#but in his defence he lives in the state of the world where knowledge and wonder no longer matters!

[eugene114]

JOVI ELEUTHERIO.

Or, an OFFERING to LIBERTY.

Quisnam igitur liber? Sapiens, sibique imperiosus;

Quem neque pauperies, neque mors, neque vincula terrent:

Responsare cupidinibus, contemnere honores

Fortis; et in seipso totus teres atque rotundus.

HOR. Serm. Lib. II. Sat. 7.

1HAIL LIBERTY! whose presence glads th' abode

2Of heav'n itself, great attribute of God!

3By thee sustain'd, th' unbounded spirit runs,

4Moulds orbs on orbs, and lights up suns on suns;

5By thee sustain'd, in love unwearied lives,

6And uncontroul'd creates, supports, forgives:

7No pow'r, or time, or space his will withstood;

8Almighty! endless! infinite in good!

9"If so, why not communicate the bliss,

10"And let man know what this great blessing is? "

11Say what proportion, creature, wouldst thou claim;

12As thy Creator's, in extent, the same!

13Unless his other attributes were join'd

14To poise the will, and regulate the mind,

15Goodness to aim, and wisdom to direct,

16What mighty mischiefs must we thence expect?

17The maker knows his work; nor judg'd it fit

18To trust the rash resolves of human wit:

19Which prone to hurt, too blind to help, is still

20Alike pernicious, mean it good or ill.

21A whim, t' improvements making fond pretence,

22Would burst a system in experiments;

23Sparrows and cats indeed no more should fear,

24But Saturn tremble in his distant sphere:

25Give thee but footing in another world,

26Say, Archimedes, where should we be hurl'd?

27A sprightly wit, with liquor in his head,

28Would burn a globe to light him drunk to bed:

29Th' Ephesian temple had escap'd the flame,

30And heaven's high dome had built the madman's fame.

31The sullen might (when malice boil'd within)

32Strike out the stars to intimate his spleen:

33Not poppy-heads had spoke a Tarquin crost;

34Nature's chief spring had broke, and all been lost.

35Nor less destructive would this license prove,

36Tho' thy breast flam'd with universal love.

37In vain were thy benevolence of soul;

38Soon would thy folly disconcert the whole.

39No rains, or snows, should discompose the air;

40But flow'rs and sun-shine drain the weary year:

41No clouds should sully the clear face of day;

42No tempests rise, — to blow a plague away.

43Mercy should reign untir'd, unstain'd with blood;

44Spare the frail guilty, — to eat up the good:

45In their defence, rise, sacred Justice, rise!

46Awake the thunder sleeping in the skies,

47Sink a corrupted city in a minute:

48— Wo! to the righteous ten who may be in it.

49Pick out the bad, and sweep them all away!

50— So leave their babes, to cats and dogs a prey.

51Such pow'r without God's wisdom and his will,

52Were only an omnipotence of ill.

53Suited to man can we such pow'r esteem!

54Fiends would be harmless, if compar'd with him.

55Say then, shall all his attributes be given?

56His essence follows, and his throne of heav'n;

57His very unity. Proud wretch! shall he

58Un-god himself to make a god of thee?

59How wide, such lust of liberty confounds!

60Would less content thee, prudent mark the bounds!

61"Those which th' almighty Monarch first design'd,

62"When his great image seal'd the human mind;

63"When to the beasts the fruitful earth was giv'n;

64"To fish the ocean, and to birds their heaven;

65"And all to man: whom full creation, stor'd,

66"Receiv'd as its proprietor, and lord.

67"Ere earth, whose spacious tract unmeasur'd spreads,

68"Was slic'd by acres and by roods to shreds;

69"When trees and streams were made a general good;

70"And not as limits, meanly to exclude:

71"When all to all belong'd;��ere pow'r was told

72"By number'd troops, or wealth by counted gold:

73"Ere kings, or priests, their tyranny began;

74"Or man was vassal'd to his fellow-man. "

75O halcyon state! when man begun to live!

76A blessing, worthy of a god to give!

77Who on th' unspotted mind his Maker drew

78The heav'nly characters, correct and true.

79All useful knowledge, from that source, supply'd;

80No blindness sprung from ignorance, or pride:

81All proper blessings, from that hand, bestow'd;

82No mischiefs, or for want, or fulness, flow'd:

83The quick'ning passions gave a pleasing zest;

84While thankful man submitted to be blest.

85Simplicity, was wisdom; temperance, health:

86Obedience, pow'r; and full contentment, wealth.

87So happy once was man! till the vain elf

88Shook off his guide, and set up for himself.

89Smit with the charms of independency,

90He scorns protection, raging to be free.

91Now, self-expos'd, he feels his naked state;

92Shrinks with the blast, or melts before the heat:

93And blindly wanders, as his fancy leads,

94To starve on wastes, or feast on pois'nous weeds.

95Now to the savage beasts an obvious prey;

96Or crafty men, more savage still than they:

97No less imprudent to his breast to take

98The friend unfaithful, or th' envenom'd snake;

99Equally fatal, whether on the Nile,

100Or in the city, weeps the crocodile.

101Nor yet less blindly deviates learned pride;

102In Aetna burn'd, or drown'd amid the tide:

103Boasts of superior sense; then raves to see

104(When contradicted) fools less wise than he.

105Mates with his great Creator; vainly bold

106To make new systems, or to mend the old.

107Shapes out a Deity; doubts, then denies:

108And drunk with science, curses God and dies.

109Not heav'nly wisdom, only, is with-held,

110But the free bounty of the self-sown field:

111No more, as erst, from Nature's ready feast,

112Rises the satisfy'd, but temp'rate guest:

113Cast wild abroad, no happy mean preserves;

114By choice he surfeits, by constraint he starves:

115Toils life away upon the stubborn plain,

116T' extort from thence the slow reluctant grain;

117The slow reluctant grain, procur'd to-day,

118His less industrious neighbour steals away:

119Hence fists and clubs the village-peace confound,

120Till sword and cannon spread the ruin round;

121For time��and art but bring from bad to worse:

122Unequal lots succeed unequal force,

123Each lot a several curse. Hence rich, and poor:

124This pines, and dies neglected at the door;

125While gouts and fevers wait the loaded mess,

126And take full vengeance for the poor's distress.

127No more the passions are the springs of life;

128But seeds of vice, and elements of strife:

129Love, social love, t' extend to all design'd,

130Back to its fountain flows; to self, confin'd.

131Source of misfortunes; the fond husband's wrong;

132The maid dishonour'd, and deserted young!

133The mischief spreads; when vengeance for the lust

134Unpeoples realms, and calls the ruin just.

135Hence, Troy, thy fate! the blood of thousands spilt,

136And orphans mourning for unconscious guilt.

137Thus love destroys, for kinder purpose giv'n;

138And man corrupts the blessings meant by heav'n;

139Self-injur'd, let us censure HIM no more:

140Ambition makes us slaves, and av'rice poor.

141What arts the wild disorder shall controul,

142And render peace with virtue to the soul?

143Out-reason interest, ballance prejudice;

144Give passion ears, and blinded error eyes?

145Arm the weak hand with conquest, and protect

146From guile, the heart too honest to suspect?

147For this, mankind, by sad experience taught,

148Again their safety in dependence sought:

149Press'd to the standard, sued before the throne;

150And durst rely on wisdom not their own.

151Hence Saturn rul'd in peace th' Ausonian plains,

152While Salian songs to virtue won the swains,

153But pois'nous streams must flow from pois'ned springs:

154The priests were mortal, and mere men the kings.

155What aid from monarchs, mighty to enslave?

156What good from teachers, cunning to deceive?

157Allegiance gives defensive arms away;

158And faith usurps imperial reason's sway.

159Let civil Rome, from faithful records, tell

160What royal blessings from her Nero fell.

161When those, prefer'd all grievance to redress,

162Bought of their prince a licence to oppress;

163When uncorupted merit found no place,

164But left the trade of honour to the base.

165See industry, by draining impost curst,

166Starve in the harvest, in the vintage thirst!

167In vain for help th' insulted matron cries,

168'Twas death in husbands to have ears and eyes:

169Fatal were beauty, virtue, wealth, or fame:

170No man in aught a property could claim;

171No, not his sex: strange arts the monster try'd;

172And Sporus, spight of nature, was his bride.

173Unhurt by foes proud Rome for ages stands,

174Secure from all, but her protector's hands.

175Recall your pow'rs, ye Romans, back again;

176Unmake the monarch, and ne'er fear the man.

177Naked and scorn'd, see where the abject flies!

178And once un-caesar'd, soon the fidler dies.

179Next holy Rome, thy happiness declare;

180While peace and truth watch round the sacred chair.

181Peace! — which from racks and persecution flows!

182Mysterious truths! — which every sense oppose!

183That God made man, was all th' unlearn'd could reach;

184That man makes God th' enlighten'd fathers teach.

185Men, blind and partial, need a light divine:

186Which popes new trim, and teach it how to shine.

187Rude nature dreads accusing guilt, unknown

188The balmy doctrine, that dead saints atone:

189The careful pontiff, merciful to save,

190Hoards up a fund of merit from the grave;

191And righteous hands the equal balance hold,

192Nor weigh it out but to just sums of gold.

193Sole judge, he deals his pardon, or his curse;

194Not heav'n itself the sentence can reverse:

195Grac'd with his scepter, aweful with his rod,

196This man of sin usurps the seat of God;

197Disarm'd and unador'd th' Almighty lies,

198And quits to saints his incense, and his skies:

199No more the object of our fears, or hope;

200The creature, and the vassal of the pope.

201"From fanes and cities scar'd, fly swift away!"

202— To the rude Lybian in his wilds a prey.

203"The blood-stain'd sword from the fell tyrant wrest!"

204— Thousands unsheath'd shall threat thy naked breast.

205"The dogmatists imperious aid disdain!"

206— So sink in brutish ignorance again.

207"Is there no medium? must we victims fall

208"To one man's LUST, or to the RAGE of all?

209"Is reason doom'd a certain slave to be,

210"To our blind PASSIONS, or a priest's DECREE? "

211Hail happy Albion! whose distinguish'd plains

212This temp'rate mean, so dearly earn'd, maintains!

213Senates, (the will of individuals check'd)

214The strength and prudence of the realm collect,

215Each yields to all; that each may thence receive

216The full assistance, which the whole can give.

217For this, thy patriots lawless pow'r withstood,

218And bought their children's charter with their blood;

219While reverend years, and various letter'd age,

220Dispassion'd open the mysterious page;

221Not one alone the various judgment sways,

222But prejudice the general voice obeys:

223For this, thy martyrs wak'd the bloody strife,

224Asserting truth with brave contempt of life.

225Oh OXFORD! let deliver'd Briton know

226From thy fam'd seats her several blessings flow.

227Th' accouter'd barons, and assisting knights,

228In thee prepar'd for council, or for fights,

229Plan'd and obtain'd hera civil liberty:

230Truth found her fearlessb witnesses in thee;

231When, try'd as gold, saints, from thy tott'ring pyres,

232Rose up to heav'n, Elijah-like, in fires!

233Peace to thy walls! and honour to thy name!

234May age to age record thy gathering fame!

235While thy still favour'd seats pour forth their youth,

236Brave advocates of liberty and truth!

237In fair succession rise to bless the realm!

238Fathers in church, and statesmen at the helm!

239"But factious synods thro' resentment err;

240"And venal senates private good prefer:

241"How wild the faith which wrangling sophs dispose!

242"The laws how harsh of pension'd aye's and no's! "

243Wilt thou by no authority be aw'd,

244Self-excommunicated, self-outlaw'd?

245Expunge the creed, the decalogue reject?

246If they oblige not, nor will they protect.

