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hngrylikethewoolf · 3 years ago

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London Calling || Errigan

IN WHICH...Errol and Ratigan have a discussion in the middle of a crowded London café.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: None that I can think of

Backdated: July 25, 2021

@professorofcrimeratigan

ERROL:

Errol was a werewolf.

No, the irony of that statement was not lost on him.

The first thing he'd done upon being bitten and treated was limp his way back to his hotel, blood burning in his veins, a fever hanging over him, and passing out in the rented room, clunky gauze and bandages catching the blood that sluggishly seeped from the closing wounds. He had been explicit when they worked on him, told them to wear proper gear, didn't care that he wasn't their boss, he took the pitch of Ratigan's voice and used it to his sluggish, half-advantage. He burned everything when he awoke, a new sense of being shifting around in his chest, a secondary something there that hadn't been before.

He had been debriefed about Shifters, knew of them from his work overseas and from a former Army Ranger he'd befriended that had been bitten by a lone wolf during a mission, at least a decade ago now, maybe more. They still kept in contact, and he was the first person Errol had called, the beast shifting around in his chest, testing out the cage. They needed to learn how to work together while he figured out his next steps.

The conversation he had with his friend helped, if anything, to calm the tidal wave of emotions he could feel tugging at him. The wolf was with him now. Panicking about it would make the transition all that more difficult.

Errol had also just been shot, had a man digging around in the meat of his thigh to close an artery that would have killed him if not for the help of the bite. It was still there, still healing, but it wasn't deadly. He deserved a few days of recuperation, to wrap his head around it all.

Pedram Ratigan was a werewolf.

Somehow that information didn't surprise him as much as it should. It had saved his life, after all. The other information he had received that day was telling, but it made no difference to him at this moment. Pieces of things he'd observed, things that now made more sense, he would keep tucked away. Could examine later, once he had a more firm grasp on his wolf and the place they now had in the world.

Errol had information to hand over, after all. He had no time to wonder, though he wanted to. He'd barely scratched the surface of who Ratigan could potentially be. He would focus on what he knew, what they both were now, and go from there.

That started in a nondescript café at the heart of the city, surrounded by people in a way that created the perfect veil of anonymity. Errol had a feeling they would need it.

RATIGAN:

Clean up of the situation had been taken care of. Bodies disposed, blood mopped, evidence picked up. Had anyone entered the warehouse they would never have known of the violence that had taken place there.

The ambulance had been left elsewhere, also cleansed of any evidence linking back to the three people who had been inside it last.

One would think that was the worst part of it, the clean up. Having to make sure that nothing had been left behind for even the smallest chance of being caught. Ratigan had shared the same sentiment as soon as he realized he was now somewhere in the system. Back when he’d been nothing there had been no fear, no need to wipe his prints or panic when his blood had been left behind. There had been no way to find him, no place to follow his growing trail back to.

It had been a flaw in the system and Ratigan had used it on his campaign to the head of the table. Anyone within his network would have access to cleaners. (They had quickly become, without a doubt, the biggest source of income.)

But there were still loose threads to deal with— one of them being the sheriff.

Ratigan had returned to a safe house and contacted Fidget who had not done as he was told. The sheriff had walked free and was roaming the streets of London. All that work and now he was having to rely on word alone that he would be given what he wanted.

He met where the sheriff wanted but planned ahead— best not to leave anything to chance when he did not have to. He was already seated at a table when the sheriff arrived, a cup of tea sitting in front of him. His attention was on the crossword puzzle of the newspaper he was leaning over. It wasn’t until the other man was seated that he spoke.

“Fine choice, this place.” His tone was light and conversational. It matched the tables around them along with the clinking spoons against the sides of mugs, fingers striking keyboards, creaking furniture as someone shifted in their seat. “Do you have the information you promised me?��

ERROL:

The fact Ratigan was already there when Errol showed up wasn't surprising.

The sheriff took a second to reorient himself, eyes scanning the coffee shop as he unwound his scarf from his throat, considering all the exits and number of bodies in a matter of moments. All the noises and all the smells swirled around, heightened by the wolf. It was a tinge uncomfortable, having to adjust to it, but Errol barely let a flicker of it cross his face. A slight widening of the nostrils, a tilt to his head, but nothing more.

He still had a job to do though and, now, a debt to repay.

Errol sat casually, mindful of his leg, smiling like they were having a grand time, and nodded his head with a little laugh. "Mmm, aye. I do." An arm slung across the back of the chair beside him, and he shifted sideways, allowing himself to see the door in his peripheral vision. A gun sat, a heavy weight, just above his left hip. Where no one else but Ratigan could see; if he was looking--which he was, Errol already knew--then he would catch it. Gauze and bandaging wrapped around his thigh beneath his clothes, unnoticeable but a necessary addition until his leg entirely healed.

There were still people that were trying to kill the bastard, after all. And Errol never liked to leave anything to chance, especially when it came to someone's life, especially when it was someone that he knew.

At this close a proximity to the other man, the scent of his cologne was sharp in Errol's nose, both familiar and foreign. It was distinctly Ratigan, and it made the wolf perk up its head, interested for the first time all morning. The sheriff bit the inside of his cheek, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as the beast stretched, waking. He breathed in deep to calm himself but it just pulled the scent further into his lungs. It made the wolf whine, and Errol grit his teeth, acknowledging it with a barely-there shift in his seat, a ploy to get more comfortable.

See, they'd reached a bit of an understanding back in his hotel room, over these last three or so days. Errol knew he had him now and the wolf knew he was attached. They couldn't change it, could merely work around it, and they would. First, Errol just needed him to calm the fuck down about the person across from him. The pressure in his chest, now, was uncomfortable, a testing of bonds and an attempt to move closer. If Errol moved any closer, he'd be vaulting the table and sitting on the man.

Just another werewolf, perhaps? Or the insane, but possible, notion that Pedram had been the one to bite him?

Instead of saying any of that, Errol leaned down and pulled a folder from the old Army kit he'd slung to the floor upon arrival. He aligned it on the table, neat, straight corners, before pushing that and two others with it across the table. His smile turned crooked, almost amused.

"'S t' extra I told ye about. It's all on the drive, too, but I wrote t' access information down. Figure ye'd want proof 'fore I jus' gave ye a drive."

The wolf tested its bonds, found them to be solid, and Errol shifted in his seat again, ignoring the discomfort, focus never wavering from Ratigan's face.

RATIGAN:

He placed his pen down and leaned back in his chair, waiting. All of this was so tedious and annoying. He did not want to be there but of course there would have been such a great tantrum thrown had it not been him the information had been passed off to. At this point he knew that the sheriff did the things he did simply to spite Ratigan because, well, he must have nothing better to do being a police officer. It’s just what they did.

The looming subject of what had taken place in the last moments of their previous encounter was ever present but Ratigan didn’t care whatsoever. It did not concern him whether the sheriff was taking well to his new normal or whatever (no doubt ridiculous) questions were at the ready to be asked should he give some sort of sign of acknowledgement. He refused. Whatever the sheriff was looking for he would not find it.

“Thank you,” he said politely and even smiled. Finally. At least this massive headache will have been worth something in the end. Ratigan placed the files at the edge of the table. Seconds later the waitress passed by, picking them up. Neither acknowledged the other as she breezed by.

“Well, now that that’s out of the way, we should address the elephant in the room, shall we?” He reached for the cup of tea to take a sip. There was no rush in his movements, he was the picture of leisure. “I fully intend to return to Swynlake and continue my life there. You’ve proven yourself to be— puerile when it comes to some of your choices in how you go about things. I implore you, sheriff, to not continue this trend as far as your knowledge of me goes. You are only alive now because I allowed it. I can just as easily change my mind should you get the idea that I am someone you can ruin.”

He shrugged. “But then, where would the fun in that be? If you attempt to take away what is important to me then rest assured I shall do the same to you. The only difference being that I will be able to rebuild— the same cannot be said for you. Or your family.”

ERROL:

Ratigan was smiling. Wasn't that a terrifying thought, given the circumstances? It was a nice one, though. Errol couldn't help but glance toward it, a brow ticking upward just as the edge of his mouth curled, rueful.

It wasn't pleasant, but he thought it could be. Ratigan had a nice smile.

Errol dipped his head in acknowledgement, eyes following the waitress for a moment as she tucked the folders beneath an arm. The Irishman snorted, amused. Of course Ratigan had people here. Errol would have too, if he could. He settled in to listen instead, head tilting to the side in curiosity.

A bark of laughter escaped when Ratigan started threatening, a delighted little sound that curled around his eyes and lit up his smile. He knew the man was deadly serious, and something dark and dangerous and ugly flickered in the sheriff's gaze once his family was mentioned, but the amusement still clung to him, a shroud.

"Ah, luv, ye dunne 'ave tah worry. Ye might fink 'm stupid, but I ain't. 'Ve got no reason tah say shite. What hurts ye, hurts me. 'S cute ye fink I might, though. Threatin' a diff'rent man's family might nah've ended yer way, but I like ye." He leaned forward, wide, sharp smile on his face, studying Ratigan's own. "So 'm jus' gonna tell ye once. They're mine. Leave 'em be."

He doubted the man took him seriously, but he should. Errol saw in him much of what had driven himself, still did.

Ratigan was right about one thing, though. Errol was only alive because he'd allowed it, because he had needed the information Errol had. A moment later, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat, drawing out a flash drive. He tsked, tongue clicking against the backs of his front teeth as the wolf squirmed, pushing the drive close across the table. "That'd be t' rest. It's got t' information fer everyone 'at came tah t' extraction an' yer mutineers."

Errol grinned, sweet as pie. He had a copy of all the information.

RATIGAN:

He sighed, an eyebrow raising because no, he did not think this man was stupid, he knew this man was stupid. The evidence stacked against him was substantial and nothing he said would prove otherwise.

The laughter almost made him want to do something more to prove his point, that nothing about this was funny or amusing or some sort of game the sheriff seemed to believe the world was.

“Please, sheriff, no pet names. We are in public and I think we are past the need to make me blush.” And perhaps that may have sounded different to the average eavesdropper but here it was another threat. This, above all else, irked Ratigan more than anything else— it was as if the man thought there was some sort of rapport between them, like he was allowed to address him as anything other than his name. Even the wolf recoiled against it, his emotions so heavy that it was pulled away from the excitement of the newcomer in order to protect what was important above all else.

He gave a nod of understanding, as if he understood the concept of family on a personal level instead of just an observational one. “I do think that’s rather the point. They’re your family, and if you want them off the table then I suggest you do not partake in this game.”

Ratigan reached for the flashdrive, placing it in his own pocket.

“I will give you the opportunity to leave it be. This is no longer your concern, and to be honest it never was. If I were you, I would forget any of this has happened and return to your life as it was.” His fingers laced together, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “This is more than I would ever give someone of your—” His eyes flickered over the man, disgust coming and going over his expression but never leaving his voice, “—profession. Do not be ungrateful.”

ERROL:

Ratigan sighed and raised a brow and Errol followed the movement, mirroring it with one of his own. He'd leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed across the other at the knee, arm slack across the back of the chair beside him, a picture of repose.

See, what no one else understood, Ratigan included, was that Errol had no reason to be afraid of him, not personally. Yes, he threatened his family, and the sheriff believed him when he said that he'd harm them if he thought it necessary, but Errol never had any intention of making it so. He knew the professor thought he was stupid, he claimed he did.

But, then, that begged the question of why he had been used in the first place. Errol almost wanted to ask, except he knew it would do him no good.

He focused on the droll looking the other man gave him when he asked not to be called by a pet name, that they were 'past the need to make him blush.' A few choice thoughts skittered across his mind, then, each of them worse than the last. Mirth colored his eyes for a second before it disappeared. As he had before, Errol dipped his head in a nod of acknowledgement.

"Noted, sir." There, should stroke his ego well enough. He dutifully kept away from the always-endearing moniker of "professor." While that was equally as neutral territory, it gave something away. The former did not. If he could hedge a bet, however, Ratigan wouldn't like that one, either.

Refraining from saying anything smart or rolling his eyes at the heavy-handed threat, Errol reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet and a pocket knife, the latter of which he showed to the other man before setting it on the table, engraving up. He continued to exude nonchalance as he thumbed through a few bills, the Elvira winking up at him from the table.

Perhaps such threats worked on his underlings, but Errol had dealt with people at Ratigan's caliber, and worse, for two decades. Granted, they were far less intelligent, but they were no less driven or full of themselves.

This wasn't a game, even if Ratigan thought he believed it to be.

The quip about his profession did earn a grin and another nod. He understood. Hell, Errol often felt the same. It was why he'd clawed his way to the top in such a short time. If anyone could call a decade or so short. He didn't like being forced to take orders, orders he would disobey or orders that might not be entirely ethical in the sense of the job (his own personal ethics notwithstanding) so it'd made sense to become what he had.

If you could become the head, you didn't have to cut yourself off at the neck. Had people who could protect you if someone tried.

Cocking his head to the side, Errol's eyes assessed Ratigan's face, his voice suddenly, deathly serious. "It was never a game. What I did 'fore all o' this...ye say anyfin' an' yer dead. 'S t' same fing 'ere, more or less."

He flicked the pocket knife toward the other man, then, and nodded at it.

"'Ere's yer promise. Type 'at intah t' military database an' ye get yerself a bit o' an easier access tah me redacted files."

RATIGAN:

Ratigan’s temper was running thin. This man had no idea what he was talking about— he had only had eyes on this for so long. Ratigan had been at this for years. This was not even a scratch at the surface, it was barely a brush of a finger against it. There was nothing that could be said here that would be able to convince Ratigan that this man, the same one who had gone into a situation with no back up, no plan, and every intention of dying with the way he had been trying to fight his way out of the corner he had basically walked himself into and sat there, waiting to see what would happen and then continued to press his back against the walls as he was attacked, knew what he was talking about.

He gave the knife a brief glance as that was all it was good for.

“That’s very generous of you, sheriff, but if you think that I don’t already know everything that the government has on you then I think that says enough about your role here.”

It had taken longer than Ratigan had been happy with, but he had been able to find the files the sheriff thought were protected. The government may have had the best in the business, recruiting those from criminal backgrounds in order to fight back against those wanting their information, but Ratigan had better.

All that to say, Ratigan was not very impressed by what he had seen. Again, his dog’s record outshone him. If anything, it irked Ratigan all the more. Police were bad but the military was worse, in his opinion.

“Enough of— whatever this was supposed to be.” He gestured to the knife with a flippant hand, eyes widening briefly with perfectly placed annoyance. “What is it that you want?”

Because surely he must have wanted something. Everyone did. Otherwise he would not have shown up. (Even if it was something as simple as to sate his naïve curiosity.)

ERROL:

Errol's grin was triumphant this time, self-satisfaction evident. He'd managed to get the confirmation he wanted. It did not surprise him. As he had quickly started to learn, Ratigan was well-prepared for everything. He didn't take things at face value, yet he tried to make it seem like he did. He was contradictory yet made it seem like all his ducks were in a row.

It was fascinating and strange and something that Errol wanted to poke and prod at and toe the line of until he found it all out, even now. Saddled with a new burden and threatened, nearly killed. He had been truthful before when he said he liked the other man. For all his prickly, sharp outer edges, Errol did like him.

A small sigh escaped and Errol tapped his knuckles against the tabletop, chewing on his lip, trying to think of a way to get the other man to understand. He didn't know if he ever could, to explain why the knife was important. Why it meant something, the one sliver of a show of loyalty, of acknowledgement that he could give.

Maybe it was playing with fire, but Errol had never minded being burned. With the way things were shaping up now, he was very aware of the fact he couldn't stay in the job he was in, had already begun to spin the yarn that would allow him to leave it behind. It had been something he had been considering but this last nail had formed his coffin, driving the point home.

Errol heard the annoyance and flicked his gaze up to Ratigan's face, brows lifting toward his hairline, a silent question. Does this bug you so much, just having a conversation?

Even if the conversation was layered, laced with threat and code and whatever other secrecy he could pack in then bubble wrap it from the outside world, it was still, to Errol at least, a decent one. He had always been comfortable in hostile situations, though.

He didn't turn his smile charming, like he would with anyone else. Didn't try to coat his words with honeyed pleasantries or spin a yarn. No, Ratigan was too direct, so Errol needed to be, too.

"Wanted tah talk tah ye. Wasna lyin' when I said I liked ye, before." Threats and all, actually, but that was neither here nor there, and something Errol could keep tucked very, very far away. "An' if ye fink I was givin' information about yer life tah someone else, ye woulda been wrong. 'S why I insisted, 'cause 'S important." To me, to you, whomever you want to believe. "Fer what 'S worth, anyway."

He still hadn't figured out how to explain the knife. It sat in the middle of the table, heavy. Errol wasn't going to take it back now, though. He knew Ratigan didn't think he was smart. Knew he believed he had gone into that alleyway and warehouse without a plan, backup, or a care. Except he had been wrong. Though he hadn't been one hundred percent certain, Errol had known the person he needed the information would have kept track of him, possibly would have followed him, and he had been right.

Sometimes he forgot he wasn't a soldier anymore, that he couldn't just waltz into a hostile zone and expect to make it out mostly alive because people had his six. He wasn't that man, not entirely, not anymore, but he could also never make it go away. He'd done it for too long.

"An' I wanted tah know how long ye've dealt wif --" he paused, wasn't going to say it. Errol was very aware of the secret they were both hiding now, what it did to people. But he was curious about the way the wolf was acting, curious to know if it was because Ratigan was another wolf or because they somehow knew. "I figure ye ain't gonna say anyfin', ain't gonna 'elp, an' I ain't askin'. Jus' that. No details, I don't wanna know how it 'appened or why or where, jus' that."

Errol could say more, could mention wolfsbane or ask about shifts, but he knew no answers would come. Yet, this asking, it was easier, somehow. It wasn't curiosity (though it almost certainly was, he'd already shown more than enough of his hand, but that had been a calculated risk). His body language was calm, nothing defensive about it, all of himself open, head tilting to show neck, even, but a stare that was unwavering.

RATIGAN:

Curiosity it was then.

Well, wasn’t that rather disappointing? Unsurprising, but with the display he had given so far Ratigan had thought that maybe— but no. He was just like all the rest.

And just like all the rest, he was going to try to appeal to what humanity he may have thought was within Ratigan. Perhaps he thought this because he had seen Ratigan as the university professor and the volunteer theater director and the everyday, normal citizen who lived in Swynlake. That was only a part that he played, the cover he had been giving the most time to. (There were countless others, but this was the one he lived most every day dedicated to.) Whoever the sheriff deemed to like was not real, only a costume he wore to fit in among the rest of them. He wanted to speak to him as if he was still that man, he could see it in his body language, showing Ratigan his vulnerability in the hopes he would be rewarded with the same.

The problem with this approach was that Ratigan did not have any humanity left to communicate with. There was no empathy or sympathy or emotion that could be tugged upon to be given any sort of opening. All of that had been purged from his person until he had become what the family had needed him to be. A weapon— unperfect but efficient. His brain, built to learn quickly and at the whole, had taken this in after it had been taught what would happen should it disobey and there the lessons had stayed through the years as it had led to his survival thus far.

Everyone always wanted something, and this man thought he was owed the answer to a personal question. Simple as it was, as easy as Ratigan could have lied, he didn’t want to put in the effort of it. As much as this man may have been truthful in his word to keep from asking any more questions Ratigan knew better. If he was curious enough to ask this question, one that had an inherent selfish wish behind it, then an answer may embolden him to ask another, may lead him to believe that Ratigan wanted to converse. He did not. He did not want this man to know anything about himself that could potentially help him in the future nor did he care to hear about whatever it was the sheriff wanted to say. People had a tendency to spit out the things they wanted people to listen to instead of what Ratigan wanted to hear. It was easier to find that information elsewhere so that he did not have to endure the torture of conversation.

“That is worth nothing to me.” He didn’t care for favors or pity or the like and that is what that seemed the sheriff was presenting, acting as if Ratigan should be so flattered at a gift like that. He didn’t need it. Even if the sheriff had been feeding information neither Ratigan or the network needed the help of someone like him. “And you would be correct. I promised you your life and you have it. You can expect nothing more from me— you may consider it a birthday gift.”

He lifted his cup of tea to his mouth to drain the remainder of it. The ceramic touched back down against the table top before he pushed his chair back from the table, turning in it as he prepared to stand. “Thank you for wasting my time, sheriff, as always.”

Ratigan smiled and did stand then, buttoning his suit’s jacket. Before he left he reached over to pick his pen back up but left the newspaper behind, the crossword finished. True to his word, he offered nothing more to the sheriff and left the cafe. There was still work to be done.

#ch: Ratigan #p: london calling #r: machiavel #r: machiavellian #//part 2 of our Fun Werewolf Plot #//thanks again to Sid who is the most amazing and I am very grateful that we got to do this!!#//Ratigan Being a Jerk on Errol's Birthday is my alternate title for this and tbh I love it #//also errol is still learning how to Be a Wolf okay so it's gonna take him A While give him some time he'll get there

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beyondconfessor · 4 years ago

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Requited Bindings [2/?]

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Zelda Spellman/Lilith

Summary: “Do you even understand the magic that you played with?” Ambrose asked. “Sabrina, you’ve bound the first woman, the first witch to our Aunt.”

N.B.: Also posted on AO3.

As much as she would have preferred to sit down for breakfast, the two slices of toast and morning coffee would have to sustain her for now as she quickly packed her bags. Hilda had tried, but honestly, the things she packed were utterly useless.

Incense, Hilda? What ritual would she be casting in Hell that required incense?

Lilith leant against the bedroom doorway, eyebrow raised as she looked over the contents of her bag. "You know you won't need half of that.”

Zelda bit back a response. Placing more books into the bag before zipping it up. Lilith may have her fair share of books, but Zelda had notes in the text and would need them to work on sermons. Given that most of her time would be spent in Hell, she needed something to occupy her time, amongst grading papers and structuring education.

