn’t you bring this up sooner?” Cassandra snarls, and steps in close, one hand reaching out to fist in his shirt. She drags him forward. She just barely remembers to keep her voice low, hidden by the downpour. “Why didn’t you say—”

“Excuse me?” Eugene looks startled. He puts a hand over her wrist, his grip tight, trying to pry her off. “What are you— gods, Cass, it wasn’t important!”

Her hands seize up. “Of course it was—!”

“No, it wasn’t!” Eugene looks thrown, caught somewhere between hurt and anger. His hand tightens on her wrist; he twists her off, but doesn’t follow through with the move, prying her hand away from his collar and then holding it up, almost in warning. “It was a long time ago. And it was my business. My past. Stalyan was important in my life, sure, but that was both five years ago and also now not my life. I wanted to move on. So yeah! I didn’t mention it!”

He hesitates, then lets go, stepping back out of range. Cassandra watches him, eyes narrow. Eugene crosses his arms. “Look,” he says, a little quieter. “I get it, okay? I’m sorry for not bringing it up sooner. But it wasn’t important then. It is now, and I realize that, and I’m telling you. Get off my case.”

“I—”

“Seriously, what’s with you today?” He shakes his head, looking her up and down, something like concern furrowing his brow. “Are you… doing okay?”

“Excuse me!?”

“Well, you don’t usually bite my head off at the drop of a hat,” Eugene says, almost wry. He frowns. “And you look… uh. Hey, no, seriously, is everything okay?”

Cassandra’s hands curl, but something in his words strikes home. He seems genuinely concerned, and she turns her face away, shame a sudden spark in her gut. What is she doing? He’s—he’s right. She’s being unfair. He seems as out-of-breath and soaked as she is freezing, which means he must have rushed here as soon as he got the news. Without a coat, even.

He’s right. But that still doesn’t stop the sudden lock in her throat, or the sharp twist of jealousy in her chest, bitter as poison. How can it be that in all this time, she’s found nothing, whereas he and Rapunzel so intimately and effortlessly stumble across the answers? How can she possibly hope to protect them—to stand against the next labyrinth—if she can’t even help them with this?

It’s like they are leaving her behind, like being left in the dark, and the whisper rises again, beating in the back of her mind like a mantra. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

But that’s no excuse. It’s not Eugene’s fault that Cassandra is useless—she shouldn’t have taken it out on him. He of all people… he’d stood outside that labyrinth too. He’d understand.

“Cass…?”

Her jaw clenches. She turns her face away. Yes, she thinks. Eugene of all people would understand. She could tell him. She thinks, after all this time, all they’ve been through—he might even listen.

But her throat locks up. The whisper curls. He was useless then, but he isn’t now, is he? He’ll just pity you.

And—and just like that, she can’t say it.

“No,” Cassandra says. She shakes her head, taking a deep breath, and meets his eyes again. “No. I’m fine. And—I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

Eugene looks hesitant. “Look, if you need to talk…”

“I’m fine.” She takes another breath. “Just… just tired. Night shifts are hell on earth. And lately, the dungeons have been… bothersome. Everyone’s been fighting, and it’s just… ugh.” It’s not even entirely a lie. Just last week, two prisoners had almost murdered one another for near no reason at all. Strangest of all was that they were usually pretty friendly with one another. Prisons are typically high-temper places, but lately… Cassandra doesn’t know. It’s just exhausting, whatever it is.

“Well, that’s no surprise.” But the joke seems weak, almost lackluster. He’s still watching her. Damn it, he’s not letting this go.

Cassandra fishes for a distraction—and finds it. “Hey,” she says. “This Stalyan thing. Have you told Raps yet?”

Bingo. Eugene looks away. Cassandra crosses her arms. “Eugene.”

“I was hoping you could,” he says, weakly, giving her a hopeful sort of smile. It’s the same smile he uses to con people. Cassandra lifts a brow, unimpressed. “There’s still some stuff I need to check out. Weird jobs floating around, an island to stake out… I can’t come back just yet. But soon.”

Cassandra sighs, suddenly tired. “You should tell her.”

“Cass—”

“Look, I know it’s really the least of our issues, but Raps… really cares about you.” Cassandra looks away, the words heavy. “If you and Stalyan have this complicated past, then she’d like to hear about this from you. Personally. Especially on the off chance we actually meet this lady.”

Eugene slumps. “I know,” he says, sounding tired. “But I’m not sure, if I go to the castle, if I’ll… be able to walk out as easily as I did the first time. Or worse, on the other hand— if I get banned for good…”

Cassandra looks away. She can’t argue with that. Who knows what the King is doing? Rapunzel is holding her silence, and they’re both getting caught in the middle of it. The chains chafe. “That said. I’m not exactly in a good position to talk to her, either.” She isn’t really sure if she wants to, right now, but she keeps quiet on that. It’s not—she doesn’t blame Rapunzel. She doesn’t. She’s just… she just needs some space. From both of them, apparently, given how this conversation is going.

Cassandra comes to a decision. “Write a letter, then. That’s a bit easier, isn’t it? And in that way, it’d still be from you.” She meets his eyes. “She needs to hear this from you, Eugene.”

Eugene looks away first, shuffling on his feet. He pushes a hand back through his hair, still dripping from rainwater. His smile is rueful. “Going for the throat with that guilt-trip, huh.”

“If it works, it works.” Cassandra smirks, for a moment truly holding back laughter. “You should have expected this, anyway. I always go for the throat.”

“Oooh, guard joke.” Eugene rolls his eyes, then sighs again, leaning back against the wall. “I hope we don’t meet Stalyan. Really, I do. She isn’t exactly known for… reasonable action. Or moral rules.” His head drops. He looks tired. “But… you’re right. I should tell her. Uh. Wait a minute for me to write it?”

“It’s not like I have anywhere better to be,” Cassandra says, and she rolls her eyes as she says it, even as the words make something pit in her gut.

Eugene just grins. “Hah, good point. Okay.” He hesitates—and then, awkwardly but sincerely, claps a hand on her shoulder. “But… I mean it. Thanks, Cass. And if you need anything…”

“I know.” Cassandra manages a smile, almost fond. “I got it.”

It’s a happy moment—something warm despite the midnight hour, something bright despite the pouring rain. A moment with a friend. She should be happy. She should enjoy this. She should take comfort in the fact that for all she isn’t contributing, she’s as much a part of this team as before.

And yet. And still.

Her throat is tight. Her eyes fall to the ground. Useless, the wind seems to whisper. The rain drums on in the back of her mind. Always useless. Do you really think you can protect them like this?

Can you protect them at all?

And by her side, unnoticed, her hands curl into fists.

.

Despite Varian’s disdain for it, he has heard tales of magic all his life.

Before alchemy, before logic, before the wonders of science convinced him magic was misconception and the truth lay only in the beakers, Varian was a young child enchanted. Every night, once the sun went down, his dad used to sit him down on the house steps and talk, quietly, of fairytales. Of magic and heroes and long-ago adventures, of daring and clever trickery. But the stories his father had loved most of all, the tales his father told quiet and hushed like a secret—were the stories of radiant Sun and her devoted, lovely Moon.

The tales had never really appealed to Varian, even then. The romance bored him, the magic made him frown, and the happy ending made him sigh. Where was the excitement? The swords? The great battles? But at this his father’s face would crease, would pull into a frown and a faraway gaze, and Varian soon stopped asking.

Of course, he knows better now. Most of Corona—most of the continent—knows not the tale of romance but a tale of mortal enemies, Sun and Moon fighting to the death over the fate of humanity, enemies from the very start. Why Varian’s dad knew and told a different story is a question that, even now, Varian has more guesses than actual answers for—but it doesn’t really matter. That’s not the point.

Days after his talk with Adira, with the sun just set and Varian alone back in the guest-room, he paces back and forth across the cluttered floor and thinks. He is alone in the room but for Ruddiger, whose little head follows Varian back and forth across the floor; Adira is downstairs with Yasmin and Ella, discussing Port Caul. It’s a conversation he’s not keen on hearing about, and so he is here—thinking. Weighing his options.

Varian thinks about Corona, about Rapunzel; he thinks about the labyrinth and the ruins of the kingdom buried beneath it, the symbol on the wall and on his father’s hidden helmet; his dad, dead in the amber. And he thinks about stories. He pivots before he hits the wall, ponytail swinging by his face, and thinks about magic, about legends, and how much Dad’s midnight tales could get wrong.

Magic, he thinks. Magic. He’s never liked it. Can, unfortunately, no longer deny it. It’s the lingering warmth in his chest from his Sundrop reversed almost-death, the icy cold pain in his hand from taking the Moondrop opal. It’s here, it’s part of him now—and it is, also, the rocks.

The rocks, which are now Varian’s. The rocks, which he can’t control.

He grits his teeth, thinking hard, pivoting again before he hits the wall. His fingers itch for chalk—he wants to write—but also, he’s pretty sure Yasmin would murder him in his sleep if he wrote on her walls, so that’s a no-go. Unfortunately.

In contrast to the last few days’ unending trauma conga line, the last few days in Yasmin’s home have been almost dull. After his talk with Adira, that morning of the second day, nothing more of note happens. To make matters worse, this also happens to be the last night. Tomorrow, Adira leaves for Corona. This is it—his last chance. There is nothing more to do. Nothing he can do. Except think, and pace, and wonder.

He has to make a choice.

Varian isn’t sure what choice that is, yet; where he’s going to end up is one, and Corona is most definitely the other, but somehow that doesn’t feel like enough. It’s more than Corona, somehow, and that’s where the problem lies—it’s a choice about the rocks, and Moon, and Adira, and redemption. It’s a choice about mirrors. It’s a question of where he’s going to go next, and all the alchemy in the world can’t help Varian here, as much as he hates to admit it.

It’s a choice about magic.

Because Varian knows: the rocks aren’t going away. He knows this better than anyone. He tried to run; they got him anyway. And if the disaster in Port Caul and the mishap in the gardens was any clue, then the rocks are here to stay.

He squeezes his eyes shut at the reminder, and mid-pivot his hand seizes with a sharp stab of icy pain. Varian stops, winces, and grips his wrist. The Moondrop power, again. It’s always ached more in the nighttime hours, but these last two nights it’s been near-unbearable.

He exhales a harsh breath, looking down at his hand, stretching out pale fingers. There’s nothing there. No mark to prove he ever took the Moondrop in his hand. Except for the missing half of his ear, there is very little to prove he even went on that journey with Rapunzel and the others; of his trial in the labyrinth, there’s nothing at all. Some days, bizarrely, he wonders if maybe he dreamed the whole nightmarish scenario up, those endless days of torture nothing more than a fever dream.

He almost wishes it was a dream. But he knows better.

And he’s been running from that too, Varian realizes then, with a sudden flash of exhaustion. The labyrinth. That awful, nightmare place. The place where he broke. The place where…

(Rapunzel’s offered hand, bandaged and bloody. Her pale smile. The distant glow behind her eyes, and her quiet plea. Will you come with me?

And this, too. Varian, who rose to his feet and took her hand.)

He closes his eyes, breathing deep, and turns away to sit on the cot. His hands are shaking, now—both of them. Not from power, or the cold. Just from the memory. Ruddiger curls up by his side, crooning comfort, but Varian can hardly feel it.

A glint of light catches his eyes, sudden illumination. He lifts his head. There’s a break in the night-time cloud cover, and with the passing of shadow the moon seems brighter than ever. Varian looks at it for a long time, hands lowering in sudden thought.

If he needs to start somewhere… why not start with the source? The cause of his fears, of this panic. The rocks, at the root of everything. The rocks—which he has no control over. And he needs control, Varian realizes suddenly. He needs control, or the next time things go wrong because of the rocks, it really will be entirely his fault.

And more than that—he is afraid to sleep. Not just because of nightmares, now, but because of the Moon herself… and he hates that. Fearing his own dreams was fine, but being afraid of someone else’s? No. He’s sick of her games, her twisted dreams; he’ll stick to his nightmares, thanks. But… he has to sleep sometime. He has to dream sometime. If he’s going to have to face her eventually, then why not on his terms? His way?

The thought is… really, really tempting.

Still—for a moment, Varian is utterly frozen. His next exhale is shaky and thin. Oh, gods. Oh no. He isn’t really thinking of doing it, is he?

He lifts his head. His eyes catch on the window—on his reflection. Wide eyes. Pale face. Clenched fists.

…Oh, gods, he’s really thinking of doing it.

No, no, no. Varian takes a deep breath. He’s not going to panic. He’s not. Adira is right. So is Yasmin. He can't run away anymore. If nothing else, he thinks, remembering the rocks, Old Corona, his dad— he has to try.

His fingers clench, tight fists, and he uncurls them slowly, watching the crescent imprints of his nails fade away. He looks back at his reflection. He takes a breath. Then another. Something burns in his chest—the echo of Sundrop fire, searing away the cold touch of death.

“Moon.”

One heartbeat. Two. His hand stings. His eyes, in the reflection, are a blue so bright it seems almost unnatural.

“Are you there?”

The inside of the house is warm. The candlelight soft and golden. But for a moment his hand aches with an icy chill, and something like a shiver crawls down his spine. The air is weighted. All at once, it is so much harder to breathe.

How interesting.

In the window, his reflection wavers. Tired blue eyes and a grim expression, replaced now by a cruel grin.

Calling upon me so soon, little boy?

Fear seals Varian silent. He has to fight to think. His chest feels numbed, disconnected. He can’t believe she really… she really came. She’s here. He’s forgotten how she felt— her presence like a physical weight; power so strong and malevolent it seems to twist the very air.

He forces the words through numb lips. “I…” He clears his throat. His terms. This is on his terms. He called, and she answered. The thought steadies him. “I—I have some questions.”

Moon barely blinks, but her thoughtful hum distorts the air like static. So demanding. I never promised you answers.

The whispering taunt strikes at something deep within, lost beneath the fear. Varian’s lips curl back, and his hands grip tight at the cot covers. “Tough,” he snaps, before he can think better of it. “I’m going to ask anyway.”

The reflection shimmers. He gets the impression, suddenly, of a person right behind him—the grin bearing down at the back of his head. An icy hand grips his shoulder, fingers curling like claws into his collarbone. White hair, glowing soft as starlight, drifts by his head. This time, Moon’s voice rings clear and cold in his ears. Such rudeness. Such anger. Have you no thanks for your savior?

“Savior?” She is so close it is abruptly hard to breathe, and the walls feel closed in all at once, the labyrinth re-created. Even the window cannot banish the sense of darkness, closing in. Still—his hands clench. The outrage grounds him. “You ruined my life!”

Oh no, child. I’m afraid you did that all on your own. I just came in the aftermath. She circles him, ghostly afterimages fizzing in her wake, like a skip in time. The labyrinth was months ago for you, honestly. Don’t tell me you’re still upset?

Varian grits his teeth. His hand fists in his shirt. He forgets, in this moment, to be afraid.

“You—” he splutters, cold with fury. “Of course I’m upset! You tried to kill me—you practically did kill me! You hurt Rapunzel! You trapped us! You impaled me! And, and everything else—”

Aren’t you over it by now?

He snarls at her. “Are you?”

For the first time, her smile wavers. The Moon’s eyes narrow, and her lips thin, and she turns her head away.

Varian watches her, breathing shaky, and leans back, deliberately putting space between them. He breathes in, a longer inhale. He—he needs to calm down. It’s a bad idea to snap at an immortal goddess, no matter how awful she is. Probably a worse idea to sass her.

But still. The Moon gets to him. Everything she does—everything she is—the labyrinth, the rocks, Port Caul—!

No. No, Varian has to stay calm. He has to try. She’s here, as terrible as this is, and he can’t miss this chance for answers—for the truth. So long as it gets him what he needs, he can sit through almost anything.

When he opens his eyes again, the Moon is looking back at him. In the mix of shadows and moonlight she seems almost ethereal; her eyes glow like spotlights, her hair drifting as though underwater, coiling across her shoulders. Her smile, as ever, is fixed perfectly in place, but… there’s something grim in the expression, now. Something bared, and furious, and seething.

If you called me here just to whine to me, I feel it is important to express a warning. She leans in, and her smile widens; in the glint of moonlight he can see the serrated edges of her needle-like teeth. If you invoke my name in vain again, trial or not, you will not escape the experience in one piece. Her form wavers, beginning to fade. Learn some respect, child, or I will teach it to you.

Varian freezes. Her form is turning ghostly. Through her, in the window-reflection, he can see his eyes flicker back to blue.

“No, I—w-wait!”

Pressure bears down on him. Do not dare to—!

He wheezes, the air abruptly thin. “I didn’t—invoke—in vain or whatever, I—I just wanted to talk!”

A pause. The pressure eases, slightly.

…Talk.

“Y-yes.”

Are you fucking with me, boy?

“A-am I—?” His voice squeaks. Despite everything, he almost laughs. Somehow, he never imagined an immortal goddess knowing modern cuss words. “N-no, no, no. I—I’m not.” His hand seizes in pain; he winces and grips at it. “I really did… just want to talk.”

You have a very funny way of showing it.

He bows his head. He should let it go, he shouldn’t rise to her taunts, but—

But he doesn’t want to let it go.

“You locked me in a labyrinth with someone I—hated. At the time.” His voice is quiet. “You hunted me down, you, you almost killed me—did kill me… and the black rocks, your rocks, they… from the moment they entered my life, it’s all been one big downward spiral.”

Varian curls his fists in the covers. “So yeah. I won’t lie. I… I really, really hate you.”

Cold pricks at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, willing himself not to flinch. He thinks of Adira, standing tall, staff pointed down—the first training lesson she ever gave him. It’s fine if you hate it, Moony, she’d said then. But that doesn’t mean you can’t learn from it.

And Yasmin, in the market, when he lashed out at her charity: I do not have to like you to do you a kindness.

He is not here to do Moon a kindness. He doesn’t want to help her. But Varian knows enough now to know that this power—the black rocks—aren’t going away. And Varian doesn’t know magic. He doesn’t know anything.

He doesn’t have to like the Moon, he thinks, to learn from her.

“But I don’t think you like me, either,” he continues, and lifts his head, offering a thin smile. Moon’s eyes narrow. “Just a guess. And that’s fine. Whatever your reason.” He meets her eyes, tired blue to unwavering white. “I just… figured if I couldn’t run, I may as well as try and ask you all my questions head-on.”

She doesn’t look convinced, still, her eyebrow lifted in an expression of great contempt, and Varian starts to panic. He lifts his chin, forcing confidence to hide his shaking hands, his mind casting back. The dreams, the dreams—gods, what had she said back then? He can hardly remember. Something about a game?