247You fear no God; — convinc'd by what you say,

248Knaves praise your wit, and swear your lands away.

249Corrupt not wives, erase it if you will;

250The injur'd husband blots out, — do not kill.

251From God his sabbaths steal, for sport, not need;

252Why hangs the wretch, who steals thy purse for bread?

253Or shall each schismatic your faith new mould,

254Or senates stand by patriot mobs controul'd?

255Drive back, ye floods! roll, Xanthus, to your spring!

256Go, crown the people, and subject the king;

257Break rule to pieces, analyse its pow'r,

258And every atom to its lord restore:

259As mixt with knaves, or fools, the weak, or brave,

260A dupe, a plague, a tyrant, or a slave.

261"What shall I do; how hit the happy mean

262"'Twixt blind submission, and unruly spleen? "

263Consult your watch; you guide your actions by't;

264And great its use, tho' not for ever right.

265What tho' some think implicit faith be due,

266And dine at twelve if their town-clock strike two?

267Or others bravely squir their watch away,

268Disdain a guide, and guess the time of day?

269They guess so lucky, or their parts so great,

270They come on all affairs, but just too late;

271You neither choose. Nor trav'ling thro' the street,

272Correct its hand by ev'ry one you meet;

273Yet scruple not, if you should find at one

274It points to six, to set it by the SUN.

275Aim at the bliss that's suited to thy state,

276Nor vainly hope for happiness compleat;

277Some bounds imperfect natures must include,

278And vice and weakness feel defects of good.

279Nor is it blind necessity alone:

280Contriving wisdom, in the whole, we own:

281And in that wisdom satisfy'd may trust,

282In its restraints, as merciful, as just.

283By these thy selfish passions it corrects;

284By these from wrong thy weakness it protects;

285In sovereign power thy safety's heaven's design;

286Some faults permitted, as the scourge of thine.

287Absurd the wish of all men, if exprest;

288Each grieves that he's not lord of all the rest.

289Why then should we complain, or thankless live,

290Because not blest with more than God can give?

291Would you be safe from others? 'tis but due,

292That others also should be safe from you.

293It is not virtue wakes the clam'rous throng;

294Each claims th' exclusive privilege, to wrong.

295When ceaseless faction must embroil the mad;

296Alike impatient, under A' or Zad.

297How patriot Cromwell fights for liberty!

298He shifts the yoke, then calls the nation free.

299He cannot bear a monarch on the throne;

300But vindicates his right — to rule alone.

301Macheath roars out for freedom in his cell;

302And Tindal wisely would extinguish hell.

303Macheath's approv'd by all whom Tyburn awes,

304And trembling guilt gives Tindal's page applause.

305O sage device, to set the conscience free

306From dread! he winks; then says that heav'n can't see.

307Both blindly plan the paradise of fools;

308Peace without laws, and virtue without rules.

309Full of the Roman let the school-boy quote,

310And rant all Lucian's rhapsodies by rote.

311Gods! shall he tremble at a mortal's nod!

312His generous soul disdains the tyrant's rod.

313Forc'd to submit, at last he tastes the fruit;

314Finds wealth and honours blossom from its root.

315Would thy young soul be like the Roman free?

316From Romans paint thy form of LIBERTY:

317The goddess offers gifts from either hand;

318c Th' auspicious bonnet, with the PRAETOR'S wand;

319The privilege of that would'st thou not miss,

320Bend, and submit beneath the stroke of this.

321See Furioso on his keeper frown,

322Depriv'd the precious privilege to drown;

323Greatly he claims a right to his undoing;

324The chains that hold him, hold him from his ruin.

325Kindly proceed; strict discipline dispense;

326Till water-gruel low'rs him down to sense.

327"Why this to me? am I the froward boy,

328"Or knave to wrong, or madman to destroy? "

329Will thy denial prove that thou art none!

330'Tis Newgate's logick: thou art all in one.

331Blind to their good, to be instructed loth,

332d Men are but children of a larger growth;

333If no superior force the will controul,

334Self-love's a villain, and corrupts the soul;

335Wild and destructive projects fire our brains;

336We all are madmen, and demand our chains.

337Know your own sphere, content to be a man;

338Well pleas'd, to be as happy as you can:

339Lose not all good, by shunning ills in vain;

340'Tis wiser to enjoy than to complain.

341Some evils must attend imperfect states;

342But discontent new worlds of ills creates.

343Hush thy complaints, nor quarrel with thy God;

344If just the stroke, approve and kiss the rod.

345By man if injur'd, turn thy eyes within;

346Thou'lt find recorded some unpunish'd sin;

347Then heav'n acquit: and with regard to man,

348Coolly th' amount of good and evil scan;

349If greater evils wait the wish'd redress,

350Grieve not that thou art free to chuse the less.

351Unknown to courts, ambition's thirst subdu'd,

352My lesson is to be obscurely good;

353In life's still shade, which no man's envy draws,

354e To reap the fruit of government and laws,

355In fortune's round, as on the globe I know

356No top, no bottom, no where high or low;

357Where-ever station'd, heav'n in prospect still,

358That points to me, the zenith of her wheel.

359"What! double tax'd, unpension'd, unprefer'd,

360"In such bad times be easy? most absurd! "

361Yet heav'n vouchsafes the daily bread intreated;

362And these bad times have left me free to eat it:

363My taxes, gladly paid, their nature shift;

364If just, cheap purchase; if unjust, a gift:

365Nor knows ambition any rank so great;

366My servants, kings, and ministers of state!

367They watch my couch, my humble roof defend;

368Their toil the means, my happiness the end.

369My freedom to compleat, convinc'd I see

370f Thy service, Heav'n, is perfect LIBERTY.

371Theg will, conform'd to thy celestial voice,

372Knows no restraint! for duty is her choice:

373What ills thou sendest, thankfully approve,

374As kind corrections, pledges of thy love;

375In every change, whatever stage I run,

376My daily wish succeeds; THY WILL BE DONE.

[minor-solemnity]

hi i love your work and am excited for your series. i was wondering if you can do a one shot where the reader comforts tom and let’s him fall asleep on her while she plays with her hair 😩 soft tom 😈

Yesssss! Soft Tom - I cannot resist! This may have gotten away from me a bit so I hope you enjoy 2.6k of fluffy comfort!

Tag List: @jinxqsu @naps-and-lemons @riddles-wifey @mainlynonsense @cakesarecute @crumpets-are-better-with-jam

What Equates to Worship

The door to your bedroom is open and you roll your eyes when you peer inside and find the source of your broken wards slumped in the armchair next to your bed. Tom’s best robes are in a heap at the foot of the bed, his smartest brogues are kicked into the furthest corner of the room, his hair - usually so neat - is disarray. He looks like the world’s most harangued man. “Good evening, my love,” You murmur as you make your way over to his side, kneeling on the floor so that you can take hold of his hands which are resting loosely in his lap. “You broke my wards again.”

It’s late when you get home. There is a Very Important Case being tried in the Wizengamot and your boss, Gerald Montague, is running you ragged in an attempt to get the edge on the prosecution. It’s a nasty case, the defendant, Mr Vickers, is on trial for the kidnapping and murders of five women. His chances aren’t looking good - there is enough physical evidence to bury him and his alibi is flimsy at best. In private, both you and Montague are convinced of his guilt but that doesn’t matter when it’s your job to convince the Wizengamot and a jury of his innocence. Needless to say, it’s not been an easy couple of weeks.

Your shoes click against the uneven cobblestones as you make your way down the narrow road to your flat situated just off the main drag of Knockturn Alley. It’s not the best part of town, but the flat itself is double the size of what you would be able to afford if you lived somewhere more reputable. Besides, it’s not as though you’ve ever been scared by the less savoury parts of humanity and society - you’d be awful at your job if that were the case. You throw a couple of sickles to the hag that operates outside your building, and she promises you glory in the afterlife in thanks. “If you could promise me glory when I’m alive, I think I’d find that more useful,” You say as you fumble with your keys.

She laughs, “That will cost you more than a few sickles, love, try again tomorrow.” You chuckle and shrug a shoulder. It was worth try at least. The gas lamps that lead the way up the winding stairs to your attic flat are already lit, casting a dim, flicking light across the stairwell. You frown slightly as you make your way up the stairs; no one usually lights the lamps, leaving it up to you to light them when you return from the Ministry every day. Your curiosity is further piqued when you reach your front door and find it glowing a dim red, indicating that someone has broken through the wards. You have an idea of who it is, but you take your wand out just in case you’re mistaken. You have a few files from the Very Important Case hidden in the depths of your bedroom, which in the wrong hands, would be disastrous for you and Montague.

The inside of your flat is dark and cold and looks just as you’d left it this morning. With a sigh, you flick your wand at the fire and smile as flames begin to flicker and burn. Your flat is relatively spacious, but the fireplace is enchanted to spread the warmth further than a normal fire would and with any luck you’ll be toasty and warm within a few minutes. You shrug out of your travelling robes and kick off your heels, rubbing your aching feet with relish. Next on your list of things to do is figure out who has broken into your flat and if it's something you should be concerned about.

You pad through the flat, your stockinged feet making no noise against the polished wooden floorboards. The door to your bedroom is open and you roll your eyes when you peer inside and find the source of your broken wards slumped in the armchair next to your bed. Tom’s best robes are in a heap at the foot of the bed, his smartest brogues are kicked into the furthest corner of the room, his hair - usually so neat - is in disarray. He looks like the world’s most harangued man. “Good evening, my love,” You murmur as you make your way over to his side, kneeling on the floor so that you can take hold of his hands which are resting loosely in his lap. “You broke my wards again.”

He makes a small sound in the back of his throat which is honestly pitiful and you are struck by a burning desire to make whoever put him in such a state pay for their crimes. Tom should never look so downtrodden - it doesn’t suit him in the slightest. You rub soft circles against his palms, smoothing the tension out of his fingers with careful strokes as the quiet of your flat weaves a gentle spell of calm and soothing around the two of you. “Is it a good evening?” He mutters and when you look up at his face, you can see the hard lines of annoyance and defeat marring his forehead.

“Hmm, don’t frown, darling - you’ll ruin your pretty face.” This at least gets a small hum of amusement out of him which you count as a win. Heaven knows that when Tom gets in these moods it can take a lot more than gentle touches and murmured sweet-nothings to get him to smile. You rise from your position and move behind the armchair, resting your cheek on the crown on his head and your hands on his shoulders to kneed at his knotted muscles. “I assume that you didn’t get the job?”

You’ve been so busy with your own work that you’d forgotten that Tom’s interview with Dumbledore was today. If you had remembered you would have taken the day off because even the most optimistic person would have known there was a fool’s chance of Tom getting the Defence job. Despite everything though, Tom is an optimist. You would never have guessed it when you first got to know him, but underneath his taciturn facade is a terribly hopeful young man who still believes that things will turn out in his favour. His idealism is part of what you love about him if you’re being honest with yourself. It’s a good contrast to your cynical realism.

It’s ridiculous, of course. Tom, despite his young age, is the most qualified person you can think of for the position. He knows more about Defensive magic than anyone save for maybe Dumbledore himself, and beyond that, he has the right temperament for it. It comes as a surprise to most people who meet him that Tom would be a good teacher, but he really is. His love of Hogwarts, defensive magic, and his desire to impart that knowledge all adds up to someone who sees struggling students and wants them to succeed. If it had been anyone other than Dumbledore, he would have been a shoo-in for the role.

“You assume correctly.” His voice is still tight and muted with resigned anger, but he begins to loosen under your hands, his head lolling to the side and coming to rest against your forearm.

“Did he give you a reason why?”