"Is that everything?" Lilith asked as she pushed off the doorway and began opening random drawers in her dresser.

"Stop that, and yes, I have everything."

"Are you sure?" Lilith asked, pulling open a drawer containing undergarments. "These look important, have you packed enough?"

Zelda walked over and forcefully shut the drawer, glaring at Lilith. "Will you stop fingering my undergarments! We need to get to the Academy before the students' classes begin."

Lilith held Zelda's glare as she opened another drawer and began rummaging in that one as well. "Are you sure you've brought everything? You know, you may make some mistakes while you're down there, so we should probably bring this with us," Lilith said, holding out Zelda's leather scourge in hand. Zelda felt a hot fury flash through her, causing her magic to bubble to the surface of her skin.

"Give me that," she snapped, grabbing the whip and yanking it from the woman's hands. "Where in Heaven did you get that from?” It shouldn’t have been easily found, given that she had intentionally hidden it.

Lilith shrugged nonchalantly, her eyes once again roaming the room, likely looking for more secrets to discover as Zelda place the scourge back in her wardrobe on the top shelf. She wasn't sure how Lilith had managed to both find and present it to her, but she didn't have time to hide it from anyone else properly.

"Are you quite done?" Zelda asked as she picked up her bag.

Lilith looked away from the vanity set she'd been playing with and smiled at the woman, setting the comb and mirror down as she walked over to stand by Zelda. "Shall we?"

"I need to say goodbye to my family, given that apparently, I shall be seeing far less of them.”

Lilith nodded and gestured for Zelda to lead the way out of the bedroom and down the hall.

Zelda directed them downstairs to the breakfast table where Sabrina and Ambrose sat. All conversation ceased as they entered the room before Hilda walked over and placed another set of toast down for both women, this time with homemade blackberry jam. "Sit down. You've got enough time to finish your coffee before running off to the Academy."

Zelda sighed and reluctantly agreed.

Taking her place at the table, she flicked through the newspaper that had been laid out. The headline read of a political scandal, but nothing of worth. Flicking to the obituaries, she looked to see if there was anything worth having Hilda dig up.

"So Aunty, what was it like staying a night in Hell?" Ambrose asked. “Magister Deniuem once wrote that it could infect your dreams."

Zelda looked up from a newspaper and took a sip of coffee. Beside her, she noticed Lilith was quite happily tearing off pieces of toast and popping the small segments into her mouth before licking the jam off her fingers. Wrinkling her nose, she looked away.

"Fine," she said. "I slept like a newborn."

"She didn't snore or kick around in the bed either. Quite the sound sleeper," Lilith added, popping another segment of toast in her mouth as if she had merely commented on the weather and not insulated something Zelda would have preferred to keep quiet.

"You're sharing a bed?" Sabrina asked. "Did you––?”

"No," Zelda said before Lilith could wind her niece up any further. "It's just subterfuge. If Hell knew what had occurred, they would immediately try to seize the throne, or at the very least, see this as a weakness and attempt to go to war against yourself."

Sabrina's face pressed as she drew deep into her thoughts, while Ambrose looked like he was trying to simultaneously hide his amusement and become acutely aware of the cereal in his bowl.

"Speaking of, Hilda are you able to take this afternoon classes. I should be able to return in the evening.”

"Yes, shouldn't be an issue," Hilda said as she sat herself down at the table. "I've requested time off from the store given everything that's occurred with the pagans," Hilda said with a giggle. “Doctor Cee has been so, so lovely about it."

“Pagans. Here?” Lilith asked as she finished the last of the toast on her plate. “You need to eradicate them before they set their roots down.”

“That was the plan,” Zelda said. “But as you can see, our coven is still dangerous weakened. The last thing we need is to declare war against a commune that vastly outnumbers us.”

“Pathetic,” Lilith scoffed, cleaning her fingers as she stared at Zelda. “They’re pagans. Most of their magic comes from a drop of divinity long lost to breeding into mortals. Even outnumbered, they should barely serve more than an annoyance.”

Zelda felt her cheeks burn, a growing tightness in her chest as she dropped the newspaper down onto the table. “I beg your pardon?”

“Beg all you like, Zelda. If you can’t defeat a few pagans, I truly worry for the state of my so-called coven. Perhaps I should deal with them myself?”

“If anyone is to deal with them, it should be me,” Zelda snapped.

“And yet you’re not,” Lilith pointed out, “or were you hoping they would merely disappear if you glare hard enough?”

Hilda gave an uncomfortable squeak before turning to look at Zelda. “Hey now, there’s no need for that in the kitchen. How about we all settle down,” she said, as Zelda and Lilith continued to glare at each other. “Um, Zelds, how long until you find the little...um...cure to this little problem?"

Zelda felt the weight of exhaustion seep over her at the mention of it. "Ambrose?" she asked. "Did you look over the spell?"

Ambrose nodded. "I discussed with Sabrina the reversals you've tried to date. They're all that I would have tried if it were I in your position, Auntie. I'll head to the Academy's library today and try to dig further and see if anything like this has happened before. At the very least, we may be able to look at extending, the, erm, limitations you have.”

"Please be quick," she said, drawing her eyes back over her newspaper. While an extension wasn’t as preferable as a severing to the bond, it would certainly ease her mind somewhat.

She lifted the cup of tea to her lips, drawing her eyes to the clock that hung over the kitchen doorway before glancing to Lilith who seemed to be thriving in the uncomfortable air that laid over the kitchen. "We should discuss what we're going to say to the children about why you're there."

"I've taken a special interest in my flock, more hands-on?" Lilith suggested as she took a sip of her coffee. "Or I could just wear a glamour? I believe most of them recognise this face from Lucifer's little coronation ceremony, so it might do well to try and wear something new."

Zelda nodded. "A student would probably be easier; we could say you're from the old country and living with us for a time."

Lilith's form shifted, and then there was a young woman about Prudence’s age, with dark hair, brown skin and a round face sitting before her. She had even shifted her clothes to look more like Sabrina's, with a short corduroy skirt and a long-sleeved crop top.

Glamours usually took more ceremony with the process. Generally involving a charm of the person's belongings you were turning into or a mirror at the very least to alter the reflection, but she could taste the old magic in the air. This was what came from wandering the Earth over a few millennia.

Zelda turned to her niece. "She's not one of your school friends, is she?"

"No," Sabrina answered, but she looked unsettled. It was likely due to the fact the glamour was rather seamless, as far as glamours went. In lesser witches there was often something off about them, such as the skin looking too smooth, or usually, the mouth sitting a bit oddly, but Lilith's glamour was immaculate. She looked real.

It probably left the question of how many times had Lilith visited them all under some guise with none of them the wiser.

Rising from the table. Zelda sat her coffee cup down and wiped her fingers on a napkin. "Well, we can't call you Lilith, so what will we tell the others?"

"Mary's fine," Lilith said, her voice was warmer, sweeter with a Scottish lilt to it. That was frightening.

"No!" Sabrina said. "You can't steal everything of hers. Did you know that she's having nightmares from what happened, and she doesn't even know why?"

Lilith laughed, "Is she, how truly terrible!"

"Can't you just choose some other more witchy name?” Sabrina's faced turned to Zelda’s with a pleading look. “Something like Agnes or Megaera, or something?”

Lilith too turned to look over at Zelda sweetly as she flicked her long dark hair over her shoulder. "Witches find the use of biblical names dearly ironic, it would not be so out of character, would it, pet?"

Zelda closed her eyes briefly, loathing the diminutive name. However, Lilith was right, and she advised Sabrina as such. “There’s nothing wrong with the name.”

“That’s not fair,” Sabrina said, sitting back in her chair. "Please, Aunt Zee. Ms Wardwell has had enough taken from her. She thinks she's going crazy!” Unsurprising, Zelda thought. She was hell-touched after all, by a hell-being, and therefore damned.

"That may be, but the name Mary is not hers alone," she advised and immediately regretted it as Lilith grinned at her, not unlike a shark.

The witch stood up and walked over to Zelda, standing before her. Zelda didn't mind her in this form. It would easier to just find her the petulant child that she was. “Whatever the name,” Lilith said, “I would draw attention anyway––at least this way the students' suspicions will be diverted,” she said, before taking an apple from the fruit bowl and placing it behind her back, smiling up at Zelda.

Zelda rolled her eyes before looking at Sabrina with an attempt of an apology. If Lilith wanted the name Mary, then so be it.

Sabrina glared at her as if she’d somehow been the cause of this. “This is wrong.”

“That may be, but it’s done. Now, shall I expect to see you in class, later?”

Sabrina shrugged, a petulant look on her expression as she eyed Lilith with mistrust. "I have cheer practise this afternoon."

Of course, she did. Zelda breathed out through her nose, wishing she had time to light a cigarette. "Shall we?" she said to Lilith as she picked up the bag she'd left by the table.

Lilith grinned, linking arms with her in a way that seemed quite unlike her self and made Zelda all the more aware of how much the other witch was used to playing in new skins.

With a deliberate sigh, Zelda flicked her wrists and teleported both of them to her office in the Academy. At their arrival, however, the woman's hands gripped at her arm tightly.

Zelda wrenched away from the linked arms and stared at Lilith. "What are you trying to do?"

Lilith turned to her, an odd look on her face. "Lucifer's here?" she asked in a whisper, her voice void of all mischievousness for once. "You brought me to where you're keeping him?"

"He's locked up in the dungeons."

Lilith stepped around the room, fiddling with the apple she brought with her. "He'll likely know I'm here," she said to herself, the apple spinning over and over in her hands. "What Acheron are you keeping him in now?"

"Faustus."

There, Lilith laughed, but her expression paled again. "Damascus steel?"

"Of course."

"Heptagram?"

"Yes, believe me, we've taken all precautions."

"You know it's only time before he escapes," she said, turning to face Zelda before her expression shifted. “We’ll need a plan if we’re to survive.”

“Lilith he’s chained––at the very least, for now, he’s safe.”

Zelda watched as the girl (because she really did look very young and small all of a sudden) set the apple aside and brought her hands together. the expression shifting again to something playful and gone was whatever trepidation Lilith had. "We should discuss our relationship: student-teacher, I presume, or perhaps something more familiar? Last chance for you to resume as my concubine on Earth as it is in Hell?"

"The flirtation is far less endearing with that glamour," Zelda pointed out. "Try not to make a scene when you're in the class. I have enough problems as it is."

"Of course," Lilith said in such a way Zelda could feel that she was going to make a scene deliberately.

Zelda placed her bag down, by her desk and then went to her drawers, pulling out her day planner to shuffle through (she had another she kept on her person, but this one she kept at her desk) before rummaging through her lesson planner. Up first was transmutation, previously held by Artemisia Vines, but with the limited witches left, it remained on Zelda's shoulders like most of the classes.

"Do not undermine me," she warned towards Lilith. "Or I will personally make it my mission to make court life as difficult for you."

Lilith smiled at her, smoothing down her skirt. "I'll be a model student," she promised. “After all, I’m quite intrigued by the student’s aptitude.”

A knock sounded on her office door. Closing the drawer of her desk, she looked up and saw the faint image of Prudence.

"Come in," she called and watched as Prudence pushed the door open, stepping inside.

"Directrix Spellman," Prudence said, surprised. "Sabrina mentioned you were unwell."

"I'm fine, as you can see, Prudence."

Prudence opened her mouth and then closed it, before offering a shrug of her shoulders. "Would you like me to begin the class with chapter thirteen?"

"Please. I'll be with them soon."

Prudence nodded and went to shut the door before noticing the other girl in the room. Her eyes dragged over the figure curiously before shifting to look back at Zelda with an inquisitive raise of her brow.

"Family, from the old country," Zelda said in half explanation, gesturing loosely.

Prudence frowned but didn't argue, "of course," she said and closed the office door behind her. No doubt she would be looking to follow-up with Ambrose about that later. But if her nephew were smart, he would lead her to the answer without directly saying it.

Zelda took a moment to compose her self and ensure she had what she needed for the lesson before grabbing a spare textbook and handing it to Lilith. "Try to avoid talking to the other students. Try not to talk altogether if you can help it."

Lilith began thumbing through the textbook, ignoring her. If Zelda were lucky, it would keep her entertained for the rest of the class.

She led Lilith down to the classroom and had her sit in the seat usually reserved for Sabrina. Lilith sat down in her chair, back straight and began pouring through the textbook. Zelda sat a pen and pieces of paper on her desk, because she expected it of everyone, and began drawing upon the chalkboard as the class quietly read Chapter Thirteen.

The class’s eyes drew curiously over Lilith, but aside from a few shared looks, they kept to themselves. Good. It allowed her to focus on drawing up the blackboard without worrying about the class.

Prudence remained at her station at the front of the class, and Lilith had to admit she was quite proud of the girl. Despite everything that had happened over the last year, Prudence had made a sharp turn around and was flourishing in not just her witching abilities, but her leadership capabilities as well. Perhaps one day, she would even formally ask Zelda to be her mentor.

Stepping back from the board, she looked over the class. She caught a few staring blankly and another stifling a yawn.

Her eyes went to Lilith. The witch was sitting at the desk, pouring over the textbook with such fascination that Zelda could almost be fooled in thinking she wasn't paying attention to the class.

"Who can tell me the three basic principles of transmutation?"

Melvin raised his hand, as always in an eased effort to prove himself. "Ah, the first is 'Knowing', you can't turn an object into something you don't have a basic understanding of. Mass, you can only change something into equal or less than its original weight, but never more and ah..." he trailed off and his shoulders sunk.

"Very good, anyone else?" Zelda asked, pouring her eyes over the class. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Lilith’s eyes draw up from the textbook, watching the students with curiosity.

As no student raised their hand, Lilith sat back in the chair and began drumming her nails, as if deciding her coven's worth.

"Agatha, what's the third principle?" Zelda asked, snapping to look over the girl.

Agatha looked up from the book she had clearly not been reading and fumbled, "Oh, um. Colour?"

"Colour?" she returned, and the girl only stared up at her, fiddling with one of her plaits. "Have you completed transmutation before?"

"Yes, Directrix."

"And what did you transform?"

Agatha looked to Dorcas for help, before pulling back and sitting up straighter. "I changed a rock into a fish."

"And how did you do that?"

"With magic?" Agatha asked.

Zelda rolled her eyes and walked over to Agatha, picking up her pen. "If I turn this into a rock, what would I need to do?"

"Magic it."

"Yes, obviously I would use magic, but how would I do it?"

"Will it, I guess?"

"Correct. To turn this pencil," Zelda closed her hand and felt it shift into a smooth pebble the size of her thumbnail, "into a rock I would just have to will it. But what if I wanted to turn the pencil into a fish?"

"You would need an incantation?" Agatha twisted her plait tighter. "Maybe chalk to outline a fish?"

"So why would I only need to will it into an inanimate object, but to change it to a living thing, I would need an incantation or a ritual?"

Agatha opened her mouth, staring at the pencil and then sat back in her seat, looking lost. Zelda turned, looking over to the other students, but if they knew anything, they kept quiet. Zelda held her tongue, trying not to grow frustrated with them. This was fundamental transmutation, but either their education was lacking, or they were unwilling to offer answers that they already knew.

"Prudence?" she summoned.

"It's because you're changing something inanimate to animate. When you speak, you're summoning, which then pulls on deeper magics to create life. The larger the object, or the more complex the living thing, the more advanced the ritual required to summon the energy required."

"Thank you, Prudence." She set the rock down, returning to its original form on Agatha's desk and went over to the chalkboard writing up three of the principles. "If you know these principles, you can eventually learn to transform anything into something else, so as long as you have enough creativity."

She led the class through theory, briefly revising rhyming couplets for precise transformation and then had them stand up and turn their desks into a badger and back into desks. Only two students were successful, with the remaining fumbling over their dictation and causing one form of malformation or another instead, making the process of turning it back to a table far more difficult––which was what Zelda’s had hoped for.

There was more to be learnt in mistakes than there were with correct actions.

At the end of class, Zelda advised them that their homework was to transform an inanimate object into an animal and then back, as well as five hundred words as to what the causes of malformation were (generally dictation, half-rhymes or just lack of confidence).

When the students left, Zelda turned to Lilith, who was quietly sitting at her desk. Zelda had not called upon her to demonstrate, partially because she felt uncomfortable with that dynamic (only because Lilith would likely seek her revenge later), and partly because she knew the witch would be able to do it without a verbal incantation, which would only serve to make the other students feel worse in their abilities.

"You know, Zelda, if I'm to blend in here, you should treat me like any other student."

"As if you could blend in."

Lilith snapped her textbook shut and rose from the desk. Despite the youthful features, there was something there, something dark in the way she moved and held her expression that warned of a more significant threat, and then features smoothed and she was just another student.

It was unsettling.

"Is it lunchtime?" Lilith inquired.

"It is."

Zelda led them both back to her office where a tray had already been set with lunch (likely Hilda had run off before she had to collide paths with Lilith again). Usually, Zelda would run most of the classes, with things like botany and potions being held by Hilda who continued to hold expertise over her, and the remaining extracurricular classes taught by the skeleton staff.

As it was, Hilda had agreed to take the afternoon classes so that she could return to Hell with Lilith and complete the court and council meetings (that she honestly couldn't see the point of, at least here she was growing young minds).

Lilith took a seat on the edge of her desk and picked at the sandwiches Hilda had set aside for them and began flicking through the textbook, writing notes in the margins. Her legs were crossed, but Zelda watched at her foot bounced playfully. Again, it unsettled Zelda how easily the woman was able to dive into her new role. But she pressed the anxiety from her and focused on using her office time to adjust her planner going forward.

Usually, the lunch hour was also reserved for students to speak privately to her if they so needed, but more often than not, it was a quiet time.

It was foolish to think she could fit anything further than a few hours of the evenings in Hell to dedicate to marking, but if she had to spend her time in the throne room mentally planning her lessons and sermons, then so be it.

A knock sounded at her office as she was mid-way through replanning Wednesday. Looking up, she noticed Melvin standing at her door, sheepishly looking at Lilith.

"H-hello Directrix Spellman. I'd wondered if you'd had time to review the extra-credit I submitted for Conjuring?"

Zelda placed her pen down and watched as the boy curiously flicked his eyes to Lilith, who was still happily sipping at tea and making notes in the textbook. From the few words that Zelda could read, Lilith wasn't writing in any modern language.

"The extra-credit you submitted on Monday? No, I haven't had time to review it, Melvin."

"Oh," he said, though he didn't look entirely dejected. "Um, you never introduced us to..." he trailed off and gestured to Lilith.

Lilith looked up from the textbook and briefly glanced at the boy before sharing an unimpressed look with Zelda.

"This is my cousin's granddaughter, Mary," Zelda said. "She'll be staying with us for a while."

"At the Academy?" he asked with far too much hope. Zelda couldn't help but feel some pity with him. Had Lilith been able to wander the grounds on her own, no doubt she would have devoured him, quite literally.

"With me," she clarified. "Was there something else you were after, Melvin?"

"I know how confusing the school can be, so I thought I might check if Mary needed any help getting used to the classes, or-"

"She's quite fine."

Melvin paled and stood up straight. "Of course. Um, thank you, Directrix," he said rather awkwardly before backing out of the office.

Lilith took another sandwich. "You know you should eat. You won't get a chance in Hell."

Zelda snatched at a sandwich and sat back in her chair. They would need to leave soon. She had hoped to run into Hilda before they left, but she would, no doubt, see her in the evening after classes.

"What if I brought food to Hell."

"Wouldn't work," Lilith reminded her, before pausing and looking up from her textbook. "Maybe canned food?"

Zelda waved the thought away. Canned food was for mortals who didn't have time outside of their tedious office work.

Maybe she would have something cured.

The day went by fast, and before long, she found herself in Hell again. This time, Lilith’s transportation was gentler. She admired the mark on Zelda’s neck as she undressed, and then chose an appropriate outfit for them both, before leading them to the throne room.

It was to be a long day, Zelda realised once the first Demon entered with his gaggle of under demons and began speaking the longest monologue Zelda had ever been disgraced with.

An hour must have past as she shifted her feet, trying to ease the ache growing in her back from standing so tall behind the throne. It didn't help that the dress Lilith had chosen for her today was heavier than the previous one, and also required Zelda to wear stays underneath it.

It wasn't that it was laced too tightly, but it was starting to pinch under her arms, and she couldn't shift until the current demon left the throne room, but going by his current rant, she expected they were only halfway through his problems.

Zelda glance to her right, noticing that even Lilith was looking exhausted by this. Her lips were drawn back in a near snarl for the demon to just get to the fucking point. (He was from the sixth circle, and they tended to talk around in circles, likely due to their more frequent dealings with politicians and mortal priests).

"-which as you can understand is completely unacceptable. For one, we don't even deal with that kind down there. As you know, we deal with a far more elite kind of persons, though they tend to be a bit chatty and––” Zelda pushed her tongue to the back of her teeth, stifling the yawn before it could show on her face.

During the current court session, Zelda had already finished the outline of her sermon and ran over three more times to be sure it was memorised for when she had a spare moment to write it down.

"Enough!" Lilith snapped.

Zelda turned to face her. The woman was snarling now as she rose to her feet. Perhaps she’d misjudged the expression.

"Are you telling me that you've promised ten thousand of our souls to some backwater realm that no one worships any more?"

The demon slunk backwards a step, before remembering himself. The gaggle of lesser demons at his feet crept behind his shadow to cower from the Mother of Demons. “My lady, if you'd-"

"What did they provide, Sabnock? What do you lack in Hell?”

"They provided old secrets in turn."

"Secrets?" Lilith hissed, raising her brow. "What secrets did they have that were worth ten thousand souls?"

Zelda watched as his large chest swelled up as he stood tall. "The contract was made, and so it must be kept."

"Was is agreed to by the Dark Lord?" Lilith asked as she stepped forward, to the front of the dais, "or did you come to the decision thinking of how pleased He might be, only to realise that you'd been swindled and it might be best if you withheld the truth until they came to collect?"