He chances it. “And you have to admit,” he says, chin up and eyes rolling, trying to force the old arrogance that once came easy to him, “whatever your plans, it’ll probably be way more fun if I actually know what you want me to do, right?”

Silence. The Moon’s eyes narrow further. Her smile is gone.

Varian refuses to look away. His mouth is dry. His throat is tight with the tension, the threat. He meets her gaze and holds it, and his palms are slick with sweat.

A long pause. And then, at last, the Moon shifts.

You are right that I do not like you. The flicker of a crescent smile. If I had my way, your corpse would be buried with my labyrinth… but the Sundrop challenged me to watch. To learn. To… see what I might have missed. I do think she’s delusional, and I cannot wait to be proven right, but… here I am.

For a moment Varian doesn’t understand what the hell she’s talking about—and then clarity strikes. Rapunzel’s comment to Moon in that other world, he realizes. Her declaration that there was no use in telling Moon why she’d saved Varian because the god would not understand. Had Moon—had Moon taken that comment as a challenge?

The idea is laughable. And yet—here she is. Here they are.

Moon reclines in the air, her attention distant, unfocused. And your boldness is amusing, I suppose. And your ignorance in these past few days has… already vexed me.

Her mouth works, as if feeling out the words. Her smile returns, pale, a bare of teeth. Oh, why not? Fine. Ask your questions. I cannot promise you answers… but I will at least hear you out.

Varian almost falls off the cot. He gapes at her. “Really? Are you serious?”

Ah, and now I find my patience waning…

He feels almost scandalized. “Is that a joke—”

Tick tock, child. The brief humor drops from Moon’s voice. Speak your mind or shut your mouth.

“I…” Varian trails off, taken off-guard. He swallows hard. He has so many questions, he has no idea where to even begin. What he wants to know most of all is about the rocks, but… best to start small, he thinks. “Why… why did you warn me about the pirates?”

Hmph. Isn’t it obvious?

“Um… no?”

Moon blinks. …Humans. So limited in their view of the world. She considers him, and tilts her head, gaze distant and thoughtful. Let us just say… in that human city, I sensed a danger too great for you to handle, and hoped to ward you off before I’d have to step in. She sighs then, heavily. As you can see, that worked out spectacularly.

“You… why?”

You think I like the idea of advising an annoying human whelp? The longer you stayed away from danger, the longer I could ignore you. I’d hoped to avoid this part for a while yet. But of course you didn’t listen. And now, here we are. Stuck with one another.

“That’s not my…!” No. No. Stay calm, Varian. He has to stay calm. “…Never mind.” He takes a breath, swallowing down the anger, and changes tracks. “But I don’t get it. Why the pirates? How did you even know they were there, or—or going to attack? It doesn’t make any—”

I could be in the middle of a burning desert at midday on the damn Summer Solstice, and I would still know the touch of that… foul magic. Her lip curls on the words. Her eyes slit, bright with hatred. Of course I sensed them.

“Magic?” Varian shakes his head. “What magic? They were—they were just pirates! Just human!”

Human? Certainly. But you are a fool if you think that it was all it was. Or do earthquakes usually strike a city right when a raid is underway? Such timing cannot possibly be coincidental. The Moon laughs. Dear, stupid child. You should have seen this coming. Why on earth do you think my labyrinth existed in the first place?

“I—” Varian blinks. Frowns. To test Rapunzel, to get what the Moon wanted, to prove Moon right about… something? About humanity? He’s not sure. He had only ever caught snippets. Because you’re a cruel, heartless person and you found it funny? But he can’t say that, she’d probably stab him again, and once was more than enough, thank-you-very-much. “…I don’t know.”

Typical. Well, I will tell you what I told the Sundrop. There is something coming, child. There is a rot that grows forever beneath the deep, and it lingers in this world like a curse, even in sleep. Her voice drops. But now, I fear… it sleeps no longer. It is here. It is coming. The rot’s reaching fingers have finally found our throats.

Her words are low, cold, serious with all the weight of an incantation. Varian stares at her. He doesn’t move. His breath shudders out of him. Realization washes over him, cold as ice. “The pirates,” he whispers. “Corona?”

I have no interest in the games of mortals, Moon remarks. For one, they are usually very boring. But recently, human politics have become… rather interesting. Unnaturally so. I have my suspicions. And I know what I felt, there in that city.

The meaning of her words finally sinks in. Varian looks down, his mind whirling. The attacks had terrified him. Corona at war had chilled him. But this makes something deep within him go small and tight with fear. This is more. This is like the labyrinth—a force more than science, or logic, or even magic. A force that Varian, slowly and reluctantly, is beginning to think of as fate.

“It’s aiming for Corona.”

The Sundrop’s own home? But of course it is. How better to draw her out? If I was not bound to my kingdom, to my Moondrop opal, I would have done the same.

He shakes his head, his mind spinning. “Wait, but—that doesn’t make sense—the labyrinth—”

I had more than my own reasons for the labyrinth. The personal benefits were just a bonus. Though. I admit, by the end, I perhaps got a bit… carried away. Her chin lifts. Fortunately, the situation is salvageable. I have my doubts the Sundrop is strong enough, yet, though she is certainly better suited for what's ahead after my labyrinth, but you…

She looks him up and down, doubtful, and her lip curls. Unfortunately for us both, my kingdom is gone, and so you are my only real conduit. For the moment, anyway. With luck, soon you will no longer be necessary, but for now… well. Do your best to not get speared anytime soon, boy. Replacing you would take more effort than I can spare.

Varian swallows, trying not to react. That—doesn’t sound good, though he can’t say he’s surprised to hear it. The Moon seems to need him, for now… but that probably won’t always be the case. If she made a place like the Dark Kingdom once, presumably she could do it again. Maybe. He thinks.

Ugh, magic.

Varian takes a breath, pushing the thoughts aside for later. Okay. All very interesting information, but… not what he needs, right now. He called for this conversation for a reason. “Okay,” he starts, careful, calm. He straightens his shoulders, and does his best to meet her eyes. “Actually, that was…something I was hoping you could help me with? The not-dying thing.”

Moon’s lip curls. She hooks her chin in her hand and regards him through narrowed eyes. Explain.

Well. Okay, then. “How do I… the, the black rocks.” He steadies himself. “How do I control them?”

A smile flickers across Moon’s face, sly and cruel. Your mishap yesterday. Hah, yes, I sensed that.

He doesn’t like the look of her smile. “…Right. H-how do I stop that from happening again?”

Moon considers him. Her smile widens. He can see the gleam of knife-like teeth, and then she leans back and stretches, laughing softly under her breath. Oh, who can say?

Varian’s eyes narrow. His fingers clench. He has to fight to keep his voice steady. “You, obviously.”

Moon is still smiling. Her eyes glow in the darkness. Don’t get smart with me, boy.

He grits his teeth. “I—”

Your distress over this silly power is amusing, and far more entertaining than your frankly dull nightmares. And I have been so bored… no, on this I don’t think I shall tell you. Have fun finding out.

Varian stares at her, breathless, feeling gutted. She won’t—? And then the rest of her words sink in, and his lips peel back in a snarl. Blood roars in his ears, and for a moment the whole world feels very still, cold and quiet. She is smiling. She is laughing at him. And suddenly Varian wants nothing more than to snap that smile right off her face. He wants to make her bleed.

“I was wondering something else,” Varian says, sweetly, the heat rushing through his head. His fingers strangle the cot covers. “Why do you look like that, by the by?” He gestures, casually, to his face. His hand is shaking. His teeth ache.

Moon’s smile drops at once. Her eyes go wide. Her lips peel back from her teeth. And Varian smiles where she does not, bright and poisonous and angry, and says, “I mean, I’ve already seen the scars!”

Pressure slams down on him. The air goes snap-cold, burning against his skin, and Varian just barely keeps from crying out. All at once, the Moon is no longer distant, no longer ghostly—she is here, she is right in front of him, so furious that the air warps around her very image. For a moment, that smooth façade drops. For a moment, he can see the scars in question—the great ruts that carve up her face and shatter her eye, the cracks crawling deep through her stone skin.

You— dare—!

Varian lifts his head with difficulty, struggling against the unyielding hand slowly crushing him to the ground. His smile has dropped, the sweet anger fallen, and now all he is is furious. “I hate you!” he cries, too incensed to be any more articulate than that. “I hate you! You and your stupid—tell me how to control the rocks!”

Moon’s voice shakes with a snarl. No.

“Tell me!” Varian shouts back. Something roars in his ears. Is it blood? The wind? Or most frightening of all—power? “Tell me how to stop this!”

The Moon leans close. Her smile is a bare of teeth. Her eyes are bright and vivid with rage.

FIGURE IT OUT YOURSELF.

Something shatters. Wind howls. For a split second, Varian is falling, dropping in free-fall—

His eyes snap open.

His throat catches on a scream, and he lurches half-way out of the cot before he realizes where he is. Yasmin’s house. The guest-room. His bed. The room is lit blue by the midnight; the air is cool, the candles all blown out.

Sweat plasters his bangs to his face. He feels feverish. The room is far too warm, but maybe that is because Varian himself feels as if he has slowly frozen solid. His heart beats unsteady and rapid in his chest. He has—he is—what?

Soft breaths. A warmth by his side. He looks down and reaches out, and—Ruddiger. Ruddiger?

Ruddiger is sleeping. Ruddiger is calm. He…. He’s not acting like either of them were ever in danger. Come to think—had he—had he been in the room at all, after Varian called the Moon’s name? He can’t remember.

It’s quiet.  Dead silent. Varian looks across the room, and sees Adira in her cot, blankets pulled up, still in sleep. She hasn’t moved. No, wait—when had she come in? Wasn’t she meant to be talking with Yasmin?

Varian turns to the window, his hands shaking. The sky outside is clouded and dark—no moon to be seen past the clouds. And the person looking back at him from the reflection is… himself. Varian.

It’s just him.

Slowly, his panicked breaths ease. Varian settles against the pillow, his mind racing. A dream. It had just been a dream.

And yet—he remembers it perfectly. He lifts his arm—the Moondrop one, the one that always burns whenever magical fuckery is abound—and looks at the hand. His veins are dark and blue. There is frost on his fingers, slowly but surely melting away in the heat.

Ah. Not just a dream, then. That is… that is… gods, he should have guessed. Moon and dreams. Maybe that conversation was never on his terms after all. Typical.

His breathing has gone very shaky. Varian falls back against the pillow. He stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, letting it all sink in. Breathes in. Breathes out. Rewinds the whole conversation back in his head, all the information bombshells and that disastrous ending, and slowly covers his face with his hands.

“Oh,” Varian says, weakly. “Oh, fuck.”

.

Morning comes almost too soon.

Varian doesn’t really sleep that night. After his conversation with the Moon, his mind is running too quick for rest. The information—the Moon herself—all of it is just so much, and he spends the rest of the night half-way between passing out and staring at the ceiling, his mind spinning, caught somewhere between regret for lashing out and a petty sort of inner voice that insists he probably should have insulted her more, that secretive conniving jerk. Watching you struggle is amusing, ha-ha-ha, Varian wants to punch a wall.

The night drags on, near torture, and Varian drifts in and out of sleep, until finally he blinks open fever-hot eyes to the crackle of distant birds and the morning rime on the gleaming window. Dawn, come again. He closes his eyes and sighs. Then he sits up.

Adira left sometime when he was half-way passed out; her stuff is gone, bags packed and cot rolled up. That’s right, he remembers, all at once. She’s leaving today. Last night was… the last night. Yasmin’s home is no longer open for shelter.

He sits there for a time, listening to Ruddiger’s sleepy snuffles and looking out the window with a distant stare. The sunlight sparkles over the frosted fields, crisp and clean, and he watches the light glitter for a long moment. He’s exhausted, but he feels oddly calm. The darkness is gone, chased away… and finally, Varian knows what to do.

He can’t deny the horror of it all—the fear creeping through. The sense that whatever’s going on, it’s something way, way more than he can handle. But if something like that is coming for Corona…. for Rapunzel and the others…

Varian looks down at his hands. He takes a breath. Takes another. And then he sets his jaw and gets to his feet, and starts packing.

By the time he pads downstairs, Ruddiger on his shoulders, his bags are packed and Varian himself is dressed in the new clothes Yasmin tailored for him. He fiddles with the sleeve as he thuds down the steps, unsure of how to clip the cuff, and Yasmin snorts when she sees him, the older woman standing at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in one hand.

“Dear gods, have you never worn a vest before?” She sets down her cup and goes over to him, tugging the sleeve from his hands. Varian watches intently as Yasmin buttons the cuff, memorizing the fabric fold as she steps back and pulls his vest straight, the heavy fabric sitting snug and fit on his shoulders. She surveys the outfit with a critical eye and hums. “Well. Not bad for a rush job.”

Varian makes a face, pulling at his hem. The clothes fit well, but they are unlike anything Varian has ever owned—and not just because he’s still missing his gloves and apron. He’s wearing a cream cotton tunic with buttoned sleeves, paired with a low v-cut blue vest embroidered with golden skeletal floral stitching and buttoned with small silver half-moons, the swirls of soft gold stark against the dark blue. The black pants are cut in a sailor-style, the ends tapered half-way down his shin to tuck in his boots. A dark magenta sash ties around his waist, the color so rich it nearly shines in the light. Above it all Varian’s oversized trench coat with its many lovely pockets envelops him, the pink nightlight swinging from one notch, the sleeves rolled up twice and still too long for him. Combined with the new haircut and the ponytail Varian is currently struggling to tie, he looks like an entirely different person.

He’s not sure if it’s a good look or a bad one, but it’s definitely troublesome. This stupid ponytail especially.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Yasmin snorts and pulls the ribbon from his hands. “At least you brushed your hair,” she murmurs, turning him around. “Pay attention. You will have to tie it yourself after this.” She pulls back his hair and secures it tight atop his head. “See?” She takes the end of the tail and loops it, tucking the strands away. “And do this to make a bun. Whichever style you please. Simple.”

Varian undoes the bun with a sigh, letting the hair fall as a normal ponytail. Ruddiger bats at it, letting it swing. He’s not used to having his hair tied back; the pull and weight of the ponytail on his scalp makes his nose wrinkle. It’s not uncomfortable so much as… odd. “I look like some nobleman’s kid.”

“Tsk. Nothing so fancy. Merchant schoolboy, perhaps. Apprentice wizard for the imaginative.” Varian scowls at the joke as Yasmin turns back to the table, sipping at her cup. “Regardless, it will help. The less you look like you, the easier it is to hide. Besides. New clothes and haircuts are a nice way to actually feel as though you are getting a fresh start.” She sips at the drink again. “It will help. Two birds with one stone, I believe the saying is? Like that.”

Varian hums, unconvinced but not really wanting to argue, and drops into a seat with a sigh. He takes Ella’s offered cup of coffee with a weak smile, then glances around the kitchen. “Um, where’s…?”

“Here.” Adira moves into the kitchen, taking a cup of coffee herself. “Thanks.” She turns to Varian and looks him up and down, and lifts one brow at the outfit change, but all she says is, “You seem tired.”

Varian shrugs, his eyes dropping to the mug. In the dim reflection of the drink, his irises seem almost unnaturally bright. He grimaces and looks away. “I…” He doesn’t want to discuss his talk with the Moon, not yet, and definitely not with Yasmin here—if she finds out he summoned and then insulted an immortal god in her house, she might strangle him with his new sash—so he shrugs as casual as he can. “Just, um, ah… t-thinking?”

There is a long pause. All three woman stare at him. Ella and Yasmin exchange a meaningful glance. Adira closes her eyes and sighs.

“Adira,” Yasmin says, conversationally, “he really is a god-awful liar. What on earth are you teaching him?”

“I take no responsibility for this.”

“Simply dreadful,” Ella murmurs sadly.

Varian sips loudly at his drink and ignores them. He’s a great liar, damn it. The best. He fooled Rapunzel down in Corona’s tunnels, hadn’t he? He just needs time to prepare, is all, that’s not his fault.

Ruddiger gives him a supportive chitter. Varian sighs.

“Well, regardless.” Yasmin sets down her cup. “Good morning, lovely weather we are having, etcetera —all pleasantries out of the way, I will get to the point. While I admit it was… interesting to have you both here, I must say it is time you moved on.” She looks between them, and her eyes linger on Varian for a long moment. “So. When will you be going?” The slightest of pauses. “And… where?”

The silence stretches, awkward, tense. No one moves. Ella is watching them. Yasmin sips at her drink, her gaze heavy on Varian’s head.

Varian pulls his mug closer, cupping the warmth in his palms, drawing strength from the weight of Ruddiger by his side. He keeps his eyes on the floor. “My bags are all packed,” he says, to the floorboards. He can feel, rather than see, all of them go still. “I’m…” For a moment he stutters on it. For a moment he fumbles.

Then he takes a breath, and says it anyway. “I’m ready to go,” he says, at last. “To Corona.”

In the ensuing quiet, Yasmin’s sharp and relieved exhale is clear.

Adira is quiet for much longer; she shifts slightly, and Varian’s eyes snap to her, searching, afraid. But Adira is calm, near-expressionless, and her voice is even when she replies: “Then we leave together.”

Varian ducks his head in a nod.

He hears Adira stand, but keeps his eyes down, and almost startles out of his seat when a hand abruptly finds his shoulder. He freezes, stiff—but all Adira does is leave it there, just for a second, her touch warm and grounding.

For a moment he thinks she’s going to say something—what, he has no idea—but all she does is squeeze his shoulder, once, then take her hand away. “…We’ll leave soon. Finish your food.”

Varian glances up through his bangs, watching her go. He feels a little wondering. That warmth in her voice—what was that? And the hand on his shoulder… he knows Adira isn’t big on physical contact. So then, what was the point of that?

He turns back to the room to find Ella with her face politely turned away and a smile on her lips, and Yasmin looking insufferably pleased with herself. He narrows his eyes, feeling the heat rise to his face. He grips his cup protectively. “What?”

“Nothing.” Yasmin sips at her drink. She is smirking. “Just… I am very good at my job.”

Ella smacks her arm without looking.

“I mean, we are all very proud of you, congratulations on your character development, whatever, make good choices.”

Varian rolls his eyes, and tips back his drink to hide a smile of his own. He finishes his meal quickly—when Adira says leaving soon she usually means leaving now—and sneaks away some bread for Ruddiger to snack on later, getting up from the table. He is half-way out the door before he hesitates.

He glances back. Yasmin raises an eyebrow at him, bemused, waiting. Varian chews at his cheek, deep in thought.

On his end: the market, the haircut, the clothes. But he remembers also the way Adira gave him answers that day in the field, when before there was nothing, and her new strange attempts at mentoring, odd but not unwelcome. He gets the sudden sense he isn’t the only one Yasmin has been bothering, and tucks his hands behind his back.