Tom sighs and the sound is world-weary and destitute. At that moment, your hatred for Dumbledore intensifies. “He never intended on giving me a chance. He invited me in and lectured me about dark magic. He essentially said that as long as he was Headmaster I would not be welcome in the castle.” The worst thing is that Tom sounds so forlorn. Unlike you, who had decided after a year at Hogwarts that the only thing you wanted to do was leave, Tom’s fondness for the school is unparalleled. “Knowing him, that won’t be for another hundred years or so.”

“I’m so sorry, Tom,” You say, dropping a kiss into the dark curls of his hair. “He’s an old coot. Still so struck by the mythology of his own genius that he can’t see past his own prejudices.” He hums lowly in response and eventually, you feel him start to relax. It’s gratifying to know that it’s you over anyone else, that he comes to when he needs support. You know his friends and followers would do anything to gain his favour, but at the end of the day, he doesn’t seek them out. No, he doesn’t trust them to see him like this, to see him in his more human moments of vulnerability. He trusts you to understand him and comfort him. That in itself is a gift.

“Now, come on. We can worry about Dumbledore later, but right now, let me find us something to eat.” Food, in your opinion, can go a long way to right a lot of wrongs and you have a sneaking suspicion that Tom probably hasn’t eaten all day. He’s annoying like that, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to care about silly little things like eating and taking care of oneself. You can’t help but chuckle softly as he mumbles something under his breath and reaches for your hands to hold you in place. “Later, my love. I promise,” You say and disentangles yourself from his grasp.

Tom follows you out of the bedroom and watches you with a look of exasperated amusement as you search your kitchen. Your cupboards are sinfully bare when you go to inspect them, the rush of the last two weeks has meant that you’ve neglected a lot of your more basic chores. “And you accuse me of neglecting my needs. You hardly set a good example, my dear.” He murmurs from where he’s lounging against the stove. You roll your eyes as you shove your feet back into your heels and head for the door.

“Veeraswamy?” You ask and have to hide your smile when Tom’s eyes light up. It’s not often that the two of you treat yourselves to restaurant-quality food as neither of your jobs’ salaries really allow the indulgence, however, tonight, you think an exception is called for. “Feel free to look over the files I brought home - maybe you’ll notice something I missed.” You don’t even finish your sentence before Tom is digging through your work bag and pulling out the offending files. Typical, you think fondly. Tom is as curious as a cat and one of the easiest ways of making him feel better about anything is to introduce him to a puzzle.

Fifteen minutes later you apparate home with a brown paper bag of Veeraswamy’s finest selection of curries and sweet treats. As a rule, they’re dine-in only, as many of the restaurants in muggle London are, however, you’re not above a confundus charm to get what you want and you always make sure to tip splendidly to offset any guilt you feel for taking advantage. When you get in, Tom has the case files splayed out on the small kitchen table and you spare yourself a moment to admire the elegant curve of his neck and the way his curls fall in graceful arcs across his brow. Without looking up, he makes a space for you to drop the bag of goodies on the table and you collect plates and the bottle of wine that is the only thing you already had in your flat.

You discuss the Very Important Case over dinner and he indulges in your complaints about Montague’s refusal to even consider your line of defence. “Vickers says that he went to a Seer and was told that these women would die by his hand. I want to make the case that he can’t be fully held accountable for the murders if it’s already foretold.” Never mind that that isn’t how prophecies or fortune work, no one in the Wizengamot understands the intricacies of Divination well enough to know that just because something is said, doesn’t mean it will come to pass. “Montague is convinced that we can prove his innocence without resorting to asking for lesser charges.”

“And he’ll lose the case because of it.” He hums, sets his fork down and reaches for your hand, his long fingers looping around your wrist. “Have you considered the fact that Vickers may have been compromised? The file says that when he was found, Vickers was abnormally placid and made no attempts to hide the evidence that would have been easily disposed of? Maybe hire a mind-healer and see if he’s been the victim of an imperius curse,” He says nonchalantly as though he hasn’t just dropped the biggest break in the case in your lap.

“Tom. Tom, you are a genius. How did you even begin to come to that conclusion?” He must hear the wonder in your voice because a small, self-satisfied smile curves his upper lip and he leans over the table to press a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips.

“These things are obvious if you know what you’re looking for.” The knowing in his voice hints at something darker and your eyes narrow slightly. Tom’s proclivity for the dark arts is no secret, neither is his cunning and ruthlessness. You don’t ask and he doesn’t tell, but you suppose it’s probably a good thing that you’re training to become a defence lawyer. Maybe one day he’ll need one.

Tonight is not the night for those kinds of thoughts though. You doubt any night will be - if ever there comes a day when you have to reckon with Tom’s less savoury pursuits, you already know where your allegiances lie. With a soft hum of acknowledgement, you stand and lead him to the bedroom. “Enough maudlin talk for tonight, I think,” You say as you settle against the headboard and motion for him to join you. “You must be tired after today.”

Even though he tries to hide it, you can see that the day has worn on him. Shadows form like ink stains underneath his eyes, and he holds himself with a kind of forlorn regret that fills you with a feeling of sympathetic sorrow. He crawls up the bed and raises an eyebrow when you don’t move to make room for him. Instead, you simply lift an arm and smile, sleepiness and tenderness mingling into something soft in your eyes. After a few second of internal debate where Tom looks from you to the spot you’ve made for him, he gingerly lowers himself against you, his head resting in the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. He lies unnaturally still and tense in the way a feral kitten might react to the kindness of a stranger.

Honestly, it’s more than a little heartbreaking. Slowly - carefully - you rest one hand over his heart and begin to card your other through his hair. You’re not entirely sure how he manages it - you’ve never seen a haircare potion in his vicinity - but Tom has the softest hair of anyone you’ve met. It’s dreadfully unfair, really. You rub gentle circles against his scalp and smile softly in the dim light as you feel him relax against you, the long hard lines of his body soften as you continue your gentle ministrations. Gradually, you sense him ease into a contented state as he seeks clemency from the day in your touch.

That you can do this for him, that you can be this for him is not something you would have ever thought possible. You remember vividly the uptight rigidity with which he had held himself throughout your time at school. The fervent dedication he had channelled to reach the top of the pecking order, never allowing himself a moment of softness or reprieve. You’re certain that if he’s not careful he will burn himself out before he’s had a chance to truly shine, and you know just how brightly he could if given the chance.

You brush his hair from his eyes and lazily draw abstract patterns against his chest, feeling the way his breathing deepens as sleep overtakes him. In this moment of calm, sleepy repose, you feel your heart expand with all love and care you think you might ever feel, and you brush a soft kiss to the crown of his head, revelling in the almost breathy sigh that escapes him. “You’re far too good to me,” He mumbles, half asleep and entirely too sincere.

“Agree to disagree, my love. I am exactly as good to you as you deserve.” He chuckles at this, nestling deeper into your side and flinging an arm across your waist. “Now, sleep - we have so much time for everything else.”

AN: Also before anyone accuses me of anachronisms, Veeraswamy is London’s oldest Indian restaurant. It was opened in 1926 and I’ve been there once before - the food was so so so good and it was disgustingly expensive. I’m assuming that it wasn’t that pricey in the 40’s

[ogravensimp]

Dad!Constantine AU: Rhiannon

first one shot in my Dad!Constantine AU but there is plenty more of this to come so enjoy and make sure to tell me what you think :D

"John? What's that? Is it a tool to help us practice today? John? Is tha-”

Constantine couldn't help but chuckle at the string of questions coming from behind him. He began to think about how less than a few months ago the little girl would barely say a word a day…now he can’t get her to ever shut up.

He turned around and looked down at the tiny figure that sat cross-legged on his rug, who only looked back up at him with confusion in her huge purple eyes. Unlike the ancient power that was leaking out of her, the child in front of him looked exactly as harmless as you'd expect a 7-year old to look.

With her dark-plum hair unevenly clipped short to reach her chin and choppy bangs to cover the red gem on her forehead, it really gave you the illusion that she was a normal human child. And John liked to pretend that the terrible haircut helped achieve a more ‘innocent’ look and in fact, better hid her demonic origins…but that was probably just his only defence against his conscience that nagged at him for not going to a professional.

But hey, she was the one that begged him to cut off her originally waist-length hair and he gave it his best shot with the tools at his disposal—which happened to only be a pair of kitchen scissors, an old magazine for reference and a faded ruler for 'accuracy', but at least Raven seemed happy enough.

He felt his lip tug as he remembered how she had childishly bobbed her head left and right in the mirror afterwards; enjoying the liberation of short hair.

It seemed Azarath’s refusal to cut her hair off was the only thing the kid seemed to dislike about the place.

In fact, she had thrown a near fit when John recommended they ditch the tattered white Azarathian robes he had found her in when he pulled her from the depths of hell. He looked at her current outfit and noted that she seemed to have grown quite comfortable with the human clothes given to her.

She currently donned a large purple knit sweater and a pair of baggy jeans with flowers sewn on the legs. They were probably in style twenty years ago and weren't even her size but John had limited knowledge on where to find children's clothes(or about children in general) and assumed she'd just 'grow into them someday' when he had chosen them from a local thrift store.

Again, as long as Raven liked them.

"This, my little angel, is a music record," he held up the square packaging to her and made a show of sliding out the large disk inside, "This plays music. They allow music up in that Azarath place of yours or just prayers?"

"In Azarath? No, not really," John noticed whenever that cult of her's was brought up, she'd always lower her tone and look down at her fingers as if apprehensive of speaking wrong of them—John didn't know why though, they sounded like a bunch of wankers to him, "Azar said that music is a distraction that would only disrupt my mind by causing me to feel...feelings."

John felt the melancholy in the air as she spoke. It was rare she shared anything; for a kid, she was pretty secretive and John couldn't help but push to know more about his new ward, "And that's a no go, ey?"

"Only for me." She seemed almost smaller now, trying to hide deeper in her baggy clothes—maybe that's why she never pushed for more accurately sized clothes, "The others would sometimes gather to sing mantras in the courtyard as that’s the only type of music allowed but during those times Azar would always put me in the highest tower so I never really heard anything but muffles.”

John sighed.

Sometimes he didn't know if those quacks in Azarath wanted to actually raise Raven or terminate her but the more he learnt, the more he found the answer leaning towards the latter.

He crossed the living room in one large step and kneeled to be face to face with the little girl who stared up at him, nervous, "Listen, angel, I don't know much about Azarathian chants but I do know...", this time he allowed the girl to touch the record—though gently, "Fleetwood Mac. The best band in the world."

"What makes them so special?", Raven asked softly as she marvelled at the disc in her hand; holding it like it was a precious treasure.

John smiled— something he found himself doing a lot of since the arrival of this certain hellspawn. Plucking the records from the girl's small hands, he stood up and reapproached the player he was standing by, "Let me tell you a little secret in the magical community, love."

He placed the record on the player before dropping the pin and quickly turning, excited to see the reaction on the girl's face. Raven just looked confused, her mini caterpillar eyebrows scrunching up on her forehead as the guitar intro began.

"Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night And wouldn't you love to love her?"

He plopped onto the floor next to Raven and turned to her, "You hear her? Like a voice from heaven, innit?"

The little girl just nodded, probably unsure of the right answer.

"Takes to the sky like a bird in flight And who will be her lover?"

"Her name is Stevie Nicks and she's...one of us," He made a gesture of pointing between both of them to symbolise his point, his smile growing as her amethyst eyes twinkled in interest, " The 'White Witch' we call her but non-supernatural's don't know nothing about that, all they hear is the music but we, we can truly hear her."

"All your life you've never seen Woman taken by the wind

Would you stay if she promised you heaven? Will you ever win?"

Taking her tiny palms in his, he instructed, “Now I want you to focus on your inner soul.”

She obediently followed instructions, letting her eyes fall closed and she instantly shifts to focus mode with an expression as still as a statue.