The demon was quiet, standing tall but Zelda could see his tail flicking underneath his coat. "The deal was made after the Dark Lord left to the Earthen plane."

"I see." Lilith had gone still in a way that reminded Zelda of a snake waiting to strike. The silence remained, uncomfortably long, and then the demon stepped backwards, looking as though he was about to cast a spell. He had only drawn a single breath when Lilith flicked her wrist.

A steel spike split from the ceiling, striking down through the demon's throat and pinning him to the ground where he twitched like a fly that had had its wings removed. The lesser demons began to scatter, but as they did, Lilith flicked both hands this time, and they all fell at once with a horrible cracking noise.

Zelda recoiled at the sudden impact, her mouth parting in horror.

A tightness tugged at her, and Zelda realised she’d been too focused on the creature to notice Lilith’s descent down the stairs. The woman paused on the last stair, waiting for her to move.

Zelda quickly followed Lilith, descending the steps with her as she walked over to the Demon Prince and watched him squirm as ichor ran down the spike. Lilith’s heels were sharp on the marble floor, and Zelda felt her heart in her throat with each step as they grew closer and closer to the twitching demon. He was alive, but for how long?

Lilith sneered at him, "You've disappointed me. I should burn your kingdom to ashes for this."

The demon convulsed, a strange sound garbled through his throat, but whatever he was trying to say was lost against the steel spike.

Lilith made a disgusted noised before she stepped back and walked away, through to a set of double doors. Zelda followed after her, though she would prefer to be far away from the witch after witnessing what she had.

The gallery they walked through was terrifying, with strange creatures heads mounted to the walls and a carpet the squelched underneath her feet. Lilith led the way with a particular stiffness in her spine that kept Zelda silent, unwilling to voice her concern. She knew of Lilith’s power, had read about it, had witnessed it when the woman had bound Lucifer still.

But to see it like that was another thing entirely.

They pushed through a set of doors into a hall, crossing straight across to a simple wooden door that led into a circular stairway, dimly lit by torches on the wall.

Zelda wanted to demand where they were going, but she didn't know what the woman would do if she said anything, and right now, it was all Zelda could do to focus on descending.

The steps were damp and smelled of mildew and brimstone. Lilith's descent was sure and fast, but Zelda wasn't, she felt that at any moment she would slip and tumble down the stairs horribly and as such kept a hand on the cold wall as her other tried to hold her skirts up high enough that each step didn't trip over the material.

There was a tugging sensation again, and Lilith stopped on the stairs, her shoulders tense.

"Ten thousand souls," she hissed in the darkness. "What fool gives away ten thousand souls for secrets?" She turned to look up at Zelda as if only realising that she was there. "I wouldn't breathe a word of this ordeal to anyone, including your dear niece if you want to live."

"Hell is in no short supply of souls. Why is this such a concern?”

"It's not about the number of souls. It's that a deal was made without sanction. " Lilith raked a hand across her stomach and leant back again wall, suddenly looking very tired. "If Sabrina loses, there will be no haven on Hell or Earth," she said.

"Sabrina won't lose,"

Lilith turned, looking at Zelda. "Even if she wins, they won't accept her. She will need to break them into submission, likely go to war against them to quell whatever revolt comes out of this. And your niece may be powerful, but she is not ruthless enough to win a war against Hell. When I ruled, they didn’t nearly have enough votes to depose me, but it only took days to go against her.”

Zelda agreed, despite the fact it made her stomach twist uncomfortably at what that meant.

Sabrina had always been tenderhearted in a way witches rarely were. She was stubborn, insubordinate and proud, all traits that Zelda admired even when she found herself furious with the girl, but Sabrina's defining belief was that life was precious and worth preserving. No, Lilith was right, she wouldn't win a war against demons.

Maybe in a hundred years or so, Sabrina would grow to understand that not all life was created equally, but for now, she was just a teenager.

"Then you'll be ruthless for her," Zelda stated firmly. "You'll be her left hand, and when they fear you, they'll follow her."

"Fear me?" Lilith laughed before she began to ascend the stairs to stand in front of Zelda. "Don't you see? They don't fear me. They don't even respect me."

"So make them, was that not what you were doing before?"

Lilith shrugged. "I mean, what's the point? When little Sabrina ascends the throne and Caliban fails, they'll slaughter her and select some new prince to sit the throne until they grow bored of that one and on-and-on it'll go for the next millennia."

"Surely-"

"There's no 'surely' about it!” Zelda felt her back hit the wall as the woman pressed her hands onto the bodice of her dress, pressing her to the wall. "Maybe you and I will escape to the fae and hide out the rest of our lives there, bonded for all eternity. Or maybe you and I will just be the appetiser to their Feast of Feasts of dear, roasted Morningstar.” The woman’s face turned almost comically feral as she leant in. “I’ve heard that getting the eye whole is meant to provide wisdom."

Zelda felt her anger rise as she pushed the hands from her waist. "This is not some joke––!”

"No, it's not a joke or a game or whatever your niece thought when she decided on a whim to take the throne, and yet here we are, in Hell with a child deciding to spruce up a place with no understanding of its inhabitants while I try to soothe the masses who are close to deciding that there shouldn't be a throne in the first place."

Lilith's face shifted, revealing bone-deep exhaustion that hadn't been present in her face before. It cut at the edges of her eyes and sunk her shoulders, and with it, Zelda realised the truth.

"You did this for the Dark Lord."

"Well, he was never very much into paperwork, but he was able to frighten them all on his own. He could be terrifying when he wanted to."

"And the other times?" Zelda inquired.

Lilith looked away, a dark look on her eyes as she drew back from Zelda. "I did what was necessary, but don't get the wrong idea; Lucifer was still very much the driving force in that. With Sabrina's current cheerleading demeanour, she won't even make the Kings nervous about consequences."

"We need to do something."

"As it is, I'll need to lay some waste to Sabnock's land to teach them a lesson." There was a growl to her voice, and Zelda licked her lips, nervous at the idea of what that would mean.

"Is that where you're leading us?"

Lilith didn't answer her, only brushed past her on the stairs and continued to head down the endless stairwell.

"What of the kings, are you not meant to be meeting them soon?"

"I'm sure they'll get the message," Lilith answered over her shoulder.

#zelda spellman #lilith #zelith #madam spellman #caos fanfic

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thebeautyoftorah · 4 years ago

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ZOT HABERACHA/SIMCHAT TORAH

bs'd Shalom. Exiting news: My second book "Conquering Anger", just went out. It's a very practical guide on developing a deeper understanding of anger and how to eradicate it. A thought from it: "Parents must realize the importance of disciplining their children. Proper discipline is not cruelty, it is education (chinuch). Discipline is necessary for a child’s emotional development, because it teaches him about the fundamental concept of authority." Buy my book at http://www.feldheim.com/healing-anger.html If you want to buy it from me in Israel let me know. To join the over 5,000 recipients in English and Spanish and receive these insights free on a weekly email, feedback, comments, which has been all around the world, or if you know any other Jew who is interested in receiving these insights weekly, contact me. You have the opportunity to share in the mitzvah to honor a loved one by sponsoring my weekly review, or refua shelema (healing), shiduch, Hatzlacha. Feel free to print copies of this essay and distribute for the public in your local shul. Have a healthy Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach. ZOT HABERACHA/SIMCHAT TORAH-The Final Lesson The last pasuk of the Torah is a praise for Moshe Rabenu[1], “the strong hand and awesome power that Moshe performed before the eyes of all Israel”. Rashi explains citing the Midrash that, “before the eyes of all Israel” refers to Moshe’s decision to break the luchot in front of all the Jewish people. Why of all Moshe’s great deeds, does the Torah single this one out at its end as perhaps the greatest of them all? Chazal offer a profound insight to answer this question [2]. Moshe invested great effort for many years in bringing the Jewish people from slavery in Mitzrayim to Matan Torah, and he spent forty days without food or drink fending off the angels and securing the luchot for Am Israel. When he returned from Har Sinai and saw the people worshiping the Golden Calf he realized that they were not on the level to receive the luchot and he destroyed them. However, what a great test must have been to forsake all that effort and energy that he had invested to get to this moment. Moshe could have rationalized that although they did not deserve the luchot now, perhaps things would change soon and it wasn’t necessary to destroy them right away. He showed total integrity and intellectual honesty to break the luchot because that was the correct course of action. Sometimes, we are placed in similar situations to that of Moshe Rabenu; we invest time, money or energy into something and then we are faced with the possibility that we have made a mistake and need to start again or that there is a new turn of events that makes our original stand obsolete. We are greatly tempted in such instances to dig our heels in and stand by our initial plan against our better judgment. It is very hard to admit that we are wrong or need to start again after putting in so much effort into something. Maybe the most difficult aspect of knocking down what we have already built is that we are showing that we have made a mistake. It is extremely difficult for most people to admit that their opinions, lifestyle or attitude is wrong. Maybe this is the main factor that prevents non-religious people from changing their lifestyle is that to do so would mean admitting that all of their life up till this point was based on a mistake. Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz zt”l brings an example of how a person can become so obtuse that he cannot change even when placed under extreme pressure[3]. After the destruction of Yericho, Yehoshua placed a curse on anyone who would rebuild it. In the time of king Achav, a man named Chiel decided to defy the curse and rebuild Yericho[4]. When he laid the foundations, his first-born died, and as he continued building his sons continued dying one by one until when he completed the city his youngest son also passed away. How can a person be so foolish to continue in a path that causes his misery and destruction?! Shlomo haMelech says [5], “A person’s every way is upright in his eyes”… He was so convinced in the rightness of his actions that he preferred to bury all his sons over admitting that he was wrong! In contrast the Gemara [6] shows an example of the greatness involved in admitting one’s mistakes. The Tanna Shimon HaAmsoni used to explain every word ‘et’[את] in the Torah provides a secondary meaning to the subject mentioned. For example, in the mitzva of honoring parents, there is an ‘et’ from which he derived the inclusion of older siblings. Consequently a person must honor his parents and also his elder siblings. However, with the pasuk, “Et Hashem Elokecha tira” he was unable to find a secondary recipient of the fear that we must feel for Hashem. His talmidim asked him, “what about all the instances where you have explained the word ’et’”? He replied, “Just as I have been rewarded for expounding them, so shall I rewarded now for abandoning them.” Rabbi Akiva came and taught that the ’et’ in the pasuk teaches us that a person must fear G-d and also talmide chachamim. The greatness [7] of Shimon HaAmsoni, was that he did not hesitate to abandon the teaching that he had held and developed throughout his life when he felt that he could no longer justify it. Moreover, he taught his talmidim a priceless lesson that abandoning his teaching which was done in a moment, was as great as all the investigating and explaining he had done all his life! This lesson is connected to Simchat Torah with which Vezot Habracha always coincides. We end the Torah and then immediately restart it again, reading the opening pasukim of Bereshit. This alludes to us that even though we have completed the whole Torah, we should not feel that we do not need to repeat it again. We can relearn it and develop new insights, sometimes even contradicting our present understanding and we should not feel embarrassed to acknowledge that we were wrong. [Remarkably, in Lashon HaKodesh the words “review” and “different” are represented by the same word — “shoneh.” This teaches us that the purpose of reviewing is not merely to repeat the old; it is to reach new levels of understanding]. This does not only apply to pshatim on the Gemara but also to our outlook on life; if we see that a part of our hashkafa seems to not fully fit with Torah hashkafa, then we must be willing to honestly assess how we can change it. This idea is also alluded to in the marriage ceremony[8]. When the chatan breaks a glass, most commentators explain that this is a remembrance of the destruction of the Bet HaMikdash. However, one commentator connects this custom to the breaking of the luchot. Why do we need to be reminded of that event during a wedding? To teach the new couple that in order for their marriage to work, they must strive to emulate Moshe Rabenu’s actions in breaking the luchot. In order for a marriage to work, husband and wife must be willing to act with great honesty and admit their mistakes rather than stand on their pride. Both need to be prepared to let go of their preconceived notions and prejudices and strive for truth. These are not easy demands, but if we see that Moshe was ready to break the most valuable thing in the world because it was the right thing to do, then we too can surely be prepared to make changes when it is clearly the Ratson Hashem, as it is written[9], “Do what is right and good in G-d's eyes” . ______________________________________________ [1] Vezot HaBeracha 34:12. [2] See Ateret Mordechai quoted by ‘Rabbi Frand on the Parsha, p.297. [3] Sichot Mussar, Maamar 47, p.200. [4] Melachim 1, 17:34. [5] Mishle 21:2 [6] Kiddushin, 57a. [7] Alter of Kelm, Zaitchik, Sparks of Mussar, p.68. [8] Ibid, p.299. [9] Devarim 6:18 Le Iluy nishmat Eliahu ben Simcha, Yaakov ben Yosef, Mordechai ben Shlomo, Perla bat Simcha, Abraham Meir ben Leah, Moshe ben Gila,Yaakov ben Gila, Sara bat Gila, Yitzchak ben Perla, Leah bat Chavah, Abraham Meir ben Leah,Itamar Ben Reb Yehuda, Yehuda Ben Shmuel Tzvi, Tova Chaya bat Dovid. Refua Shelema to all the people sick with the Corona virus, Akiva Shushan Ben Natalie Penina, Mazal Tov bat Freja, Hadassa bat Sara, Elisheva bat Miriam, Chana bat Ester Beyla, Mattitiahu Yered ben Miriam, Yaacov ben Miriam, Yehuda ben Simcha, Matitiahu ben Rachel Leah, Naftali Dovid ben Naomi Tzipora, Nechemia Efraim ben Beyla Mina, Dvir ben Leah, Sender ben Sara, Eliezer Chaim ben Chaya Batya, David ben Rifka, Mazal Tov bat Frecha, Shlomo Yoel ben Chaya Leah, Dovid Yehoshua ben Leba, Shmuel ben Mazal Tov, Yosef Yitzchak ben Bracha, Yosef Matitiahu ben Yitzchak, Chaya Sara bat Yitzchak, Shmuel ben Mazal Tov, Rachel Simcha bat Yitzchak, Mazal Tov Rivka bat Yitzchak.

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doof-doofblog · 4 years ago

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"Will You Help Me?!"

Thursday 22nd October 2020

Hello again folks! Hope everyone has had a brilliant week, tonight I'll be covering last night's episode and tomorrow I shall follow up on tonight's episode. There seems to be a lot to get through so I'll jump right into it!

The episode starts off at the Slaters with an unknown character putting something through the letter box, in the kitchen Kat and Stacey are slagging off Ruby, clearly Stacey is reeling after recent events. She seems to be really disliking Ruby at the minute, and of course we can all understand why. As Stacey is letting off some steam to Kat, a scream is heard from the hall and Lily is seen holding the carrier bag. Stacey takes it off her daughter and looks inside, what the heck could it be? It looked squishy to me, some kind of organ or something?! Is Ruby out to get revenge on Stacey?!

Meanwhile at the Mitchell's, Phil is discussing fighting for full custody of Raymond with Ritchie, he wants to make sure that he's doing things the right way, but unfortunately, what Phil is asking his lawyer is not realistic. With Phil's track record it seems unlikely that the court will let him have full custody of Raymond, everything looks like he has no chance of getting his son, but then he looks like he might have an idea. Will he somehow be able to get Denise on board? Will he convince her to fight for custody of her son? I am kind of hoping that Phil and Denise will put aside their differences and do the right thing and fight for Raymond, whether they have shared custody of the boy or whether Denise gets full custody, I'm pretty sure they'd do everything they can to get Raymond away from Ellie.

At the Beale household, Bobby is once again cleaning and washing his hands and counting along. Unbeknown to him, Peter is watching from behind, as soon as Bobby realises his brother is watching, he stops his actions completely before his Nan shows herself in the kitchen. Poor Kathy is still feeling humiliated, but to lift her spirits both Peter and Bobby compliment her, informing her that she's very pretty and that anyone would be lucky to have her. (Which I happen to agree!) Bobby then promises to head out and fetch his Gran some painkillers, she is left feeling a lot more chirper as she limps back to the living room. God bless her, eh?! Also just then, Bobby leaves and it looks as if Peter is looking concerned for his younger brother, is he clicking on to what Bobby might be going through?

Meanwhile on the Square, Kush appears to be on the phone to someone, promising them to get money to them by Monday. Unfortunately the caller hangs up before they manage to come to an agreement, and what a surprise - Suki has overheard the conversation and asks the very rude question whether Kush is having money issues. But of course she's not acting as the concerned neighbour, no, she only wants to know because of the fact that they owe her rent. As Suki walks away, Kush sees Stacey approach with a carrier bag held out in front of her and reveals that someone actually posted a dead rat through her door. She believes it was Ruby, I mean, it would make sense right? Kush looks on in amazement as Stacey heads towards the Vic. Once inside, she finds Ruby sat a table and dumps the carrier bag with the dead rat inside in front of her. Ruby looks puzzled as Stacey reveals what it is before she starts throwing accusations at her. As Stacey starts to kick off on her ex-best friend, Martin steps in and informs his ex-wife that she hasn't got any proof! If Ruby didn't post the dead rat, then who did? Could someone from Stacey's past be out for revenge? Or is it someone on the Square holding a grudge?! For what? Who knows?!

On the side of the bar, Bobby has popped in to see Sharon, asking politely whether she has any jobs for him to do, but also being the kind-hearted boy that he is, just wants to make sure that she's okay. She reassures him that she's doing fine and he doesn't need to keep checking up on her, however as she says this to the teenager, she opens a box which has been delivered to her and as she looks inside, she freezes. The police have returned Dennis's belongings from the night on the boat.

At the Cafe, Habiba finds her sister and confronts her about not telling Ash to leave. Iqra, at the moment, is stuck playing "Piggy In The Middle" between her girlfriend and her sister. She simply can't ask her girlfriend to leave just because her sister says so. But Habiba has had enough, she's still upset about Jags being sent to prison for 4 years for something he didn't do, and yet her sister isn't showing her any support. It's then she gives her sister an ultimatum, either Ash goes or she goes. It looks as if Iqra isn't taking her sister seriously, she basically ignores Habiba's ultimatum and carries on with what she's doing, leaving Habiba increasingly frustrated, angry and sad.

At the Minute Mart, Stacey bumps into Kush once again, I kind of loved the way she muttered to herself as she walked in how she was going to ram the dead rat down Ruby's throat! Brilliant! Typical Stacey Slater! As Kush asks her how her confrontation with Ruby went, she informs him that Ruby denied it was her who posted the dead vermin, but she doesn't believe a word she says! It's then when they chance subject that it gets interesting, Stacey asks Kush whether she could have the money back from what Kat paid for his stall, Kush says she can but unfortunately it won't be that day. Its then he confesses he's struggling financially at this moment in time ... (Could this be down to his gambling?) He admits to Stacey that someone is chasing him for money, however he wont tell her who. Is Kush in more trouble than we originally thought? Is this the reason he's turning to gambling, to perhaps pay back a debt of some kind?!

Back at the Café, Phil and Ritchie are discussing the possibility of Denise being involved in getting custody of Raymond. Ritchie admits it would be legal and it could be a path they could take, but will they be able to get Denise on their side?! She informs her client that Phil needs to play to Denise's song, approach the situation carefully, calmly and respectfully, otherwise if she says "No" their chance of getting Raymond back will be over. Meanwhile at the police station, DI Thompson is informing Callum that he's more desperate now than ever to get Phil Mitchell behind bars. He's wanting to make sure that Jack doesn't get to him before he does. When Callum questions why it matters who gets Phil, its then that DI Thompson happens to mention an old friend, an ex-copper who got involved with Phil and had her career ruined - please tell me you guys know who he's referring to - do you remember Kate?! I'm sure she was on some kind of mission to get Phil sent down, but over time they fell in love and she left her career as a policewoman and stood by Phil! ... She was such a brilliant character! In case you guys don't remember, here's a picture to jog your memory! (Kate Mitchell was played by Jill Halfpenny)!

Anyway, back to the episode in hand, DI Thompson continues to make Callum's career awkward as he warns him if he doesn't keep Jack quiet than Ben will most definitely be sent to prison! I feel sorry for Callum at the moment, it looks as if he's dug himself a too deeper and hole and he can't quite get out of it.

Meanwhile, at the salon, Jay is suggesting to Lola that they go out and spend a bit of time together, considering they haven't been able to see much of each other during lockdown. Lola makes the excuse that she's busy, but something is telling me is she perhaps falling out of love with Jay? Or is she still feeling guilty for cheating on him months back! It's been a long time since she had one night stand with Peter? As Jay disappears and she takes Honey to one side to get her hair done, it's then Honey informs Lola that she's incredibly lucky to have Jay. Jay has never been one to cheat, I mean I don't think he ever has, his two main love interests have been Abi and Lola, that's it as far as I'm aware. Anyway, as Honey is complimenting Lola's boyfriend, Lola is looking completely uncomfortable by the minute. Did she never tell Jay about her one night stand and has it been eating her up inside of her all this time?!

Back at the club, Dotty watches on in shock as Stacey enters and claims she's ready to give Ruby her first instalment of her money, the only thing is she has only gone and given it to her in pennies. She flings an entire bag full of pennies all over the table, she's sarcastic as she says that Ruby can count it to make sure it's all there. But Ruby is not impressed, its then that threats are started to be thrown between the two, Ruby threatens her friend that if she continues to play games, she'll make sure she's out of Walford by tonight! Stacey laughs at her threats and only digs in the knife in a little deeper as she claims that Martin will only go running back to her when he realises his kids have gone as well, even saying that Ruby will never understand because she isn't a mother and she's not going to start being one to her children, with that Stacey leaves, leaving Ruby in shock and Dotty asking whether she's going to allow Stacey to talk to her in that way, it's then Ruby states that she's not even started yet ... what the heck does that mean?!