Yasmin is annoying and rude and cold, and still a stranger in many ways… but in these past few days, Varian knows, she has truly and honestly helped him.

“Thanks,” Varian says, rushed and hurried, and just barely looking Yasmin in the eye, and then he runs out of the room before Yasmin can laugh at him, or worse, look touched.

Packing takes no time at all, both Adira and Varian already prepared. Before Varian knows it, he and Adira have waved goodbye to Ella and taken up their packs, walking away from the little cottage in the fields for the last time. To Varian’s embarrassment, Yasmin goes with them, claiming to see them off, dressed in her heavy winter coat with a wrapped package under one arm.

Varian avoids looking at her best he can, his face red, regretting that moment of thanks with all his being, and pretends badly he can’t hear her laughing at him as they walk.

They reach their destination quickly, thank gods—a merchant camp nestled in-between two farms, a small circle of carts by the road. It’s apparently the same merchant camp as before, the one from Port Caul, just moved more inland to escape any drama from the recovering city. There are far less carts than before—most of the merchants having fled after the attack—but there is still a few lingering, and Yasmin approaches one at once, already bartering for their ride.

“Javon, yes? I have heard you are on your way to the west. I would like to discuss a deal with you—”

In less than ten minutes they’ve gotten safe passage assured and a deal made, Yasmin shaking the merchant’s hand with a grimly satisfied smile. She walks back to them with her head high. “There you go,” she says to Adira. “My final favor for you—free of charge, even.” She glances back, and they both watch as the merchant loads their extra bags onto his cart. “Lucky we came when we did. The others are going east and he is leaving now.” She turns back. “I suppose this is goodbye again.”

Varian looks up at her, surprised by the words and the sudden sense of loss. How strange, he thinks. He’s really only known her for a week or so—but what a long few days they have been. He feels as if he’s been here far longer.

Adira tilts her head. “This is it,” she says agreeably.

“So it is.” Yasmin crosses her arms and looks Adira up and down. “Well. It was far more excitement than I should ever like again… but it was good to see you, Adira.” She sighs. “Just, please. For the love of all the gods. Write to me next time?”

Adira almost seems to smile. “We’ll see.”

“Tsk, bothersome woman.” But Yasmin almost seems pleased, and when she looks down at Varian, she cocks an eyebrow and settles a hand on her hip, near-smiling. “Well, boy, I hope you remember what I have taught you.”

Varian meets her eyes with some difficulty, but manages. The echoes from their conversation still sting, but he takes a breath and refuses to look away. “I’ve, um… been thinking on it.”

“That is all I can ask.” Yasmin offers a hand. “You are a brat and a pest and more trouble than you are worth… but perhaps you are not so bad.”

Varian rolls his eyes, unable to help himself. “I really don’t like you.” But he takes her hand, and feels almost cheered. He manages a smile. “Um. But… uh…”

Yasmin snorts. “You do not have to thank me again. Once was enough. Uncomfortable for both of us. Do not.” She hesitates, then takes the package out from under her arm and holds it out. “Ella’s idea. From both of us. Blame Adira.” She pauses again, and then scowls at him. “Open it later, once you are gone and I cannot see. Got it?”

“Okay…?” Varian takes it. Tests it. It’s soft, so not a book… “What—”

“Once you are gone!”

“Okay, okay!” He stows the package away in the satchel. Ruddiger chitters up on his shoulder, clearly curious, and hangs down his back to sniff at it. Yasmin’s scowl turns to him.

“Goodbye, Yasmin,” Adira says, drawing the attention back to her. Yasmin fixes her with a frown.

“You will keep in touch?”

Adira shrugs. “I’ll try.” She hesitates. “It… was good to see you too.”

Yasmin makes a face. “Yes yes, goodbye, go already. You are going to give me hives at this rate.”

Adira briefly smiles at that, a hard sort of grin that is almost laughter, and turns away with one last wave over her shoulder. Yasmin, too, for all her annoyance, seems more fond than truly irritated. Varian looks between the two of them and shakes his head, turning to follow Adira to the cart. Ridiculous. He doesn’t understand them at all.

It feels almost anti-climactic, after everything. With every step, Varian waits for something to go wrong. He steps to the cart. He gets in the cart. He sits down in the back with Adira and watches the road. Nothing. The sky is cloudy but dry and the cold winds are beaten back by the warmth of his new clothes and heavy coat. It’s dizzying. Is he really leaving?

The merchant snaps the reins and calls the horses to a trot. The cart lurches into a roll. Varian draws his knees to his chest and watches as Yasmin slowly shrinks away against the gray skies and endless fields. How strange, he thinks. How funny. Leaving really is that easy.

He looks down at the satchel, and pulls out the package. He looks at it for a moment, and hesitates—but, well, if they’re going, isn’t that the same as being gone…? Technically?

Varian sneaks a glance at Adira, who is sitting cross-legged with her eyes closed. She opens one eye under the attention, and looks at him blankly for a full second—then snorts, softly, and closes her eyes again.

Well. He supposes that’s technically permission. Right? Totally. Yes. One-hundred percent.

He looks at Ruddiger. Ruddiger pats at the package with one paw and gives a meaningful look. Which—yeah, okay. There’s no saying no to that.

Varian opens the package.

It’s well-wrapped, sealed tight; it takes him a few tries to rip it open. He tears off the paper in one long strip, setting it aside for Ruddiger to play with later. There is an extra layer of tissue paper to get through, and he tests the thing in his hand, frowning. It’s light—soft, and malleable in his hands. He turns it over and pulls off the paper—

His breath catches. Varian goes absolutely still. In the corner of his eyes, he can see Adira is almost smiling.

Gloves.

Yasmin has given him alchemy gloves.

For an instant, all Varian can do is stare. The gloves are made from heavy leather, with stiff stitching and an oily waterproof sheen. They’re a little different from his old ones—a block maroon trim lines the ends—but still. Gloves. She’s given him…

And it hits him, all at once. Every question, every fear, every moment of struggle—every time he’s had to fight against the anger that burns constant in his chest, every instant of pushing back against the urge to run away. Nothing has changed, in the end. Nothing is very different. He’s still not sure what he’ll do—what he’s even doing now—or even the difference between forgiveness and redemption and why it matters.

But he holds the gloves in his hands, this gift he didn’t ask for and didn’t expect, and—he wants to. He wants to know. He wants, at the very least, to try and find the answer.

Varian blinks rapidly, feeling tears starting to well up. His breath hitches. His eyes burn. He lurches to his feet, standing shaky on the rocking cart, and leans over the back with his hands braced against the ledge.

“Yasmin!”

In the distance, he sees her head rise. He’s too far to properly read her expression, but she’s looking at him. She is waiting for an answer. Varian pitches his voice as far as he can. “I’ll—I’ll be good! I will!”

He lifts his voice, calling out, his words echoing across the fields: “I promise I’ll try!”

Yasmin’s form is growing distant, indistinct. She doesn’t yell back. But she raises her hand, a quiet goodbye silhouetted dark against the pale gray sky, and Varian almost thinks she might be smiling.

And then the cart turns down a bend in the road, and she is gone.

Varian sits back down in the cart and wipes the tears from his cheeks, pulling on the new gloves with trembling fingers. His smile wavers bright and thin on his face. The weight of the gloves makes a knot catch in his throat. For the first time in over a year, in a long, long time… Varian finally feels complete.

It’s not that things are better, really. He’s still afraid—still shaking with it. Going back to Corona still fills him with dread, and he has yet to learn how to deal with the rocks. But for the first time in a while, for all the problems ahead, Varian finally feels like he can face them. Adira’s presence by his side is almost a comfort; the cart, lurching down the road, is finally going somewhere. He finally knows where he’s headed. He finally has a start to this long road he has chosen to walk.

He reaches up and rests a hand on Ruddiger’s head, and the raccoon sniffs at the new gloves and squeaks, delighted. Ruddiger is warm and weighted on his neck, a soothing constant. Varian tilts his head back to that cloudy and bright sky, and his smile pulls hard at his cheeks. It’s a small smile, a fragile thing—but it is there, faint but real, and maybe that’s enough.

.

It’s not working.

Her head aching with the strain of staring at an empty canvas for far too long, Rapunzel blows a strand of hair from her face and settles back on her heels, one hand propped on her hip. She lowers the paintbrush almost reluctantly. The canvas is… it’s a mess. Colors an ugly swirl, a tangle of mish-mashing hues, and she changed her mind on the subject half-way through, and now…

Oh, it’s awful. A lost cause. She sighs and moves the canvas away from her frame, her heart heavy. Another one bites the dust.

Usually this works. Art has always been Rapunzel’s avenue of expression—her way of wants, of desires, of dreams. The new mural spread out on her balcony floor, for instance. But this time, something’s gone wrong. It’s not so much art block as it is something else—a restlessness, an itch, an emotion she can’t pin down. There’s something she’s feeling, something she needs to get down on paper, and yet…

She can’t figure out what it is, this time. It’s not working. For the first time in forever, Rapunzel has found an issue she can’t work through with paint. She isn’t exactly pleased with this astounding phenomenon.

Or maybe, Rapunzel thinks glumly, settling back on her bed, watching the rain pool outside her window—maybe it’s just too much. She’s had… so much to think about, these past few days. The attacks, the blackmail, Vardaros, the Baron…

Stalyan.

Rapunzel’s lips thin, her mouth twisting on the thought. It’s—she’s not stupid. She knows, she knows Eugene loved others, once, knows he was a rogue and a flirt and… well, she knows. Stalyan isn’t a surprise so much as she is… a name, at last, to put to the once many nameless faces. And she isn’t even really the problem. It’s just—

Rapunzel had to learn through a letter.

It’s that which grates on her most of all. This stupid situation—this stupid mess—and it’s so silly, anyways, because Eugene has written the exact same thing. I wish I could have told you in person. I’m sorry I couldn’t. And still, she can’t stop thinking about it—about all of it. Having to learn all this stuff through a letter, and then Cassandra hadn’t even been able to give the letter to Rapunzel. She’d had to sneak it through her window via Owl, because the secret passage route to Cassandra’s rooms only works so long as it remains undiscovered, and…

It’s—awful. It’s just awful. And annoying. And… ugh.

Rapunzel falls back eagle-spread on her bed, bare feet kicking in the air, hair loose and pooling on the floor of her bedroom. Beyond her window she can hear the soft drip of rain, a storm that has lingered over Corona for almost a week now, and she closes her eyes to the soothing sound. It’s only morning, but— she’s exhausted. And she’s already pushed her hands to the limit, from her frustration with the canvas. And she’s still in her nightgown. Maybe—she just needs a break. Maybe she should just go back to sleep…

A knock sounds at the door. “Um, Princess?”

Elias. She bites back a sigh and pries her eyes open, lifting her head. “Yes?”

“Um, your, your parents—um, uh, the King and Queen… request your presence gr-greeting some guests to the castle…”

Oh. Rapunzel closes her eyes. “The…um…” She should know this. “The merchant groups. Yilla. Renewing contracts.” More importantly—it’s busywork. All the politics are already figured out. She resists the urge to sigh again, louder this time.

The queen hasn’t pushed the question about her hands, even though she obviously wishes to. In that way, Rapunzel’s parting comment has left its mark. That doesn’t mean anything else has changed. Her parents are still, even now, trying to keep Rapunzel in the dark.

She scowls at her bedcovers, lowering her head to cradle her forehead in her palms. Pascal, on her shoulder, pats her face in quiet sympathy. “I’ll be right out,” she calls to Elias, exhausted with it all. “One moment!”

She gets dressed as quick as she can, in the stiff formal gown Rapunzel hates but her parents prefer for formal situations. Pascal helps wordlessly with the bodice, and while usually Rapunzel would braid her hair for this, she has neither the time nor ability—after her painting session her hands are stiff and frozen, tight with pain, and she grabs for the beads, instead. Pascal helps her with the clasp, and when Rapunzel pulls on her gloved she has to do so with her teeth.

She’s pushed it today, she thinks, somewhat mournfully, and massages gently at her palm to loosen some of the pain. Her fingers still won’t curl right. Pascal gives her a look.

“I know,” Rapunzel mutters, exasperated, and hides her hands behind her back when Pascal opens the door.  Elias stands in the door, hand raised as if to knock again, amber eyes wide—when he sees her he squeaks and hurries aside, hands scrambling at his halberd.

Rapunzel sweeps out into the hall, right past Elias, and heads for the stairs. He scrambles to keep up, eyes wide behind his helmet. Despite everything, the sight almost makes her want to smile.

“We’re meeting in the throne room, right?”

“Ye-yes…”

She does smile at him this time, hoping to put him more at ease. She doesn’t dislike Elias—doesn’t really know him, honestly—but he doesn’t seem the bad sort, and his nerves are understandable. He’s stressed, too, and his support during the dinner conversation has endeared him to her a little. He reminds her, strangely, a little of Varian—less confident, and not at all angry, but… young. And trying his best, with all that’s been given. Quiet kindnesses.

The thought of Varian makes her smile falter. Rapunzel turns away. She hasn’t thought of Varian in… too long, she thinks. She’s tried not to. It’s—useless to worry about him, when he is so far away and she is unlikely to ever see him again, but sometimes thoughts like this crop up. It’d be a stretch to say she misses him—even now, after the labyrinth, she isn’t sure where they stand, and he’d been cruel to her for so many months before that—but sometimes she wonders how he’s doing. If he’s okay. If…

Useless thoughts, in the end. She tries to push past them. Quick, Rapunzel! Distraction!

“It’s—” Hello, train of thought, where did you go? Rapunzel clears her throat. “It’s… been a hard couple of weeks, hasn’t it?” She bites her lip, staring down at her bare feet. “I want to say, I’m sorry for all the trouble—”

“It—it’s no trouble!” Elias fumbles, then seems to blanch when he realizes he’s cut her off. He swallows hard. “It’s… it’s an honor, my princess.”

“Mm…”

He watches her, hesitant, and then slowly relaxes. “But…” His voice trails off, going small, and he takes a quick breath. “Ye-yes, it… it has been, um… quite a week. Haha.”

An understatement, really, and to such a degree she almost smiles, even though it isn’t really funny. Eugene’s letter had filled Rapunzel in on that, too. There’s been another harbor attack—the city of Port Caul, in the kingdom of Lencia, brought to its knees. It’s not at all near Corona—a two months journey at best—but it’s a major trade partner, and now it won’t be trading at all, not for a while. Another route lost.

“The castle has really been up in arms…” She glances back at him, wondering. “I meant to ask you—was it like this before I came back, too? It all feels so sudden to me, but…”

Elias hesitates. “It, um, it was… actually was kind of sudden,” he admits, voice small. “First it was a letter… and the routes started closing… and—and then—” He cuts himself off, looking away, and shrugs one shoulder. His lips are pressed thin and tight.

“…Oh.” There’s not much she can say to that. Rapunzel turns away, eyes fixing back on the hall. They move down the final flight of stairs, stepping out into the main wing of the castle. The grand hall stretches out wide before them, pale and blue in the dim light of the morning rain. The lamps burn small and golden, little haloes of light.

“Act-actually…”

Rapunzel blinks, looking back at Elias. The boy looks conflicted, his breathing quick and funny. “Hm?”

“I… I have a friend. Addy. Adeline. Um.” He shifts in place, his grip tight on the halberd. Rapunzel blinks, her attention focusing. He looks—afraid. Almost ill. She straightens. This is serious, apparently. “She… we—explore. Sometimes. Tunnels… and, and—dungeons.” He bites his lip, hard. “I’m, I’m sorry, I mean, I don’t know if it’s… um, im-important? But I know—you’ve been looking around—and all this, it happened… at—the same time. As the attacks. And, and everything else.”

Rapunzel watches him, closely, stopped fully now. Elias cringes under her attention. “Maybe? But my friend—Addy—she thinks—there’s s-something—in one of the cells, in the dungeons, and we heard them—and after that night, everyone started getting so angry, all the time, and Addy, she thinks—” Elias cuts himself off mid-word. His eyes go wide. His attention fixes over her shoulder, and stutters to a stop. “C-C-Ca—”

Rapunzel follows his gaze. Her breath catches. Pascal squeaks on her shoulder. “Cass?”

Down the hall, exiting through the other set of doors, is Cassandra. After a week of silence, seeing her is like a shock—for a moment, Rapunzel feels frozen, staring. Cassandra walks down the hall with her fists clenched and her eyes dark, mouth twisted on a frown. She’s not dressed for guard duty yet, and she doesn’t seem to have noticed them, her head bowed to stare unseeingly at the polished castle floors. But she’s here. She’s right here.

The conversation completely forgotten, Rapunzel races forward, almost tripping in her haste. “Cass!” she cries. “Cassandra!”

Cassandra stops in her tracks, her head snapping up. Her eyes widen. “…Rapunzel?”

“Cass!” She barrels into Cassandra for a hug, squeezing her tight. Cassandra hugs her back almost on automatic, and when Rapunzel pulls away she still looks stunned, blinking fast. “Oh, it’s so good to see you! I haven’t talked to you since—” Last week, she means to say, but then she remembers Elias at her back and the fact her father has banned her from seeing Cassandra at all, and blanches. “—sssssssince I came back! To Corona! Haha!”

Cassandra blinks and then gives Rapunzel a look, almost bemused, a faint smile pulling at her lips. She doesn’t seem to have seen Elias yet. “Since you’ve been back,” she agrees, almost a question, her eyebrows raised. She looks Rapunzel up and down and blinks again. “What’s with the get-up?”

“Politics,” Rapunzel admits, sighing heavily. She scowls down at the formal gown and then lifts her head with a weak smile. “Um, merchant contracts, I think.” Lower, she adds, bitter: “Busy work.”

Cassandra’s face is momentarily unreadable, but then she visibly shakes herself and frowns. “That’s… I’m sorry, Raps.” She squeezes at her shoulder. “Chin up, yeah? You’ll…” She trails off, suddenly, her eyes catching over Rapunzel’s shoulder. Something flashes through her eyes. She stops talking.

Rapunzel glances back, seeing Elias, standing small and nervous at the end of the corridor and trying desperately not to look at them, and sighs, her headache returning. Right. Elias. Replacing Cassandra, watching her for the King…

“It’s fine,” Rapunzel says, subdued. She tries for a smile. “He’s… he’s fine. He’s actually very sweet, honestly.”

“Sweet for a spy.” Cassandra’s voice is cold. Rapunzel frowns at her, and she shakes her head. “No. No, that’s good. I guess. Sorry.”