"She is like a cat in the dark And then she is to darkness

She rules her life like a fine skylark And when the sky is starless"

Through her delicate skin, he could feel her once-raging magic begin to ease from the form of a ceaselessly pouring tsunami to simple irregular waves in a vast ocean.

"Would you stay if she promised you heaven? Will you ever win? Will you ever win?"

See, with Stevie Nicks being a witch herself, it only makes sense that some of her magic got laced inro all her music. Magic that had the properties to almost soothe one's magical core and opened up internal gates that were causing a blockage in one's being.

Similar to meditation. Just a whole lot more fun.

John simply didn’t believe in all that meditation stuff that Raven so pliably relied on and if he was going to take her in, it was his duty to teach her the many other ways she can control her abilities.

"Rhiannon Rhiannon Rhiannon Rhiannon"

"I can feel it...I can feel what she's saying." Raven's voice was so soft that John almost didn't catch what was spoken.

Suddenly there was an intense spike in the calm aura that's once surrounded them. He felt the hands in his grasp tense as her once still expression drastically changed.

"She rings like a bell through the night And wouldn't you love to love her?"

Her small face was soon blown in full panic. Sweating like bullets, her already drained of life skin seemed even paler and the strength she used to struggle suppressed what a child of her stature should be able of achieving but John made sure to hold tight.

"She rules her life like a bird in flight And who will be her lover? All your life you've never seen Woman taken by the wind"

"John I don't like this! I...I can feel too much... make it stop!", Her eyelids shuddered as she seemed to be forcing them to stay shut.

Continuing to wiggle in his grasp, the magic concentration in the room got thicker and thicker making it harder to breathe but this was exactly what needed to happen and John knew this. So even though her hurting voice made his heart shatter, he had no choice but to steel his resolve in the face of her cries and just hope it will pay off, “John!? John, please….DAD!”

John didn’t know what hurt more, the way her demonic magic was stabbing him like shards of glass in his skin or the pain in her voice as she called him the title he never in his life thought he’d be referred as.

"Would you stay if she promised you heaven? Will you ever win? Will you ever win?"

“This is all your magic, angel, you got to feel your magic. Can't just lock it up, this is all you,”, he gritted his teeth while he was explaining, and filled with some unknown determination, he spat out a phrase he normally tried to avoid, “you have to trust me.”

Raven’s eyes flew open at that, revealing the orbs of amethyst that were wetting with tears. Her little mind struggled to wrap around the statement John had just said and for a moment she just stared at him. It felt like the longest moment of John’s life because he knew her empathic abilities could see the nervous wreck he truly is and he worried that would dissuade her.

For a second there was no action.

"Rhiannon Rhiannon Rhiannon"

Until, much to John’s surprise, she nodded, “ok…I trust you.”

And John could literally feel the truth in her words as she stopped struggling in his hands and started to return back to the focused zone she had been in before.

This time though, her eyes were open and staring straight at him but John found himself not minding.

“Good.” John took on the role of closing his eyes as he began to concentrate.

"Taken by taken by the sky" "Taken by taken by the sky" "Taken by taken by the sky"

He wasn’t going to just burden a 7-year-old with whatever destructive sorcery that was sealed in her small body, it was his job as her teacher and her…dad to try and guide the freed magic back to her core.

But for that, he needs to concentrate real hard.

The moment John could feel air moving in his lungs again, he knew he had succeeded. Opening his eyes up, he was met with the same pools of purple still staring.

“So, how’d you feel?”

"Dreams unwind Love's a state of mind Dreams unwind Love's a state of mind"

That was when Raven finally broke eye contact and instead looked down at her fingers, not in nervousness but this time in amazement, as if she could see the magic in her fingertips, “I don’t know…tingly.”

This time Constantine let a deep genuine laugh escape his throat at her childish choice of words, “That’s good, means your magic is finally spreading. If you ask me that’s a better option than keeping it all sealed up.”

Raven tilted her head to the side, once again confused.

Constantine didn’t blame her though, her little head was probably going through something similar to a whirlwind at this point.

After all, in her first few years of life, she had lived a life of nothing but restriction and then he spawns from nowhere finds and brings her from hell, seals her oh-so scary father in said hell and then begins to dismantle everything she’s ever been thought to believe in, in the first place.

Must be a lot for a 7-year-old to bear.

Luckily though, Raven is 7 and they aren’t known for dwelling on things for too long.

“Do you have any more songs like that?” She asked, now focused on the player that stood in silence now that the record had reached its end.

John smirked at that, “Oh plenty more of where that came from and we aren’t gonna stop at just Fleetwood, we got some Zeplin, Rolling Stones and…”

Raven just nodded, again, not knowing the right answer and simply letting herself be ‘educated’ on all things that John Constantine had to offer.

In her opinion, this was far more fun than her old teachings.

yes I got the Stevie Nicks is a witch from ahs coven, so expect a lot more supernatural TV crossovers in this AU cause they're now my obsession

[tarithenurse]

In the eyes

Fandom: Naruto Pairing: Uchiha Itachi x fem!reader Content: Feels. Angst. Loss. Love. Reference to killing (war and murder). Captivity. Sorrow. Hope. Anger. You name it, it’s there. A/N: I just want to say in my defence that this story isn’t my fault. Blame @maladaptive-ninja-returns​...it’s her birthday present (yes, I’m late)!

In the eyes

The steam is long gone together with your interest in the drink when you drain the cup of tea as the black-haired man gets up to leave. The cape hides what he’s missing – if only it was his leg instead – that way you wouldn’t have to keep the distance to the bare minimum, constantly risking him discovering that you’re following him. It doesn’t help to complain, though: he’s alive and mobile...and you have to watch your every move.

Volunteering for the assignment has probably been one of the more masochistic choices you’ve made, but you just couldn’t let the last Uchiha go yet.

For years, watching the kid grow older had kept a wound alive that no one knew about. It festered, saturating you with a sickening, rotten, sadness that never washed off but wasn’t detected by your peers. You should have let it heal. Should have moved on. But there had always been something keeping you from accepting what everyone else had decided must be true.

You weren’t the only one dealing with grief, of course. The life of a Leaf ninja was to say goodbye too soon and then to live with the numbing ache, renewed each time memories stirred.

Before the fourth war, the newfangled gossip of the dead returning was treated as ghost stories by most people until the climax of it all, when too many stood face to face with loved ones. Lost ones. And you were too weak to prevent the hope from being rekindled, so once peace was a reality and all the shinobis prepared to celebrate in the chaotic haze of the aftermath, you made a decision.

That is why, three seconds after the door closes behind Uchiha Sasuke, you get up...

...and sit right down again to avoid pressing against the sharp blade of the person suddenly appearing beside you.

The newcomer’s face is hidden partially under the wide-rimmed hat and the rest behind a dark and tattered cloak. Glancing down, a hand with purple-painted nails slips the kunai into the darkness of the cloak, leaving you with the knowledge that it’s there.

There’s no doubt in your mind that this is a shinobi. Where did you come from? Admittedly, there are others frequenting the little tea house because it’s a popular stop at a major crossroads...even if it mainly services those without national affiliations. None of the rest of the clientele reacts to the scene unfolding discreetly and you have no wish to catch their attention before you know what and who you’re dealing with.

“What do you want?”

It takes a second before you realize the question isn’t asked by you. Another one to recover from the smooth dusk that is the stranger’s voice. A voice with a hint of familiarity in the timbre which you decide must be your mind playing games.

“Nothing. I’m no enemy of yours,” you try to placate them, silently counting the seconds worth of head start separating you from Sasuke, “and I hold nothing of value...you should let me go.”

The tickle of a laugh surprises you. “If I’d wanted your possessions, they’d already be mine. I want answers, Konoha-girl.”

The headband you carry is hidden under your clothes, well out of sight from any prying eyes. Finally giving up on stalking your initial target, you turn your undivided attention to the person who has seated them-self before you.

The little skin you can see is pale, and a few black strands have escaped the slack ponytail and fallen in front of the face where only chin and jawline is visible. As if knowing your annoyance, the head is tipped slightly, allowing you to glimpse soft, gently smiling lips. Kissable. The thought jars you.

“I recommend you give up that wish.” No one should be able to hear the nervousness in your voice...but the stranger smirks. “My business is my own.”

“Not when it involves him,” they says, inclining the hat towards the door where Uchiha left.

You’re out to get him? You almost feel sorry for this fool who clearly doesn’t have a clue about the one-armed ninja’s identity.

“Don’t be mistaken,” the person smiles as if reading your thoughts, “I know who he is and what he’s capable of, after all...he’s my brother.”

Calmly meeting your gaze, the eyes meeting you flash red.

...

“Don’t look an Uchiha in the eyes”. It was the warning that was whispered into your ears as soon as you were big enough to run errands on your own. Naturally, you had to do it, and what met you was not as demonic as the warning stories had made you think – rather, they were kind, and wiser than the smooth face hinted at – although you never looked another Uchiha in the eyes just to be on the safe side.

It was impossible to discern the colour. Some days, they seemed leaden as if the rain clouds were gathered inside the boy too. A few times, in the morning when he watched where his fists struck the wood, the sparks from the cozy fire of the evening before still lingered in the warmest of black. What you loved the most, though, was when the gaze was locked onto infinity and they were soft like liquid.

...

Everything is different: the stuffy tea room with its noisy patrons has been replaced by somewhere deserted that seems to be carved out of grey stone.

How did I get here? Careful to move as little as possible, you take in the new surroundings only to find the place empty and with only one way in and out. A dull cold has already seeped into your feet as you stand there, lost as your bearings have nothing to latch on to – the only light is a torch in a wall sconce to your left.

Feet. They are bare, and a quick pat-down reveals that all of your weapons, your belt, and your headband have been stripped from you too. The sensation is uncanny, akin to nakedness. The logic behind it is obvious as it reduces the chances of a successful escape even if you were to make it out and establish a route.

On the other hand: you’re unharmed and unbound.

Turning, you have no doubt that the wooden door is locked but of course you go over to try, heart frozen near your throat when you push against it with your shoulder. Surprisingly, it does open and the screaming hinges sets the tiniest hairs on your body on end.

“Not wasting any time, Konoha-girl.”

You recognize the voice and the decorated nails on the hand that appears to pull open the door completely, and not just from the rest stop but from years of aching recollections that have been warped by watching Sasuke grow up with this man’s shadow lingering over his life. Over your life.

No. There’s no way. He died. Now your heart jackhammers a frenzied rhythm.

It’s a fool’s hope that powers the jab towards his neck. An idiot’s dream urging you to sprint past him. At least I tried, a bitter thought comments the moment both attempts are thwarted as a rib-crushing kick sends your tumbling backwards and you land sprawled in the middle of the room.

The ceiling is still spinning, it seems, when you sense the man’s presence loom over you. The fingers are cool (and surprisingly gentle) as the curl around the back of your skull, fingers digging into your hair to grant a tight grip to pull you closer by. Very close. A hand’s length separates the tips of your noses and you want to be oblivious to the way his mouth curves softly.

“You’re not leaving,” he whispers, “until I say so.”

Feeling and strength are beginning to return to your arms, including a sharp ache in your chest that grows with every shallow breath which you try to ignore. Should have restrained me, fool...and the thought dies there as everything shifts and the ground swallows your limbs.

“N-no...how...? No!”

He watches your struggles lazily before releasing his grip and sitting down next to you on the hard floor. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

But you did. Wait...no! You haven’t...it wasn’t you...it can’t have been...

“You lie about your identity,” you scoff, regretting the outburst immediately as pain stabs coldly into your side, “so excuse me for not trusting you on this either.” There is a little smile there on his lips, full of sadness and regret that makes your insides cringe momentarily until you have the breath to explain to him (or yourself) why it can’t be true: “Uchiha Itachi has been killed!”