Back at the Vic, Ian is shocked to find Bobby behind the bar serving alcohol, especially due to the fact that he's underage. He asks where Sharon has got to and Bobby reveals to his Dad about the package she received earlier, explaining that it was full of Dennis's belongings. Sharon asked Bobby to cover and she disappeared, as Bobby explains this to his Dad, Ian is looking so uncomfortable. Meanwhile at the police station, Callum is taking his chance to confront Jack - he decides to tread lightly and suggest that with all the children involved it could all get a little messy if Jack was to get Phil prosecuted. It's then that Jack informs him, in not so many polite words, that if he was going to dob Phil in and get him prosecuted, he would've done it by now! Basically giving Callum the answers that he wanted!

On the Square, Martin is calling at the Slaters to collect his children. This scene takes a very interesting turn, as Kush answers the door and discusses the whole rat situation with his friend, Martin is eager to keep his friend onside and make him believe that it wasn't his wife. Kush reassures his friend that he didn't think it was her, but when they begin to consider who could be responsible for doing such a thing, a figure in a dark hooded top walks past in the background behind Martin. Kush clicks on to the hooded figure and we see them turn as they enter the gardens ... who is this person and was the rat actually intended for Kush? If Kush has got himself in trouble, could this be who he owes money to?!

In the Vic, Lola catches up with Jay after taking him up on his offer to socialise together, she informs him that Honey has been singing his praises to her. Even though Lola is looking like she's about to tell Jay some bad news, she suggests to her boyfriend that they should move in together, it would be the first step in seeing each other more and also the next step in their relationship and future. Jay is shocked but yet over the moon with his girlfriend's suggestion. But is this really what Lola wants? Is she hiding something from Jay?!

Back on the Square, Iqra is shocked to see her sister walking up to a taxi with two huge suitcases. She really didn't take her sister seriously when it came to her ultimatum. She pleads for her Habiba to stay, she doesn't want to lose her sister or her girlfriend, how can she possibly make her choose? Habiba gives her sister one last chance, but she simply can't. As Habiba lifts her bags in the back of the taxi, Iqra pleads at how much she needs her sister, to which she replies "Jags needs me more!" - she jumps into her taxi and drives off, leaving Iqra heartbroken and leaving Walford. I didn't realise it until maybe later last night or early this morning, that this was actually Habiba leaving EastEnders for good. After nearly two years of playing Habiba Ahmed, Rukku Nahar has now left the soap ... which is a bit of shame, I did enjoy Habiba's character, however I feel they could've done so much more with her and perhaps gone a bit deeper. But nevertheless, the door has remained open for Habiba to return in the future, will you miss Habiba?! And what will this mean now for Iqra after her sister's warnings of the Panesar family?!

Back at the Slater household, Stacey is horrified to learn that Kush allowed Martin to take her children over to Ruby's club. She claims to everyone that Ruby is trying to take her children away from her. Kat and Kush are both trying to calm her down, but Stacey isn't having any of it, she goes upstairs to get herself changed out of her work clothes before heading over to the club. Meanwhile, Jack is back home and confiding in Denise about Callum approaching him earlier in the day. Denise is now worried that Jack hasn't been able to keep Phil at bay, worrying that he's now making threats after Jack warned him to stay away. As Jack tries his best to reassure his girlfriend that everything is going to be okay, they hear a knock at the door, Jack goes to answer and we can hear Phil at the front door claiming he wants to speak to Denise about Raymond, he insists that it's important and he's not going to leave until he gets to speak with her.

As daylight turns to night, Stacey has spruced herself up and is marching to the club. Suddenly the hooded figure that we saw earlier starts following her from behind. Stacey is oblivious to the unknown male following her. She reaches the club door and starts banging it to get Martin's attention, suddenly the hooded figure grabs her and attacks her violently, throwing her around like a piece of rubbish. Stacey is left badly shaken as she lies on the floor and the figure is stood above her as he takes a photo saying "If you want to play games, we'll play games!" - Has Ruby paid someone to attack Stacey? Or has this been a case of mistaken identity? Was this a warning for Kush possibly? Who knows? Will this hooded figure appear again?!

The final scene of tonight's episode is actually a brilliant one! At Jack and Denise's, Denise is stunned to hear what Phil is telling her. Shocked to hear the news about Ellie offering to sell Raymond to Phil! What makes it even better is Ritchie has also come along with Phil to prove that he is telling the truth, otherwise she wouldn't believe a word he was saying. But having someone who knows the ins and outs and back's Phil's news will also make Denise realise that her son is deep danger with Ellie. Phil informs her that Ellie was to blame for his parents death and the only way they can get Raymond away from her if she goes for full custody and Phil promises that he will pay for everything and be a silent partner and he'll help in any way he can to give his son a proper life with people who love him! I kind of hoped and knew that maybe Phil and Denise would join forces to get Raymond back!! I hope Denise will take Phil's word and start the fight for Raymond!

I apologise about this post being long and a bit late, I promise I will post another blog tomorrow following tonight's episode. With the way this one ended, I'm looking forward to seeing what happens next. I hope you all enjoy the rest of your evening and your weekend! Thanks again everyone! Love you all xXx

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oceanmastertrash · 6 years ago

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the tide knows our names- part 2

gif from @dcmultiverse

Summary: The reader is part of ancient council of Atlanteans known as Tidewatchers who can see/predict the future. As Arthur settles into being king, You get a powerful vision of an attempt on Orm’s life.

Part: 2/?

Word Count: 1,770

Warnings: Not in this chapter.

chapter one / Read on Ao3

Author's Note: I did not expect to get this chapter out this quickly but it's lovely and I'm grateful for the inspiration! Also, thank you so much to those who replied, liked and reblogged! I honestly wasn't sure if anyone would read this, so that was very encouraging. Hope you enjoy this chapter even more! I'm obviously setting things up but I had fun digging more into the meat of the fic with this. And, most importantly, we get a certain dethroned King in this chapter so that's fun.

While your first instinct was to swim straight to the palace and demand an audience with the king, you calmed yourself of that nonsense. You’d had years of training in your craft and knew better than to immediately fly off the handles and cause a panic. While your vision had been immediate and clearer than most, you had learned the hard way that all portents could be misinterpreted and required due care.

So you sought the advice of some of the older Tidewatchers that you most trusted. You were no young guppy in age or experience but the council had been at this for decades, passing down the knowledge and patterns of countless generations. Something in you screamed at the delay but it was the right call, a cautious call, perhaps, but the right one.

The elders sat with you through another Watching but all you got for your trouble was a clearer image of the blade as it stabbed Prince Orm. And that was quickly covered in blood. No insight into the assailant or when the attack occurred. You and the elders led a brief but vigorous deliberation of all angles of your vision before finally, and at last a message was sent to Vulko, who arranged a royal audience and at last you were on your way.

It's not that you were nervous per say, you knew this had to be done as this had been the duty of Tidewatchers for centuries before you to inform the king of threats and relevant patterns. ...but you couldn’t exactly say you were excited that your first official meeting with the new king would boil down to you telling him someone was going to kill his brother. Oh and also you had no idea who the attacker was or when this assault would happen. You knew the how all too clearly but that would hardly help much in the immediate future other than telling him that it had definitely happened in the palace. The others ultimately ruled that, given the vibrancy of your vision that it would be sooner rather than later, but even that could be wrong. The art of Tidewatching was nothing if not the art of weaving sense out of running water.

So there you were, heading to a royal appointment with a vision of doom. You did your best not to let your worry show as you entered the palace. You’d been many times over the years in your training and duties as a Tidewatcher but this was the first time you’d been on your own. It was not, however your first time presenting a portent to royalty. Though your first encounter was not the sort to do much to bolster any confidence on how this sight shall be received.

You were greeted by a footman who then escorted you through the various hallways to where King Arthur would be receiving you. You couldn’t help but scan the areas you swam through. So many of the hallways looked alike and yet you couldn’t help but hope that one of the passages would light up in bioluminescence as if to say “ THIS IS THE ONE ”. but of course none of them did and you soon found yourself in a small audience chamber with the King of Atlantis and his much presumed future Queen. The footman bowed deeply to the party before leaving and shutting the door being him. You bowed and while Mera gave a graceful nod in reply, a muscle twitched in Arthur's face that signified his discomfort with the gesture. You straightened wiothout commenting but instead filed it away.

“My King-” you began but he cut you off.

“Since it’s just us, can we just stick with Arthur?” he said.

Mera sighed in a resigned sort of way before smiling kindly at you.

He ignored her and continued, “Please, sit down.”

“Alright, Arthur, “ you acquiesced, sitting across from their sofa on one of your own. This was certainly not how your last encounter with royalty had gone. “My name is Y/N.”

“Yes…” he began, as if searching for what to say, “You’re one of the Tide Pods?”

It took so much effort not to snort at your new king as Mera gently corrected him, “Of the Tidewatchers.”

Arthur took it in stride and just barrelled on, “And you guys can see the future, right?”

You gave a small smile, “Simplistically yes, but technically no.”

Mera looked like she might step in and explain things but Arthur fixed you with this interested look. “How would you explain it then?”

“We see patterns and interpret them,” you said, which was the perfunctory, textbook answer but you knew he needed more than that. If you’d learned anything about your calling it was that before you could really get into the meat of answering that question, you had to first lay down the basics. “We have spent hundreds of years watching the tides of time and studying the flow of events. When Atlantis sank beneath the sea, we as a people were devastated. My people wanted to find a way to keep such a cataclysm from happening again. The ocean spoke to us and my people listened. We learned to read the signs. Things are seldom clear cut or simple, most of the time it is like reading an ancient text and trying to figure out the translation that makes best sense within the context.”

He looked truly interested in this explanation, he may not understand it but you thought it counted for a lot that he was at least engaged in trying. The same could certainly not be said of all kings.

He paused, taking a beat to really absorb before asking, “Okay… but Vulko said something about you having a vision.”

You smiled. He was a quick one, and one you had more than a feeling would make a great king, “He did. And notice I said most of the time. Sometimes the ocean speaks up. It still doesn’t always speak clearly but sometimes it really wants to make sure you get the message.”

He smirked like he found your phrasing amusing but he was willing to follow the metaphor, “And what did the ocean say to you?”

He had done such a good job at getting you rolling and in the flow that for a minute you forgot what you were there for. You paused, trying to figure out how to phrase it, but, before you could find the right words, there was a commotion outside the door.

And then there, entering the room, was King Orm- Prince Orm- you had to correct yourself, yet there was still something so very kingly about his countenance that it was hard to look away from.Vulko entered behind him and you noticed at least two escorts behind them but when Vulko shut the door, they remained outside.

“I apologize for our tardiness, my king, we came as swift as we could.” Vulko said as he and Orm walked to the other receiving couch. Vulko gave Mera and Arthur a deep bow, but Orm gave them a smaller one with a very careful amount of deference. You could tell it was hard for him but he did his best not to show it.

If Arthur was perturbed by their being late, not an ounce of it showed in his countenance. “It’s alright, glad you made it.

Prince Orm was a tall man, and an imposing presence to be in the same room with. That’s not to say that Arthur was neither of these things but while the current King was built like a mountain and wielded the power to move the ocean, he had something of a less closed off air to him. Arthur was arguably more approachable, but that was perhaps just the setting. You had no doubts that in battle or on the throne Arthur could scare even the bravest warriors witless but he was more at ease with just you few in company. While Orm did not look like he was marching into battle, he did not look quite at ease. He was far more guarded.

You, meanwhile, were caught off guard. You quickly stood and bowed. Orm paused for a fraction of a second, as he regarded you. Something battled in his face for the briefest glimmer, it was only through your skills in the ways of Tidewatching that you could almost recognize a trace of both surprise, regret, and gratitude. Then the flash was gone and his steel composure returned.

“Your grace,” you said quickly.

He gave you a small nod in acknowledgement, “Y/N.”

All of the nerves you’d had before entering the palace had returned in spades. This was not what you were expecting at all. A sit down with the king to share your grisly vision was one thing but to come face to face with the subject of your ill tidings was not something you were remotely prepared for. You finally managed to get out “I was not expecting you.”

“Apologies,” Mera interjected, “Your message to Vulko said it that your needed to speak to us and Prince Orm.”

You fought so so hard to not cringe. You’d meant about Orm, not with Orm. You knew you should have crafted that message yourself. But given the urgency in matters, you’d trusted your Tidewatcher sister A’bree to see it through. And for that delegation, apparently a word was misplaced or perhaps misinterpreted and now here you were. There was no sense in going back now or beating around the bush.

It was always said that the Prince was shrewd and he proved true to his reputation in sensing your hesitancy for he said, “My presence is not needed I take it.”

He was being tactful, and trying to not take it personally but you could see how it goaded at him, to be excluded from something of importance: to be summoned and then dismissed with little thought. It would certainly rile you too.

And without allowing yourself to second guess yourself any further, you spoke out as he started back to the door, “No- stay.”He stilled instantly there was half a beat of utter silence before you remembered your court manners and said, “my prince. You should hear this.”

This was not going to be easy for anyone but there was no point in excluding him simply to make things easier on yourself.

You could see an exchanged look between Mera and Arthur as Orm carefully sat beside Vulko. You, however, returned to sit at the edge of your seat, back perfectly straight as you prepared yourself for what you must say.

You almost expected Arthur to pick your conversation up where you’d left it but he had a deeper gravity to him than he did a moment before and seemed unsure what perhaps a king might do next.

Orm had no such hesitations, he could sense something, he’d picked up on it the moment he’d entered the room and was ready to meet it. “What did you see, Y/N?”

You took a breath and met his eyes, his haunting ocean eyes, “Your death, my Prince.”

A/N: I'm definitely looking forward to exploring this story more as we get more into the plotty bits but I've had so much fun figuring out how the Tidewatcher stuff works. Also it should be stated that Orm was originally not going to appear this chapter but then I said "it's my fic, I can introduce him when I want" so here we go. If you are interested or wanna see where we go, please reply, message, and like! Support really means a lot to me.

#king orm #king orm x reader #king orm x you #orm x reader #orm marius #oceanmastertrash #the tide knows our names #the tidewatcher #the tidewatcher and the exiled king #tidewatcher #aquaman 2018

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lothirielswanmarvel · 5 years ago

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Dinner with the Avengers (and a Turtle)

The clang of iron against wood smacked my ears sharply. Shouts arose in the distance–some out of fear, others were battlecries. A plethora of smells attacked me at the same time in a merciless cycle. I was doing what many would dream to do, but few would dare to accomplish.

Sit at the dinner table with the Avengers.

"Let us feast!" Thor boomed, holding his fork high before it dived into the mountain of lasagna on his plate.

"Wait!" Steve Rogers stared down everyone, mentally breaking our resolve and making us set our utensils down. He reached out to Tony on one side, and Natasha on the other.

"We have to say grace first." He said.

Tony snorted and rolled his eyes, but a sharp kick from Pepper under the table made him take Captain Steroid's hand. Natasha joined hands with Clint, and Bruce, who came in late from the lab and could take the last seat available, was seated next to Thor. We all knew the terror of this position: anyone who sat close to Thor was bound to be peddled in crumbs and stains, along with being scarred for life.

"Bless this food and the hands that prepared it," I peeped open an eye to catch Pepper's smirk, and Thor's excitedness that he made edible human food (not really, Pepper kept him away from the dishes...all of them).

"Many thanks for the meal and company, especially our new friend, Sam."

Sam Wilson, who also contributed to making the heap of lasagna, sat a few seats away from me. I didn't know much about him except that, like Rhodey, he was also from the military. The two were sitting next to each other now, itching to exchange their war stories.

Tony sighed as Steve continued, "What a blessing to come together today. Our thoughts are with Clint as he battles his coffee addiction–"

"And by battling, you mean giving up and living at Starbucks." Clint mumbled, silenced by a nudge from Natasha's arm.

"–And with Bruce, who has survived another day in Tony's lab. Our thoughts are with everyone else as they go through another day in the twenty-first century–by the way, God, the forties were better–may everyone be blessed and filled with happiness."

"You're forgetting someone." Steve opened his eyes for the first time since he started speaking. Bruce gave him a knowing look.

"Come on, he deserves some recognition!"

"Fine." Steve shut his eyes again, and angled his face towards the ceiling. "Our thoughts are also with Bruce's new turtle, who left the dog park to join this circus."

All eyes fell on Bruce, who was holding Thor's hand in one fist and a squirming-green glob in the other. It was Bruce's new companion after a crazy day at the park running from soccer moms. The turtle hadn't been around for long, but Bruce already had plans to make him mascot of the Science Bros cult.

"He had to!" Bruce replied defensively, acknowledging the green-shelled tortoise in front of him. "There was a duck uprising at the park! And the soccer moms were chasing after me for fresh meat!"

"Bruce! Respect your elders!" Steve remarked. He regained his composure, and finished the prayer, "Jesus give me–us!–strength...Amen."

"Amen." Tony the Atheist rolled his eyes in disgust. Thor was amazed by this new custom, at least until he found out it was for another totally different God other than himself.

The mountain of lasagna was eagerly passed around as Thor boasted about his newfound cooking skills. Bruce edged away from the Asgardian right next to him, sacrificing his salad bowl to his turtle.

"The art of Midgardian cooking holds my interest!" Thor declared. "And after assisting Lady Pepper with the main dish, I had time to prepare an Asgardian delicacy for my dear friends!"

Pepper's eyes widened with fear, but she kept her composure. "T-Thor, that's okay. Really, we made tons of food, we can save it for later–"

"I shall bring it forth!" For the first time ever, Thor ran away from a full plate of food for something presumably less edible and more terrifying. There were some panicked glances shared around the room before Sam spoke up.

"You guys have an amazing pad, here." He replied before taking a bite of a breadstick.

Pepper's frigid demeanour vanished. "Thank you so much, Sam! We're happy you could visit us–Steve has told us a lot about you."

"All good, I'm hopin'." Sam replied.

"The best," I spoke up before digging into mouth-watering crimson sauce dotted with spicy herbs. "I heard you're a fan of Marvin Gaye."

"Yes ma'am." He said with a dashing smile I'm sure he learned from Steve himself–that's probably where his manners came from, too. "You're interested in him?"

"Well, I hear it from Tony's bedroom a lot, so I kinda have to." I replied.

Pepper nearly choked on a forkful of lasagna as Natasha shot Tony a dark glare. Clint covered his face with a napkin, snickering underneath the beige veil.

"Are you into Bell Biv Devoe too?"

"Yeah! Steve, why have you been hogging this person all to yourself?"

"And the Commodores?"

"Are you trying to make me fangirl, Y/N?" Sam wiggled his eyebrows at me, his massive arms folded on the table.

"Michael Jackson!" I grinned.

"You're killing me!"

"Do you think that's a good name for him?" Bruce replied.

We all looked at him. "Who?"

Bruce pointed at his turtle, who was nudging a part of the pasta with its nose. "My turtle. I don't know, Michael Jackson is too snazzy–I want to name him after a periodic element!"

At the mention of science, Tony became invested in the conversation. I watched the new entertainment with amusement as I took a bite of the lasagna. Pepper and Sam had done a marvelous job; the mix of gooey parmesan, the soft texture of noodles, and more invaded my mouth as a welcome intruder.

"Does he look like a Seaborgium?" Bruce picked up the squirming turtle who was playing with it's meal and held him right in front of his face, nose to nose. "Maybe we can call him Rubidium and nickname him Ruby?"

"How's Cobalt sound?" Pepper suggested.

"That's pretty cool," Bruce shrugged, and propped up his turtle on his silverware. "Any others, though?"

Natasha patted her perfect crimson lips dry on her napkin. "Boron?"

"Eh, Tony would nickname him 'moron'–don't act like that's not true, Tony."

"Germanium?"

"Steve would hate him, and Tony would call him Hitler."

"Seriously, Bruce?!"

"Yes I am, Tony."

"Bismuth?" Pepper replied, nibbling on her salad.

"That sounds like meth, Pepper." I said.

She gagged on her food, once again striking Tony's shin under the circular table. The great Iron Man squealed and withered under Pepper's scowl.

"She's right. Tony would think that way." Bruce looked down at his tortoise, disappointed.

"But you're not supposed to." Nat's eyes burned deep into my soul across the table. I shivered and sunk low in my seat, trying to hide under the white tablecloth.

"I can't name him Rhodium. There can only be one." Bruce glanced up at Rhodey.

"How about Xenon?" Tony finally offered, leaning over the table to offer the turtle his entire bowl of salad. Pepper slapped his arm.

"Ouch!"

"Eat your vegetables, Tony!"

"But mom!"

"Now!"

"It's cuter in the bedroom..." Tony muttered, making my face turn red as I was scarred for life. That was one thing Marvin Gaye couldn't keep me from.

"Eh, I don't want to name him after a noble gas." Bruce watched as his little friend scurried over to a spare piece of lettuce that had fallen out of Tony's bowl and started to devour it.

"I HAVE RETURNED, MY FRIENDS!"

We all instinctively flinched at Thor's voice, but that wasn't the worst part. My nose wrinkled as another smell wafted into the room, mixing horribly with the spicy herbs of the lasagna. It was a pungent smell...and it was advancing towards the table.

Thor dropped a dish of nightmares on the table, it's true monstrous form hidden under a cloak of tin foil. That didn't stop tons of tiny flies from scurrying over it.

Bruce clutched his turtle to his chest defensively. "Holy cannoli...is that Tony's offspring?"

Tony snapped, "Ha ha. I'll have you know that I am civilized in the lab, Bruce."

"I'm in there with you, Tony-Macaroni. Nothing comes out of there alive again."

"You do!"

"I lost my soul the first time I went in there!"

"Is that because I stole your heart, Brucie?"

Thor beamed down at his disgusting Frankenstein. It's face hadn't even been revealed, and my stomach was ready to run away and leave me behind to rot. I wouldn't blame it, personally.