“Yes…” Rapunzel leans in, hugging Cassandra again on impulse. She’s missed her, missed having her by her side, missed just having a friend. “I mean it, though! It’s been a while. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Cassandra steps away from the embrace, tone clipped. She rubs one hand at her upper arm, starting to look agitated.

“I’m glad.” Rapunzel steps back too, giving her some space. Her voice lowers. “Actually, um, I wanted to thank you—”

“Don’t mention it.”

“U-um, okay.” Rapunzel blinks fast and then rallies herself. She needs to go soon, but before she does— “I…” She drops her voice to a whisper. “I’ll try and get out tonight or tomorrow—I know we can’t really do anything, but maybe we could talk for a bit? Or visit Eugene? There’s some stuff I want to—to talk through, and—” She smiles, weakly. “I miss you guys.”

Cassandra doesn’t smile back. When she speaks, her voice is flat, and she is not whispering. “Are you serious?”

Rapunzel blinks fast, taken aback. “Um—”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“I—I just thought—”

“It’s not like I’ll have anything to report, anyway. Have I been any help at all these past few weeks?” She scoffs, cutting Rapunzel off before she can answer. “Besides, it’s not a good idea. Are you trying to get me into trouble?”

“I—no!” Rapunzel steps back, stunned. “Cass, of course not! I just thought…”

“We’re not even supposed to be talking right now,” Cassandra adds, poisonously, eyes snapping to Elias, and something in Rapunzel snaps.

“Cass!” Rapunzel shouts, and Cassandra’s eyes crack back to her. Rapunzel stares at her. She doesn’t say anything. The silence almost seems to echo. Cassandra’s eyes are wide.

“I don’t understand,” Rapunzel says, helplessly, her voice tight, and Cassandra outright freezes.

“You—!”

For a moment her face tightens, and she almost seems to snarl—and then the moment fades. Cassandra’s eyes squeeze shut. She brings a hand to her temple. Her lips curl not into a snarl, but a grimace. “…Sorry.”

“Cass…”

“Sorry. I just—haven’t been sleeping well.” Her hand drops. All at once she sounds tired, dull and worn thin. “It was good seeing you, Rapunzel. But let’s just… I’d rather not get into any more trouble than I’m already in, okay?” She turns away. “See you around.”

“Cass!”

It’s too late. Cassandra has already gone.

Rapunzel watches Cassandra go, feeling almost cold. Her breathing is tight. Her hands are aching. Her teeth clenched. Cassandra turns the corner and vanishes from view, and Rapunzel stares after her for a long time, something in her shaking. Pascal, on her shoulder, is frowning. His tail pats Rapunzel’s cheek. Rapunzel doesn’t move.

Hesitant footsteps approach her side, the clank of armor. “…Princess—are, are you okay?”

She breathes. “I’m fine.”

Elias is silent for too long. Rapunzel turns to him. “What is it?”

“You—you look—” He falters, his voice going small. “Um.”

The observation startles her. Rapunzel stares. “What?”

Wordless, Elias points a hand to his face.

Rapunzel raises a hand to her cheek, feeling numb. Her gloves come away damp with tears. She stares at it, wide-eyed, and thinks: Oh.

Oh.

The empty canvas, the uncertain emotion. The tangle of feeling in her gut. And this, too—the burn behind her eyes, inside her chest, in her heart. The roar in her ears. She knows this. She knows this.

Her mouth is dry. Her hands are shaking. She is struck with the sudden urge to—to break something, or scream, or just sit down and cry. Why is everything going wrong? Eugene, leaving. Stalyan—this part of his past he never shared, and he couldn’t even tell her to her face. Varian, missing, whose presence haunts her like a ghost—her parents—

She knows why Eugene can’t tell her. She knows why he didn’t want to. She knows it isn’t Varian’s fault that everyone is hounding her; she was the one who chose to let him go, after all, which is the main issue. Her parents are another story, but… she’d accepted this. She’d known this was coming. She’s fighting it. She was ready for this!

And yet.

Her hands shake.

Rapunzel stares at the floor, feeling cold, feeling flushed. She rubs hard at her face, trying to stop from crying. She hates this. She hates crying like this—her throat all twisted and her words all gone. She hates this.

Cass.

It’s not fair. She knows Cassandra is hurting. She understands why. But Rapunzel didn’t ask for this, either.

Why won’t you just talk to me?

A long time ago, after Varian nearly killed Rapunzel with the arrow and everything spiraled into pieces, Cassandra had sat Rapunzel down and asked her to be honest. To trust her. And Rapunzel had promised. She had promised, and she has—she has tried, over and over, again and again. She is trying so hard to be honest with them, even when it hurts, even when it’s about things she wishes she could lock away and never think about again. And it infuriates her. It rises in her like a burning wave, strangles her throat and makes her eyes hot, because—

I’m trying to be honest with you, Cass. So why won’t you be honest with me?

Why won’t you talk to me?

Rapunzel swallows hard. She closes her eyes. She breathes through her teeth. She raises her hands and threads them through her hair, yanks once and yanks hard, and then smooths the strands back with shaking, aching fingers.

Elias’s voice is so quiet. “I’m—I’m—I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Rapunzel pries her eyes open, breathing past the wall of emotion beating against her chest. “I—it was always there, I guess, I just—I didn’t realize. Really.” She reaches a shaking hand and dabs away the tears with her gloves. “Sorry.”

Elias looks miserable. His eyes fall. “I…” He hesitates. “If there, there’s anything I can—”

“It’s fine,” Rapunzel repeats, quiet. She rubs her face dry and breathes in deep, pulling on composure like a cloak. Heat coils tight and bitter in her gut. She hates it. She hates this. “…We—we have somewhere to be, anyway. The merchants.”

Elias nods, hesitant. His eyes cannot seem to decide whether to stay fixed on the floor or on her.

“Right,” Rapunzel says. She takes another breath. “Right.” She rubs the last of her tears away and straightens. “Let’s go, then.”

His lips press. His head dips. But Elias does not argue, and he leads her to the throne room with his head low and his shoulders bowed almost in something like guilt.

She should say something to him, probably—but she’s tired. She’s so tired. She is so angry she aches with it. Her hands are shaking like a storm, and she has to fold them behind her back to keep her poise. Even her hair feels heavy, right now—a ball-and-chain, the weight of destiny. Awful, awful, awful. Her eyes burn. She wants to go home.

Rapunzel enters the throne room with her head high and her mind a million miles away. She is late, and the advisors look testy; Rapunzel’s mother meets her eyes for one second before her gaze flickers down to Rapunzel’s hands. Rapunzel moves them behind her back, poised, her expression unchanging.  

Her father watches the exchange warily, his lips pressed thin. He seems to realize something is wrong. He studies her face. “Rapunzel—”

She meets his eyes. “Yes?”

He quiets. He looks away.

Rapunzel bites back another sigh, and heads for her seat by their thrones, settling into the chair exhausted relief. She folds her gloved hands in her lap, half-hidden in her skirts, and Pascal jumps down to settle in her palms, the weight of him warm and soothing against the ache. Rapunzel forces a faint smile for him and then keeps her eyes on the great doors. As soon as this is over, Rapunzel is taking a nap.

She’s so tired.

Trumpets sound, loud and echoing, and the noise makes her flinch. The merchant caravan is announced by the herald, their issues presented… the doors, swinging open, admit a bald middle-aged man with sweat on his brow, dressed in dark red threads. Yilla, the merchant leader. He walks with wringing hands.

And then, stepping up beside him— a woman.

Even from a distance, the newcomer is visibly striking. Long, dark brown curls frame a heart-shaped face, her clothes expensive and well-tailored. She is tall and smirking, her head high and proud, and she almost seems to be laughing as she leans over to the herald, whispering something in the man’s ear. Her smile is cold and bright and unwavering on her face.

Something washes over Rapunzel then. A warmth. A whisper. A hiss of threat. She straightens in her seat. Her head spins. Her eyes feel hot, burning. There is something here—something about this woman—that makes her every nerve scream in warning.

The herald is still listening to the woman, and when she finishes speaking he goes pale in the face. For a moment he fumbles. His glance back at the King is terrified.

“And—and if I may present,” says the herald, stuttering and shaking on his tongue, “with the merchant Yilla… his g-guest, Lady Stalyan of Vardaros!”

.

.

.

Deep in the dungeons of Corona, locked far away from the commotion above, a lone prisoner sits slumped against the wall.

His once-long and beautiful hair has gone ratty and grimy with time; his hands hang limp before his knees. His shoulders slump forward, his head bowed—in defeat, perhaps, or maybe sleep. In this dismal and empty dungeon hall, the prisoner rests with his eyes closed.

Water drips in the distance. Someone yells. The creak of metal armor from patrolling guards passes by and fades, again and again. And still, the prisoner does not move. Still, the prisoner does not speak. His shoulders are tense and taut. His fingers curled. His eyes closed, his ears straining. Not a man asleep at all—not defeated—but something else. He is listening. He is waiting. He has been waiting here for over a year.

And then, at long last: he hears the answer.

Something shifts in the shadows. An echo hums in the air, a low buzz like a swarm. The prisoner’s fingers seize and twitch at the icy touch trailing his shoulders, and then still at the whisper echoing in his ears.

His eyes burn. His smile pulls wide and cruel. The prisoner starts to shake, laughter wheezing through clenched teeth, and in the shadows of his eyes, his hatred shines bright and green.

“It’s finally begun, huh?” He crosses his legs at the ankle, lounging back against the wall. He exhales a long sigh. The air ripples at his breath—an echo, a whisper made manifold, a twist of magic like an oily rot. Halfway down the hall, a guard is struck with a blinding rage, his innermost anger set to boiling, and turns to strike his fellow. A sword is drawn with a shriek of steal. Someone screams.

The commotion catches an audience—another set of guards—footsteps pound on the stone, the men come running. The guard, down the hall, is apologizing. His sword is bloody. His fellow lies still on the cold floors. I don’t know what came over me, the first guard is saying, high and hysterical. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want— I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this!

And far away from the disaster, safely hidden in his cell, Andrew tilts back his head to the dungeon’s grimy ceiling and laughs.

“Finally,” he says.

I don’t know what came over me!

“Let the countdown begin.”

[ofaheadstronghealer]

Alma Bio

I know we have official bios but until that was posted I thought I’d temporarily post this to help with interactions, please feel free to message me if you have any ideas for plots or connections or what have you! :)

FULL NAME: Alma

AGE: 36

OCCUPATION: Healer/Slave

CHARACTER TRAITS: (+ Clever +Kind Hearted , -Headstrong - Insecure )

LABEL: The Phoenix

GENDER + PRONOUNS: Cis-female, she/her

BIO

(trigger warning: implied sexual assault)

Alma, an unusual name for an unusual girl. There has not been a moment in her life that could be described as ‘typical’ or ‘normal’, perhaps that is why for most of her life being normal had been something she’d craved so desperately until she would come to understand the true power in being different from the rest. Something her mother had always understood.

Alma was born a fatherless child. Not literally, of course, but in the sense that the man who is her father was not her mother's husband nor was his identity ever known to the girl or to the others in the village in which she grew up. Being branded a ‘bastard’ was her first taste of this ‘otherness’ that she would come to experience her whole life, being the daughter of a woman who was suspected by many of being a witch….well that certainly didn’t help matters. When Alma thinks on it now she finds proof that God has a sense of humor, how hard she fought to be unlike her mother and yet how like her she later became. Alma isn’t a witch, not one of the barbarians ‘Volvas’ or one of their ‘seers’, and neither was her mother before her but that mattered little to the townspeople she grew up around. They were pariahs for her whole childhood, ostracized by the community until one of their people needed a healer with skill unmatched by any other and then only under the most dire of circumstances would they accept them with open arms. Alma wouldn’t realize that until she was much older, a naïve thing desperate for acceptance she would bask in it no matter what the price for as long as it lasted. Sometimes at night she would kneel before her bed and pray, pray to god to show the truth of her innocence to the people so that she might live among them as kin and not be regarded with such fear. The first time God answered her prayers she was but the tender age of 14 and she was shown his power...as well as his cruelty. Had she known the price that God would make her pay for her freedom she would have been more specific in her prayers, would have extended the prayer to her mother as well but alas she was selfish as children so often are and did not think of such things. A life for a life, her mother's death for her freedom. She still remembers the way her mother’s hand felt upon her cheek before they brought her to the pyre, remembers the tremble in her voice as, for the last time, her mother told her that she loved her. Alma was forced to bear witness to her mother's death, forced to stand there as she was engulfed in flame and pleading for her life. Suddenly acceptance didn’t matter so much to Alma, all she wanted in that moment was her mother back. 

The years following her mother's passing were difficult in many ways and brought many changes, on one hand she was welcomed back into the community as a show of the villagers' mercy but on the other she was an orphaned girl with no family and no prospects. Her mother had not raised her as a proper lady, she was not educated in the things a girl should be and though everyone around her agreed she was beautiful she was far too clever and her reputation too marred to make a suitable wife for anyone ‘such a waste of a beautiful girl’ they’d mutter as though that were supposed to make Alma feel appreciated. Perhaps other women if put in her position would have simply bowed to fate but not Alma, she had too much of her mother in her for that. If she had no use as a wife then she would find another way to have use, to make herself indispensable so she could not be so easily cast aside. In what she would later realize was a bold move she became a healer like her mother before her though unlike her mother she was more careful in how she was perceived, cautious to never show up the men around her, to curb her clever tongue, and to never perform acts that could be considered miracles and later used against her. She couldn’t really say in any sincerity that she was truly happy but it was as close as she’d ever gotten, she was valued and though people looked at her sometimes with pity it was better than the terror she had become accustomed to in her youth. If only she’d been able to save her mother than perhaps it would have been perfect. Alma lived this way in the village for many years, alone but accepted as much as she could be. That all changed the day they showed up. 

The day of the raid was like any other, Alma had been making her rounds attending to the villagers when she heard the screams. At first the healer thought it was simply in her head, it wasn’t unusual for the painful memory to surface; it had been haunting her for years, but it grew in its volume and intensity and soon it became clear to her that they were not the screams she remembered hearing as a child. Of course they’d all heard of the Vikings and their ways, how they would often raid and pillage and kill everything in sight, but as every other town did they never thought they would be targeted. She was still in the house of a patient when it happened, the person too weak to realize what was going on and certainly too weak to fend for themselves. Alma is no saint, she will not deny if asked that there was a moment when she simply considered running and trying to save herself but one look at the pathetic state of the woman laying there and her mind was purged of that thought. She could not abandon her. Alma helped the other woman to the back of the house, hid both herself and the woman in a dark pantry not easily seen and for the first time in a very long time Alma prayed ‘Please God protect us, see us through this, save us’. God answered Alma much like he had the time before, granting her her wish but always with a twist. The Vikings that crashed through the house at first appeared as though mindless beasts that had not the capacity to think beyond destruction and for just a moment Alma thought herself and the woman safe. She was made aware of how wrong she was when rough hands tore her from the safety of the pantry, a foreign tongue that she couldn’t understand flooded her ears but she understood the tone well enough. The only thing that got her through the assault that followed was the sight of the other woman, frail but still hidden. Safe. 

Alma doesn’t remember much about the journey that led her to Hedeby, she tries not to think about it. She can recall her captors dragging her back to show the horde their prize, remembers her feeble escape attempt just before they threw her on one of their boats. The rest of the voyage was not memorable, she kept her head down as much as possible on the boat and simply listened. Though she could not understand all of what was being said at some point in the journey she managed to make out that they were going to one of their cities, a place they called ‘Hedeby’. Alma was not certain what to expect, what would become of all those they had taken including herself? Would they be killed? Sold? The thought was frightening but she did not let it overwhelm her, simply continuing to listen and do as the Vikings bid. When Alma was brought to what appeared to be an open market in chains with the others she stood silently as they were inspected by the market goers. As time passed and the other villagers were distributed it became clear to the healer exactly the position she was in, she had always been a slight thing and while that had not been looked at negatively back home it was becoming clear that as a slave she was probably the most unappealing of the bunch. Death, it seemed, would be the escape that God would deliver her. It was not to be so. Much to her own surprise she was bought by what appeared to be a family of little means meaning that they had little to trade and therefore she was the only one they could afford, the man looked brutish, as they all did, but was not unkind in his handling of her. She was in their service for a few years, quietly observing the customs and language of these strange people with whom she now resided, but knew it would not last, she was a healer not a farmer and unsuited for the physical labour demanded of her and every day she grew weaker. It was a miracle of God when one day as she was working the fields a man emerged from the forests and collapsed before her clearly wounded, it was pure instinct when Alma leapt into action. Over the next few days there grew a small gathering of Vikings who watched as she tended to the man, they appeared intrigued by her methods some of which were unknown to them. Unknown to Alma the man she eventually ended up saving was someone that the King of these Vikings held as a very dear friend, King Ragnar demanded Alma be brought to him at once. Alma entered the great halls of the Viking King with the family that had bought her but she did not leave with them, word spread not long after of the healer from a foreign land who was now under the ownership of the King. 

That was many years ago and much about Alma has changed, she still bears the status of slave under King Ragnar and his family but as their personal healer she is treated with a great deal more respect than most slaves. Though sometimes she finds herself longing for the familiarity of her old home Alma has managed to settle somewhat among the Vikings and has found respect for some aspects of the way they live their lives and is, in some ways, more herself here than she ever was back at home.

EXTRAS

- Due to how her mother died and having been forced to watch it Alma has a deep and intense fear of fire. 

- She can fully understand the Vikings language but she still cannot fully speak it

- When first she arrived at Hedeby Alma was incredibly quiet but since being raised to the royals personal healer and over the years becoming more settled she has let more of her true personality come through, she has a clever tongue and a headstrong nature and does not feel she’s in such a precarious position anymore that she must hide those things though she is still cautious with who she shows it to

- Although she acts like she’s over the whole wanting to be accepted and loved thing she is very much not over it and longs for a feeling of home and belonging and love.

- At first she hated the Vikings and saw them as brutes and barbarians but now for the most part she has let go of that view though there are still moments where she considers them beasts

- One of the first things she noticed and loved about the Viking culture was how they treated their women, coming from a place where she was only looked at as a thing of value through marriage and the fact that she had a brain frowned upon she was secretly impressed at the freedoms Viking women were afforded.

[wyattzimmermcn]

three deaths and a wedding.

self-paragraph by danji. tw: death, illness, guns, murder(?).

2009

He lost track of where they were about four hours ago, but, at least, he hasn’t lost sight of that pretty little blonde on his arm.

An inky blue-sky drapes over the New York City horizon. It’s as clear as he’s ever seen it, clearer than the haze of his post-grad years, bustling between internships, like the clouds have parted and the stars are twinkling because they know it’s his birthday.