“Yes...and then I was brought back.” He’s impossibly calm as though he’s simply discussing the weather. “Twice.”

Double reanimated? As if! The war had been a horror to live through and would have been without people facing their deceased comrades and family members on the battlefield. However, once destroyed or sealed, none of the animated dead had walked again and all of them had been dealt with properly in the end.

Looking at the ninja, none of the signs of reanimation are prominent. On the other hand...even if they had been, you might not even notice it now that you meet the man’s gaze and the liquid infinity there.

“I could show you...but I’m afraid your mind can’t take the strain in your current state,” the so-called Itachi explains.

Mind, your aching heart still reels from fear of being broken once more, this is all in my mind.

Zoning out everything else, you focus on the flow of chakra within. Calming it, soothing it, until abruptly forcing the flow to revert. It feels as if your very soul drops for a second but the moment it returns to its place, the world is no longer made up of lies and imaginary sensations...and you’re still lying on the ground in a room made of stone, your ribs feeling as if they’re speared by frost. The only improvement is that at least your limbs are free.

And Itachi? Yes, you have to call him that because deep within you can’t deny it any longer.

The official reports hadn’t been released by the time you left Konoha and you’re not high enough up in the ranks as a shinobi to get the juicy information unless it’s necessary for a mission – and since your missions tend to be B or simpler A rank...well, I guess my current mission’s a bust but this is an important discovery!

A silky chuckle refocuses your attention. “Very good...I suppose I must strengthen my genjutsu against you.”

He’s so close, you could touch him. Shifting to lean against the wall, he rests his arms casually on the knees and begins to pick at the chapping nail polish.

“No need to,” you bite back a groan as you roll over to sit up, “I take it that’s how you got me here?” Pretty eyes are watching your every move as he nods in agreement. “Hm. It’ll probably be useless to ask where we are, so...why? Why show yourself now?”

Sitting cross legged, you find the pain lessens if you pull your clothes and arms tightly around your torso, restricting the depth of your breathing. Broken or bent ribs? Not that it really matters. First of all, he would be able to beat you in a fight anyways; secondly, even if you got out of here you wouldn’t know where “here” is; and third (but not least), you don’t really want to run from him.

Rather than answer, Itachi stands up and holds out his left hand for you. Puzzled, you take it. Soft fingers curl around yours and he pulls you to your feet, studying your movements and the twisting facial expressions.

He doesn’t let go.

Not when he guides you out the door and into a hallway shaped of the same kind of stone as the room was made of. Carved from.

Not when he slows down at the sound of the squeaky breathing the pace forces from you.

There doesn’t seem to be many rooms along the winding path. Here and there a door bars the way or you catch a glimpse of a dead-end that looks as though the excavation was abandoned or even disrupted by cave-ins.

You do your best to memorize the path, but frankly, your mind is getting fuzzy from pain and exhaustion. You have no sense of time, just hunger and tiredness weighing you down to indicate the loss of many hours.

“Just a bit longer, [Y/N],” Itachi soothes.

When did I tell him my name? You want to ask or at least protest, but it would be a choice between talking or getting to wherever he’s leading you...and you doubt he’ll let you pause.

A few dozen steps later and a short flight of stairs up, he ushers you through a door into a room that looks like a mix between a kitchen and work station. A fire is the only light and heat source (the smoke venting up through a chimney too narrow to be an escape route), casting a warm glow over the solid wooden table and chairs. Everything else is hewn from whatever mountain you’re inside.

“Sit,” your captor finally releases the grip and points at a chair near the fire and you obediently do as you’re told.

There are shelves and niches almost hidden in the dancing shadows at first holding with boxes, bundles, and various utensils. He knows where everything is, grabbing a few items before returning and laying it out in the light. Bandages. His movements are fluid and elegant, just like you remembered.

He motions towards your upper body, then turns to tend to the fire. “Strip.”

“That’s really not -”

“Some of your ribs are broken. Restraining them will minimize the pain.”

He’s right. Of course he is.

With clipped movements, you pull off the layers until you hesitate at the poor excuse of a bra. Despite the now roaring fire, the cold from the stone still seeps into your body and raises waves of goosebumps and tightens your nipples. It would be easier to apply the bandages correctly without the last bit of clothing in the way, but right now it feels like the only shield left at your disposal as Itachi turns back to you.

“We’ll work around that,” the man offers softly.

He works quietly at first. Hands winding the linen bandages around you adeptly, pausing each time the ministration intensifies the pain and causes the discomfort to escape as stubborn hisses. The purple nail polish is mesmerizing – simultaneously a contrast to the horrific stories of a killer and perfectly fitting the pretty, nearly feminine, traits you see. Especially the eyes. Sure, they’re filled with a bottomless sadness that you don’t feel comfortable acknowledging, but they’re beautiful. Haunting.

“You’re staring,” he hums without looking up.

Shit. “No. I just -...let’s say you’re who you claim to be,” you try to recover, “why’re you back?”

“To be his watcher.”

“Says who?”

This time, he stops and looks you dead in the eyes. “Otsutsuki Hagoromo, the Sage of Six Paths.” There are very few proper comebacks to that, so your captor continues without giving you a chance to think of something, “Otsutsuki told me about the bonds of families and that it can transcend blood. He knows hatred can cause – and has caused – too much harm...but something rekindled his hope that it can be overcome.“

I don’t have an eye on Uchiha constantly, but... “Does Sasuke know?” Returning to his work, Itachi avoids your gaze. “He doesn’t...”

“He’s finally found peace and is on the right path...I can’t risk undoing it.”

Bullshit! “Or you’re a coward who doesn’t have the guts to fa-” the rest is cut off as soft fingers tighten around your throat.

Blood-red eyes pierce your mind, numbing you for an eternity or a millisecond.

...

They were a means to reach the goal but their words still hurt as you followed meekly in their footsteps. Snobbery. Disdain. Considering how proud your two team members clearly felt, they had very little to show for their reputation as Uchihas and frankly, it was your skills rather than theirs that ensured successful missions and still, you never once looked them in their face. Instead, you kept an eye out for two other of the clan.

Where one was, so would the other be. Thick as thieves, the boys had found a companionship that complemented their differences in the same manner as the sun and the moon. But as opposed to your teammates who swooned at the brightness of the sun, you were drawn to the night and the calmness it brought whenever that boy was near – each time he met your eyes, time became meaningless.

...

The two of you sit in silence as the steam from the soup caresses your face. Your mind is blank, slowly starting to pick up on the absence of stone walls – wood has replaced the cold surfaces, making it almost unbearably warm with the bandages underneath your layers of clothes – and a plethora of questions begin to press against your conscious only to be held back as most of your thoughts get derailed whenever you look at the man before you.

Without the hat and cloak to conceal him, it’s impossible to ignore all the details you’ve nurtured in your memory for ages, such as the slight pull of his lips as he thinks or the elegance of his movements now that he gets up and refills his bowl from the pot hanging over the fire.

“Why are you following Sasuke?”

You should be diplomatic. “I could ask you the same.” You’re not.

“I already told you,” Itachi shrugs.

“Well I...I don’t believe you.”

But you do. There’s no denying anymore that this man is who he claims to be and so, why would he lie about his purpose? The sad smile. The quiet mannerisms. The idea that Itachi would somehow transcend death to watch over his little brother? That’s a mysterious intricacy that fits with your memories of him from before that night.

“You do...but something else is bothering you.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Am I not what you expected?”

No, you’re not. However, he’s what you remember with a layer of sorrow added on top. He doesn’t get to be sad. The little spark of anger is what you need. You nurse it, feed it until it flares up hot and bright and consumes your regrets and self-pity.

“Expected? I don’t know what I expected from someone like you!” Your voice is rising, shaking with years of frustration. “Clan killer. Murderer. I never told anyone but I was in love with an Uchiha! That night, I’d gone to bed, finally sure that I was gonna tell him but when I woke up...” Something inside you had broken that day and it still hurts now. “They told me how you’d left Sasuke alive...but the boy I loved was gone and no one knew I was mourning. Each time I saw him -” you can’t hold back a strangled sound and you realize, you’re crying -”I saw the ghost of...” The bowl of floating vegetables looks blurry until you blink angrily. “Ugh! But what does a teenager know of love, right? They’ll grow up. Get over it. Except I knew you were out there still and that you had all the answers. Why? The Itachi I remember wasn’t a mindless monster! I was told a story, but it doesn’t make any sense. If all the monster wanted was power then why spare Sasuke? Why did everyone else have to die?”

The inhalations are shallow and rapid, making you dizzy as you cling to the table and the spoon. It burns in your lungs and cheeks.

“I am sorry for the pain, I’ve caused you.”

Your gaze snaps to his face and you know he’s speaking the truth but it doesn’t matter right now.

“Sorry? Sorry?! You don’t get to be sorry! I missed y-...the boy, I loved was gone and it took ages before I could let go and stop mourning, finally accepting the truth had died with you and now...now you’re here? And it’s all back and I don’t understand! How could you?” Itachi doesn’t flinch as you launch the bowl towards him – he doesn’t have to because your aim is off and it clatters to the floor in a shower of shards and wasted food after hitting the wall behind him. “How? The boy I loved was not a monster! He wouldn’t do what they s-”

The echoes of your wheezing shouts ring through the room after the abrupt stop. Holding your breath, you wait for the ground to swallow you whole or for the man at the other end of the table to react and the fear is colder than the burning in your chest.

“Things aren’t always what they seem,” Itachi eventually whispers, “they were just people who had been wronged and misguided until their arrogance made them blind.”

What? That’s not exactly what you had expected. Without explaining further, your captor gets up, handing you his bowl of food before beginning to clean the mess you’ve made.

“Don’t...I’ll get tha-” you begin.

He only has to look at you.

...

The dew had soaked your toes, cooling and soothing them after each kick that you landed on the wood stump. Pine. The new splinters refreshed the scent as they fell to the ground and you knew that birds would rummage through them in the hope of finding a morning snack once the training grounds were free of people again – they were already gathering at the edge of the clearing except for where Itachi stood.

The realization made you stop mid-kick, gaze locked with his and heart fluttering in your chest. How long had he stood there?

“They’re wrong.” You could barely believe he was talking to you. “Your teammates...don’t listen to what they say.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Itachi was gone and maybe it had all been your imagination running free.

...

Sitting up abruptly, it takes a few seconds for your eyes to get used to the low light of the dying embers. Where am I?

Salt and drying seaweed is heavy in the air, somehow worming its way into what appears to be yet another room of stone. No...it’s a cave. You’re sitting on a bedroll splayed out onto the sand filling the place and you have no memory of arriving.

The dark form on the other side of the fire pit makes no move as you slip a hand underneath your shirt to confirm what you already know: the bandages are gone and there’s only a muted tenderness as you prod at the ribs. How long has it been?

“You’re safe,” Itachi’s gentle voice assures, and you feel your pulse slow despite the ominous situation, “go back to sleep.”

Yes. Sleep...hang on! Shaking your head, you fight the urge to succumb to the fuzziness that weighs your thoughts. “Why’re you doing this?” you mumble.

It doesn’t make sense why the man wouldn’t simply get the answers he want and then dispose of you or at the very least leave you locked up somewhere while he keeps following Sasuke from the shadows. Instead, your captor has put an effort into keeping you comfortable. Feeding you.

“I remember you.” His eyes reflect the red coals as they burn into your soul all over again. “Memories don’t do your justice, though.”

...

There is no world beyond the walls of the garden but a red sheet of sky dotted with storm clouds. The sliding doors have been pushed aside, opening the hallway to the view, and you know the wood beneath your bare feet should be silky from decades of use. You can’t feel it. There are no scents either, no breeze to toy with the soft fabric of your yukata, nor insects clicking from the rhododendron.