"Who would like to try it first?" Thor studied the pale faces of the people sitting at the table. "Ms. Potts, would you like to–"

"No thank you! I'm a vegan." Pepper quickly stuttered.

"Starting when?" Tony remarked.

"Starting now."

"Perhaps our new guest should have the honors." Thor turned to Sam, who I pitied more than ever.

I could see the fear in his eyes. Clint, being a fellow bird, stretched out a wing towards a feather in need, "You know what, man? Food is lame. Like, who needs it, anyway? I just live off of dust...and dirt...and Natasha's scraps."

Natasha sipped a wine glass that I knew was vodka. She nodded afterwards. To my surprise, she didn't show any reaction yet to Thor's death plate. Maybe it was all the alcohol–she needed a lot to deal with Tony, so everything was probably a blur to her.

Thor gasped when he laid eyes on Bruce's new pet. He bellowed, "What is this mighty creature?"

"He's my friend," Bruce held it closer to his chest, "I found him at the dog park. He survived the duck uprising."

"Maybe we should call him Thorium," Rhodey said thoughtfully. "Especially if that means our lives are spared from not dying at this dinner table."

Thor grinned at the turtle. "If you do not wish to taste my feast prepared, perhaps I can cook it for you! I can roast it in Clint's coffee for extra zest!"

Everyone at the table shot Thor terrified looks.

"You're not cooking my friend!" Bruce remarked, scooting his chair away from Thor. The sudden movement made the layer of bugs on Thor's platter shift. The insides of my stomach swirled with waves of nausea. I wasn't hungry anymore.

"And you are not wasting my coffee!" Clint stated firmly. I took a closer look at Clint and, loan behold, there was a Starbucks cup underneath the table near him. Steve would kill him later.

"That's a no on Thorium..." Tony uttered. Pepper was too petrified of the dish on the table to snap at him.

That turtle is in for bad luck: being roasted by Thor, forced to endure the torture of being the Science Bros mascot–

Science Bros.

Bros.

"Bromine." I said. "Bromine sounds cool...if you like it."

The turtle squirmed in Bruce's hands, and he took it as a sign. Bruce stared at the little guy, almost asking for permission. "Bromine...I like that. Bro-Bro is the coolest!"

"I deem thee Bromine Bruceson, worthy of living under the roof of the Avengers!" Thor cheered.

"This was much more interesting than a night of Netflix 'n Chill." Sam replied.

#wait until they reach dessert #marvel #avengers #natasha romanoff #bruce banner #tony stark #james rhodes #sam wilson #thor #steve rogers #pepper potts #clint barton

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kiruuuuu · 6 years ago

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More recruitverse in which Ivan is actually nice! (Rating T, nothing but fluff, ~2.2k words) - written for @nutbrain because you inspire, encourage and support all those around you 💙💙

Ivan Ivanovic has been called blind countless times throughout his life, sometimes a variation like deaf or stupid, usually in relation to perceived obliviousness. He’s neither of the three yet sees no trouble in letting others believe he is – after all, their assumptions about him reveal more about their personalities than his.

He learnt early on that some of the facts taught to children in good faith are nothing but propaganda, a desirable yet unattainable outcome, merely a way to try and manipulate them into ‘goodness’. He’s unable to help everyone so he doesn’t, reduces the situations in which he could help to a simple cost and reward deliberation: when he notices Shay (who quite clearly has his heart in the right place even if his head isn’t on straight) hanging around with the wrong people, he doesn’t interfere; when Jojo gets bullied for something over which he has no control, he stays away; when Valenti becomes a regular scapegoat since he wants to fit in so badly he’d rather take the blame, he doesn’t speak up; and when Gian is alienated and called elitist behind his back because he refuses to partake in activities he feels are unfair to others, he ignores it. None of these scenarios were worth his meddling.

But he also got told that others would come to his aid. That humanity is inherently good. And while he remains conflicted on this notion, he must secretly believe it true or else he wouldn’t be fighting for them. Even so, he remembers digging his own grave by allowing everyone around him to share his happiness, the life he was building with her, and in the process undermined his own credibility. Because when he started telling others of her worrying behaviour, they waved it off. She was so nice, wasn’t she? He was lucky to have her, who cared if she wanted to go through his phone? He shouldn’t have anything to hide, right? And if he did, it was his own fault. And so, eventually no help came. Because he’d been happy so far, hadn’t he? He knew what she was like, and he was probably exaggerating anyway. He shouldn’t throw away years of happiness after one off day, everyone has those, she’s been under a lot of stress recently, right? No? Well, there must’ve been a reason and the reason can’t have been anything other than him.

And then Jojo wouldn’t go away, and he brought three others with him. And Gian listened with more compassion than any of Ivan’s friends and family had done. And Shay treated him as if they’d known each other since they were kids. And Valenti, who normally doubted all his achievements and frequently demanded proof, defended him viciously the moment someone outside of their group did it.

Helping anyone became a lot easier with these four idiots as pay-off.

So no, Ivan isn’t blind. He’d even call himself unusually perceptive, though he doesn’t often act on it which, he assumes, is the reason why his awareness gets insulted, and he doesn’t act on it as it oftentimes requires him to go out of his way for someone who generally isn’t worth his time or effort. But sometimes, the opposite is true.

“I got propositioned just now!”, Jojo announces sarcastically proud as soon as he’s breezed into their room, hair still wet from his shower and already wearing clothes fit for sleep.

“Did you reactivate your Grindr account?”, Gian wants to know, being quite aware of the fact that Jojo proclaimed never to use the app ever again, but seeing as it was the third outburst he’s had over it since they’ve known each other, none of them took him seriously. Gian and Valenti only just came back as well from some form of punishment outside, meaning they’re both shivering and dancing on the spot to warm up faster.

Ivan’s arms remember the feel of the Frenchman’s body between them and remind him sharply. He regrets the hug they shared, the entire odd moment really because it leaves him no peace. He thinks back to it at least three times a day and has since tried to stay away from Valenti – and if his presence is unavoidable, then he at least hasn’t touched him again.

“Fuck no, I’d rather rim the devil than go back to that endless void of horny middle-aged creeps.”

“Sounds like you have solid target group at least”, Ivan offers as half-hearted comfort and gets shown a finger in return.

“Tell us, Jojo, who was dumb enough to hit on you while you’re in a mood this rotten?”, Valenti joins their conversation, trying to rub some feeling back into his hands.

“My mood was perfectly fine before that douchenozzle macho fuckboy opened his stupid mouth.”

“Please, your mood has been rotten for days now.”

“That’s not bloody true, why would -”

Wordlessly, they all glance at Shay who’s stretched out on his top bunk, phone in hand and texting away blissfully with a smile on his face. He hasn’t even welcomed Jojo back, let alone acknowledged any of them since he’s started talking to Brittany half an hour ago. By now, even Thatcher must be aware of what’s going on yet the Irishman in their middle remains unsuspecting. He would deserve to be called blind.

“Anyway”, Jojo continues and they all seem relieved at him picking up the thread of the conversation once more, “I ran into Jacob Griffin-Worthington, and as the laws of nature dictate, with a name like Jacob Griffin-Worthington, he had no choice but to be a giant arsehole. So there I was, minding my own business, when Jacob Griffin-Worthington appeared out of nowhere and wanted to know how my love life was going. And I told him it was fantastic, I literally can’t stop sucking dick every free minute I have, so Jacob Griffin-Worthington -”

“I swear, if you say his full name one more time I’m going to tell him you’re crushing on him”, Valenti groans, much to Ivan’s amusement. There’s no love lost between Jacob and any of them.

“- so he who shall not be named suggested I kiss his ass in case my mouth would ever become available again and I said before I voluntarily touch any part of his body, I’d rather -”

Shay produces an odd sound, almost like choking, and this time he notices holding all their attention, looking both flustered and thrilled. “What? It’s nothing. Keep talking.”

“Are you alright?”, Jojo asks, concerned, because as much as he’s pissed off with his best friend for everybody to see, they’re still best friends.

“Yeah, it’s just – Brit just -” He trails off, looks at his phone screen again briefly and cradles it against his chest once more. “No, it’s fine. What were you talking about?”

“Did she send a nude?” Valenti must’ve noticed Shay’s bright red ears.

“Well, not quite, but – almost. She’s so pretty.” Another glance. The red darkens. “Jojo, do you want to see? I’m only showing Jojo, before you ask, everything else would be weird.”

“It’s weird enough showing me”, Jojo murmurs and rolls his eyes, “but alright. Let’s see the goods.”

And while the two stick their heads together to marvel at Shay’s girlfriend at the one end of the room, Valenti and Gian exchange a few exasperated looks at the other. For the moment, Ivan returns to tapping away at his phone, learning all about castling while simultaneously keeping his ears open for fragments of conversations in case anything interesting comes up again.

“Did you not own a scarf?”, Gian addresses Valenti questioningly.

“Ah, curses, you’re right. If it’s gone, Bandit must’ve taken it. I’m telling you, we need to take him down, truce or not, he offered me another brownie the other day and I bet it wasn’t a normal one.”

“Perhaps we could try to endeavour not to instigate trouble for which we suffer the same consequences as Bandit does for his pranks.”

“So what you’re saying is: we shouldn’t get caught again.”

Gian’s deep sigh doesn’t cover up Shay’s quiet ‘you smell nice’ to Jojo and if Ivan wasn’t already busy googling something all of a sudden, he’d attempt to send Jojo some telepathic sympathy.

Getting away from the others isn’t difficult for Ivan, he merely needs to threaten with additional exercise and they drop out, and even on the occasions Valenti doesn’t, he can tire him out easily and then sneak away while the Frenchman is busy trying to breathe. He rarely makes use of this way to distance himself, yet sometimes needs a bit of time alone without having to justify himself and sometimes just so he can browse the shops in town. Wholly being in charge of his own income is a relatively new concept to him and so he makes a few purchases just because he can. He knows Valenti caught a look at some of his animal socks at some point and watching him struggle with himself about whether or not he should bring them up was extremely entertaining.

In this case, he makes a trip to buy something specific and then pretends to go for a late run that same evening, instead seeking out the only operator in Rainbow of whom he’s certain to receive assistance.

“You’re a recruit, no?”, Zofia asks him as soon as he’s gotten her attention.

“Yes. Ivan Ivanovic. I need your help.”

Admitting it to her is daunting. She possesses a strong presence as well as confidence and reminds him of two women in his life, none of whom he’d like to ever meet again. But where they abused their power over him, Zofia listens to his request willingly, asks a few questions and eventually agrees with a kind smile. Most operators neither have the time nor the patience to deal with any of the recruits’ problems, not even necessarily out of malice – Ivan understands it all too well and therefore doesn’t hold it against them, but it means he appreciates what Zofia’s doing even more. She wants to know why he came to her specifically and laughs when he reveals she just seems the right person for the job, like someone who has the skills he requires.

She goes out of her way to teach him, inspects his work readily and even meets with him secretly during the day for more encouragement. He vows to find out more about her interests so he can pay her back accordingly, but for the moment he’s busy with other things.

“Sounds like we’re meeting her tomorrow”, Jojo says over his shoulder as he enters and Ivan makes a conscious effort to arrange his expression into something neutral so he doesn’t give anything away. “Hey, Ivanko, have you heard? Shay wants us to meet his beautiful girlfriend with the differently-sized tits tomorrow.”

“Be nice to her”, Valenti warns him as they swarm out and gather a few supplies in preparation of going out again. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t mention her boobs.”

“Or what, Gian’s going to write me a very stern letter? If she’s a bitch, I’m gonna fling shit back at her. Not that Shay would ever be interested in a bitch, but just in case.”

“Well, he’s friends with you”, comes the mumbled answer which startles a chuckle out of Ivan. Valenti shoots him a quick smile before finally taking notice of the object lying on the blanket of his top bunk. “Oh, what is this?”

“The last fucking thread holding my patience together”, Jojo grumbles in response but looks over nonetheless, squints at the fabric Valenti picks up. Rich dark red is cascading over his hands and nearly reaches the floor on both sides, the material soft yet thick wool. “Looks like a scarf.”

“I recently lost mine, but – Ivan, was this here when you came in?”

He’s hesitant to make eye contact in case he gives himself away but needn’t have worried as Valenti’s attention is still focused on the cloth he’s holding. “Yes”, he says simply.

“Huh. Then I have no idea where it came from. You didn’t buy this for me, did you, Jojo?”

“I would’ve gotten you something more stylish and you know it. Maybe in purple.”

“But this is my favourite colour. I think only Gian knows it is, but I don’t think he can knit. It looks hand-made.”

“Yeah, whatever, just put it on and quit whining about the cold. Do we have everything? Ivanko, you want to watch us ruin our complexion by planting face-first in the snow with our improvised sleighs?”

“Always.” He closes the game app and gets up to put his jacket on, trying not to let his satisfaction show upon seeing Valenti wrapping himself in the scarf with a content expression.

“It’s really warm”, he announces and sinks deeper into the several layers, “and it smells good. Forget whoever might’ve lost it, it’s mine now. Let’s go.”

And while the two lead, rekindling the discussion about Shay’s girlfriend, Ivan follows them with a smile.

#rainbow six siege #recruitverse #ivan/valenti #even if it's light it's there!#fanfic #all the torture jojo has to go through #shay would probably ask him to help send a visual reply #iykwim #also valenti would never suspect ivan #he's not even on the list of suspects

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shimmersing · 6 years ago

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Something Better

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Chapter 5: Power Restored

Erithon and Aitahea hung back briefly while the ragged band of researchers and slicers took up positions just at the edge of camp, familiarizing themselves with the dark hallway they would soon be traversing. The trooper watched with interest as they ranged out, their motions hesitant but determined.

He glanced back over his shoulder to Aitahea. “How are they?”

Aitahea leveled an austere smile at him. “You mean can they make it through?” Erithon grimaced but nodded. “I believe they can. They’re exhausted, but they want to move forward. This data is more precious to them than anyone. They’re dedicated to this mission.”

Erithon felt pride swelling in his chest. Childress can take his ‘desk jockey’ assessment and shove it where the stars don’t shine, he thought. These were the kind of Republic patriots he believed in, the kind he wanted next to him in the field.

“Glad to hear it, Master Jedi. Let’s move out.”

The consular smiled to herself as Erithon turned away. She would never have expected an assignment accompanying a member of the Republic military to be so inspiring. Childress is underestimating his people, she thought with a surge of approval. Perhaps I need to reassess my feelings as well.

While the Jedi Order and the Republic military coordinated their efforts when needed, there was typically no love lost between the organizations. The Sith had seen to that more than a decade ago. After the treaty, the Jedi’s focus had turned inward, to healing and reestablishing their numbers, as well as reinvigorating their tenuous relationship with the galaxy as a whole.

Once again she found herself thinking of that night on Coruscant, cowering and shaking in her father’s arms as the Sacking raged on around the city. She had been safe, but as the spark of each life was extinguished, each voice silenced… She’d done everything to conceal her bond with the Force, burying herself in her own terror and pain while the universe shattered around her. When it had finally stopped, when the blockade had been lifted, she’d felt hollow.

The Jedi that came for Aitahea told her parents they almost hadn’t found her, she’d shrouded her power so deeply, banked in the ashes of Coruscant. She was grateful to find that some Jedi had survived, but those few couldn’t fill the void left by her master and clan, couldn’t soothe the wound carved there by the Sith. Only time would do that, and never completely.

Aitahea shook her head, redirecting her thoughts back to the present. There would be time to muse on her memories later, maybe even time to ask the lieutenant some of her own questions.

Their footsteps echoed sharply in the menacing silence.

Erithon was on point, Aitahea covering him while Karlsu brought up the rear, behind the researchers. He halted them just before the dangerous junction to the ship’s interior, the first generator access terminal only yards away. Aitahea hovered at his shoulder, head tilted to the side.

“What is it?”

The Jedi hesitated, eyes flickering to shadowed corners. “There’s been significant movement outside the ship. I couldn’t pinpoint them while we were occupied with the research team but-”

Aitahea whirled with astonishing speed, saber suddenly alight and repelling a volley of blaster bolts that screamed without warning from the shadows above. Erithon jolted into action, sweeping the rafters to find the scavengers dropping from overhead. Aitahea kept their fire off him as he began to pick them off, green blade a halo of light around him, redirecting blaster bolts into the floor and walls. She seemed able to judge where he needed to aim and gave him a clear path to his targets, making every motion with gentle precision, the embodiment of restraint and simplicity. It wouldn’t be hard to get distracted just watching her.

“Damn, they’re between us and the generator access,” Erithon said between shots, squinting through the glare of smoke and fire. “If we can just push them back past the that hallway, we can restore power and pull the team through all at once.”

Aitahea nodded severely. “They will move,” she said, a near-whisper that he was surprised to hear over the hiss of cooling metal. “Brace yourself.”

Erithon complied immediately, digging in his heels as the Jedi extinguished her lightsaber and stalked forward. She stood poised between him and the scavengers.

The air went heavy and still, but once she was motionless Erithon swore he saw the hem of the Jedi’s robes shift and flutter. Even the scavengers paused in their assault, the foremost attacker taking a hesitant step back. The ambient noise in the room seemed to contract to a muted echo, then Aitahea flung her arms outward. In a breath she went from demure, robe-wrapped form to sheer force of nature, a wave of energy surging down the hall and into the unsuspecting pirates. Even with her warning, Erithon could feel a pressure that heaved at every particle in his body. His boots skidded in the dust and debris, sending him back a few inches.

The scavengers were less lucky. They bore the brunt of Aitahea’s powerful attack, tumbling away toward the alcove. While two scrambled for purchase, one fell and didn’t rise.

Aitahea ignited her lightsaber again and pointed it toward the few scavengers that remained upright. “Now, Lieutenant!”

Erithon hauled his cannon over his shoulder and sent volleys of shots into the rattled fighters. It was mere moments before they were down, the hum of Erithon’s cannon and Aitahea’s lightsaber the only sounds in the darkened hallway.

“Go!” Signaling the research team, Erithon nodded to Aitahea and moved toward the access panel. Aitahea was once again the serene Jedi, smiling gentle encouragement to the passing research team while Erithon restored power to the hallway. She hovered at his shoulder, the blade of her lightsaber wavering in time with her breathing.

The hallway lit up, power flickering through the long-abandoned systems. Erithon slammed the cover on the access panel shut and heard Aitahea heave a relieved sigh.

“One down, two to go.” Erithon smiled, giving the Jedi a roguish wink. “Ready for the next one?”

Aitahea blinked at the expression before returning a smile of her own, renewing her grip on her lightsaber with a nod. “Let’s go.”

“Primary systems are powered and coming online now, sir,” the Rodian confirmed after a few taps on her datapad, grinning up at Karlsu. “They did it!”

Erithon and Aitahea shared a relieved smile with the lieutenant and the slicer. They’d restored power to the second junction with no difficulties, and after a brief rest to recover their strength they had progressed to the final goal – the primary systems and database – without interruption.

“Just doing our job. The Jedi and I will take the perimeter while you work on that data.”

“We wouldn’t be here without you both,” Karlsu added.

“The Jedi way is to serve.” Aitahea offered a graceful bow to the research team before she turned back to Erithon. “Shall we?”

“After you, Master Jedi,” said Erithon, offering a simpler bow of his own to Aitahea as she passed.

The area was wide open, little cover to be found while they gave the research team needed space to work. Relying on Erithon for visual scouting, Aitahea let her physical senses fade into the background while her perception uncoiled through the Force. The Endar Spire was strangely shimmering with life, the centuries of invading flora and fauna having created a craft-shaped glow of energy.

“Something wrong, Jedi?”

Aitahea took a deep breath as she refocused her eyes on Erithon, blinking to clear her vision. “It’s just difficult to sense other life forms here. The Endar Spire has practically become a living thing itself after all these years.”

Erithon lifted a brow at the rusted metal and wan lighting. “It’s alive?”

“Not exactly, but the local vegetation and animal life have integrated into it so thoroughly it might as well be,” she replied, reaching to touch a trailing vine. “The Force flows through all life in the galaxy, leaving a signature and shape to those who can perceive it.”

“Oh.” The trooper chuckled and struck a pose, hands planted on his hips. “Well, how do I look?”

Aitahea placed her fingers over her lips to hide an amused smile, but after a thoughtful moment dropped her hand and inclined her head. “Confident. Certain. Eager. Proud. Brave.” She narrowed her eyes to playful accusation. “A little tired,” she teased.

“You left out brilliant and good-looking,” he replied with a wink, picking up their watchful progression again. “Must be strange to feel everything all the time like that.”

It took Erithon waving a hand for Aitahea to realize she’d lagged behind several steps, cheeks ablaze. She swallowed, trying to find her voice again. “Ah, well. Shielding myself from my surroundings has become second-nature; I rarely notice the effort any longer. When my Force-sensitivity first manifested it was terrifying.”

“I can’t even begin to guess what that was like. Especially for a kid.”

She pursed her lips. “I was bombarded by the feelings and thoughts of everyone around me. On Coruscant, it felt like being in the midst of a screaming crowd. My parents realized what was happening and contacted the Jedi Temple. They sent a master, and he shielded me.” She smiled at the intense memory, affection warming her eyes. “That’s when I joined the temple as an initiate. Master Faron protected me until I could maintain my own shielding and was no longer overwhelmed by the beings around me.”

Erithon gave her a sidelong glance. “So, your, uh, superpower… is reading minds?”

“Not precisely. I have a natural ability to sense moods and emotions, but I expend more effort in shielding myself from the same. Many Jedi learn these skills to a small extent; most can perceive living creatures through their energy signature in the Force. I can also observe and influence thoughts and feelings - reading minds, as you say - but it is generally only used with permission or in extraordinarily dire circumstances.

“I am not reading your mind, Lieutenant, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Erithon gave a self-conscious chuckle. “Yeah, I guess so. I don’t really know a lot about the Jedi, and I figure asking a stupid question is better than jumping to an even more stupid conclusion.”