He’s thirty. According to his watch, he turned thirty eight hours ago. They haven’t stopped celebrating.

“Zimmerman!” An old roommate slings an arm around his shoulder. He reeks of weed and cologne and the cud of spearmint gum being chewed between his teeth. “Remember your twenty-first? We were over there,” He points into the night, directionless, “Gramercy Park. You remember Rachel? God, I was gonna marry Rachel.”

Rachel had a penthouse. Beyond that, Wyatt can’t remember a thing about her. “Yeah, man. She was hot,” He slurs.

“Holy shit!” His roommate grabs his shoulders, shakes him, like he’s suddenly remembered–– “you’re thirty!”

He’s the first one of his friends to turn thirty. (First to have a job, only one not to leech off his father, or, God forbid, join a multi-level marketing business. But that’s just the perks of having Ivy League friends.) They haven’t stopped poking fun at him since they remembered his birthday was around the corner about a month ago. And now it’s here. 

Well, it was about to be over.

Was it wrong to feel a little down? Feel inflated, all that pent up energy escaping into nothingness? It reminded him that he hated birthdays.

Something buzzes in his pants. He digs out his Nokia, brows pinching together. “It’s my dad.”

“You’re not gonna answer, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

A voice inside his head tells him to answer. “One sec.”

He holds his phone to one ear and cuffs the other with his opposite hand, moving to the outer-skirts of the rooftop bar, still feeling the music pumping through his veins. He’s tall enough that he could easily slide one leg over the top of the railing, hoist himself over the ledge, and free-fall into nothingness. 

Warm alcohol sloshes in his stomach at the thought. He groans.

“Dad?”

“Son.”

“What’s wrong?” He asks. “Is mom okay? Is Mila––.”

“Your sister died tonight. Few hours ago, actually,” He says, gruff as ever, “we’re going over to the hospital to get her stuff. You should come down. Your mother would like that. Yeah, she’d like that.”

“You weren’t with her?” He pushes the heel of his palm into his eye sockets, seeing stars.

“No.”

“I’ll… I’ll drive up tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Was she––?”

“Oh,” There’s a pause, “that’s the hospital calling. I’ve gotta run. Happy birthday, son.”

- 

He has no reason to suspect that today is going to be any different than any other. There’s campaign nonsense that crops up every now and again; finances, pushback, shitty scheduling. But, at the very least, Amanda usually has that covered.

It’s Sunday. He thinks, maybe, he should go to church. But, the second the thought crosses his mind, he finds himself deriding it–– who do you think you are?

Coffee is brewing. CNN is playing. Plaid sweatpants hang from his hips and the New York Times is flayed on the kitchen island, waiting to be read, as it flattens over the marble countertop. Timer beeps. He splashes half-and-half into his cup. Perches the reading glasses he swore he’d never use on his nose. 

Huffs–– in that way his father used to huff, “just because he’s old”– and sinks into his first sip of caffeine for the morning. 

Fuck, that’s good.

“Sorry, Bill. There’s a–– there’s a breaking story from Manhattan.” He lifts his gaze, briefly, to the news reporter tapping her earpiece. “The story is still breaking, but Fox is reporting that Jim Wittman is critically injured, yes critically injured, after a car crash in New York city. Mr. Wittman, who is a candidate for Speaker of the House is– is alive. We’ll let you know when we know more.”

He glances down at his phone. He makes a habit of keeping it turned off before eleven in the morning on weekends (for his own sanity). Maybe he lied before; today is a little different. Today he keeps it by his side.

A text message from his campaign manager lights up his screen.

Frank: Jim’s dead. Congratulations Mr. Speaker.

–

He’s been Speaker of the House for less than six months when Theresa Wright, President of the United States, is shot dead.

Zimmerman makes a speech at her funeral, shakes her family’s hands and addresses the sea of mourners who turn out at the White House, transforming the residency into a fucking garden–– with flowers and wreaths of mourning laid out on the law as far as the eye can see.

There are posters, too, demonstrating a renewed vigor in gun legislation. She’s in cohorts with Lincoln and Kennedy now. She’s a martyr.  

“Of all the ironies about Theresa, a woman I called colleague and friend, perhaps the greatest was this––.” Another camera flashes, another microphone butts against the head of a journalist inches from collapsing from the unusual heat. 

“A woman given the name of Saint Teresa was, in the end, the most selfless, compassionate, and honorable person I’ve ever met in Washington.” 

They don’t expect him to dab his eye, do they?

No, he leaves that to the sniveling congresswoman standing behind him.

“This is not coincidence; this was, and is, a shining example of Wright’s indefatigable conviction.”

He clears his throat; it feels hoarse. 

“And I wish she were still here today.” Maybe if she had quicker reflexes. 

He hangs his head low, and there’s a pregnant pause before he raises his chin, focuses on the crowds, watching them blend together. They were all wearing black; like a massive ink splot that just kept expanding.

Thank God he wasn’t wearing his contacts.

“From my family, to yours–.” 

He sees her father– a team of security insulating him – in the crowd. “We will get through this.” 

He meets with Berkeley a few days after he’s inaugurated. After the funeral. After the briefing, and the statement from the House in support of Berkeley’s Presidency. 

They toast to Wright. Ice cubes clinking together as they melt into whiskey. 

“To you, Mr. President. To your family. And to our dear, departed Theresa who has… paved the way to this very moment, unwittingly.”

There isn’t the slightest trace of melancholy in his voice.

– 

“Here’s a man whose luck doesn’t stop.”

They all raise their glasses to him, and to the bride by his side.

“It really doesn’t. I mean, who gets elected as Speaker of the House at forty? Who’s smack dab in the middle of the greatest political crisis since– I dunno, Chappaquiddick?”

Everyone laughs, including Donna. Wyatt’s lips crack into a grin.

“No, no. That’s always been the way Wyatt has rolled. Nothing ever got him down. Nothing’s out there to get him. And now, I mean, not that I noticed, but you’ve got a pretty hot wife, too.”

Wyatt’s father waves his hand, laughing as he does so, signaling that’s enough now as his wife curls into his side, a little teary-eyed, a lot tipsy.

“Here’s to Wyatt.” His eyes lower into the bubbles popping in his champagne flute. “May your luck never run out.”

“To Wyatt.”

“And may there always be more people who love you than hate you.”

[whitehotharlots]

We sleep as a team

I find...and I don't know if this is uncommon or just un-intuitive, but I find that my ability to discuss matters decreases as those matters become more material and less abstract. In my teens and early twenties I would ruminate incessantly about death. Now I cannot bare to engage even with the ruminations of others. Death a burst of pain followed by permanent blackness, I have decided, and any considerations beyond that cause me to back away immediately.

I am going through yet another round of revisions for yet another academic article. This should be it. Tenure is next year, assuming that there is a next year. The last time this article was reviewed was September. I am shocked at how alien the prose seems, even though it is my own, and even though I have read through it well over a dozen times. Who could have written this? What was going on inside the head of this person, what could have destroyed someone’s soul so thoroughly? 

My writing has gotten more publishable as I have grown more incurious about the world around me. That's the trick of the academic humanist: we settle into a very firm and extraordinarily narrow set of beliefs, and then we obfuscate our intellectual confinement with dithering prolixity. I used to wonder why my professors never seemed to take a firm stance in regards to any issues, even the ones they very obviously cared about, and even the ones that they were literally paid to study. Now, engaging with my own desiccated work, I understand completely. Once you say something firm, you can't touch on that subject again. And moving on to another subject would require us to leave the confinement that we've grown to believe is comforting.

What is there to talk about, really? Even before these past few awful weeks--before our worldviews became validated at the exact same moment that all our hopes were crushed. If we were to speak, who would listen?  The people who are already listening. But there are only so many things those people are willing to hear.

Today I learned that ticks, those little bloodsucking bugs, cannot drown under normal circumstances. Researchers submerged them for more than two straight months and they emerged healthy and even more voracious than before. This research was done as part of a larger effort to utilize ticks as biological weapons, to see which species were the most hardy and the most aggressive.

Today I also learned that due to the wonders of an economy ruled by speculative finance, it's possible for the price of an essential commodity to dip into the negatives. Silly me--I had always assumed zero the bottom. But finance, it turns out, is fahrenheit, not kelvin. There is nothing material about pricing, and certainly nothing absolute. 

Back on the ticks, did you know Lyme disease was created in a lab? A joint effort between the Americans and the Soviets, thanks to the efforts of our brave and loyal spies. There were points, fully and completely documented, when both sides saw the breadth of the outbreak in the other's country and worried this meant their own side was falling behind. Diseases always escape their labs, you see. It's possible from afar to keep track on how much "progress" your enemy is making by measuring the horrors they've unleashed upon their own populations. If that's how bad it can get from an accidental release, dear god, think of how much worse an intentional one could be? We better prepare ourselves by engineering an even more pernicious and painful strain, which will of course inevitably seep into our own population.

Oil is less than worthless. That is amazing. Just this century alone, how many trillions of dollars have been spent securing its procurement? How many millions of lives taken or displaced? How necessary, in retrospect, to destroy the plain states with our ghoulish attempt at extracting it through means of small, artificial earthquakes? If we hadn't have done that, the market might never have become so glutted. How much worse would our destruction have been were it engineered by our enemies, rather than ourselves?

My dreams have become so vile that I no longer experience them in the first person. I watch the images flash before me on a screen. I comment on them, usually to myself but sometimes to a friend. Even within the dream, I attempt to interpret its meaning, and that sends me into another image and another interpretation--the horror always safely at a distance, mediated and therefore unreal.

Last night: a gentle examination of the pre-bed rituals of an elderly couple, people I had never seen before. The man, like myself, is worried about his health, ashamed of his snoring. The wife suggests tape, just tape your mouth shut and you’ll stop the noises from happening.. We enter the man's head and hear his boring internal monologue. We leave his head and find that he and his wife are propped up lifeless upon kitchen chairs, ribbons of clear scotch tape hanging from their faces, the word

H

O

M

O

C

I

D

E

hand-scrawled in ball point upon each ribbon. My comment, said aloud to myself, from the distance of a screen, within the safety of sleep: that's odd. They weren't murdered. They did it to themselves.

-T

[ofsirensongs]

      “ her beauty disarms you. it takes away your weapons and your guard, and you won’t even fucking realize it until it’s too late. until she’s baring her teeth and dragging you under the waves, and devouring you whole... she’s siren, and pirate, and god, all in one. ”  

      [ minka kelly / cisfemale / 40 ] ❛ from over the ocean far [ lyric loveday ] has come from [ mermaid’s return / captain ] to sail upon the fortuna. LYRIC is known as the [ siren ] on board, fitting considering they are quite [ captivating & ruthless ]. supposedly that’s why the captain chose HER to be her [ gunner ]. ❜ 

      hey guys ! i’m medusa & i’ll be playing yer local two-faced cutie, miss lyric loveday, herself. she’s a new muse so pls bear w/ me <3

biography:

in lyric’s world, no good man exists. merely a bad man with a good mask. 

born helga krader on a stormy night in cape town, south africa to two british colonists researchers, the girl is beloved from the moment she takes her first breath. she’s the light of their lives and the heart of their world. an angel in the flesh.

tw illness, death: she’s 7 years old when she contracts a deadly illness. though she puts up a hearty fight, her frail body finally succumbs to it. her parents mourn, angry with god and fate and death, itself. and guilty, blaming their wrongdoings for the outcome. 

it’s through a tribe they discover a supposedly magical, healing pond in the midst of the (newlands) forest. as the tale goes, the girl’s parents, so desperate to reverse the finality, took the girl’s body to the pond late in the night and dipped her into the waters. nothing would occur, and they would fall asleep at the edge, sorrowful. 

only to witness a miracle the next morning. when, to their shock, their dear daughter woke them from their slumber. wondering where they were, and how they’d gotten there. 

at first, it was a blessing. a promise that their prayers had been answered. but when the weeks went by and the girl’s hair turned pale and white, they had to wonder. was it a blessing or a curse they had bestowed upon her? had they defied fate by their actions? what would now be the take to the give? 

tw death: their answer would come in three years’ time. they became sick like their daughter had. despite their best doctors and healers, the two would pass from the illness. having heard the tale about the pond, the 10 year old girl would manage a trip to it (somehow, and perhaps w/ help) with her parents’ bodies. she dipped them into the waters and slept beside its edge. hoping. praying. begging. but the next morning would promise her no relief. her parents were still gone. she deemed the ‘magical’ pond a lie and swore to never believe in child’s tales again.

the girl is shipped off to a seaside town in england, where she would live with her unknown uncle and his family. the minute she arrives in the country, she is sure that her troubles have only just begun. but she holds out on some hope. her uncle and his family treat her as an outsider from the start. they regard the ‘witch child’ with disdain, merely keeping her for her parents’ wealth. while she remains soft spoken and gentle, they look and act like the offspring of cursed gods. 

tw abuse: she becomes the source of all their problems. the burden, the disease. the one to blame whenever a chair breaks or a trinket is stolen from the market, by aunt and uncle and cousins. they brand her ‘hideous’ every time they scold her. ‘rotten, ignorant, worthless.’ and she grows bitter deep in her heart because of it. 

tw murder: she’s in her teens when her town is raided by pirates. they take and take, and when there’s nothing left to offer, she’s shoved forward by her aunt and uncle. ‘take the girl. we don’t want her.’ no, they never did. but she’s shocked. however, fate would change course that day. the pirate captain, struck silent by the act and the girl’s intriguing appearance, decided to test her. he handed her a dagger and then he pushed her family to their knees. ‘kill them, here and now, and i’ll take you. but not as my prisoner, as one of my own.’ resentment fueled, the girl grabs the dagger and splits throats. her first taste of power and revenge at life’s cruelties, and it feels good. 

it’s safe to say she changes from that day on. said captain of mermaid’s return, richard loveday, adopts the girl as his own child. throwing away her ‘old burdens’ and renaming her lyric loveday - the siren of the seven seas. she becomes a myth in the pirate world. claims are made that she is a siren. that she was born underwater, locked away in an atlantis, that with one dulcet tone of her voice she can sing an army into the depths of the ocean. but as much as her singing voice is heavenly, these remain tales told by pirates and sailors. she entertains and humors them. so long as no one knows the real story. 

when richard dies, the ship is handed to lyric. no one fights her for the title, because they’re loyal and they know what happens when someone challenges the silver haired woman. they wind up swimming with the fishes, after unpleasant tortures. lyric is merciless when it comes to opposition and enemies. she’ll make an example out of you, and it won’t matter the details or the begging or the crime. 

not that she’s always horrible. or that she’s disliked. in fact, her crew prize/d her as the best. with the decisive and hard hand of a leader, the perception and cleverness of a politician, and the playful and adventurous ways of a pirate. she is the beloved lady of the ship. the one every member hopes to prove something to, without realizing it. 

lyric knows of captain biyu. she knows of the ‘myths of the world.’ like the very pond she’d been taken to as a child. she’d sworn them off, though, hadn’t she? and yet... when the captain offered a contract to find lost treasure beyond their wildest dreams, lyric considered. and then she accepted the terms. there’s a part of her that still wonders. had the pond been selective with its choosing? was there more out there than coin and gems and crowns? if there was, maybe she was destined in some way to uncover it (narcissism, vanity, and ego at its finest). 

her crew may have been forced to go with, or may have been asked. depends on who! so they could be irritated by the change or they could be honored / as curious as their captain is about this adventure. perhaps some (or all) conspiring to overthrow biyu, fortuna’s crew, and the former ships/crews once the treasure is in hand. after all, that’s lyric’s goal. use your resources, then snuff out the competition. even if she does admire the latter. 

details: 

is of english descent. has a mixed english/south african accent. 

as for languages, lyric is known for studying them intensely. in fact, if she weren’t a pirate, she’d be a translator of texts. grants certain crew members double their winnings after raids if they teach her a new language. master fluency: english, afrikaans, french, hindi, persian, arabic, indonesian (sundanese dialect). average fluency: italian, punjabi, indonesian (javanese dialect), spanish, mandarin. basic fluency: greek, portuguese. 

she is bisexual, biromantic (tends to lean towards women for romance). she doesn’t typically go into serious or long-term relationships. has maybe once or twice before. most of her ‘relationships’ are open-ended and considered flings / fwb sort of deals. 

looks like a cinnamon roll, but could actually kill you type. a sinnamon roll, if you will. 

has a soft spot for children, especially ones ‘outcasted’ for looks or traits, etc. naturally, she sees herself in them and she believes they’re capable of so much more. 

is not exactly happy she’s demoted to basic gunner. but then again, she sees the logic in biyu’s decision. she plays nicely because of it, at least on the outside. 

is still very soft in mannerisms and vocal tone, very gentle in physical contact. you’d think she was an angel, if it weren’t for the reputation she’s received. still, her ways trick people because they have the habit of forgetting in her company. or thinking themselves special, and out of reach. 

is ambidextrous and it’s come in handy. pun intended. 

[deadmomvibes]

Dear Momma,

1,700 days. 1,700 days since we last spoke. 2,068 days since I hugged you for the very last time. Me shaking with excitement and anxiety. Your face wet with the quiet tears that you smiled through. Would I have wanted to know that was the last time I'd ever see you as I crossed through airport security? I don't know. My life might be very different if I had. 2,068 days. It’s felt like a lifetime. I no longer count years by the calendar months. My years begin and end with you. We’re 8 months into year five and this one has definitely been the hardest one yet. So much has happened that you should have been here for. I can’t help but picture how different this year could have been if we didn’t have to do it without you.

The language surrounding death has always been interesting to me. People like to explain what happened without ever saying the word dead. As though not naming it gives it less emotional weight. I don’t like the term passed away. It’s based on the idea of moving to another life, but I have no proof of that. How do I know if you’ve “passed over?” Referring to death as a loss is even worse. There are definitely losses within grief. Conversations about loss and grief are often very helpful and fulfilling. But you are not lost. I know exactly where you are. You’re at home in Arcata, and you’re with your parents and brother in Connecticut. A little bit of you is here in Portland with me. There’s some of you with your favorite author, George Elliot, and a bit of you in Italy. In the place I wanted to show you, where we always talked about visiting together. The tiny town where I fell in love with myself and my life. Before it all came crashing down a year later.