“This isn’t real.”

“No,” Itachi confirms from behind you, “but here I can create what you need. Who you need.”

Turning at last, there’s no reason to shy away from meeting his gaze even if it matches the fake sky. He looks real – as opposed to the familiarity of the home of your childhood that surrounds the two of you – and the ghost of a smile kindly tries to hide the sadness.

“...need. For what?”

The black strands falling into his face are strangely dull in the nightmarish light. “Closure.”

“That’s not possible.”

Wanting to leave, to run away and avoid what Itachi intends, you find yourself rooted in place by an invisible force. Even turning your face away is impossible and you pray that he doesn’t understand the well of emotions he must be able to see in your eyes.

“This is a chance for you to say goodbye to the one I killed. The one you...love,” he pauses to scrutinize your expression and you try to remain neutral, “because you do. You still love him.”

“You have no right...” swallowing hard, you fight to keep the words back, “no right t-to claim to know what I need!” Finally, you manage to close your eyes but they snap open again at the touch of his fingertips on your forehead. “This isn’t something you get to fix like -”

...

The world has shifted again and you’re back in the ocean side cave. You can feel how uneven the sand is under your knees and shins even with the bedroll to soften the press and some some the grains have found their way in between your toes...but none of that matters because Itachi is still right before you, his fingers gently resting on your brow.

A pop-and-crackle from the fire pit is the only sound other than your shallow breathing. You know, he knows. Eyes widened in nigh-comedic understanding, it’s as if he sees you for the first time.

“I’m sorry, [Y/N].”

You barely manage to whisper, “for what?”

His fingertips send shivers along your spine as they trace a path, allowing him to cradle the back of your neck in his palm.

“Everything” Itachi’s lips brush your cheek, “for breaking your heart in so many ways and for making you think your love was unrequited.”

[americxn]

congratulations on 240 you deserve millions ♡ ! i was wondering if i could request please one where kit insists on teaching the reader self-defense given to the "dangers of the outside" but they end up wrestling playful and maybe things get a little spicy-smutty? it's totally okay if not and thank u so much for your writing ♡

wordcount: 2k warnings: smut @kitwalkerangel I hope this is okay ! tysm for requesting and I’m sorry it took me a while to get this done

“I wanna teach you something.” Kit spoke from behind where you lay face-down on your shared bed, your boredom having reduced you to a groaning lump atop the covers. You perked up instantly, pushing yourself up to your knees and turning to stare at Kit eagerly, silently urging him to go on. “I had a weird dream last night.” He began, taking a step into the room. “Well, kinda a nightmare actually.” He muttered thoughtfully, causing you to to frown. You thought he had slept peacefully as he always did. “No, it’s fine,” he hurried on at the concern on your face. “I just wanted to... I don’t know this will probably sound weird.” He finished quietly, his hand lifting to rub the back of his neck as his cheeks tinged slightly pink. “Kit,” you began, crawling to the edge of the bed and hopping off it. “I hope you realise that there really isn’t anything that I wouldn’t do for you, no matter how ‘weird’ or stupid it is.” He looked at you as you approached him eagerly. “And besides, I’m bored shitless. Please give me something to do.” You reached for his hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “Okay,” he said with a wry smile, dragging you by the hand out of the room and down the hall.

Twenty minutes later, you stood in the middle of your living room floor with your feet braced apart and your hands raised in fists before your face, Kit mirroring your stance. Kit had claimed that he wanted to teach you some self-defence so that you could protect yourself against the ‘dangers of the outside world’. He had hurriedly explained to you that it wasn’t just because of the whole alien thing; he was genuinely terrified of the thought of any harm befalling you, especially after witnessing firsthand at Briarcliff just how cruel and monstrous some people could be.   Your heart had ached at the genuine fear on his face as he explained this to you, so of course you agreed to oblige him. “So, you always wanna keep one arm raised to block any punches. Never leave your face, or anywhere for that matter, unguarded.” You nodded, watching as he demonstrated how to throw a strong punch whilst keeping one arm raised to shield your face. “And where did you learn all this from, Mr. Walker?” You said in slight awe, impressed by his knowledge of self-defence. “Well, I’ve gotten into a few fights in my time.” He replied with a playful wink. “Oh, of course.” You nodded, stepping forwards and raising your arms, throwing a few over-exaggerated punches his way. His giggled, one of his hands shooting out to grasp your wrist as you threw another weak punch into the air. You gasped as he pulled you to him by your wrist, his other hand coming to the small of your back to hold your body to his. “Get me off.” He whispered, his nose almost touching yours. You tried to pull away, squirming around in an attempt to shake his grip from you. He chuckled lightly, his breath tickling your face. You pulled away with renewed vigour at his amusement, but his grip was just too strong. You sighed, meeting his intense gaze. “Are you gonna teach me how to get you off, or...?” You trailed off as Kit grinned at you, shaking his head slowly. “No. I like having you this close to me.” You swallowed as his voice dropped an octave, his eyes flicking to you lips. You carefully shifted your weight as you blinked at Kit, quietly moving your foot to plant it behind his own, your ankle pressing against his. You gave his chest a hard shove, Kit trying to step back to regain his balance, but when his foot met yours he teetered, falling to the floor and taking you with him. You laughed triumphantly, using his chest to push yourself up so that you were sat upright, straddling his hips. His hand stayed pressed against your lower back as the corners of his mouth curved upwards. “Impressive.” He commented, causing you to grin brightly down at him. “Thank you. I would say that I learnt from the best but you didn’t really teach me anything.” You teased, watching gleefully as Kit’s eyebrows shot up. In an instant, Kit sat up suddenly against you, the world tilting as he moved his hips, his hands coming to support your fall as he flipped you over. Your smirk was quickly replaced by a scowl as Kit settled his weight carefully onto you. “Asshole.” You grunted, a smile hidden in your tone. Your legs rose up, your knees pressing into Kit’s back in a vain attempt to push him off. He reached for your face, unfazed by your efforts, his fingertips cold as he brushed the hair that had fallen onto your forehead back into place. His eyes were soft as he giggled down at your hopeless expression. “I thought you were supposed to be teaching me?” You huffed, your hands slamming slightly into his chest. “Okay. Plant your feet on the floor.” You did as he instructed. “Then lift your hips up suddenly, as far up as they can go.” Following his instruction, you thrusted your hips up quickly, watching as Kit was thrown slightly off your body. But it only took him a second to regain his balance and settle himself back onto you again. "See?” He said. You blinked at him. “Yeah, but I didn’t actually get you off though.” “No, but if you can disable them, you would probably be able to flip them off.” At your thoughtful nod, he leant forwards, you going still as his fingers gently traced the shell of your ear. “Just a tip,” he began, his finger looping over the top of your ear. “An ear is actually kinda easy to rip off.” He stated nonchalantly. You shuddered as he pulled down on your ear slightly in emphasis. “If you can get your finger hooked over someone’s ear, all you’ve got to do pull down on it suddenly. Pull hard enough and it’ll tear.” “Ew.” You scrunched your nose up in disgust, though you tucked that piece of information into the corner of your mind, just in case. Kit threw one of his legs off you, his weight lifting from you as he rolled off your body. You took your chance, your arms flinging around his neck as you sat up abruptly. The two of you clumsily wrestled with one another and you were finally able to push Kit back down again with a laugh. He looked up at you, blinking in question. You giggled. “And I didn’t even have to rip your ear off.” You said triumphantly. “I was getting off you anyway-” You cut him off by placing your finger on his lips. Kit’s head fell back onto the floor beneath him in exasperation as you leant forwards, your hands braced on his chest. You closed the distance between your faces, your lips meeting his momentarily. Kit lifted his head slightly for you as you hummed happily onto his mouth, his hands snaking onto your hips. You pulled away as he tried to deepen the kiss, causing him to scowl. “I’m on top.” You insisted, pushing his head lightly by the forehead so that it was once again rested on the floor. “So?” He questioned, his voice turning suddenly idle as his hands roved from your hips to your lower back, his fingertips cold as they ventured under the back of your shirt, his nails scraping against your skin tantalisingly. “I don’t need to be on top of you to be in control.” He explained lowly. You opened you mouth to question him further when his hips rolled once beneath you, his body lifting in just the right spot and rubbing against you. The words fell from your lips at that single electrifying touch, a low groan working its way up from inside you instead. Kit smirked beneath you, his hands abandoning your back and instead coming to clasp your thighs. His grip was strong as he pushed you slightly further down his body, his arms flexing and his semi-hardened dick eager to brush against you once more. Pulling you forward slightly, his hands held firmly onto your thighs as he used your body to rub against him, your own excitement mounting each time he pushed you back over his steadily hardening cock. It didn’t take long before you began to timidly recuperate the action, moving softly against him as he lazily pushed and pulled you over him, the rough material of his pants tormenting you as it scraped against the softness of your centre again and again. “God,” he mumbled, his voice steady as he repeated his ministrations once more. “I can feel how wet and hot you are even through my pants.” You hummed in agreement, your head tipping back and your fingers weaving into the fabric of the shirt on his chest. “Are you gonna help me out with that?” You questioned, your voice slightly shaky as he stopped moving beneath you. “Well,” he began in contemplation. “I think you’ve done well today. So yes.” You groaned at his words, his hands wrapping underneath your thighs and tapping them. You did as he silently ordered, shifting forwards onto your knees and lifting you ass off Kit’s hips. The sudden loss of contact was almost painful but you didn’t utter a sound as Kit shimmied his body beneath you, maneuvering himself quickly so that his face was lined up with your clothed pussy. You ached to lower yourself to his face but you didn’t dare move as his hands slowly began to trace from your ankles, up your calves and to your thighs, scared that he would suddenly change his mind and leave you aching for him. You exhaled as his fingers suddenly found the material covering your pussy, deftly moving both your pajama shorts and panties aside. The cool air as Kit finally exposed your centre made you shudder. He blew softly onto you, watching intently as his simple action coaxed even more wetness to gather and glisten on your folds an inch from his lips. At your desperate wiggle of your hips, Kit connected his tongue to your slit, drawing a leisurely line from you opening to your clit. His touch was painfully light and you strained against your own want to collapse fully onto his face and deepen his touch. He repeated this simple motion again and again until your hissed his name in desperation. His responding chuckle rumbled through you and he finally dove fully into pleasing you, his nose pressing into your wetness as he worked his tongue thoroughly, dipping inside of you and roving around your folds with such vigour that your knees began to tremble. Your hands found his hair, your fingers gripping onto the soft strands and pulling persistently in a way that made Kit groan against you. You pulled more harshly in an attempt to spur him into exploring you deeper, a series of high-pitched gasps and grunts falling from your mouth in quick succession as the familiar ball of warmth began to grow in your abdomen. Suddenly, Kit’s tongue left your pussy and you were thrown to the side with a grunt. The world flipped once more and you blinked at the ceiling as Kit shuffled over to you, trying to make coherent sense of what was happening in the sudden loss of pleasure, Kit’s weight once again settling onto your hips. His face appeared above your, a little smile of his lips, your wetness shining on his chin. You threw your head back with a groan, trying to wiggle your hips in order to gain some friction from his body above yours, desperate for release. “Kit.” You whined in frustration, meeting his self-satisfied gaze. “Throw me off again, and I’ll consider letting you cum.”

[mindofharry]

Fallon Jenkins has no one left. Her family is dead, her friends no where to be found and all she has right now is her bow and arrow and the zombies that rule the night. Harry styles has been wandering around towns for days, looking for rations or new people to recruit but it’s been so long that he’s losing that optimism that got him through the first month of the apocalypse. When his bike breaks down just outside of a garage Harry sees that as fate — what he doesn’t expect is a sarcastic brunette guarding all of the tools. Will Fallon and Harry see eye to eye? Will they rule the apocalypse together?