They walked in silence for several moments, and Aitahea pulled in a deep breath before speaking. “Thank you. That’s a kindness I haven’t often been afforded.”

“You’re welcome. We have to-”

Erithon’s words were interrupted by the sound of an explosion from behind them, both whirling to see the research team diving for cover as a squad of pirate bore down on them. Karlsu was already firing, making a valiant but fruitless attempt to cut their cables before the ambush could reach the floor safely. The researchers responded valiantly, aiming their few blasters with gritted teeth and steely eyes.

The skirmish was quickly becoming a close quarters hand-to-hand brawl. Rushing back toward the terminal, Aitahea drew her lightsaber while Erithon fired the small sidearm he carried, unable to use the larger cannon without putting the research team at further risk.

Aitahea bit back a frustrated cry and reached deep into the Force, gathering her strength before placing an unseen hold on an unsuspecting pirate. He wailed in panic as Aitahea flicked her fingers, flinging him across the hall to bounce ungracefully against a rusted bulkhead. Behind her, Erithon whooped an incredulous laugh.

Suddenly breathless, Aitahea made to reach for another attacker. Her target moved too quickly, arm darting out in a blur toward the Rodian slicer before the Jedi could stop him.

A final shot came from over her shoulder and took down the pirate, but Aitahea was already moving, darting between blaster fire, arms open to catch the slicer as she slid to the floor, the hilt of a vibroblade jutting out from the woman’s body. “Don’t touch it, don’t pull!” she cried as the Rodian wrapped her hands around the hilt, large eyes wide with surprise.

“Jedi?” she squeaked, skin quickly losing color. Erithon and Karlsu were shouting coordinated instructions as shooting began to taper off. Aitahea tugged one glove off with her teeth while gingerly grasping the slicer’s wrist with her other hand, attempting to steady them both.

“I have you,” the Jedi murmured and hovered her bare hand near the wound. She curled her own body over the slicer’s, taking precious moments to assess the wound. It was jagged and vicious; the pirate had begun to turn the blade before being stopped by Erithon’s well placed fire. Several organs had been nicked and kolto wouldn’t be enough to stop the bleeding or repair the tissue damage in time. The Rodian seemed to relax into her grasp, but Aitahea bit down on her lower lip in frustration.

She clenched her bare hand into a fist before splaying her fingers wide over the other woman’s torso, closed her eyes, and opened herself into the blaze of the Force.

Everything went white.

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#swtor #fanfic #swtor fanfic #fanfiction #jedi consular #trooper #taris #endar spire #oc/oc #fic: something better #erithon/aitahea #luminous legacy

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ellanainthetardis · 6 years ago

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Here we are. On the penultimate chapter! I hope you enjoy it! It’s a long one so let me know your thoughts!

[FF] or [ao3]

Chapter 59 : The End Of An Era

Effie’s first fashion show was an immediate hit.

Haymitch sat in the first row and watched model after model strut down that catwalk, bored out of his mind and barely listening to Harwyn’s approving comments next to him. He had no idea what half the stylist said meant and he wasn’t particularly interested either.

He sat and watched the different designs he had seen several variations of invading the apartment during the last few days – because Effie was nothing if a work-alcoholic and had momentarily moved back to her city apartment for the few weeks before the show and Haymitch had followed after only a few days without her, disturbed by the strange loneliness he wasn’t accustomed to anymore.

By the time the last model walked down the aisle, wearing a wedding dress full of round angles and delicately crafted pink roses, everyone was standing and clapping. He hadn’t known wedding dresses traditionally finished the show and thus he was a second late in joining the applause but he didn’t refrain from letting out a whistle when Effie appeared from between the heavy velvet curtains and walked out from backstage with a compelling flush and a genuinely pleased smile.

She was radiant in her green dress and red wig. She was wearing the sapphire necklace and earrings he had offered her too – for good luck, she had said earlier – and when she took a small bow, applauses only increased. He saw her blue eyes darting to the empty chair next to her sister – a chair that had been reserved for her mother – and disappointment briefly flashed on her face. She soon plastered a bright grin on her lips though because cameras were rolling.

Her gaze settled on him next and he knew she was dying to jump in his arms, to share the moment with him, but he discreetly shook his head, smirking at her. This was supposed to be her moment and if they were photographed together, it would be all about them.

She was so over the moon he didn’t even resist her attempts at dragging him to the after-show party. She drank too much and was completely wasted by the end of the night. He was uncomfortable being the sober one but he figured she had earned a night to cut loose because she had worked herself raw for that fashion show.

She was all over him well before he had carried her back to her apartment, giggling into his neck all about how her life was perfect and she was so happy and how much she loved him… He felt a tinge of resentment but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because, while he was happy with her, his own life was far from perfect.

It was her night and he humored her though.

He even fetched different newspapers for her the next morning when she was too busy lying on the couch with a headache the size of District Seven.

“Read the columns for me.” she begged, curling up against the back of the couch, her glass of orange juice clutched to her chest like a shield. “I am too scared.”

He wasn’t sure what she was scared about because everyone had been pretty much unanimous the previous night about how well the whole show had gone but he cleared his throat and read all the same. Four out of seven newspapers were calling her the next Faun Harwyn, one was calling her innovative but not exceptional, another was more interested in her relationship with him and the last one had hated it all.

“Five good reviews out of seven are pretty good.” he told her when he saw her pout. “Can’t make everyone love you, sweetheart.”

It was very obvious to him it was a success.

Even if she kept second-guessing.

It was only when her assistant called with a summary of how many orders and requests for exclusive designs they had signed the previous night that she let herself believe she had really made it.

She wasn’t Twelve’s escort anymore, she was a recognized stylist.

He figured it helped made the transition a little smoother.

Still, when the day came to officially pass the title along, she was in a weird mood. Haymitch was all against attending the show but nobody asked his opinion on the matter. He was the Quell’s victor and he was in the city so he would have to attend – besides, Effie remarked, it would have looked odd if he hadn’t come to support her. So he was forced to get through a red carpet and sit in the middle of the audience and watch the ridiculous hypocrisy on stage.

They never had shows for departing or arriving escorts. They were usually announced a little before the next Reaping with fuss and pump but not with an official Games program to boost. That year, it was going to be a complete turnover though. No escort was staying in their position, either they had been promoted or they had declared they would retire – or had been forced to retire but none of them were stupid enough to say that out loud.

There was a short recap for every leaving escort, from their first Reaping to their last, quite a few anecdotes from Caesar and a lot of forced laughter on everyone’s part.

In Haymitch’s opinion, it was depressing.

He wasn’t friends with a lot of escorts, not to say the only one he really liked was Effie, but they were familiar faces. All the young people they called on stage to replace them had one thing in common: they all looked far too naïve. Most of them were current celebrities: singers, models, actresses…

Haymitch had to look away when Effie shook Alys’ hand and officially passed Twelve’s escort title over. Of course, then the camera panned on him and he forced a smirk and a wave but he didn’t think he managed to hide his bitterness very well.

It felt like the end of an era.

It was a relief to sneak backstage once the show was over. The mood was subdued. The former escorts were laughing together, trying to keep their spirits up but it was plain to see most of them were worn out. It had been that way since the Quell.

He found Effie chatting with Two’s former escort, the both of them sporting strained smiles and polite masks of indifference. He placed a hand at the small of her back to alert her to his presence, nodding once at Valeria. He was uncomfortable with her. Knowing that Brutus had been to her what he was to Effie made it awkward. When he looked at her, he saw who Effie could have been if he had died in the Quell and…

Not going there.

There was a party they couldn’t get out of, naturally, which meant another red carpet he could have done without. It was easier to bear when Effie’s hand was squeezing his but he hated the whole theatrics of being seen. He wasn’t in a good mood. He made an effort not to be too curt with fans because offending anyone wasn’t an option for him anymore but he wasn’t in a good mood.

There was no escaping the press. They were like bloodhounds, avid for the smallest gossip and ready to transform the most innocent sentence into something scandalous. He let Effie deal with them. She answered questions with her usual charm, cheerfully expressing her excitement for the next Games…

“And you, Haymitch? Are you excited?” the man asked, jutting his mic so close to Haymitch’s face he almost hit him in the nose.

He nudged it away with a snort. “What do you think?”

“It will be less stressful than last time.” Effie joked, looping her arm around his and very much digging her nails into his forearm. “Won’t it, darling?”

She batted innocent loving eyes at him but he read the warning in her gaze as clearly as if she had uttered it. He wasn’t the grumpy bitter victor anymore and he couldn’t afford that kind of mishap. Not with Effie’s, Peeta’s and Prim’s lives on the line. Not with all he had already done to prevent anything happening to them.

He forced himself to relax, a smirk stretching his lips. “Sure. No one’s coming at me this time around.”

They all laughed as if it was a good joke. Haymitch was already glancing at the doors of the grand hotel the party was taking place in, desperate for an escape, but the journalist clearly wasn’t done with them. “Do you think it will be weird for you to work with another escort? Effie has been with Twelve for a long time…”

“We shall not give numbers.” she teased.

“It’s gonna be an adjustment, yeah.” he nodded. The man seemed to expect something more so Haymitch shrugged. “I’m really proud of her, you know? She’s been the best escort and now she’s moving on to being the best stylist… That’s my girl. The overachiever.”

He nudged her and she shook her head at him, a smile tugging at her lips. “You are ridiculous.”

“You love it.” he accused.

“Perhaps I do.” she grinned.

He could almost hear people awing at them and he lifted an inquisitive eyebrow in the journalist’s direction. The man took the hint and thanked them for their time before hurrying to Three’s new escort.

“Are you really?” Effie hummed as they finally joined the party that was now in full swing. “Proud of me?”

“I’m only charming for the cameras, Princess.” he deadpanned.

She chuckled and dragged him to the dance floor. There were worse fates than dancing with her so he surrendered.

If one good thing had come out of the whole mess, it was being free not to hide anymore, not to calculate every move in fear of being discovered. He liked being able to hold her closer than propriety allowed, to whisper in her ear if he wanted to, to keep his hands on her at all times… Over all, he liked being perfectly entitled to growl possessively at sponsors and leering old men who thought they could take her for a spin.

The fact that his acting all possessive turned her on was a nice bonus.

It was the end of an era though.

On the eve of the following Reaping, he and Alys boarded a train to Twelve. It felt so… odd to leave Effie on the Capitol’s platform… She seemed equally at a loss. She kissed him hard one last time – even if they hadn’t really stopped kissing since that morning – and tugged on the lapels of his coat so they would fall properly before smoothing imaginary creases from the fabric.

“It is only two nights. We are being utterly silly.” she declared with a laugh that sounded painfully fake.

“Try pathetic.” he mocked and kissed her again. He didn’t let himself look back before climbing on the train. It was ridiculous. But they didn’t often spend nights apart anymore and never so far away from each other.

He shared a boring dinner with Alys who kept up the chatter just to keep the silence at bay, it seemed. She reminded him a little too much of Effie when she had first started and he tended to tune her out. He and Effie had already decided she would spend the duration of the Games in the apartment instead of making the half hour trip from and to their house every day. At least until Twelve was out of the Games. Then he would be free to move out of the penthouse. She had talked about inviting Peeta over for a few days but he wasn’t sure about that yet. They had agreed it would depend on how the Games went.

Useless to say, they went badly.

It was good to see the boy again. It had only been a few months but Peeta looked even more grown up than he had before the Tour. Things in Twelve really weren’t great, the kid told him before the whole thing started, and more often than not he was left to play buffer between the Mayor and the Head Peacekeeper. Haymitch felt guilty about not being there but one look at Thread told him it was probably for the best. Effie humiliating him hadn’t made the man any more partial to him than he used to be.

Alys reaped a fourteen year old girl and a sixteen year old boy.

The girl sobbed from the moment her name was called to the moment the train stopped in the Capitol, the boy had no fight in him, Peeta was too invested mainly because he knew the male tribute from school and their new escort was useless. Effie having left her position, there was alcohol on the train again and Haymitch was thoroughly tempted to get wasted.

He chain-smoked his whole cigarette packet instead.

The Parade was a disaster. Their new stylist hadn’t been stupid enough to leave them on a cart half naked – and wasn’t that a fond memory, Haymitch mused – but the miner outfits were too classical and boring. Overdone. The kids didn’t pique anyone’s interest.

“We have a shot.” Peeta kept insisting even though it was as far from the truth as possible.

These were his twenty-sixth Games and Haymitch could see it plain as day: those kids would never make it past the Cornucopia.

He had forgotten how it had been before Effie. Alys showed the kids to their rooms, made sure they knew how everything worked and then disappeared from the penthouse, probably to a post Parade party or another.

“Isn’t she supposed to help?” Peeta frowned once the elevator’s doors had closed on her.

“That was all Effie.” Haymitch muttered.

He tried to prepare the boy for the inevitable loss but Peeta wouldn’t see reason, insisting on bringing the kids to the living-room and listing their skills as if it would help. Haymitch didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to get to know them, didn’t want to hear about their hobbies and what they liked to do in their spare time because, too soon, they would become two more ghosts to add to his nightmares.

At long last, Haymitch reached the end of his tether and stormed out to seek the safe haven that was supposed to be their apartment. Effie was home, getting ready for a party no doubt, and she frowned when she saw the state he was in.

“They’re no victors.” she declared. He didn’t ask her how she knew. She had seen the Reaping and the Parade and she had become just as good as he was at determining who would live and who would die.

“Nope.” he snorted, making the p pop.

“Peeta is having a hard time understanding that.” she surmised.

He sighed and leaned against their bedroom’s doorframe, rubbing his face. “I can’t do this without you. Alys already fucked off to whenever, there’s paperwork I haven’t filled in thirteen years and how the fuck do I coach those kids to act more… proper?”

That was her thing. She did the attitude coaching and he worked with them on the interview content – when he even bothered to do that much. Effie had been the one shouldering most of the mentor responsibilities for more than a decade and without her…

“I will help you with sponsors.” she promised. “And you can probably get Peeta to do the paperwork, he has a better handwriting anyway.” He barely smirked at her teasing, already too tired of the whole thing. “As for the coaching… I will have a talk with Alys.”

She was in front of him suddenly, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck, and the tension slowly left his shoulders.

“What would I do without you?” he asked, more sincerely than he had meant to.

“Let’s never find out, shall we?” she grinned, pressing a kiss against his lips.

Effie wasn’t officially part of the team though and it made her helping difficult. She wasn’t allowed in the penthouse or backstage and thus was limited to areas open to sponsors. She helped him get a couple of pledges but, on other fronts, it was all a total disaster.

There was a real global disorganized feel to that season. With so many new escorts and almost none of the usual mentors, it was chaos. Even Gamemakers seemed at a loss. Plutarch was running everywhere all the time, trailed by his brand new assistant – Haymitch wasn’t sure what had happened to Fulvia Cardew, she had simply… vanished.

The Quell had been very successful, it was always difficult to design Games that would please the audience after a particularly good year. As it was, Haymitch was asked to attend far too many parties and events. They showed him off to appease the public’s lack of interest in the new tributes and to distract them from the numerous blunders committed by the new staff.

The arrangement suited him. At least while he was being busy being herded from one party to the next, often with Effie on his arm, he wasn’t doing the hopeless mentoring Peeta had taken upon himself.

Haymitch told him times and times again not to get attached. He had been there, he had done that.

Effie also tried to warn the boy and it all fell on deaf ears.

The kids didn’t last two minutes. They were amongst the first to die during the bloodbath.

Haymitch barely flinched, barely closed his eyes when it happened.

Peeta downed half a bottle and then declared he was going home with the coffins despite Haymitch’s awkward invitation to come and stay with them at the country house for a few days.

The boy was gone before the Games had even properly started. Haymitch moved out of the penthouse and back to their place. It didn’t save him from having to show up at parties, events and shows but at least, at home, he wasn’t forced to look his failures in the face.

It was hell to remain sober.

Having to face the Games without the comfortable friendship of his fellow mentors, going through the nightmares every night, waking up out of breath and fists flinging around to hit invisible enemies… The ghosts he could see so plainly even when he was awake, the ghosts telling him he should be dead too, the ghosts accusing him of being responsible for their deaths… He had lost count of the number of times he had cried into Effie’s shoulder like the pathetic weak man he had become by the time they had crowned a new victor.

Worst thing was… Nobody really cared about the fifteen year-old girl from One.

Watching their favorite victors battle to the death had been much more entertaining than watching a bunch of kids kill each other. Haymitch was afraid of what the Gamemakers would invent to compensate the following year.

He was right to be concerned because the Seventy-seventh Hunger Games were ruthless. The arena was a deadly trap, the mutts were cruel and the audience loved it all. Twelve’s tributes lasted five and fifteen minutes respectively. Not bad all things considered but there was no explaining that to the rest of his team.

By the end of the first day, Peeta had left for Twelve and Alys told Haymitch she was quitting.

Plutarch promised to find him a good escort, not one of the silly birds that kept coming and going because victors complained they couldn’t do their job properly. His next escort was a former model who liked to trail proprietary hands on him and who figured herself to be the next Effie Trinket – in the Games and in his bed.

No need to say she only lasted one year.

He never really found out what happened between her and his wife but Effie must have made things very clear very fast. One day, he watched her follow the woman in the ladies and when they came out, Twelve was lacking an escort again. Even Peeta cracked a smile at that.

For the Seventy-ninth Hunger Games, Effie surprised them all by becoming their new stylist.

“I am tired of not being allowed backstage.” she snapped at him one night, smearing cream all over her hands, glaring at him in the mirror of her dressing table. “I am part of the team. I never stopped being part of the team. I might as well have an official position.”

He didn’t mention that coming back as a stylist after having been an escort seemed a little desperate and that she was sure to face some mocking comments for it.

Mocking comments were nothing she wasn’t used to nowadays anyway.

They had been officially together for four years at that point and since they were showing no signs of separating soon – although there had been quite a few rumors because of that stupid escort the previous year – what had, at first, been dubbed a delightful forbidden romance was now becoming an eccentricity.

They were still popular but they were old news now. An old couple.

Haymitch liked it better that way truth be told. It meant less people snooping into their private affairs.

“It’s not a good idea.” he insisted from where he was lying on their bed, listening to the faint honking of the geese outside. The gaggle was big now, mostly because she kept gifting him with another goose to cheer him up every time he felt low. It had become habits for him to go down to the pen one morning and find a new bird with a fancy pink bow around its neck, signaling it was new and a present. “You know it’s not.”

“And why not?” she retorted, turning around to glare at him more easily, her lips pursed and her head tilted to the side like always when she was annoyed. “I have never been this popular. I am the stylist en vogue. Why, if they knew I planned to work for the Games, every District team would be after me…”

“Cause you’re out.” he growled. “You’re fucking out. Stay that way. If I could…”

“I have never been out.” she scoffed. “I do not think anyone ever leaves the Games. Do you?”

There was no good answer to that, so he sighed and kept his peace. It was selfish too. He knew she was too bossy for her own good and would never be able to stick to the clothes department.

They never managed to keep an escort more than one year after that. It was well-known that Effie Trinket was impossible to work with when the Games were concerned and that, because she was Haymitch’s lover, she was given free reigns over Twelve’s floor. She might not have officially been their escort but she certainly acted the part. She always publicly denied and was smart enough to never get caught undermining an official escort’s authority but everyone who counted knew better.

It was a relief to have Effie back and Haymitch counted his blessings where he could find them.

Peeta worried him.

He was distant and sullen and the path the boy was walking on was such a familiar one for Haymitch that he tried to talk to him a few times. Effie tried too. There was no reaching him. Phone calls between them became far and few in-between until they more or less stopped. It hurt Effie to be pushed away like that, he knew, but he didn’t force the boy to remain in contact, understanding too well he needed his own space to grieve. Prim – who still called them from time to time – kept him on the straight and narrow at home anyway.

Rumors of another rebellion started arising around the eighty-first Hunger Games. Haymitch was picked up by a car at their house one morning and spent a whole week going over possible rebel cells in different Districts with Plutarch. They found one mostly composed of teenagers. Everything else seemed to be shadows. When he came back home, his face grim, Effie took one look at him and ran him a bath.

She didn’t ask but he told her everything anyway.

He was grateful for her, grateful for the life they had managed to build. He might have not been sure in the beginning but he was now. The house might have been big and it might have been very different from everything he had ever expected but it was their home and it was a safe haven from the rest of his life.

When they were there together, they managed to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.

They often argued, sometimes to the point of shouting horrors at each other and slamming doors, but when it came down to it, they also always made-up. They had a routine. They had habits. They were growing old, as Effie often joked, and it was amazing.

Haymitch didn’t fit in with the other victors anymore. The old ones were always a bit wary around him despite their claims that they wouldn’t have acted differently during the Third Quell – with the exception of Alina and Lyme who were always friendly – and the younger ones were simply too… young. He didn’t feel like playing the old mentor anymore, he didn’t feel like taking them under his wing like he had done for Finnick or Johanna and he was uncomfortable with the way most of them looked up at him like he was the ultimate role model. He was simply happy that the spotlight was slowly but surely moving away from him and onto the younger ones, leaving him free not to attend every party and boring event.

The Capitol could keep the parties, he liked growing old with Effie in their little corner of the world better.

The rumors wouldn’t die though.

They were always there, like whispers on the wind. Snow was getting restless, reaching levels of paranoia yet unseen. Personally, Haymitch thought the President was going mad, that all this blood coughing had finally reached the brain.

He lost count of the numbers of times he was ordered to the city between the eighty-second and the eighty-third Hunger Games, to chase rebels they had no hope of catching. If they were there at all, they were well hidden.

“Do you think it’s true?” Effie asked him one night, in a murmur, as they lay staring at the ceiling. “Is there another rebellion in the work somewhere?”

Sleepless nights were nothing new to them. She was worried about her new upcoming collection and he was brooding over Snow threatening to burn his whole house down to the ground with Effie in it if he didn’t produce the rebels he wanted. It had taken all of Plutarch’s diplomatic skills to prevent a disaster.