I’ve never been one to look forward to summer. I don’t like warm weather. But this year I’ve found myself holding my breath as the warm days start to stack up.  Beyond excited for the sunshine and the fun it brought with it. Only now am I realizing that what I’m looking forward to is sitting on pink painted lawn furniture, sipping sangria and laughing too loudly amongst mosquitos as the stars start to twinkle. I’m not craving sunshine, summer, and carefree days. I’m craving you. I want to see you in the front yard that half of the town was always envious of, in ripped gardening pants and a paint stained shirt with those god awful pink rubber shoes. Your cheeks scattered with more freckles than ever, your eyes a deeper clear blue than the rest of the year. Summer also means the end of spring, and spring has been rough this year. It always is now. Between my birthday and mothers day, I spend a good month and a half grumpy. This year was worse though. Mother daughter duos were out with a vengeance. At brunch and walking around farmers markets. Perusing bookstores and singing in cars. Every single pair felt like a stab to the chest. As if the world was doing it intentionally. The only purpose of their outings was for me to see.

I’m still so angry Momma. Not at you. But at the same time very much at you. This is not the life I want. Everything got flipped upside-down when you died, and I don’t know how I’ll ever get past that. Everything I’m supposed to be looking forward to at 23, everything I used to be excited for, I don’t want any part of anymore. Anger is supposed to be step two of the 5. Not that I give Kubler-Ross and the stages any credit, but doesn’t it seem like a bad sign for me if after three and a half years I’m still firmly rooted in step two? Forevermore angry, that’s me.

You once wrote- “Sometimes I catch a glimpse of who my daughter is becoming, and my jaw drops. Wow. They came out of your body, you may spend a lot of time and sweat thinking and worrying about shaping them, but in the end they are as far beyond you as the stars.”

I wonder if you’d still feel this way if you knew me now. Who I am now is a completely different person to the girl you wrote about. I feel filled with more pessimism than optimism. My drive and decisiveness missing. Encased in fear. Unable to open up or form meaningful connections with most new people. No longer the trusting social butterfly you always admired. I feel weathered and tired. Unable to ever truly enjoy anything because I’m always all too aware of how much better it would be if I could share it with you.

We talked about forgetting in group recently. For the past few years not remembering has been a saving grace, something I’ve had to put effort into. But as we discussed it I realized I am losing things. It takes some work to recall certain details about you because I’ve locked them away for so long. In the week after that meeting, the memories came flooding back. And I’ve welcomed them. My favorite is one that is so clear in my mind I can shut my eyes and really be there. It’s the summer before I left, in the evening. We’re driving back from Eureka, most likely after Target. I’m behind the wheel, and it’s just you and me. I don’t remember what we’re talking about but I do an impression of dad when he’s irritated or frustrated with something. You throw your head back and laugh, your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth wide open and smiling. Then, you turn to me and say, “Madeleine Rose, you are my favorite person to talk and laugh with, do you know that?” I can see you smiling at me, the image of the sun setting over the bay reflected in your eyes, your face flickering with the light shining through the eucalyptus trees lining 101. Your freckles and laughter lines are so clear, I can see the tiny build up of dried tears in the outer corner of your eye that you somehow always had.

That day feels like it never happened. A figment of my imagination. That whole summer- the months before I left- are hard to remember. Legitimately difficult to recall because of the giant walls I've put up as protection. But now that I am three and a half years away from you, three and a half years since you ceased to exist, I find myself looking for those memories. Searching for some sort of reminder of how your voice sounded, what you smelled like, and how it felt when you brushed your fingers through my hair.

https://www.hafoundation.org/labanca

[rushingheadlong]

*cracks knuckles* OKAY, SO! Freddie is left to man the Kensington stall on his own -> Rog misses his train or sth due to the overcrowded tube during the holidays, but Freddie's bursting for a pee, so he leaves the stall for mere minutes, but forgets to lock away the money box. When he gets back he finds all of that week's earnings stolen. When Rog arrives they have a huge fight – it's xmas eve and that money was gonna buy their dinner. Can they still somehow save friendmas? - tenderbri

@tenderbri I absolutely adore this prompt omg!! I hope I did it some justice!

“How many times have I told you, Fred? Lock up the money box! Even if you’re only gone for a minute, you lock up the damn money box!”

“I said I was sorry, didn’t I? What more do you want from me?” Freddie asks, but it’s lacking the heat usually found in his arguments with Roger. He fucked up, badly, and Roger is rightfully pissed at him. 

“I want the twenty quid that we had earned this week!” Roger yells. “That was gonna buy our dinner tonight!”

Not just dinner, but their alcohol to get through the Christmas holiday tomorrow as well. Neither of them were going home to their families and Freddie had been looking forward to spending the day with Roger, just the two of them in their tiny flat… but now, with the understandably murderous look on his friend’s face, Freddie finds himself half-wondering if it’s too late to go to his parents’ house after all. 

“There’s still some time left in the day, we can make the money back,” Freddie tries, but Roger openly scoffs at the suggestion. 

“How? There’s hardly anyone left shopping at this hour,” Roger points out, voice dripping with anger and frustration. 

“Then I’ll just go drum up some business for us, dear,” Freddie says, reaching for his coat. 

Normally Roger would laugh and tell Freddie to, “Sit down, there’s no point in going out and freezing for a couple of pounds!” Today, though, he just gives Freddie a stare colder than London in December and says, “Yeah, I think that would be a good idea.”

Roger is right - there’s no one left shopping for last-minute gifts. The few people on the streets are hurrying home or off to celebrations, not a single one interested in buying second-hand clothes of questionable quality and origin. 

“Merry fucking Christmas indeed,” Freddie mutters, as the fifth woman hurries past him without a single regard for what he’s trying to sell her. 

Night is quickly falling as Freddie wanders further from the market, searching for anyone he might lure back to the stall. Even if they just sell one thing it would be enough to get them a mediocre dinner. He’s not looking forward to going without alcohol, but maybe Roger’s anger will be soothed if they can at least eat. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Freddie thinks, and it’s only directed at himself. How hard is it to remember to lock up the money box? A child could probably remember to do it…

Freddie stubs his toe on the curb, tries to regain his balance but steps onto a patch of ice and instead falls down, landing hard on the slushy sidewalk. He groans and sits up, but he’s now wet in addition to being cold and he can’t muster the energy to stand again. What’s the point, anyway, when he lost an entire week’s worth of earnings and Roger probably will never speak to him again and-

Someone tosses a few coins at him as they hurry past. Freddie’s chest goes hot with anger and humiliation, and he has half a mind to throw it back at their retreating back… but then he stops and considers things. 

Begging might be the most humiliating thing he’s ever done, but supposedly people feel more charitable around the holidays… and god knows he doesn’t have any other options if he doesn’t want to spend Christmas starving. 

So he swallows his pride, takes off his hat, and sets it in front of him with the stranger’s coins in it.

————————————-

“Freddie! Freddie! FREDDIE!”

It takes a moment for Freddie to recognize Roger’s voice calling out for him. He feels frozen to the spot but he starts to move, just as Roger almost races past him. 

Roger does a double-take, only recognizing Freddie on the second glance. “Freddie?” he asks, kneeling down next to his friend. “What the hell are you doing? I’ve been worried sick about you, mate! You’ve been gone for hours!”

“Sorry. I got us some money,” Freddie mumbles, nudging his hat with one foot. 

Roger looks down at the soaking-wet hat that has a sizeable pile of money in it. “Were you- Fred, have you been out here begging?” 

“It’s my fault we lost the earnings from the stall, and I didn’t want you to stay mad at me,” Freddie says. He’s cold and he’s tired and he doesn’t quite have a verbal filter anymore - and he’s completely taken aback when Roger pulls him into a tight hug. 

“You fucking idiot,” Roger says. It takes Freddie a second to realize that Roger sounds fond, and the anger he had been expecting is nowhere to be found. “I was mad, yeah, but I didn’t want you to humiliate yourself and freeze to death like this!”

Freddie relaxes into the hug, relieved beyond words that Roger isn’t still angry at him. “I’m still sorry, darling,” he apologizes again. “We can buy food now, though. So it was worth it for that.”

“Well, I am looking forward to eating.” Roger pulls back and starts rifling through the money in the hat and Freddie watches as his eyes go wide, and he quickly counts the money for a second time. “Fred,” Roger says, his words tinted with laughter. “Fred, you have almost thirty pounds here. You made more than we lost in the first place!”

“Really?”

Roger nods and stands back up, and grabs Freddie’s hand to help him to his feet. “We are going to feast like kings tonight!”

“And drink like kings, I hope,” Freddie adds. Now that they have money again and Roger is no longer angry, Freddie’s spirits are quickly starting to rise again. 

“Oh, absolutely!” Roger agrees with a laugh. “This is going to be a very merry Christmas indeed!” 

He slings an arm easily around Freddie’s shoulders as they start walking and Freddie leans into his touch. He’ll never tell Roger, but he’ll take their salvaged friendship over any amount of food or alcohol in the world. 

[frenchibi]

3, 9, 19 and 22 pleeeeez

THANK U!!! I may have gone a little overboard answering these (sorry not sorry)

[End of the year asks]

3 Favorite musical artist / group you started listening to this year?

Can I have… three? xD (Yes I can, to hell with the rules!!)

The Regrettes (they are SO FUN and I saw a concert in November that was AMAZING) - listen here!

Delta Rae (to be fair I knew one of their songs prior to this year, but then I delved further into their work and AAAAA they make such diverse music I LOVE IT) - listen here!

Dirt Poor Robins (listen. LISTEN. They make musical theater concept albums with a Tim Burton feel WHAT’S NOT TO LOVE) - listen here and here and  here! (can you tell i am obsessed with these)

((honorable mention, I got into Starkid musicals this year and I AM SCREAM))

9 Best month for you this year?

This is such a difficult question, because every month there were really cool things?? (This has been such a good year overall?? ALLOW ME TO GO OFF FOR A SEC)

((adding a cut because this got long I GOT EXCITED, my life is cool???))

In January I got to do a lot of skiing, I had a RAD new year’s party (mostly we played board games and it was exactly what I wanted), and I explored my city a lot? Also there were lots of cool new shows out to watch! AND I visited @notinvidia !!

In February I had a visit from this friend….. and he came to my choir concert at a massive fancy venue that we don’t often get to play………. and I took him skiing………………. OH WAIT THAT WAS YOU WASN’T IT :DDDD(also I was in a bit of an anime nostalgia phase and that was FUN)

March was my birthday (and I LOVE MY FRIENDS SO MUCH AAA I had such a lovely party!!!) and also a bit of a pokemon go revival phase (don’t @ me) and I went on a bunch of rly cool dates with some rly cool ladies!! Meeting new people takes a special kind of energy and I seemed to have a lot of that in March! Also, March marks the beginning of Strawberry Season and I was So Excited hafjkshfhasjkl

In April I got into starkid musicals and spent the rest of the month bingeing everything they’ve ever created - also I got back into painting and I was SO HAPPY to be creating in a medium I hadn’t stared down to death y’know? *glares at ao3 page* Also I still got some end-of-season skiing in, that was very cool!

In May I began to change my aesthetic/clothes a little and I am SO HAPPY with these changes?? Also, I went to London to see @books-and-trees and she showed me a lot of really cool queer places, lovely bookstores, AND she took me to see Les Mis live which has been a LIFELONG DREAM it was AWESOME!! ALSO I met Sandi Toksvig??? Which I still can’t quite believe?????

In June I went on a family vacation to Turkey and it was so fun?? Also I absolutely gorged myself on strawberries and figs (livin my best life tbh), I got back into lots of reading (which, YESSSS) and I finally found a shampoo to solve my hair problems?? It was a good month xD

In July I went to my city’s pride parade with my favorite people (AWESOME), I had a concert with the band I’m in (AWESOME), I allowed myself to go to my favorite art supply store and GO APESHIT (AWESOME), and also I had a brief visit from some dear friends from India!!!!! (AWESOME)!

In August, I attempted a competitive sports thing for the first time in years and I PASSED and was so proud?? Also I took my little sister on her first vacation without our parents (it was SO FUN) and I saw the musical Come From Away, a 100-minute show that had me full-on crying for 95 of those minutes. It was AMAZING. I also went hiking with friends, and I was really obsessed with hot chocolate this month? lmao

September was Friend Meeting Month!! Everyone seemed to be back in town (and by that I mean EVERYONE, I met with twelve friends I don’t often see? TWELVE??? Yeah), and also I was back to choir and band after the summer break, which always really excites me! ALSO, @annoyed-basically taught me how to cross-stitch!! I had a bit of an anxiety-high this month, but I worked it out with my therapist and it all turned out ok :D

In October - I had another band concert and a really cool writing workshop where I met some amazing women! I was also sick for three weeks (oof) but I did catch up on a lot of shows during that time (lmao) and I saw another choir in concert and really, really enjoyed it! Also, we had a Halloween game night with a spooky game and it was SO FUN!!! Also I looked up some really cool DIY stuff for christmas gifts and started CREATING things!!!

November held another trip to London - and this time I SAW HAMILTON!!!!!!!! And oh my GOD it was AMAZING?!?! (I also saw Matilda the Musical, which made me cry LOADS and was so nostalgic and WONDERFUL!) I went on a work trip with my mom, and treated myself to a massive (MASSIVE) plushie because I had a bad day - I also had a choir concert, received a lot of cool art supplies in the mail that I’d ordered months ago and forgotten about (lmao), and had some really really cool nights out with friends!!! I also bought a gorgeous vintage dress that I am incredibly excited about!! AND I went to the aforementioned Regrettes concert (They kicked ASS!!)! ….yeah I think November might be my favorite month, maybe??

December is not over yet, but it has been quite cool so far? Bit of a stressful time preparing for work things and getting gifts done, but I had another choir concert that was awesome, I’m gonna go to some Christmas markets and also I have a five day skiing vacation with my sister coming up, and another new year’s eve party that I’m organizing! Aaaa!!

In conclusion, I have been stressing about my life but ACTUALLY I am living the dream, pretty much?? dfhjklahsdfjk I had a really really good year and I was overdue for one, after the pits of despair that were 2016, 17 and 18 :’)))

19 What’re you excited about for next year?

I haven’t actually planned far ahead yet, beyond like… February? So I am excited for whatever 2020 holds beyond that? I’m sure I’ll manage to do some really, really cool things!!! So far I have a night at the opera planned with a friend (and I am so excited, I so rarely meet people who enjoy opera as well???), and also a trip to India to finally see @joanofarcticmonkeys again, AAAAA!!!!! I AM SCREAM!!!! Also I might get to meet more online friends next year??? Looking at u @floweringscrubs :D

22 Favorite place you visited this year?

I mean… I went to London a LOT (lmao) and I am obsessed with the musical theater scene there? With how every theater is individually decorated and designed and stuff?? Also I went to some really really cool bookshops… :D

Other places closer to home that will always stay favorites include the gorge I like to go hiking in, the art supply store, the bar I frequent with my friends, and the mountains for skiing!!

…ok i’m gonna shut up now lmfao thank you for asking tho and making me remember that I’ve had a REALLY COOL YEAR!!!!!

[phantom-pyro]