CHAPTER ONE

☾ ☾ ☾

YOUR LIPS, MY LIPS….. APOCALYPSE.

The first word that came to mind when asked about how Fallon is feeling is: bored. She feels completely and utterly, bored. She’s a creative, an artist. She doesn’t know how she’s lasted out in this world without her pens and paper, but she’s holding on. And she has to remind herself, bored is better than dead. Fallon is drained and exhausted, she hasn’t showered in two days, disgusting is another word to describe her right now.

Fallon lived a good life. She might’ve not had a lot, but she was loved. She had family, a mom and a dad. She had good, supportive friends. Fallon was going to school in New York for arts and drama. Everything was going so well, and then someone just had to become a zombie. Her parents and Fallon all lived together in a small apartment off the east coast, it was tiny and not fit for three people — but they pulled through. They worked extra shifts at the diner, did the odd baby sitting job here and there. And although it was hard sometimes, they all a ton of respect for each other and a shit load of love. Fallon loved her parents, loved her friends.

But that’s all gone now.

Every single one of them are dead or have abandoned her. Her parents were too old, too frail to fight the zombies off. Her dad was exhausted and couldn’t keep up with Fallon. Fallon had strength and determination, which had gotten her through the first month of the apocalypse. But her father and mother seemed to lose faith pretty quickly and in the end, they were too tired to keep fighting. So they surrounded.

Fallon had been out trying to find more food, or people to help and bring into their home. It was like any other day in the apocalypse really. When she arrived home, her parents were dead. They were bloody and beaten up pretty badly, her dads arm had been bitten off and the side of her mothers hip was badly bruised. But they had died holding hands, and on their own terms. Something that kept Fallon going was knowing that it wasn’t her fault, that her mother and father chose to die.

“Baby, we’re too old. We’re only putting you in more danger”

Was it selfish of her to say that she was glad? That she only had herself to worry about? It was easier this way. That’s what she likes to tell herself anyways.

Harry Styles was a writer from England, but had recently moved to America when the apocalypse started. He was sat in his spacious apartment, book in hand and tv on when the news host spewed out nonsense about a zombie and disease. Harry really thought nothing of it, another prank or false information. But then the president of the united states made an announcement and Harry knew what he had to do.

With people outside of his apartment complex fighting for cars and rations, he locked up his home. He brought his drawers to the front door and then locked himself in his small closet for three days.

Once he knew the coast was clear, Harry set out for help. He had his car, but it was probably stolen during the outbreak a couple days ago. So he walked to the storage unit he left his motorcycle in. He had recently done it up and left gas in it, thank god for that.

Harry didn’t know if his family were ok. He didn’t know if this was happening in his hometown too. But he pushed all of those feelings of worry down, and decided to look on the bright side of things.

He’s safe.

Harry has been wandering around towns for days, only going on the bike an hour at a time. He’s found good spots to sleep and hide out for a bit, and he’s got some rations that’ll last him a couple of weeks.

Fallon is currently hiding out in what she thinks is a garage, something to do with mechanics and cars. It’s warm, has tools she can defend herself with and a small office she hide out in.

It’s almost relaxing.

That is until she heard someone outside.

“Time to break out the kit” Fallon mumbled to herself moving over to the red box with all of the tools inside. She took out a wrench and a knife, her bow and arrow attached to her back sort of like a back pack. Fallon took archery back in high school, it comes in very handy nowadays. She’s not athletic per say, but she’s pretty good at the bow and arrow. She’s had to learn how to do self defence, something that’s not easy because she’s so lanky. Her father used to make fun of her because every time Fallon got up her bones would crack.

Harry sat outside of the garage cursing the bike. “Thought you’d at least give me another half hour” He mumbled standing the bike up against the wall. Harry looked around and he almost fell to ground with gratitude when he realised he was outside of a garage. He isn’t the best with fixing bikes or cars, but he has some knowledge. Harry thinks it’s just a small break he can easily replace with the right tools. He’s just praying that no one has raided this place yet.

Fallon was ready and walked outside.

She was not expecting the tall, curly haired, green eyed boy. Her heart skipped a beat looking at him, but she soon composed herself holding up the wrench.

“…Shit!” Harry yelled nearly falling into his bike. His hand came up to his chest and another to his pocket holding onto his knife.

“Stay back!” Fallon yelled moving closer to harry, he put his hands up his knife falling out of his lap.

“I come in peace. I just need to repair my bike, and i’ll be on my way”

Fallon bit her lip still holding up the wrench, she lifted her right hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead. She looked the man up and down again, trying to figure out if she should trust him or not. He didn’t try and attack her, he dropped his knife and from the looks of it his bike does look like it needs some repairing.

“My name is Harry Styles. I’ve lived in New York for three years. I love the notebook. I’m a writer. I have no idea how to use that knife so if you’re going to kill me just do it fast” Harry said lamely, almost like he knew she would give in.

She brought down the wrench and nodded her head.

“Fallon” She said and Harry just turned around to his bike.

“Didn’t ask” He mumbled, bringing his bike into the garage. Fallon rolled her eyes and followed the man, now known as Harry, into the garage.

“I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

“I can help…”

Before Fallon could explain herself, Harry shook his head with a fake smile. “No need, Fallon. Don’t need you messing it up even more” He said tight lipped. Fallon rolled her eyes and sighed, moving away from the bike with her hands in the air. She moved away from the whole place, going back to her make shift bedroom and grabbing her knife from the red box on the way.

She wanted to stab Harry Styles so hard.

But Fallon soon realised he might be more helpful than she once thought.

After a few hours of sitting by herself, and organising her little room Fallon decided to go annoy Harry. When she had her friends, she loved being around them. She loved talking and inviting people out, she just loved being around people. Maybe Harry will be willing to talk to her for a bit, let her annoy him.

“Soo….. you’ve got an accent” Fallon said and harry wiped his forehead and looked up.

She’s trying to make conversation. Harry didn’t like that.

“Yeah”

He didn’t elaborate.

“I visited England a few years back with a friend, super cool place. We didn’t stay long, but I wanted to go back but then…” Fallon trailed off and Harry nodded leaning his hands on the table.

“And then…” She repeated and Harry sighed.

“And then this” He said.

Fallon walked over to harry and looked him up and down. “I’ll let you use all my tools, if…. you stay with me for a couple days” She said her knife digging into his stomach. Harry grunted, if he moved one muscle he would be stabbed — something he does not want. Harry grabbed her Fallon’s hand turned her around so her back was to his chest, the knife came out of his neck and Harrys lips against her ear.

“Was a threat?” He said and Fallon rolled her eyes taking the gun out of the front of her jeans, holding it against his forehead, now having the upper hand. Harry sighed to himself, this girl was exasperating but that could be useful. It’s lonely out there. It’d be nice not to have to do this alone, even if it was only for a couple days.

“I use your tools, bring us to a safe location and then we both go on our way. Deal?” Harry said putting the knife down, Fallon turned around her face close to Harrys. He had beautiful eyes. Forest green. Her favourite colour.

“Get me a place with a working shower and then we’ll have a deal” Fallon said, the gun still up against Harry’s forehead.

Harry rolled his eyes and put his hand out for a shake.

“Deal”

☾ ☾ ☾

“We’ll leave tomorrow morning” Harry said, wiping off his hands on a towel Fallon had given him. She was currently sharpening her knife, shaking her head. Who does he think he is? Fallon is obviously the leader in this situation.

“No?” Harry asked taking a seat beside her. This girl, again, was exasperating. Sarcastic, rude, a bit scary. But beautiful. She had long dark brown hair, but it was pulled into a high pony tail. The pony tail had a small braid in it, a bead on the end of it. Her lips are plump and chapped, but harry would just love to place his on hers.

Woah, get it together harry.

“You’re talking like you’re in charge here” Fallon said.

Harry glared at her, “Well, I am”

Oh hell no, Fallon thought.

“You’re in my space, Noah” Fallon said and Harry rolled his eyes so hard he fell back into the seat.

“My name isn’t Noah. See that’s why I should be the leader…..” He said standing up “Because at least I have the decency to remember your name! Which is not all that special by the way, it’s an easily forgettable name” Harry seethed, his hands on his hips. Fallon giggled to herself, putting her knife down.

“You done with this…” She trailed off, moving her hands in the air at harry. “This hissy fit?” She finished and harry only turned his head away from her as answer.

“Noah is the main characters name in the notebook. You said you liked the notebook. Didn’t forget your name Harry. Even those it’s a very forgettable name” Fallon said, standing up and softly slapping him on the shoulder.

“Get some rest, we’ll be up bright and early tomorrow, noah”

“it’s harry!”

Fallon got her supplies ready for tomorrow, and sat them beside her make shift bed. She was going to miss this place. But she knew if she was going to stay alive in this world, she had to keep moving. She had to trust people. Although she’d never admit this to his face, Harry seems to be a natural leader and she trusts him. Fallon just likes giving him a hard time. It’s fun seeing him to flustered.

Harry didn’t sleep a wink. He felt responsible for Fallon, even though the garage was heavily boarded up — he still felt like it was his job to patrol and guard it all night.

Not because he liked Fallon……

Definitely not.

“Harry…..”

Poke.

“Harry….”

Jab.

“Noah!”

Poke.

“Harry Styles!”

Punch.

“What the hell!” Harry yelled holding onto his shoulder. “You wouldn’t wake up! It’s 6 AM! Let’s get moving leader!” Fallon said tapping her foot. Harry grumbled to himself, popping open a box of gum and putting into his mouth. He didn’t even look at Fallon just handed the box to her, while he put his leather jacket back on.

He didn’t sleep much and Harry doesn’t even remember falling asleep. But it had to be only half an hour ago.

Fallon looked well rested, probably because she had a bed.

“Leader? You’re seriously letting me be in charge?” Harry questioned throwing their supplies on the back of the bike.

“Well, you seem resourceful…. and you have a motorcycle. So you be in charge i guess” Fallon shrugged.

“So just because I have a motorcycle I’m in charge?” He asked and Fallon nodded.

“Works for me.” Harry said and opened up the garage door. “Goodbye Garage. Thanks for keeping me safe.” Fallon said with a pout. Harry rolled his eyes and started the motorcycle handing her the helmet. He stole another one from the back of the garage.

“Noah and Allie take on the apocalypse?” Fallon asked placing her arms around harry.

“Yeah, whatever.”

[sonoftatooine]

Whumpay 2021

DAY 31: ALT DAY - SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Shaak Ti

Summary: When Anakin makes the decision to go and save Palpatine from Mace Windu, his lack of sleep over the past week chooses the worst possible moment to catch up with him. Shaak Ti attempts to intervene.

***

It was said that the Force, in the hands of a competent Jedi, could do many things. It was also said—with greater and greater frequency over the course of the war—that in the hands of Anakin Skywalker, it could do the impossible. Right now, however, Anakin himself was of the opinion that this was a bold-faced lie, for the one thing he could not make it do, as he staggered unsteadily yet imperturbably toward the main doors of the Jedi Temple, was have it chase away the fog that was threatening to take over his over-tired mind and send him spiralling into the deep, impenetrable darkness of forced rest. He had been fighting it for days, drawing on the Force to fend off sleep as he searched desperately for a solution to save his wife from the awful fate that plagued his dreams whenever he tried to rest. And now, only now, when he was so close to finding the solution that the Jedi had denied him, when a moment's delay meant that he could lose that knowledge for ever, did his reserves finally run out, and the ability to stay awake and moving start to slip through his durasteel grip like sand.