Mostly, Haymitch wasn’t really worried. Every time he saw the President lately, it became more and more obvious that he was three seconds away from kicking the bucket. The government was good at keeping up the pretence but it was the men shadowing him everywhere that held Haymitch’s attention now. They were the real danger, he had decided months ago, and as long as they were satisfied he was working for the Capitol, his family was safe.

“I don’t know.” he offered honestly.

He wanted to say it would be a good thing but, at the same time, he was too aware of what it would mean for them. They weren’t the good guys. Worse, they were the bad guys and he didn’t have much hope for their chances if rebels took over.

Effie rolled over and snuggled against his side. He buried his hand in her hair and rested his cheek against her forehead.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, you know that, right?” he mumbled, trapped in one of those gloomy moods he could never really shake off. He had known her almost two decades, there were not many reasons to be self-conscious about his feelings anymore.

“I love you.” she muttered in answer, clearly drifting off.

“Still?” he teased.

“Always.” she chuckled, pressing a sleepy kiss against his shoulder.

The dead thing that was his heart clenched. Sometimes – often – he mused she was the only thing keeping him alive.

President Snow died a little after the Eighty-Third Hunger Games. His barely nineteen year-old granddaughter was appointed as the next President within forty-eight hours.

Haymitch watched the national funerals from the comfort of his living-room, Effie curled up next to him. He tried to feel glad about it but all he felt was a void. There was no sweetness to a revenge served too late. He thought about his mother, his brother and his girlfriend – whose faces had long been erased by time – and about Katniss. He wondered it that made it a bit even. He concluded that it didn’t.

Effie was cheerful. He didn’t have the courage to ask if it was because she was glad the tyrant was finally dead or because his granddaughter was wearing an exclusive dress from her private collection and that meant not only more money but more fame to come.

It was only to be expected but Ilirya Snow wasn’t her grandfather. She was a silly girl, a puppet whose strings were held tight by advisors and secretaries of states. They managed to keep it up for almost two years.

By the time the Eighty-five Hunger Games was about to roll around, everything was ready to collapse.

Rumors of a possible rebellion grew so loud that even Capitol citizens couldn’t ignore them. The city was restless, the talks about unrest in the Districts were on every lips, common things in the city like food or fabrics became difficult to find. Haymitch didn’t have time to let the looming ten years anniversary of the Quell be daunting, he was too worried over what the government was keeping from them, not stupid enough to believe the “everything is alright” line they kept feeding them on TV.

His calls wouldn’t get through to Twelve.

The same went for Eight and every victor he tried to get in touch with.

The Capitol had used him to hunt and capture rebels for ten years and now that he actually wanted to be brought in on what was going on, he was shut out. The government was tearing itself apart, according to Plutarch, they were all stabbing themselves in the back trying to get on top and the whole pyramid was crumbling.

With every passing day, he felt the dread increase, certain the rebels were marching on the Capitol right then and that nobody was telling them. Effie stopped going to work on his request, she dismissed their staff, and mostly trailed after him all around the house while he tried to make sense of what was going on. His guts were screaming at him that it wasn’t good, not good at all. He withdrew as much cash as he could from their bank accounts in case they needed it later on.

He started planning escape routes. They went over them every night until Effie could recite them in her sleep. She was terrified, he could see, but he wanted her prepared.

He had thought they would have more time.

But he wasn’t really surprised when the estate’s gates blew up one morning.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #into that good night

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ombreecha · 7 years ago

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The Uchiha’s Wife

FF.NET Fandom: Naruto Pairing: SasuSaku Rating: M Summary: She was an otherworldly being of healing. An absolute nymph of spring. He was an otherworldly being of destruction. An absolute god of war. In a world where war makes him death, and chaos she will be the life, and love his people will talk of for years to come. AU x Warring States Period.

Chapter 10 The Mother & Father

There was reluctance in letting her pass through his gates without his protection. It had caused words to lump within his throat wishing to remove the approval he had given. He knows he cannot take this from her, and it’s only with the control he has learned to maintain throughout his years upon the earth that he keeps his thoughts from entering the air around them. He cannot allow his selfishness to get in the way. Her viridian had showed her joy at being picked, and who was he to ruin that joy? Who was he to give into the paranoia of her leaving his side?

Days into her leaving he feels his home becoming far too quiet with her no longer consistent presence. The silence has nothing to do with the loss of her chatter—she was loud in an entirely different way. Everything about her drew you to her. She could not be missed. She could not be silenced in presence alone. All of her called out to anyone who stood before her.

There is chiding within his mind that her leaving was no different than her medic relief—except she only had one Uchiha guarding her as she walked outside his walls now.

There is no camp filled with allies, and brothers-in-arms to protect her. He could not give her more with the battles that shook the world outside their home.

He would not allow himself to give into the thoughts that threaten him within. She had left calm and drenched in joy. She did not leave his side thick within disdain. She had not left his side filled with anguish. Their marriage was far from recovered and far from being what it should have been—no, what it could have been—but there would be time to build it to that state. Time would still allow him such things when the moment was right.

Shisui would protect her so that he could have those moments.

The hawk he sends forth from within his garden sends but a simple reply. Madara has called for him, and he is all to certain he knows what matter is to be discussed. He had blatantly disobeyed him in bedding the Uchiha woman—he had reprimanded, he had placed his wife before her, and he had attacked her in his demands for an apology no less. There would be punishment. He would accept it on behalf of himself, and his wife. She had continued forward, and she had swallowed herself for him. He would do so for her just as she had done for him. It would be another apology. It would be silent. It would be unheard. It would be unspoken, but it would be there within himself.

The hours that countdown his leave are barely felt, and the sleep he had managed to succumb to leaves just as fast. His bags are handle by maids and there’s a hint of longing within him as he wraps the bandages on his arms. It seeks to remind him she has left days prior. Careful soft fingers are not there to bring them around his knuckles. There’s no catching the hum that escapes him, and it’s as he heads for the gates that he catches himself noting her missing in wishing him safe travel.

There’s no denying how much she had become a part of his world. All of these things are small, but they're significant no less.

Only one of his best men comes to travel beside him leaving their home behind to attend to Madara’s call. He could only give her one to seek to her safety in travel and he would not grant himself anymore than he had granted her. She is traveling so much further than he is. He is but a day and a half from his destination. There is no doubt she should almost be within the gates of Konohagakure as he stepped foot within Madara’s home.

The sound of their feet hitting upon thick branches sets an even pace. The sun that had barely rose to wish them off only seeks to rise higher and light the way. This shinobi speaks with hope, and with underlying fears. It’s filled with the smallest desires. He is not one to truly join in but shares his own chuckle within the joke that spills out next. These moments are just as with his wife—small but no less significant.

They are a reminder and a sound one at that. This is what he fights for. He fights for their peace and for their clan. Ideology paints it as so much more. It paints it red and caked with dirt. It paints it as power verse love. It paints it into something so much darker and complex than it ever should have been. It was no doubt smaller when you got to its core, and dig through the layers of paint that have built up in these long ten years.

The home of their leader is large, and immaculate beyond conception following the traditional style they all modeled and practiced. The maid who greets them welcomes them with ease as they lower their hoods upon their shoulders. The cold no longer chills their faces, fingers, and bones as they are lead down the hall and into the room that holds Madara and his brother. They conversing only lowering their already hushed voices as they trail in.

Others sit within the room their presence unexpected but not unwelcome. Perhaps this meeting had not been as he believed. Perhaps the punishment he had willingly walked into was not meant to come.

It thickens the air with a touch of uncertainty and a chaste kiss of hesitation follows. Izuna casts a fleeting look his way before welcoming them. There is the idle chatter that comes as they stand within the room before making way to their seats. Sitting at his place among the table of Madara’s high rank makes his companion sit behind him in silence. He starts the meeting as though it is more official than Sasuke had realized. Their eyes fall upon their leader instructing them on matters concerning the peace talks. The update holds no useful information for men like himself, who were only of use in battle. Talks of peace were as misguided as the hope that love could be what brings it. All he needed was the thoughts and feelings of his clansmen and people to push him forward. He would wage war for them and allow others to dabble in such conversations.

“Sasuke-san, your wife is participating in the Lantern festival from what you’ve said?” Madara crosses his arms as he gives into the small detail among the table. His response is but a simple nod forward before Madara continues, “Since it’s Sakura-san it only seems fitting we shall attend after the meeting.”

He cannot stop himself from eyeing his leader with uncertainty. Never had there been genuine interest in the traditions outside of their own. There is a thick swallow to accompany the uncertainty weighing upon his chest, “Do not feel forced to attend.”

“Nonsense. After all, she has been providing medical relief for our men. The least we can do is watch her perform. I hear the ceremony for the coming of spring is one of a kind.” Madara’s voice is questionable as he leans upon the table with knuckles pressed against his chin.

“Senju will be everywhere since it’s held in their territory.” Obito’s voice rings throughout the room speaking of the obvious, and it’s as Sasuke gives a fleeting look upon the fellow Uchiha that he finds his brows pinched at the revelation.

It would be a ceasefire, and no doubt a time when they would hold to their words and walk among each other in celebration of this foreign New Year. If his brother were to appear would he be able to keep his word? The thought brings a bitter and foul taste into his mouth. He would have no choice but to tolerate his existence. The whispers of battle that would echo within his being—requesting and pleading for him to take revenge upon the traitor connected by blood—would be ignored.

Kagami gives forth a snort, “This wife of yours has made quite the name for herself after being just a woman of convenience.”

He does not answer with anything more than a look to the Uchiha boy decorated in a grin upon his lips. It’s as he threads his fingers to hold his chin that the slow desire to defend his wife from claims of convenience find their way into the air. He silences Izuna’s attempt to respond to Kagami, “My wife is not just one of convenience.”

It hushes the room, and it is Madara who lets a low hum fall within the silence, “I look forward to seeing such during the Lantern Festival.” their leader raises his head from his almost lackadaisical lean upon his knuckles. There is a look between him and his leader, and it’s then that he knows there is more for him after the meeting. He had not been wrong. His punishment was, in fact, before him.

He would take it gladly.

“Hiashi-san, and I will be attending to go over details of a possible peace treaty with Hashirama. Those of you who wish to attend the festivities held within Konohagakure are welcome but are to not raise arms or cause disturbance during the ceasefire under any circumstance.” his words hold command within them under the guise of simple conversation that no one dares to join, “Those of you who do not attend spend so with family, and friends. Even with the talk of peace in the air do not forget we are at war, and peace talks never signal the end until decisions and compromise on both sides have been met.”

Izuna leads in behind his brother with ease seeming to be the one who does not find his brothers rule silencing, “Sasuke-san, you especially must follow these commands. Itachi-san will most likely be at the negotiations and events. We cannot have them claiming we broke the ceasefire. Traitor or not.”

He cannot stop himself from gritting his teeth at the name of his traitor of a brother. He cannot stop the tightening of his threaded fingers whiten his knuckles. The clearing of his throat only tenses the air, “I understand.”

The meeting opens to any questions those attending have, and no one dares give way to any ill feelings they hold about the conditions set forth concerning the negotiations. Madara has no need to give them guarantees of what he will bring to the table. Their leader knows exactly what they demand, and knows exactly what they should receive.

It’s after the others have left, and it is just him and his companion that he dismisses him with orders to meet at the gate within the hour. He stands before his leader, and his leader’s brother—the only line still standing within his dominate family tree with the loss of his mother, father, and traitorous brother—ready to defend his choices and decisions to this point.

He stands ready to receive his punishment.

“She was not to your liking?” Madara’s voice gives no true question. He is making a statement more than anything and rhetorical one at that, “Or maybe your wife has something to do with it?”

Swallowing thickly he gives way to an answer, “It was my decision. She holds no control over what I do.”

“Sasuke. We understand there was a fight between the two of them.” Izuna crosses his arms upon his chest as he locks gazes with him choosing to lean upon the paper walls, “From what she’s told us you made her apologize to Sakura-san.”

His jaw tightens at the statement never wavering his ebony from the almost identical pair that looks to him, “I have made it clear since I was forced to marry her that there would be no ill will against her. I cannot have them look down upon her if I need her to lead them within my absence. Any ill will to her shows ill will to my leadership.”

His leader lets out the slightest of hums as if understanding his position. There is a moment of looks between the Uchiha brothers before gazing back upon him, “Tell me then what you choose to do from here.”

Ebony shift from his leader for the briefest of moments before looking back to him cautious of what to say next, “My parents did not live in adultery and I hold no plans—”

“So you hold no interest in having an heir?” Izuna’s voice holds no room for halfhearted explanations. It brings forth the memory of the otherworldly creature that is his wife holding a child of Uchiha blood as she comes to him—it remains an impossibility.

A flick of his tongue behind his teeth does little to restrain the lividity within his tone. It’s harsher than intended to those above him, “I did not choose this political marriage.”

Why do you continue to follow blindly at his call?

There is no backing down from his position. He had done all that he had been asked of at this point with no hesitation. He had done everything to uphold his position as heir in the case of their passing. He had done all that he could for his clan repeatedly—time and time again. To commit adultery where his parents had not would shame not only his wife, but him, and those he lived to avenge. These were not choices he had made. If an heir was their concern they should have picked someone else to marry the ethereal woman that was his wife.

He was who they had chosen and he would follow his role properly. There would be no tolerance in his continued failure to be proper husband.

There is a shake to Madara’s head before he gives way to an exhale, “You cannot bed her, but you can continue as you are. I do this only out of respect for Mikoto. If it was anyone else there would be no choice in this matter. Disobedience would not be tolerated.”

There is anger and disdain for the man before him who continues to rule upon his choices as he sees fit. The claim of allowing him to forgo the adultery in the name of his mother—of his leader’s long since deceased sister—is all he needs to hear before dismissing himself to keep his anger within check. To anger and fight Madara would be to go against his clan, and he would never allow himself to do so. Doing so would be taking his brothers path. His clan and his people were forever the priority, and now even more so was she—he could not have punishment fall upon her for his choices.

Lucky—it’s how he should feel and yet, he does not.

Many who disobeyed Madara could not stand as tall as he does now heading for the gate with the snow that falls softly before him. His mother continues her protection of him. Bitterness rises in his chest at his need to still be protected. Fingers roughened through battle run through his hair as his scowl deepens. He was no longer a mere child of war. He was a man that was feared. He was a man that conquered. He had slaughtered those that would take the lives of his family, clan, and people who followed their beliefs. His strong stride stops before the gate taking in the cold air that seeks to chill his being. That same chilled air burns within his chest as the frosty air enters his lungs.

Ebony cannot stop themselves from looking upon the gray sky above that continues to give way to the winter season. He cannot stop the longing he holds for his mother. He would pray to her again when he returned home thanking her. He would thank her for all the protection she has ever given him, and all that she continues to give him. Even in death she stood there holding his hand. Even in death she would see to her child. Even when he had accepted punishment she would keep him from such harm.

A shudder leaves his mouth as he thinks of her. He could not ask her for advice, and he could not go to her when he had troubles. He could not truly hold her hand down this path. He could, though, continue to pave a way so others would not suffer the same loss he had. He could continue to make sure that young Uchiha children would never have to have their mother’s protection in death. He could give them something better. He could give them the ability to hold their mother’s hand within the world of the living.

He would give them the ability. He would give them the chance. He would win for them.

His fingers squeeze and it’s in that moment that he can truly feel her as if she stands beside him. He can feel her hand in his, and he can feel his chest tighten with her hand in his. Death was giving him this moment—it was giving him this precious moment to stand beside her.

His mother’s name carried the meaning of precious—she was undoubtedly precious.

A mother’s love was unbelievably deep. The spring wife had asked him if it was true that the Uchiha loved deeply. He even now does not know if that remains true, but he does know that his mother had loved him deeper than any ocean, and stronger than any fire. He knows that she would have done anything for him. He knows that she continues to do everything for him.

She had loved him. She had loved him so much. Never would she have willingly left his side. She would have continued to ease his heart, and she would have continued to erase his doubts.

She continues to do those things no matter how far he goes.

He truly had never been luckier.

Excitement does not begin to explain the feeling dancing within her heart as her mother, Shisui, and herself make their way to the gates. Her mother has fallen into bright spirits with the earthbound Uchiha male so unlike the stoic ones they knew far to frequently.

The chatter that overcomes them is easy to follow, and the conversations amusing. There are no disputes. There are no arguments over politics. There are no quarrels over ideals.

It’s peaceful. It’s welcomed. It’s what everyone should have. It’s proof that this could be something within their grasp if not for this war. It’s proof that a world of peace can truly exist in a world that only seemed to know war.

There is curiosity in how Konohagakure will look. Memories of her birthplace nonexistent within her mind. Far too young, and far too innocent she was back then to remember such things. Relatives had always come to them. They had never sought to visit, and as her age increased so did her distance with the place only newly born and newly welcomed into the world viridan had been given the privilege to see.

“Sakura-san, a friend of mine will be meeting us shortly. Do you mind if I take the time to speak with him?”

Her walk does not falter as she turns to look upon him, “Oh? You have company in Konohagakure?”

“We are separated by our ideals, but we still keep in touch.” he responds easily.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t.” she gives way to a smile as her viridian fall upon the gates once more.

Their steps take them closer. It’s impossible to miss her cousin’s wave, or the eye catching green clad male beside her. The smile that stretches upon her lips is large, and gives way to hurried steps wanting to be with them quicker. The scolding her mother speaks is ignored sprinting to wrap her arms around her cousin. There’s giggles and tight hugs. Her cousin’s voice is high as she tells her she missed her. The closeness they once had shared still within its rightful place even with their lives so separated.

It’s as they begin to catch up in hurried voices soaked with excitement that she hears the subtle interruption of her guard. He’s cleared his voice, “Ah, Sakura-san. I’d like you to meet my friend.”

Viridian full of interest turn to look at who it is that Shisui continues to hold close even as war separates them. She wonders if it is a Senju she had met in passing, or an Uzumaki she’s treated. It’s as those viridian turn that she cannot stop her smile from slipping. She cannot stop her eyes from becoming wide, and she cannot stop her heart from halting within its beat.

He’s all the familiar hereditary looks. Endless ebony strands with endless ebony eyes, and pale skin that contrasts almost painfully against her coloring. The lackadaisical look upon his face is all the more familiar, and it’s as her mind is running that she wonders if the Gods have played a cruel joke upon her.

She can only wonder if the Gods found humor in endlessly tormenting her.

“Sakura-san, meet Itachi. Itachi Uchiha.”

Her heart is held so painfully by these Gods intended to turn her world forever upside down and inside out. She cannot stop the twist of her surroundings bringing her back to her father’s body falling to the floor as she had gazes upon the man before her. She would never—could never—erase the look upon his face as her father fell before her. Such little care had been across those hereditary features.

Such little remorse. Such loss of heart. Such nonexistent feeling for those who hurt by his hand.

He no sooner would have discussed the weather with her as blood covered the floor and life fled from her father. This male held no remorse for his acts, and he had held no heart before her in a world filled with fire. He had looked as plainly at her now as he had back then.

The Gods must truly have found endless humor in her anguish.

Fingers curl within her palm as she feels her body set ablaze with a sense of loathing she did not know she could possess. This loathing that dares to possess her is volatile, seething, and unrelenting. Brows pinch, and her jaw tightens as these feelings bloom throughout her being in waves that desire to submerge this male, and herself. The fire that had torn Kusagakure asunder ghosts across her skin, and the wounds she had received as they had destroyed her home burn just as hot with each passing second. There is the hint upon her knuckles from where they had collided with the earth making it cry out. It echoes throughout the air unheard by all who stand with her. It echoes so loud she questions if she’ll go deaf.

“Sakura-chan?” the male clad in green calls out upon seeing her features change.

This man has captured her effortlessly, and it takes all the restraint she has to offer to keep her from lunging for his throat—so cruelly would she love to dig her fingers within his mouth to remove the lackadaisical expression from his features so painfully similar to her husband. There is recognition within those ebony. The recognition of that time comes with each small movement of his eyelids. The contempt she feels is begging for release at the base of her throat as she continues to hold the ebony within her viridian, and then all in a moment she feels the air slammed from her lungs. This man—this man before her—was her husband’s deeply loved sibling. The sibling so adored, and the sibling who had been the role model for her husband. This was the sibling he fought against. This was the traitor within their clan that had hurt her husband to depths that she could only now begin to understand. This sibling had hurt her husband, and slain her father. This man had brought so much pain within her world. He had brought her tears, and her husband’s hatred.

He was undeniably someone her husband had dared to love deeply, and in return he had brought it down without care.

For every moment her husband had dared to love this sibling had taught him betrayal. For every moment she had dared to believe that men of war were not inhumane he had proven it wrong eyes that held no heart.

The myths had done her husband no justice for this man stole all of it.

“Sakura, where are your manners?” her mother’s fingers have gripped her shoulder and it’s the only thing that makes her tear her gaze from him finally released from the chaos that was Kusagakure.

The wild beat of her heart is in full force as she desperately attempts to swallow the hurt, and loathing that threatens to drag her into turmoil. The tug upon her heart is laced with torment, and anguish. It’s far more powerful than what she could have thought possible. It’s far more petulant that she could have ever imagined. It’s far more deadly than she could have ever fathomed. It had come with an absolute vengeance for daring to think she could obtain any semblance of peace within this war. Bitter, and with eyes that dare to sting she feels the air constrict within her throat.

How much more could these people take from her? How much more could they ask of her? How much more? How much?

The desire that coaxes her heart could not be done.

Giving into the hatred, the anguish, and the raw lividity would alleviate such petulant torment, and yet, there is fear just on the other side. There is fear of her husband’s eyes upon her after hearing she had harmed the one he had dared to adore within his blissful innocence as a child. There is fear of her husband having to answer for attacking within Senju territory. There is fear that she will not come back from this raw lividity. There is fear that she will no longer no herself.