Chiara x Reader

Eyes that have lost their light, showing only hatred... oppression births tragedy Even the past that I should love turns to ashes and disappears. Life...Remnant of Life... Life...Remnant of... Chiara Pov I pulled the covers over my naked body no wait that phrasing isn’t correct it’s not a simply naked body. It’s my ‘filthy tarnished body’ or basically the body of a sinner. As I clench the bed sheets in my pale fingers I can’t help but cry in misery on how I ended up here all because of HIM. I thought I was in the hands of God but oh how wrong I was, currently I’m in the hands of some disgusting procurer(pimp). Selling my body to men just to fill their lust, and end up in a basement trapped like a bird in a cage. I continue to silently cry as the man next to me is still asleep. The man was around 30 years old, short brown hair, brown eyes, tall stature and has a sharp jawline. I slowly get up and head towards the bathroom. The room was a mess of clothing everywhere, alcohol bottles scattered, white liquid dripping from the table near the tv. I entered the bathroom, heading straight to the shower. I turn on the cold water, I let the cold water run through me as I drown in my own memory. ~Flashback~ I hugged my body while the procurer was checking out the line of girls. Girls of all ages were here in this damn place, the youngest girl is currently a 15-year-old. Once he saw me his face turned into a smirk, he came closer to me as I tried to walk back but couldn’t since I hit the back of the wall. “Well well, if it isn’t my lucky day. What do we got here?” He grabbed my chin while turning it to different angles to see my profile. “Oh my, if it isn’t a virgin that we got. I bet a lot of people would like to pay a lot of cash just to have you in their hands.” He let go of my chin and turned around to a ginger lady sitting on the sofa. “ Melissa get the best dress you have and make this angel look like a real angel. And make sure you put her a mask when the guest arrive is that clear?” The ginger lady nodded. She left the room to quickly return to the room with a black dress, black heels, a make-up set, and a mask. She put the things aside and grabbed my hand towards the mirror. In a thick french accident, she said “ If you want me to make her an angel get the fuck out of the room and ladies get out as well. I don’t want distractions nor perverts in the room.” After the preparations for my look, I was taken to another room that was elegant. The walls were painted in pure white along with the satire curtains, in the middle of the room was a glass coffee table, there were chairs/sofas in different areas of the room like three near the coffee table. A white chandelier was at top illuminating us with its beauty. In the tables, there were silver trays filled with different contents; whiskey, cigarettes, condoms, little snacks and etc. The girls from before where already sitted, I went to a nearby chair and sat down while pulling down my dress. Damn its too short. I was wearing a short black dress, with black heels along with a black mask that has gold decorated on the edges of the mask. (sorry I’m not good at fashion.) The same guy came in and said “All right ladies today is your time to shine. I want all of you to follow orders from only me and the clients is that understood? Also, try your best cause if you make one of the clients angry or disappointed you're going straight to the cell. Now break a leg!” he smiled. He turned to face me in a sweet sickening voice “Chiara! Angel you look beautiful now let me tell you what you have to do." Around 8 p.m the doors of the show have just opened up and different types of men came in. Some of the men were disgusting while others where quite the charmers. But at the end they're all disgusting people including me, I have no right to live...I just want to die as the filthy trash I am. Men begin to fill up the room, most of them are in black or grey suits with nice black dressing shoes. Each man would go after one of the girls, though on rare occasions you would see two males with the same female. Most of the girls were in the living room but me, I was in another room with a glass window in front of me. A few minutes have passed until it was time for me to 'shine' I was a nervous wreck. What are those people going to do to me? are they going to kill me to sell my organs to the black market? Or maybe fuck me endlessly until I bleed to death? I begin to hear the sounds of footsteps beyond the glass and the murmuring of men. "Welcome gentlemen as you may know me I am Keith Arpin your fairy godfather who grants you all your darkest desire that your hearts want. Now gentlemen what I am about to present to you is something precious, a rare gem out of the pieces of trash you have. If you can please turn your attention to the glass window, I present to you our dear sweet angel Chiara!" happily he moved to the side to demonstrate the figure behind the glass window. The lights turned on and were directly pointing at you from above making you look like a gem in an exhibit. You looked down as you felt the many eyes staring at your body, scanning each part of your body with precision. "You must be thinking now why the hell did Keith show us this girl in a case room if she looks ordinary well folks the good stuff is about to cum. She isn't just an ordinary girl but she is a virgin, one fresh out of the farmhouse." he smiled while looking at the reaction of the audience. As expected most men were interested in this girl, many begin to murmur while giving lustful glares at the poor white-haired female. The fair girl was shivering my now, her purplish eyes are now filled with terror and worry, and her delicate slim fingers are clawed to the black short dress in fear of exposure. The fear was evident in her body language but who would of care? The men, Keith, Melissa, the girls or even God? The world has forgotten your life The limit between the fractured earth and the sky-- Where will it disappear? Can you save me, can you save me, can you...... save.... me..., CAN YOU SAVE ME! Of course not, God left me to my misery ever since I stepped out of the Catholic Church. Now that I'm tarnished he will NEVER accept me in his kingdom of heaven, I'm now marked as a sinner who will perish in hell. After the showcase, they were placing their money on me but one man had a hold of me and that was the famous Duc Nguyen. Duc Nguyen was a famous Vietnamese CEO of the company "The Filament", the company had a variety of specialties such as medicine, transport but they were more known for their advanced technology. The sound of disappointment was heard in the room as the crowd of men disperse in different directions, it was only me, him and that glass window. Slowly he walked up to the glass window, he put his large hand on the glass while bringing his face closer. He looked directly at me with those lustful eyes while wording something to me then he smiled at me. That smiled send a shiver up my spine as I see Keith coming up to me and dragging me somewhere else. Please let it not be what I think it is...please... not this. A sensation of this uncertain life and A light that flickers unreliably Your small footsteps were interrupted here How much fear did you feel, what thoughts crossed your mind as you closed your eyes at last? (Some kind of sexual content here so skip if you don't feel comfortable with it.) I was face to face with the man who bought my virginity. His fingers slowly  caressed my face with such warmth and gentleness. Slowly little by little he begin to move his finger southern of my face to my neck.  His touch is so inviting that I can't help but crave more of this warmth. I'm uncertain about the type of man Duc is because of his gentleness but is eyes showed something different. Soon that feeling of warmth disappear as Duc roughly grabbed your breast. He then begin to pull your body close to him but failed as you escaped from his grasp. You gasp at the sudden roughness of the man so you quickly moved away before he can do anything. You ran to the door but to your luck it was locked. Duc trapped you between his large arms by the side of your head. You slowly turned around to face him to see a face driven by lust, eyes that speaked about his dark desires and that smile demonstrates the hungriness of the man. No wait this isn't a man this is a monster. Or in other words a wolf in sheep's clothing. "Why are you running away? The fun hasn't even begun. Not after what you have done to me angel." He chuckled as he saw my puzzled face. "Here let me show you." He grabbed my hand and placed it on his penis. I quickly retrieve it but he had an iron grip. "No matter what you do I always get what I want and if I have to force you to get it then trust me sweetheart I will do it. So I suggest that you be a good girl and submit to me.  Though I wouldn't mind being rough with you but I prefer to savor you tonight." Give up.... I should give up since who cares about me anyways? Even if someone would care who would it be my parents, my friends, the nun's, or God? I was backstabbed by the people who I loved the most especially Good. The church told me lies about omnipotent God. Who guides his children through their journey. Who loves us all equally and with all his being. WHERE WAS GOD WHEN I NEEDED HIM THE MOST! Then I realized that most of my life I have been dependent upon God. No...No...NO I won't give up! I will fight with all I got till the end. I will become an independent woman who will Branch out of the tree of God. I will become a better person than what God ever had plan in me. I quickly kicked him in where the sun don't shine and ran towards the lamp in the bedside table. I took hold of the lamp and begin to attack Duc. We continued to fight each other until I was overpowered by Duc. He threw me on the bed while he crawled on top of me. He begin to take off his jacket, red tie and his belt. He slowly moved closer to my ear and huskly whispered "The more you resist the more it turns me on sweetheart. Now don't worry cause I'm gonna make you feel like in heaven my sweet angel." I whimpered as I silently prayed for God or someone to come and save me but my prayers were unanswered. "Please....come save me..." End of Flashback I mourn this rotten sight And the unfading sign of the cross So that the voice of you, who has no name, and this reality cannot be drowned out. All is crying,cold sacrifice I continued to sob while the cold water was running through my body. I have been lied to for s many years about the omnipotent God. His kindness to his children and followers well all of that is bullshit. What does God's goodness even mean? I got out of the shower to see Duc dressing up in his clothes from yesterday. He noticed me and grabbed me from the waist to kiss me in the lips. He kiss wasn't passionate nor gentle but rough and greedy. I didn't kissed back until he pinched my butt. He let go of me and tilted my head in up so I would be looking at him directly. (I say the sexual content stops here) " Good morning angel how are you feeling today?" He was meet with silence. He sighed softly as he takes his brown hair "Look sooner or later your gonna talk even if I have to make love you every night but don't worry cause I will. Your the only girl who's ever satisfied me during sex and I'm not planning on losing you. Your screams were perfect, the way you fought was so arousing to me since most women drop to their knees but no you fought with your strength to keep your dignity. Though I respect that you tried your hardest but I got to tell you that your dignity tasted so good that I wouldn't mind eating it everyday." I turned to face the floor in shame that all that fighting was for nothing but the thing is even found it arousing that I was resisting! And let's not talk about my dignity... "Well good bye my angel see you tonight." He left the room, the room was now empty and a bit cleaner. The only thing cleaned was surprisingly the bed and he even changed the sheets. The world has forgotten your tears All is crying,cold sacrifice The world has forgotten your wish All is crying,cold sacrifice for remnant of prayers I dropped onto my knees and cried for the millionth time this year. He is going to continue to rape me until I die. What did I do to deserve to be in this kind of situation?! Was my wish to spread the love of God so much to ask for? What about all those prayers I said in the church and outside of church we're they all in vain?! Life... Remnant of life.. Life... Remnant of... The world has forgotten your life The limit between the fractured earth and the sky-- Where will it disappear? It was some time after my crying session that I thought about escaping this hell so I put my plan into action. I quietly sneak out of the room and go to the lobby. Before going to the lobby I made sure that there were no guards or employees in case they would rattle me out. Rapidly I go to the back of the building and laid my bare back against the dirty wall. I look out for any guard and continued to run until I hear a pair of masculine voices. I stopped nearby a corner and let them pass. As they passed I couldn't help but hear there conversation. "Hey guey did you heard that Mr. Keith made alot of bucks with that senorita of the white hair." The second man in an astonished tone replied " No Mames Guey what guy would waste alot of money on one chica? Pfff If I had that money I would of been in the playas de Tijuana con unas cerveza." The rest of the conversation was just a blur as I processed the words that those two guys said. That man who just raped me paid a lot of money just for one night...woah. I quickly shook that out of my mind and continued to run towards the streets of Paris. Once  I was surrounded by people I ran in different place to see any telephone booth until one street had. I ran to it and quickly shut the door and began to press the numbers. I stopped Midway until I realized that I needed a quarter to make a call, I mentally screamed at myself and slumped my head into the telephone box. The sound of a coin just dropped rang in my ears as I quickly look around to see it was a quarter. I pick it up rapidly and punched in the numbers of my parents. After a few minutes someone picked up it was my mother! I wanted to tell her  what has happened so she can help me but something inside of me prevented me from doing so. So instead I pretended to be another person. "Hello can I speak to Chiara please?" I keeped my voice monotoned and a bit high pitched so she won't recognize me. " Oh I'm sorry but she isn't here with us." I replied "Oh then where can I find her?" She signed annoyingly "If you want to search her go six feet underground but if you do your disrespecting the dead." I stayed silent for a few minutes... So she thinks I'm dead?! I called her the same day they released me and yet they still think of me as a dead child? I tried to get a hold of myself and not break character but my voice just cracked a bit. "Ah my apologies. I didn't know about her death well my sincere apologies and goodbye." I immediately hanged up and begin to cry in misery. Not even my parents cared for me. I'm basically forgotten by everyone in the world even God for fuck sakes! I got out of the booth as soon as possible and let my feet guide me down the path. I ended up in a dark alley near some houses and shops. I cried as my whole life is a lie, my parents, my teachers, and my beliefs. I feel empty just like an empty glass of water. Why should I live? I should just kill myself now so I won't have to live in this cruel world where I am signified as a burden to society. A sensation of this uncertain life and A light that flickers unreliably Shining in this world Reader pov I stretch my arms and legs in my office as I just finished the pile of papers. I grabbed my stuff and head out while saying good bye to some of my co workers. I step out into the open, I breathe in deeply and breath out as the smell of fresh bread surrounds the area. I enjoy the smell here especially the smell of fresh baguette's in mid afternoon. I walk through the busy streets of Paris. The country of love is such magnificent country to live in with it's beautiful structures, decorative buildings, and most importantly the amazing food. As I was passing through some alleys I heard the cry of a girl, this made me stop and turn to see who it was. I looked at the alley to see a figure sitting back face the wall while covering her face with her legs. Slowly and cautiously I walk towards the girl. I tapped her shoulder lightly but she didn't respond so I tapping her again but much more harder. She finally noticed me and backed away from me. She screamed out "Get away from me. Don't touch me! Get away, get away from me!" "Hey woah there calm down I just came here to help since I heard someone crying. No need to scream at me lady." I said while lifting my arms up in the air. " That's not true you lying bastard! Many people have told me that and look at me now! Forced to do things I don't want to do and be backstabbed by my own parents. Just... Leave me alone." She then put her head down again on her lap. I just stare at her figure as something stirred inside of me. What I am feeling? Pity, worried, sadness or anger? Well I can't identify what I am feeling but I can't just stand there and do nothing. I get closer to her and tried to talk to her but no words come out of my mouth. I sit next to her and hug her. Her head perks up a bit but doesn't say anything,she just embraces the hug. I clear my throat,"Look I'm sorry that I can't find the right words to say right now but I promise you that I will be a friend who will stand by your side. Even if you don't believe me I will be loyal to you and help you in every obstacle on your way. I know that we are just strangers that barely meet but when hearing what had happened to you made me realize... That your a person who is truly worth fighting for. Please... Let me help you that's all I'm asking for." By now the girl was looking at me wide eyes with tears flowing out of her purplish eyes. She hugged me and responded with a simple but meaningful "Yes." We stayed there for a few minutes until I took her to my house so she can change and eat some food. On the way home we introduced ourselves and I thought that the name Chiara was the most beautiful name I heard for a women.  I luckily managed to convince Chiara to tell the police about the procurer and his whereabouts. Few months later Chiara and I are still living in the same roof but now as finances. Chiara managed to restart her life all over again and forget the past. She found a lovely job as a florist meanwhile as for me I got fucken promoted to manager! Oh yeah now I'm the one giving orders around the office. I unlock the white door to be meet with the smell of Bœuf bourguignon. I closed the door and begin to sit on the sofa as the smell of Bœuf bourguignon makes my mouth drool waterfalls of saliva. " Welcome home (y/n) how was your day at work?" She smiled. Those smiles, those sweet genuine smiles melt my heart like pudding. " It was good but I still can't believe it that I'm a manager and I get to boss people around! But anyways how was work for you Mon amour?" At hearing this she giggled and placed her head at my lap. "You deserve all the happiness and the promotions in the world. Work was a bit busy but overall it was okay as well." You then brush her soft white hair while at times giving her some massages to her head. Her eyes begin to close shut slowly but surely she feel asleep in your lap. You smiled while giving her a kiss on the cheek "Rest up Mon amour for when you awaken I your loyal knight will worship you like no other person has done. Until then goodnight Mon amour." Author's note: this Chiara story goes for my senpai Skaithis! Senpai I hope u like it and the other one shot is at progress. Sorry for the story being late and all. Chiara one shot complete and need another one to go. :v sorry for grammar and if the story sucks...slow updates. This is from the song "Rosary from Diaura." Probably the lyrics doesn't connect well with the story but I tried didn't I?

Image is NOT DRAWN by me.  Image source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/466052261436136768/

[crazy4thewinbros]

Tears of the Sun AU

Hi there!! It's Monday people so here it's the new chapter!

Ao3

Chapter 12: Sweetheart.

They managed to advance just a few miles shy of the border, they were so close but they stopped at Nat’s order to hold, the sky was cloudy making them take a respite from the blazing heat, the smell of rain filled his senses and the crunch of footsteps made him turn to the source of the noise, Tony was at his side eyes wide in concern and lower lip between his teeth, the wild staccato of his hearth wasn't related to Nat’s hold signal, he prayed for everyone who was listening that the proximity of Tony's body to his never faded, that he could be by his side for the rest of his life; the man beside him has clearly stolen his hearth and sanity with it; the small intake of breath that his mouth did when brown eyes landed on his made him choke, he hold it for the sake of silence and not his embarrassment if Tony noticed he didn't pointed out, he gulped nervous when Tony got closer to him, chest pressing on his shoulder the heat and the thumb thumb of Tony's hearth making him lose himself in the warmth and just forget everything around him, for just those blissful seconds they were alone, just Tony and him, his mind conjured images of how he wanted that pressure, that heat and intimacy.

“I feel like we’re been watched” Tony’s soft whisper made him shiver but made him snap of the trance he was in he nodded and focused on his surroundings, Tony was right he felt even on him and not from his team.

“Widow what you see?” he asked in the com, there was no answer but he didn’t expected one right away.

“для траха 1, it was only a panther, I swear if I stop for another one I’m going to kill it, sacred or not” came Nat’s rant on the com, he sighed “I’m gonna cross over” Nat informed them, but the loud sound of a gun been shot made him flinch, then Nat went down, the stillness of Tony by his side made him froze as well.

“Sniper, 11 o’clock, sniper” Bucky warned, making him snap out of it and he moved making Tony get lower

“god damn it, I got hit, sniper” Nat hiss made him sag in relief, Thor and Scott moved to retrieve her, while Sam and Bucky took care of the sniper, Tony moved with him and so did Bruce, they got to Nat’s position her hand held her right shoulder, Tony was quicker than Bruce at looking and tending Nat’s injury he pulled a pristine white bandage and a bottle of antiseptic, he poured the liquid on the wound making Nat choke a scream of pain, then Tony bandaged her shoulder

“You’re ok, Nat the bullet went through and through, come on” Tony said with a watery voice

“I’m sorry cap, I’m so much better that this” she said “he caught me sleeping, I’m so much better I promise”

“Natasha, its fine, come on; can you walk?” he asked, she nodded and Tony and him pulled her up “stay here” he said to Tony who nodded and lower down, he moved ahead

“I have visual, is a small unit” Clint said on the com “2 feet from your position 2 o’clock”

“roger” he pulled the grenade and throw it at the location Clint instructed and as soon the boom echoed in the rain forest chaos erupted, they advanced shooting whatever that moved and Hydra did too, the explosion behind them making it clear they had heavy fire with them, his team remained impassive and headed on, then the fire stopped, he sighed but waited for movement

“clear” Clint said and they nodded, he looked back and what he found made him clench his jaw and fist his hands, blood, trees askew and broken, body parts and bodies thrown haphazardly on the ground and no sight of Tony, he moved quick and began to run, the others no far behind, forming a strike line.

“Tony!” he yelled looking at the bodies, his eyes landed on Tony behind a fallen tree and pressed under a bloody body, he moved to him, pulled away the body without a care and found an unconscious Tony, eyes closed and blood running from his head, he pull him toward his chest there was no resistant from the slack doctor.

“Tony, come on, wake up, please wake up” the sound of groans and pain filled screams meant shit to him at that moment he wanted to see those brown eyes again, he wanted to look at them and stare for as long as he lived “come on Tony please, wake up, Tony please!” he begged desperately, then a frown appeared in his slack face, he grinned Tony was waking up, he was going to be ok; the gasp of pain Tony let loose made his hearth flutter in concern and relief at the same time, he was alive he’ll live were his thoughts; the barely there flutter of eyelashes made him grin, Tony’s trembling hand moved to touch his own head, when fingertips touched what it appeared to be a bump he winced and blood run down his nose, he moved his hand to wipe it off and then Tony opened his eyes fully, glazed and un focused but alive.

“Tony, sweetheart” he said making the young man to blink and his eyes focus on him, soft whiskey colored eyes found his blues, god he was beautiful.

“Steve” Tony answered dazed.

“you’ll be ok, hang on, ok” he said making Tony sit and he waited for the man to pass the nausea he was clearly having, a concussion most likely but he wasn’t hurt anywhere else “Tony listen to me we need to get out of here, alright?” he asked but when Tony didn’t acknowledge he cursed “Sweetheart, come on we need to get out of here” he said “Buck, Scott come on we need to get out of here, get this people up!” he yelled making the team move to help the others, groaned but caressed his cheek making him turn to look at him, the warm hand stayed on his cheek the flicker of a smile pulled his lips.

"Swe'th'art, uh? Tony groaned out, he blushed he hadn't notice the endearment slip from his lips, but he nodded at the daze man "k, hel’ ‘e up" Tony blurred he nodded and helped him up, he held much of Tony weight while he fought nausea his eyes were fixed on Tony but Tony was looking beyond him just to froze and then lurch forward he tried to stop him but then he moved with him, Scott was holding his stomach, blood coated his hands and he looked pale, Tony got to him before he collapsed, carefully he made him lay in the ground.

“let me see, come on Lang let me see” Tony said pulling away Scott hands, Bruce was soon next to him, helping move the gear out of his stomach, blood was quick to cover both of his hands

“Fuck I didn’t saw it coming you know, I didn’t felt it at first and then…” Scott trailed, he nodded

“You Scott Lang are going to be just fine” Tony said voice commanding; Scott flinch when Bruce put pressure on the wound he couldn’t see clearly “this, this is nothing but a scratch you hear me? You are going to see Cassie, and celebrate her birthday, tell me about the rabbit come on” Tony pleaded and was quick to add the antiseptic to the now uncovered wound, Scott grumbled.

“She, god she loves ugly teddy bears, so I… damn it!” Scott cursed when he felt the needle Tony was using to close his wound there was large gash, deep enough to cause concern but it was not as dangerous as he believed “I bought her a rabbit I saw in this flee market in Mexico, fuck!” Scott cursed while Tony sutured the wound on his stomach and Bruce held him still “Tony, you need to see it, man, oh shit! It’s so damn fucking ugly, gave Clint nightmares when I showed it to him” Scott said with a smirk

“Yeah, and Cassie gonna like it?” Tony asked pouring more of the antiseptic on the now sutured wound, Scott groaned in pain but let out a bark of laugher

“Like it? Nah she is going to go bananas for it, Hope it’s gonna flip” Scott said, groaning when Tony put the tape on the gauze to held it there

“good, and you are going to give it to her ok, come on Lang up you go!” Tony said, pulling Scott to sit, and making him groan at the sudden movement.