There is fear she will be the one without a heart. It is all too much—there is too much at stake.

Shisui shifts to move toward her with concern decorating him, “Sakura-san, are you alright?”

Fingers painfully press harder within her palm, nails digging into her skin as she attempts to speak without choking, “Excuse me, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Sakura. Uchiha Sakura.”

His brow has raised at her name, and there is scrutiny within his ebony as he seems to digest her. Flickering his gaze to Shisui, “I’m sure you heard about Sasuke-san’s marriage. This is his wife.”

The lackadaisical expression has disappeared at her title and in its place startle has taken over his features. There’s no missing the tightening of his jaw, and the shift within his frame. The silence between them is loud, and it echos in her ears just as loud as the memory of her knuckles crashing down upon their earth the first time they had met.

“Sakura-san, you look pale? Are you exhausted from the travel?” fingers find their way upon her arm as obsidian try to obtain her viridian. He is giving her a way out, and she is no fool—she will absolutely take this moment to remove herself from this man.

“Please.” her voice comes out far more pained than she had intended, and it’s Shisui who places a hand upon her head, “I’m so very tired.”

She begs, and pleads to not let the tears fall that burn her eyes. Her mother’s frantic voice is but background noise as they excuse themselves, and head for her cousin’s home. The feel of those ebony upon her back as they leave him at the gate are impossible to ignore. It only seeks to further terrorize her heart. It only seeks to shake her being. It only seeks to allow her to dance within the idea of digging her hand deep within his—No. No, no, no she would not allow herself to soil her heart. She would not allow herself to become him.

Disgust—she feels it radiate within her being.

You never needed a reason to love. You only needed reason to hate, and hatred consumed.

This is what had consumed so many during the war. The sharp ache that had found a home within her heart only seeks to become stronger with such feelings and yet, she cannot bring herself to cast them aside.

What god had she angered to deserve such a thing? What cruelty had she committed to have her husband’s brother be the one who held no hesitation in cutting down her father? What misdeed did she perform to have him give so little care to those he murdered?

It’s within the room that her cousin had prepared that she finally lashes out as fingers come upon her hand, “Let go of me.” the words are bitter and venomous—they seek to hurt.

She wants to hurt. She wants everyone to feel what she has endured.

Who was she to be the only one to shelter pain? It’s not their fault though. They are not the ones who continued to pray upon her so cruelly.

“Sakura-san, what has you so upset?” the obsidian haired male had barely flinched at her vexation.

“Leave me. Go. Get away from me.” her voice is raising as she spouts each word, “All of you.” her viridian glow within her hatred as she looks upon those at the door who are painted in hurt, and shock upon her words.

They cannot understand her behavior. They cannot understand her vexation. They cannot understand her venom. She would never let them understand. She could not let them understand. She will not let them understand. None of them give way to movement, and it’s in that, that she feels the last of her snap with a hiss of her voice, “Go, I said!”

The echo of her cry within the home has washed away the excitement. It has brought with it anxiousness, and hurt that paints itself upon every wall, and every door. It paints the room and it paints their beings. It paints her so violently, and it paints her so unforgiving. The whispers that fill the air beyond those doors cannot be heard outside of muffled hums. The room has lost its warmth, but the chill is numb upon her skin as she sits within her terror. She cannot find a clear answer as she sits upon the floor with her knees pressed within her chest. The tears that had burned have found their way down.

Her mind runs, and even as it tumbles it shifts between thoughts so fast, and so carelessly she finds herself losing herself entirely. Panicked, and lost with such muddled thoughts she cannot stop herself from falling deeper down the rabbit hole that is hatred. She hates so much, and she cannot find the part of her that dared to love, and dared to find the answers so hopeful, and so wishful.

Who was more important in these moments? Her husband, or her father?

Who was to be the one that would decide what she did now? To do nothing would shame her father. To do anything would shame her husband—the title is bitter, and it holds so much disdain. Disdain that she did not know she could feel for him once again. Blaming him is unwarranted, but she cannot stop herself from doing so. Hating him would be easy in these moments. Hating him would make the choice easier. Hating him would bring honor to her fallen father.

Hating him could be so easy.

There is a pull on the hood of her cloak she had never removed. The fingers bring it down from its place in almost a tender motion. Her teeth grind at the touch, and lividity runs through her veins at someone disobeying her, “Itachi-san has angered you.”

Shisui’s voice is soft as he kneels behind her, “Go.”

“Sakura-san, I do not know what he has done to you. He’s hurt you somehow, but I cannot allow you to sit here like this. Sasuke-san—”

“Don’t you dare say that cruel man’s name.” her head has whipped to look at him so close to her. His eyes show he was not prepared for such a hostile reaction upon hearing her husband’s name, and then there is something that she cannot place that follows in its place.

“Sakura-san, who is being cruel right now?” his voice is even as the glow of her viridian gaze upon him with fury.

“All of you are cruel. You only seek to hurt everyone around you with this war. You only seek to destroy. You are mons—”

“Sakura-san!” she has never heard his voice raise in such anger in all the times they have traveled together. She has gone too far—she has bred such a response within her turmoil, “You dare to say we are cruel and yet, here you sit pushing everyone aside. You sit here and you cast your family, and mother within another room as if they are to blame. You take them for granted, and you cast them without care. I ask you again, who is being cruel right now?”

“I have lost everything.” her voice breaks within her withdraw from him, “Who else could be cruel enough to have me marry a man who’s sibling would kill my father?” the words are vulnerable and hit the air before she can stop them.

Fingers find their way within her rose-colored locks, “You know Sasuke-san was not the one who made that choice. You know Madara-sama held no part in Itachi-san killing your father. None of them could have known—just as Itachi-san could not have known that you had married his brother, and he had killed your father.” his voice has come down from the anger that had laced it. It’s pleading with her in a hushed tone, and seeking to console her, “All of us—Uchiha, Senju, and everyone else who fights—have killed someone, and hurt others with our actions. We do not know if those people will become close to us. None of us would ever wish to hurt those close to us. It is all we can do, though, as we put our lives on the line.”

The solemnity rings within the silence. She was the cruel one once more. She sat here blaming. She sat here hating. She sat here loathing. She was cursing them, and slandering them. She was taking her hurt out upon them all. She was the one with such little care. She was being selfish—but how long had she pushed herself to be selfless?

This was the harsh reality of war. War robbed loved ones. It made the light from their eyes vanish. It put hurt within the world around them. It took without remorse. It forced friends to clash, and—

It forced families to fight against each other.

“Has Sasuke-san, truly been cruel to you?” the question quakes her being. It sends anguish throughout her with the gravity of what she has said, and what she has called him.

Overwhelmed. Heart pounding. Heavy hearted.

Nothing can describe the unbelievable sadness that washes over her with that question.

If I could bring all of that pain you hide onto myself I would do so.

She had said that so easily. They had fought. They had disagreed. He had made her cry. He had been cold to her. Yet, never—not once in this marriage—had he ever been cruel. He did not do malicious things to her. He did not do things out of spite. He did not show disdain towards her.

That single statement had been true when she had spoken it. She wished to take his pain from him. This man fought to protect those that followed him. He fought for peace in his own way. He fought with no anchor in the world. He had been a victim of war just as much as she now was. He had truly lost those he loved deeply. This feeling—this moment—this hatred that she had allowed to consume her—this is what had made him who he was today. She had asked him to love her, and here with just a taste of that hatred his world was soaked in she had cursed and spoken harshly of him—of all of them.

How could she possibly ask him to love someone so cruel? How had this man survived to this day with such a feeling?

A shuddered breath. A silent cry. A whispered apology.

All of it is what fills this room as she is gathered within her guards arms. He is warm—all the things she was meant to be. He was calming—all of what she tried to be.

“Sasuke-san would punish me for letting you get hurt.” it’s his laugh that’s low and hinted upon every word that brings a smile to her tear stained face as she continues to battle the slowly dissipating turmoil.

“I’ll be sure to keep such a thing from him.”

Because, Sasuke Uchiha, would no doubt protect her.

It’s long after she has made her way from the room with her hand in his, long after she gives heavyhearted apologies to those she had spat venom at, and long after the warmth has found its way within her cousin’s home once more that she accepts that her pain is still there. There’s no denying it’s grip upon her. This was not something that could be rendered with reasoning. Her husband had traveled far down this path. He had hated, and he had been consumed for such a long time. He had been his brother for many. He had gazed down upon those he killed in the name of war with such a lack of care. He had hurt, and he had been hurt. She had barely walked a mile in his shoes, and she needed to travel so much further.

Compassion, and warmth were nothing without understanding. Understanding could not be found without feeling.

She held the poison that had infected so many firmly within her, and now she truly could understand why he held such little care for talks of peace. This rage. This hurt. This suffering. All of it could not be eased with just words. He sought out vengeance, and he sought to make sure none within his domain felt what he had felt. In his conquest he had cast aside the love he had dared to feel so deeply. He had pushed others aside, and now she, too, had done just the same. He had lashed out upon those who sought to help him, and now she, too, had done just the same. He had no longer sought to reach out for help, and she now, too, had refused to reach for a hand to save her from this poison so lethal.

He had truly gone the distance. She had truly been so blind. She had sought to understand. He had cast his eyes from a world of love long ago.

She understood.

The days that come after do not ease the spread of this poison called hatred, and it’s at night that she gazes upon the ceiling lost and flushed in lividity. Her heart is torn in two. She knows it is not her husband’s fault, but here she sits within the dead of the night blaming him silently. Shisui had never lied in what he had said. Her husband had been many things, but she would have never looked upon him as cruel. She was shifting blame. She was looking for a reason to hate.

That man was the one who had slain her father. Not her husband.

More acceptance comes within the following days. It does not ease her hatred for her husband’s sibling. Her husband’s involuntary reactions when his brother was mentioned are perfectly clear. She understands far more than she would have ever dreamed why he held such hostility when it came to his brother. This man had done so much to her husband.

What would her husband say if she dared to tell him that he had taken her father—his father-in-law—away from them?

Viridian never stop searching, and her mind has yet to stop running. She had sought out an answer for this hatred and these feelings within her anguish when she had fallen within this rabbit hole.

She will continue to search for the answer she had sought within her anguish. She has to keep searching. This is not just for husband. She has to find this answer for herself. This is also for her.

The lesson has been taught, and the feelings understood. There’s pain in knowing that she had unknowingly asked for so much from her husband the night they had fought when she had fallen before him. She had asked him for all of him, and now she truly held more of him than she ever felt possible. She had asked to be his anchor, and she had asked him for love. How could she ask him for love when now she knew how addictive this poison could be?

If she could not cure herself then she could not cure him.

Yet, forgiveness meant to accept her father’s death by a man so uncaring. She could not do such a thing. She would not do such a thing.

She would be selfish. Her husband’s selfishness now just another thing she could understand.

It’s three days deep, and then before she realizes it another two days have passed. Seven days come without warning, and then without even so much as a ‘hello’ it’s on the thirteen day that she unknowingly has come upon her answer.

Practice for the coming of spring has come to an end. Her muddled mind has continued to halt her progress. She is far from ready—she has let Itachi Uchiha continue to take things from her.

She’s letting him take this from her as well.

She expects to be scolded just as she has every day since this had begun. Fingers come upon her shoulder, and it’s what drags her eyes, stinging with unshed frustrated tears, to the male, who continues to be patient with her. Her jaw dips ready to give an apology, “Kakashi-san, I—”

He never once has blamed her for her lack of progress. She had dared to wonder if it was because they had known each other well before now. She had healed him. She had healed him several times. He had come to her when his wife had been harmed in combat. He had come to her when he would be passing through to his next battle.

Here they were now. Standing within this room so large with wooden floors. He’s yet to pry, and she’s yet to explain herself. There’s no mistake that he’s being bias and hoping whatever has her within its grips will work itself out. There’s no mistake that she needs to find her answer. She needs to find the cure.

The sun that seeks to rest for the night paints the sky outside, and cast it’s dimming light within the room through the window. It provides no warmth outside of these walls. It could not fight off the chill outside that awaits her. Another set of fingers find their way to her shoulder, and there’s a comfort to these two men allowing her to work through her problems even as so much is placed upon her shoulder. Shisui, too, has been patient—she hopes it’s because he understands. Her bottom lip quivers as she seeks to finish what she had intended to say, but she’s rendered silent as the doors open. This person does not knock and his voice is loud.

This voice. It’s undeniably warm. It’s just as she recalls, and it brings her muddled mind to a halt.

She’s captured before she even knows it. Viridian flutter as she takes in the large grin she had only known once before. He’s all the bright blonde, and vibrant azure eyes she recalls deep within the forest. He’s all the warmth that the sun refused to give.

He is so much like the sun in the summer.

“Kakashi-sensei, how much lo—Sakura-chan?” the widening of those eyes so bright, and azure follow his question, and arms once placed behind his head begin their slow descend to his sides.

“Naruto-san?” she feels vulnerable in front of this man—and she cannot begin to understand why he has such a presence.

He’s next to her immediately with brows pinched in concern. She’s not sure if it was her face, or voice that gave away the mess that was her mind, and heart. They are enemies and yet, he comes to her side without thought. He comes to her as if they had known each other forever. He comes to her as if he is her friend.

She’s not sure what continues to make her follow in actions that her husband would scold her for, “I—Shisui, I want to go with him.”

Fingers tighten upon her shoulder as viridian make their way to ebony, “Sakura-san, I cannot leave you with him.”

“It’ll be fine.” there’s a shift in this male as breathes out, “I’ll take full responsibility should anything happen. Keep in mind that even as she wears the Uchiha crest this is neutral territory for now. No one would dare to harm her here. Not with the ceasefire approaching so close. She is, after all, our guest for the festival.”

Hesitation lingers but those fingers once so secure begin to lessen their pressure upon her shoulder, “Shisui. Please.”

Sakura cannot explain herself. She cannot begin to understand why there is so much comfort that comes from this man. She cannot understand why he does not say ‘no’ to her following behind him down these streets he knows so well, and that she’s begun to learn. He’s quiet at first and then he’s chattering away as if they are just as she had felt before—friends.

He doesn’t know her outside of that forest, and he does not know her outside of her last name. Still, he continues forward as if this is second nature to him.

When had she stopped moving forward? When had she—

He’s stopped before her his arms crossed upon his chest, “What’s wrong?”

Viridian flutter once more at this male so bold, and so overwhelming. She feels her eyes sting as all of her hatred, and all of her inner turmoil boil to the surface, “Do you hate?”

The words fall so easily, and the world seems to go quiet within her ears. There are lingering gazes among those that pass by but none seem to have caught what she had asked. His bottom lip falls open, and those azure eyes fall from her as they take in what she has asked. There’s a shame that comes over her drenching her to the core. It makes her want to take back what she has asked him. It makes her wish she had never given in to that presence he has so naturally—it’s so comforting.

Viridian watch as his mouth closes once more with lips pressed tightly together, and then only moments later does he open it again as determination radiates from him as brightly as his warmth.

“I don’t know what happened, and I don’t know who it is that you hate, but what I do know is that hatred hasn’t solved anything.” his fingers make their way to his pockets as he continues to look at her earnestly, “Has hatred solved anything for you?”

“No.”

“Hatred. The word itself is heavy. It weighs you down and yet, so many people feel that, you know? I fight to give people peace. I fight to bring these warring clans together, and get rid of hatred. If I let myself be weighed down who am I supposed to bring together? You have to believe there is good in people—otherwise, what am I fighting for?” his voice raises with each thought and it’s with each thought that viridian become wider, “Sakura-chan, what is your role? What do you fight for?”

“I fight to provide what others cannot. I want to heal people. I want to provide them with relief so that they can keep moving while so many of you take. I want—I want so much. I’m tired of fighting, and I’m tired of hurting. I’m tired—”

“Everyone’s tired.” azure seize her catching her voice within her throat, “How can you heal, and do what I can’t if your weighed down? Hatred breeds hatred. You can’t provide what you don’t give. This person you hate—has hating them made it easier? Has hating them made you better? Has it made you give up on peace? What peace do you fight for?”

The words fall far faster than she expects, and her voice is far stronger than she thought it could be, “I fight for a peace brought about by love, and yet how can I not hate someone who has taken everything from me? How can I not hate someone who has hurt so many.”

His mouth is left open, and his azure can only widen at her declaration. The silence that hangs within the air is thick and suffocating and yet, it’s as he lets out a huff of air that he cuts through it effortlessly, “It sounds to me like you’re just making excuses. Your husband, I’m assuming, fights in the war. He does exactly what you hate this person for to others. You know, it seems to me like your just looking for reasons to make hatred okay. I can’t stand people who do that. This is war. Don’t forget we don’t do this because we want to. You may have lost someone—who am I kidding we’ve all lost someone. Hating them for it isn’t going to bring them back. How are you honoring that person by hating them? Would they appreciate you taking your love for them and turning it into hate?”

Fingers twist within her clothing as she looks at him. Wide doe eyes cannot leave his face as she hears him louder, and clearer than she had ever thought possible.

This man. What had he lost in the war? Who had he lost in the war?

How had found this conclusion? Who had shown him the way when he was lost?

Her teeth grit, and it’s as she looks down at the ground that the tears dare to fall. Fingers make their way to her hair. There’s no soothing rubs like her husband had given as he washed her hair. The scent he has is so distinctly different from that of her husband. It’s no less comforting.

He wasn’t wrong. Nothing he had said was wrong, and he had made the answer seem so obvious. He had made all of it seem so unnecessary. She had accepted that she had started to shift the blame, and make reasons to hate her husband on behalf of his brother. She had accepted that was wrong. She had accepted it. She had understood it, and now this male so full of sun, and so full of warmth was bringing down the walls she had made deep within the night as she stared at the ceiling.

This answer he had given her. She needed to accept it.

She could not let that man take more from her.

He gives way to a whine, and a humor filled comment that has her letting out the smallest of laughs. He throws his hands behind his head with that large grin plastered back in its place she has come to associate as being entirely him. The walk back to her home, and it’s with Shisui running to her that she feels her mouth curve into a smile she hasn’t worn in days.

There’s hesitance across the Uchiha’s face, but all it takes is a look at her before those features once longed for fall into a sense of calm. Footsteps lead her forward and it’s now and it’s here that she feels herself finally looking down the path instead of back. .

The call of her mother comes just as she enters the entry way, and it’s as she makes her way to the room her mother stays within that she sees her mother holding up something that makes her heart drop. The pendent is unmistakable. It’s floral petals are pale except for one. That one lone petal is of a darker rosier shade. The chain hangs within her mother’s fingers, and it’s as her mother’s viridian look to her own that the widest of smiles breaks out.

There’s tears, and there’s broken laughter between the two. Her mother’s voice is hushed within this moment they share. Never had she mentioned to her in these days that the man who had taken her father was so close. She could not find it in herself to burden her mother so much. Fingers dance across her neck sending the smallest tickles down her.

“I don’t expect you to tell me what has you so upset. Just don’t forget that I am here, and so is your father. We love you, Sakura. Please don’t forget to lean on me, and never think you can’t lean on him. He would hate for you to carry everything on your own.” Her mother fluffs her hair as she says it all so quietly as if it’s a secret meant for them alone.

There’s no denying the tears that have fallen from those viridian her mother had been so kind as to share. Her hands are raising and she cannot stop herself from cupping her mother’s face a moment longer. She presses her forehead against her mothers and it’s as her mother’s fingers wrap around her wrists that they both cry whispering comfort to each other.

For every whispered affection another falls into place. For every affection action another follows right behind. Her heart seeks to apologize for being so selfish as to forget she has a parent right here, and another that truly had never left her.

The last whisper her mother gives before wrapping her within a hug is one she’s sure she’ll never be able to let go off. It brings pride back upon her, and the urgency to make it all true. She could not fail her father, and she could not fail her mother.

—He’s so proud of you, Sakura. He really is. We both are.

It’s as they walk to make their way towards the shinobi with locks with pale lead colored hair meant to assist with her practice that she tells the answer she’s found to Shisui, “I wish to speak with him. I wish to speak with my brother-in-law once more.”

He stops within his taken step to look at her. The Uchiha cannot stop his hesitation from showing—he’s held so much of that recently, “I’ll see what I can do, Sakura-san.”

“Thank you.” the male of pale lead colored locks can only watch them as she stands before him. She turns to look at Shisui once more before she takes her leave, “When I had let hate fill me I told you I had lost everything.” her lips widen into a smile that she had just the day before relearned, “I was wrong. I have gained far more than I could have ever ask for.” the warmth that she was meant to give had found its way back to her face, and within her viridian.

She is beaming with hope, and she is beaming full of love that she wishes to give.

If there was one thing her father had taught her it was not to live in the past. Her father would not find honor in her staining her hands. Her father would not find happiness in her allowing such hate to fuel her. He would not find peace if she did not find prosperity in life.

Her father had been the kindest of people. He had been one of warmth, and sun—it’s clear now that is why she finds such comfort in the blonde. He had been the one to wipe her tears from her face, and pat her head when she stumbled. He cared so much for her. He had loved her, and in that love he had been the one to teach her the meaning of giving. He had been the one to teach her to love with no requirements.

Kizashi Haruno was unconditional in all that he did. He gave unconditionally. He loved unconditionally.

She, too, would love unconditionally. That is how she would honor him.

“You look troubled.”

She gives a shake of her head, “No. I’m just thankful to have a papa who still continues to love, and teach me even after he has left me.” there is a shudder that overcomes her as she speaks between soft smiles, “I will bring the spring for him. I will bring the spring to everyone—so they can feel the same love, and warmth I received from him. I will repay all of you for leading me back to him, and leading me back to who I am supposed to be.”

Her eyes shift to the male of pale lead hair beside her. They never falter in their walk having left Shisui shortly after her gratitude, “He’s proud of you.” his fingers fall within her hair affectionately.

#sasusaku #sasusaku fanfiction #sasusaku fanfic #ombree:fics #ombree:theuchihaswife

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