“Yeah, you are more than welcome to the party, there's gonna be cake” Scott said to Tony, who smiled and nodded

“You my dear friend have a deal” came Tony answer

“we’re gonna get there right boss?” Scott asked, making him smirk and nod

“yeah, together” he confirmed looking at the others that were closer and watching Scott stood up “Sam, Buck; lets this people out of here come on, do it now!” he commanded making the others nod and move, Tony stayed by his side and close to Scott.

��M’Baku! No, please wake up, M’Baku!” T’Challa desperate voice made him turn to look at the man, he was cradling M’Baku lifeless body to his chest, tears freely falling

“come on T’Challa we need to go” he said, T’Challa denied holding tighter M’Baku to his chest

“No!” T’Challa snapped when he tried to pull him up “No don’t touch him!” he yelled when he tried to pull M’Baku’s body away from T’Challa’s grasp

“listen to me! God damn it listen to me!” he yelled, clasping his hand on the man shoulder, making T’Challa to flinch away but look at his eyes, dark teary eyes focused on his “this man is dead. If you don’t want his death to be meaningless, it’s time for you to become a fucking man and get your people to Kenya. Now stand up and be the man I know you are meant to be, come on T’Challa!” he yelled at the crying man, there were a few seconds when T’Challa didn’t move he just stood there, then the change was evident, there was another kind of resolution in the man eyes “do you understand me?” he asked tone harsh

“yes, sir” was the answer he received, T’Challa let M’Baku on the ground and began to stand up, but was quick to hunch again when shots began to rain on them, the startled yelp Tony let out made him turn in fear, but Bucky was the one to force Tony down, that was what made him yelp

“get down!” he yelled “they’re going to be coming! Conserve your ammo! Get down!” he yelled

“Thor, how many claymores you got?” Buck asked beside him

“2 left” came the answer

“good lend me one” Buck asked with a wicked grin, Thor was quick to give it

“Stand down Tony, I’ll cover fire for winter, on my mark!” he yelled to Tony who was inches away from Bucky, Bucky nodded and got ready to run, he turned and situated his gun ready to fire “now!” he yelled, Buck was ready, he ran and they shot what ever it moved, Buck planted the bomb and ran back Thor handed the other to him

“take cover!” he yelled and covered Tony with his body, the noise of the explosion made his ears ring

“… under hostile enemy attack! Request immediate air support! Location one klick south of Tadjile Pass, come back” he caught Sam’s report, he looked at Clint, who had the grenade launcher

“Launch!” he yelled, while Sam repeated the request, he turn to look at Sam who denied “grenade!” he yelled and threw the grenade Nat and Buck threw theirs too

“Stand by to peel!” he yelled again “Buck get them out of here, now!” Buck nodded and grabbed Tony

“You have to run. Do not stop till you hit the trees, go now!” he yelled, Tony nodded and did what was asked.

He shot who ever got close to their location, his team stood up as one, and shot the army that was attacking them, there was no hesitation in any of them.

“Come on let’s go! Let’s go!” he could hear Tony yell making his people stand and run with him, he didn’t dare turn to look at the man that stole his heart in mare days, he swore to protect him and that was what he was going to do, the adrenaline and resolution made him see more clearly and began to fire at the enemies, the deafening sound of semi-automatic guns, the smell of burned wood and gunpowder, the tick smoke and humidity of the air was making it difficult to take a deep breath, but his team was even more than just a team, they were a family and they were dead set in accomplishing this mission, a mission that started as just a boring and easy task, take the spoiled white doctor to American soil, yet it became so much more than that, it turned in friendship, of understanding how other people lived and suffered; in the injustice of it all and it teach him that he was more than just a soldier he was human too.

1 for fuck sake

[theonyxpath]

A comment in the comments section, of all things, basically asked why every time they look here lately there’s dogs all over the place. The art samples have dogs in them, the Kickstarter news is about the dog card game. Dogs, dogs, dogs!

Part of that is, of course, coincidence or a coming together of multiple projects for a line with three Kickstarters and a bunch of projects which came out of those KS Stretch Goals. And it helps that Eddy Webb is the kind of developer who pushes to get projects finished as close to estimate, and sometimes earlier, as possible.

So, woof, woof, woof go the dogs.

In a week or so, maybe it’ll seem like only WoD books are mentioned, or CofD, or Exalted. And so on. It’s all pretty much coincidence as to how books of a particular setting come out together, as we have projects from all of our “worlds” going at all times at different stages of creation, and a lot depends on which projects you’re waiting for.

This also applies to Kickstarter news when you don’t back Kickstarters, or Onyx Pathcast news when you don’t listen to podcasts, or convention info and our plans for FangCon 2019 when you can’t get to the convention.

So for this blog, I try to mix the things I mention and art I put up to give a bit of a taste of as many game worlds and activities we’re doing as I can so that I’m touching on something, I hope, that is relevant to YOU. But, if coincidence gives me mostly Exalted stuff that week, I’m mostly going to be relaying that, with a mix of other things if I have other things on my radar to share.

No Marketing department, no professional writer here – just your dear old Uncle Rich and whatever we’ve discussed during the Monday Meeting.

(Which reminds me, not only is last week’s Onyx Pathcast a great inside look at the way we conceive, create, and publish our projects, but this Friday yours truly is grilled by Dixie and Matthew for a very special episode. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry. You’ll learn secrets of the early days of White Wolf right into Onyx Path.)

    Wraith 20th Handbook of the Recently Deceased art by Michael Gaydos

  Which means, it’s time for some quick topic hits:

In a similar conversation to the one above, there was a poster that remarked how the first mention of Pugmire made him wonder just what Onyx Path was turning into. Then, he dug into the background of Pugmire and realized there was a lot more to it than a funny animal TTRPG.

My response must be that we aren’t turning into anything different than we’ve always been on track to be: a publisher who creates amazing and engaging worlds for folks to explore. And that the poster was dead-on right to identify that one of the threads that combine all of our projects is that there are depths built into our worlds that reward players who look into them.

Some of that is a heritage from old White Wolf we’ve been fortunate to bring to the fore, and use as models for what works and what doesn’t, and part of the depth is built in by our amazing creative teams who know they can do that kind of game and world building with us.

    Monarchies of Mau art by Pat McEvoy

    We’ve been having other great conversations on our Onyx Path Publishing Discussion Group on Facebook, which you might be able to get to through this link: https://www.facebook.com/groups/419273928504341/ I haven’t had a chance to join in to the discussions yet, but hope to very soon.

    Boggans art by Brian LeBlanc

    I haven’t been able to jump in because these last couple of months have been a combination of working up and with contracts for new projects and licenses, putting in pitches for projects, and getting Changing 20th, Prince’s Gambit, and soon, V20 Beckett’s Jyhad Diary Kickstarter rewards out to backers. It’s a bit of an endurance challenge, so I’m lucky to have maxed out Fortitude.

Plus, I’m trying to keep up the communication with backers for the Scarred Lands Kickstarter that the late Stewart Wieck had started for our two companies, while representatives for his company, Nocturnal Media, work to get the KS fulfilled and shipped. So, four KSs shipping around a month from each other.

The flip-side is…we’re getting out four KSs’ rewards to our backers!

    Nerma Fetch Quest Stretch Goal card.

    Finally, I think I might have mentioned this before, but one of my working methods when creating a new setting, or establishing an overall art “look” for a project, is to take what Allen Moore calls a “high altitude pass” and gather all sorts of reference material and sift through it without trying to force any sort of viewpoint over it.

For visuals, this is very often seeing what registers as “right”. What feels like the sort of feeling we want the setting to give players. Although we can pull huge amounts of story from an illustration (picture=1K words), very often a far more lasting impression comes from the viewer’s emotional reaction. I’ve been doing this pass for Aberrant for about 3 months now, and we’re getting to the decision point on creating an artist list, and actually further back for when I did the initial designs for all four Trinity Continuum main books.

Right now though, I’m reading through a collection of 1950’s EC Weird Science comics in preparation for establishing the art for They Came From Beneath the Sea!. Developer Matthew Dawkins and I already have a strong idea overall based on the films of the time and some TV, but in a lot of ways looking at illustration when thinking about kinds of illustrations is actually more directly what I need.

Not going to go too far into the history of EC right now, although I could and it is a fascinating tale of the rise and fall of a publisher, but suffice to say that their comics were a gigantic influence on both the comics that came after, and on the generation of creators who wrote science fiction in all media (including TTRPGs) for decades to come.

So I get to read comics collections as part of my job. It is tough. But it’s what ya gotta do in order to explore:

Many Worlds, One Path!

    BLURBS!

KICKSTARTER:

Fetch Quest, the adventure card game set in the Realms of Pugmire went live last Tuesday, May 22 and funded in under a day, and now we’re over 250% funded and have added a group of six cats from the Monarchies of Mau to the game as alternative adventurers via Stretch Goals!

This is definitely a game that needs to be spread by word of mouth, so please let your friends and family know about this game of good dogs (and cats!) out to fetch what Man has left behind!

      ELECTRONIC GAMING:

As we find ways to enable our community to more easily play our games, the Onyx Dice Rolling App is now live! Our dev team has been doing updates since we launched based on the excellent use-case comments by our community, and this thing is both rolling and rocking!

Here are the links for the Apple and Android versions:

http://theappstore.site/app/1296692067/onyx-dice

https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.onyxpathpublishing.onyxdice&hl=en

Three different screenshots, above.

    ON AMAZON AND BARNES & NOBLE:

You can now read our fiction from the comfort and convenience of your Kindle (from Amazon) and Nook (from Barnes & Noble).

If you enjoy these or any other of our books, please help us by writing reviews on the site of the sales venue you bought it from. Reviews really, really help us with getting folks interested in our amazing fiction!

Our selection includes these fiction books:

Vampire: The Masquerade: The Endless Ages Anthology (Kindle, Nook)

Werewolf: The Apocalypse: Rites of Renown: When Will You Rage II (Kindle, Nook)

Mage: The Ascension: Truth Beyond Paradox (Kindle, Nook)

Chronicles of Darkness: The God-Machine Chronicle Anthology (Kindle, Nook)

Mummy: The Curse: Curse of the Blue Nile (Kindle, Nook)

Beast: The Primordial: The Primordial Feast Anthology (Kindle, Nook)

Vampire: The Masquerade: Of Predators and Prey: The Hunters Hunted II Anthology (Kindle, Nook)

Werewolf: The Apocalypse: The Poison Tree (Kindle, Nook)

Werewolf: The Apocalypse: Songs of the Sun and Moon: Tales of the Changing Breeds (Kindle, Nook)

Vampire: The Requiem: The Strix Chronicle Anthology (Kindle, Nook)

Werewolf: The Forsaken: The Idigam Chronicle Anthology (Kindle, Nook)

Mage: The Awakening: The Fallen World Chronicle Anthology (Kindle, Nook)

Vampire: The Masquerade: The Beast Within Anthology (Kindle, Nook)

Werewolf: The Apocalypse: W20 Cookbook (Kindle, Nook)

Exalted: Tales from the Age of Sorrows (Kindle, Nook)

Chronicles of Darkness: Tales of the Dark Eras (Kindle, Nook)

Promethean: The Created: The Firestorm Chronicle Anthology (Kindle, Nook)

Demon: The Descent: Demon: Interface (Kindle, Nook)

Scarred Lands: Death in the Walled Warren (Kindle, Nook)

V20 Dark Ages: Cainite Conspiracies (Kindle, Nook)

Chronicles of Darkness: Strangeness in the Proportion (Kindle, Nook)

Vampire: The Requiem: Silent Knife (Kindle, Nook)

Mummy: The Curse: Dawn of Heresies (Kindle, Nook)

      OUR SALES PARTNERS:

We’re working with Studio2 to get Pugmire out into stores, as well as to individuals through their online store. You can pick up the traditionally printed main book, the Screen, and the official Pugmire dice through our friends there!

https://studio2publishing.com/search?q=pugmire

    Looking for our Deluxe or Prestige Edition books? Try this link! http://www.indiepressrevolution.com/xcart/Onyx-Path-Publishing/

Here’s the link to the press release we put out about how Onyx Path is now selling through Indie Press Revolution: http://theonyxpath.com/press-release-onyx-path-limited-editions-now-available-through-indie-press-revolution/

And you can now order Pugmire: the book, the screen, and the dice! http://www.indiepressrevolution.com/xcart/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=296

      DRIVETHRURPG.COM:

  This week, we’ll be releasing a cornucopia of merchandise and other items on Wednesday!

  This is our monthly release week for our ongoing series of PDF releases for Exalted 3rd Edition, and we have the Barrow Hound and Devilstone for Hundred Devil’s Night Parade www.drivethrurpg.com/product/242687, and Iron Siaka for Adversaries of the Righteous http://www.drivethrurpg.com/product/242686 on DTRPG.com!

      CONVENTIONS!

Prep is also underway for Gen Con 2018 in the first week of August, which takes place in Indianapolis. In addition to our booth presence, be sure to check out the games and panels in the Gen Con Event Schedule.

From Fast Eddy Webb, we have these:

Eddy will be speaking at Broadleaf Writers Conference (September 22-23) in Decatur, GA. He’ll be there to talk about writing for interactive fiction, and hanging out with other writers who have far more illustrious careers. http://broadleafwriters.com/3rd-annual-broadleaf-writers-conference/3rd-annual-broadleaf-writers-conference-speakers/

Eddy will also be a featured guest at Save Against Fear (October 12-14) in Harrisburg, PA. He’ll be running some Pugmire games, be available for autographs, and will sometimes accept free drinks. http://www.thebodhanagroup.org/about-the-convention

If you are going and want to meet up, let us know!

    And now, the new project status updates!

DEVELOPMENT STATUS FROM FAST EDDY WEBB (projects in bold have changed status since last week):

First Draft (The first phase of a project that is about the work being done by writers, not dev prep)

M20 Book of the Fallen (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

C20 Novel (Jackie Cassada) (Changeling: the Dreaming 20th Anniversary Edition)

M20 The Technocracy Reloaded (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

M20 Victorian Mage (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

CofD Dark Eras 2 (Chronicles of Darkness)

Aeon Aexpansion (Trinity Continuum: Aeon)

Trinity Continuum: Aberrant core (Trinity Continuum: Aberrant)

Lunars: Fangs at the Gate (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Tales of Excellent Cats (Monarchies of Mau)

Dog and Cat Ready Made Characters (Monarchies of Mau)

Adventures for Curious Cats (Monarchies of Mau)

Scion Companion: Mysteries of the World (Scion 2nd Edition)

  Redlines

Deviant: The Renegades (Deviant: The Renegades)

Spilled Blood (Vampire: The Requiem 2nd Edition)

Night Horrors: Shunned by the Moon (Werewolf: The Forsaken 2nd Edition)

In Media Res (Trinity Continuum: Core)

Wr20 Book of Oblivion (Wraith: The Oblivion 20th Anniversary Edition)

C20 Players’ Guide (Changeling: the Dreaming 20th Anniversary Edition)

  Second Draft

WoD Ghost Hunters (World of Darkness)

Tales of Good Dogs – Pugmire Fiction Anthology (Pugmire)

CofD Contagion Chronicle (Chronicles of Darkness)

  Development

Signs of Sorcery (Mage: the Awakening Second Edition)

Hunter: the Vigil 2e core (Hunter: the Vigil 2nd Edition)

Fetch Quest (Pugmire)

They Came From Beneath the Sea! Rulebook (TCFBtS!)

Dystopia Rising: Evolution (Dystopia Rising: Evolution)

  WW Manuscript Approval:

Guide to the Night (Vampire: The Requiem 2nd Edition)

  Editing:

Night Horrors: The Tormented (Promethean: The Created 2nd Edition)

  Post-Editing Development:

Scion: Hero (Scion 2nd Edition)

Trinity Continuum Core Rulebook (The Trinity Continuum)

Trinity Continuum: Aeon Rulebook (The Trinity Continuum)

Ex Novel 2 (Aaron Rosenberg) (Exalted 3rd Edition)

Exalted 3rd Novel by Matt Forbeck (Exalted 3rd Edition)

GtS Geist 2e core (Geist: the Sin-Eaters Second Edition)

M20 Gods and Monsters (Mage: the Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition)

  Indexing:

Wraith 20

Cavaliers of Mars

    ART DIRECTION FROM MIRTHFUL MIKE:

In Art Direction

Ex3 Monthly Stuff

Scion Hero – Last art notes and contracts sent.

Trinity Continuum 

Geist 2e

The Realm

M20 Gods and Monsters

Ex3 Dragon Blooded – Wave 2 art in progress

Promethean Night Horrors: The Tormented – Sending out Artnotes and Contracts.

  Marketing Stuff

Storyteller System Brochure

Posters and Displays

Gen Con Cards

  In Layout

Wraith 20 Screen – I’ll pull this together this week.

Fetch Quest – Putting together the Mau Pioneer card previews.

EX3 Dragon Blooded – Firming up layout and tweaking some backgrounds.

  Proofing

Scion Origin – PDF almost ready for in-Onyx review.

Changeling: the Lost 2 – Meghan has the proof.

  At Press

V20 Beckett’s Jyhad Diary & Beckett Screen & V20 Dice – At fulfillment shipper, prepping for KS ship-out. Shipping addresses to be locked down on Wednesday.

Scarred Land PGs & Wise and the Wicked PF & 5e – Shipping from fulfillment shipper. PDF and PoD physical book versions on sale at DTRPG.

Prince’s Gambit – Shipping from fulfillment shipper.

Scion Dice – At fulfillment shipper.

Cavaliers of Mars – Errata input on Backer PDF, now to Indexing.

Boggans – PoD files uploading.

Monarchies of Mau – Errata gathering on Backer PDF.

Wr20 Guide for Newly Departed – Backer PDF should go out to backers this week.

  TODAY’S REASON TO CELEBRATE: In 1783 the Montgolfier brothers publicly demonstrate their montgolfière (hot air balloon). A year later in 1784, Élisabeth Thible becomes the first woman to fly in an untethered hot air balloon. Her flight covers four kilometres in 45 minutes, and reached 1,500 metres altitude (estimated). In the future, people of all genders are able to fly in balloons and zeppelins to work and to visit friends, at least if any pulp setting ever can be believed!