Sand. Sand. His head felt like it was full of sand. Scratchy and grainy, lodged in unlikely places, disrupting all the whirring mechanisms that governed his thoughts. He'd had the same problem with Threepio when he was building him, without his coverings to protect him from the ravages of Tatooine, and he'd spent hours cleaning the stuff out of his servos just as he had with Watto's junk at the shop. He wanted to shake his head to dislodge it, but nothing he did made it—

He had been so focused on putting one foot in front of the other that he barely realised when he collided full on with a tall, slim figure standing directly in front of the door. The world swam before as one of the frequent waves of dizziness overcame him, and he felt strong, slim fingers circling about the flesh of his biceps to keep him upright. Dazed, he blinked, trying to chase away the strange blur that had overtaken his vision, and the smudge of red and white and purple before him coalesced into the face of Jedi Master Shaak Ti. Her hairless brows were drawn into a frown, and she looked very concerned.

“Anakin,” she said. “Are you alright? Where are you going?”

Anakin wished he could dislodge the sand from his brain, but his thoughts wouldn't come coherently, and all he could force out from his lips was a garbled, “the Chancellor— I need—”

Shaak Ti's frown deepened.

“The Chancellor?,” she asked. “But the Masters have already gone to confront him. You need not worry—the situation is already in hand.”

Anakin could only shake his head wordlessly, immediately wishing that he hadn't as his vision swam once again at the sudden movement. She didn't understand. The situation wasn't in hand because Windu might kill Palpatine who was the only one who knew how to save Padmé and he couldn't let Padmé die, he couldn't live without her -

“Shaak Ti,” he gasped out. “Get out of my way.”

He had to get to the door, had to— If he could just get to the door— He tried to pull out of her grasp, but Shaak Ti held on, the press of her fingers on his arms gentle yet firm.

“The Temple is sealed,” she reminded him. “The door is code-locked.”

Oh. Yes. They were expecting retaliation from Palpatine should the Masters fail. Windu had put Shaak Ti in charge of the Temple's defence as a precautionary measure when he had ordered Anakin to wait like a good little Jedi in the Council Chambers while he marched off to kill the man who had always been kind to him, had lied to him, had been the only one to offer to help him save Padmé— But what did it matter? He was a Jedi himself. He had the codes, and Shaak Ti couldn't keep him here when he needed to go—

“And you're in the way of the pad” he snapped.

He jerked back, and this time, he managed break free, but the force of the movement had unbalanced him, bringing on another alarming wave of faintness. His vision blurred, the world spun, his head throbbing painfully with exhaustion and hunger and fear. Hands shot out to catch him once again, and he pitched forward, forced to lean against Shaak Ti to keep his knees from buckling.

“You're not well, Anakin,” the Jedi Master's soft voice spoke somewhere in the vicinity of his ear, but despite how close she was, she sounded distant, muffled, as if she were talking over a bad comm connection. “You should be in the Halls of Healing.”

“I— No. I can't—,” Anakin stammered desperately. He couldn't afford distractions, not with Padmé's life on the line. He had to get to Palpatine now, before Windu— “I'm fine,” he added, trying to push himself back upright again. “I need to go—”

Shaak Ti shook her head.

“What can you possibly do?,” she asked. “Master Windu and the others will handle it. You have done your duty. Let yourself rest.”

Yes, Windu will handle it, Anakin wanted to shout. That's precisely the problem. Padmé was going to die because he couldn't get away, because he couldn't get there on time. His head swam again, and to his horror, he felt tears of fear and frustration pricking at his eyes.

“You don't understand!,” he babbled. How could she understand? How could he explain it to her after he had broken the Code so badly? “There's no time. I have go! I have to do something! I can't just—”

“Anakin, please,” Shaak Ti cut across him. She looked deeply worried. “Let me take you to the healers. You are in no state to be fighting battles against a Sith Lord. You will get yourself killed.”

Anakin shook his head.

“He...he won't kill me,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “He wants—”

Realising exactly what it is he was about to say, Anakin cut himself off abruptly. He wants me as his apprentice, he thought. That's the price of Padmé's life. My life in service so she and the baby can live. He knew this deeply, instinctively, with all the knowledge of the little boy on Tatooine who had spent his life at the mercy of his masters, even though the part of him that wanted to think not of the Chancellor's lies but of their long friendship tried to tell him that there wouldn't be a price for his help. He couldn't tell Shaak Ti that. Couldn't tell her that, as much as the prospect alarmed him, there was a tiny spark in him beneath the furious insistence that all he wanted was to make sure that Palpatine wasn't killed that was actually considering it. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, however, for a look of severe alarm found its way into Shaak Ti's violet eyes.

“He wants what?,” she said, and there was a note of urgency in her tone that he had never heard from her before—usually, she was the very epitome of Jedi calm. “Anakin, what does he want. What has he told you—?”

But before she could demand anything further of him, and before he could even begin to think about evading her questions, four lights blinked out of existence, and the Force screamed. Both Anakin and Shaak Ti staggered under the weight of it.

“What—?” Anakin gasps. He knew those lights. Windu. Fisto. Kolar. Tiin. Where were they? They couldn't just be gone. They couldn't be— There had been four of them and only one of Palpatine. He couldn't have—

“It cannot be,” Shaak Ti breathed, her eyes wide with horror. “Four Jedi Masters... How could he have—?”

She shook herself, as if she could rid herself of fear the way an akk dog did water after a swim.

“We must see to the Temple's defences. I fear he will come for us next, and without—”

But she never got to finish, as Anakin took advantage of her distraction to dart around her towards the keypad. Another wave of dizziness overcame him, and he nearly crumpled in a heap on the floor, but he flung out an arm to break his fall. Bracing his right arm against the wall, he raised his trembling flesh hand to the pad, intent on typing in his code. If only he could stop it from shaking so violently, let alone shift the sand in his head to remember what the damned code was—

A hand circled around his wrist, and he froze.

“Anakin, no,” Shaak Ti said sternly, even as her voice shook at the feeling in the Force of four Jedi Masters dead. “I cannot let you go to him. Whatever he wants with you, it will bring you nothing but harm.”

Harm. Harm. Palpatine had harmed Windu and the others. Had killed them. He should want to kill him, as he had for one short moment in the man's office when he revealed to him that he was the Sith Lord behind the war. Did he want to kill him now? No, he needed him to save Padmé. He needed that knowledge, that power. Who cared if it harmed him as long as it helped her? A small voice in his head whispered to him that if Sidious had the power to defeat four Jedi alone, then surely being able to save Padmé would be nothing by comparison. Oh Force, he felt sick.

“Please,” he begged, appalled to hear his voice tremble and break as he spoke. He wanted to cry, wanted to rest, to fall asleep in Padmé's arms knowing that she was safe, that he would no longer be plagued by dreams of her death and that he wouldn't have to turn to the Sith Lord that had just killed four Jedi Masters for help. But he couldn't have any of that. All he had was one possible way to save her life that Shaak Ti wouldn't let him take. “Please, it's not me, it's— She's going to die! Padmé's going to die and I have to...”

Shaak Ti's eyes widened in sudden realisation, but he could barely see her through the blackness that was encroaching on his vision. She tilted sideways or—no, he tilted sideways, tumbling to the floor and what was that? Was the door opening? Had she opened the door? No, it was someone coming in—many someones with heavy booted feet and blue and white armour and weapons pointed—

There was a click of many weapons being primed, a shout, the snap-hiss of a lightsaber being ignited, and then the darkness consumed him amid a hurricane of blaster fire.

[dtrhwithalex]

TV | Leverage (Season 2, Rewatch)

Rewatch of the second season of TNT's LEVERAGE (2008-2012), created by John Rogers and Chris Downey together with Dean Devlin and his production company Electric Entertainment.

In anticipation of the show's reboot / revival / sequel LEVERAGE: REDEMPTION coming to IMDbTV on 09 July this year, I am rewatching the original 77 episodes and writing about my favourite moments and things from each episode, season by season.

201: THE BEANTOWN BAILOUT JOB

D: DEAN DEVLIN. W: JOHN ROGERS. Original Air Date: 15 July 2009.

We here at the Rabbit Hole adore the Beantown Bailout Job very much (and by we I mean me). It is such a great season-opener and everything about it sets up the season so nicely. Also let me just say, I love the cheesy intro. I like to imagine that this plays on whatever website the clients usually end up finding the team. It would be so confusing. And wonderful.

This episode, of course, also introduces another of my favourite characters: Lt. Patrick Bonanno, State Police. And I am very sad that there is zero chance we'll ever get to see him in the reboot, since the wonderful Robert Blanche has unfortunately passed away last year. Bonanno was such a fantastic addition to this show and I love him very much. He is just brilliant in every episode he is in.

Aside from the introduction of Bonanno, Beantown is a brilliant episode for various reasons, but I wanna talk about this one most of all. John Rogers talked about this on his blog, I think -- not one member of the team can come straight out and admit that they need the others. It is the impromptu meeting at Sophie's performance that brings them together again (very much against Nate's best attempts). Only once they're at McRory's and Parker suggests stealing something to cheer up Sophie is when they all fess up and tell Nate that they want this team back together again. And then, of course, we have one of my favourite sequences in this entire show: Nate forcefully being bullied back into this family. They do exactly what he did to them in The Second David Job -- they get him to contribute knowledge to the case that they, allegedly, lack. And he knows what they're doing, of course, he's not an idiot. Well played, indeed.

I would also like to personally thank one Nadine Haders, this show's most brilliant costume designer, for every single piece of clothing she put on Christian Kane for this episode. That green sweater with the brown jeans jacket? All my love to you, Nadine. All of it. Also, uncharacteristically, Nate has some very good looks in this episode (the man looks healthy for once!) and I am unreasonably mad about it (actually, he has some very good looks this entire season).

One last thing: I would like to have a word with whoever decided to play the Andy Lange song here that Sophie's departure in The Two Live Crew Job is set to. It makes this first half of the season a circle. Who do I need to have words with? Who?

202: THE TAP-OUT JOB

D: MARC ROSKIN. W: ALBERT KIM. Original Air Date: 22 July 2009.

An absolutely amazing episode for Eliot but also very much for Sophie. They are the Conference Of Mom Friends, and I adore them very much, thank you. It is a fantastic episode for them individually, but especially also for the specific relationship these two people have. There is an amazing post floating around on this website (this one here) talking exactly about this episode and Eliot and Sophie in the role of protectors in their team, their family.

There are a few scenes here that I really like and really, most of them are about or with Eliot. I love in the briefing at the hotel that Eliot does not just dismiss Sophie's misunderstanding of wrestling, but takes the time to explain to her what the sport is about -- and she listens. We also here get a nice glimpse at the fact that Eliot teaches them certain fighting skills and self-defence techniques, which I just love so much. Just as Sophie coaches them all in their grifts, he makes sure that they all have a certain know-how in fighting and protecting themselves. It's so good.

I am also very fond of both the moment where Eliot brings Sophie to the restaurant to meet with Rucker, but also Sophie showing up at the gym at night to talk to Eliot while he's preparing for the fight against Tank. Eliot gives away so much of himself in this episode, and it is very interesting to me that the person he does this with is, continually, Sophie. The others may be on comms, and might be, for all we know, listening in, but it is Sophie he tells these things to. It's like Hardison says later in The Two Live Crew Job: "We trust Nate to make sure the plan works, we trust you (Sophie) to make sure we're all okay." While I would not necessarily call Sophie the heart of the group (that's Hardison), she is very much the emotional centre of it.

This episode is also just very lovely to see how they all take to an environment that is, for once, not big city life. Eliot takes to it immediately, which makes sense, because he probably is from a town not much different from this one. Parker, somehow, fits in immediately as well (I love her I <3 Nebraska shirt). I feel like Nate never has any issues fitting in anywhere, he just takes things as they come. It is Hardison and Sophie who have difficulties -- Sophie because she is, after all, a bit posh and needs certain standards met, and Hardison because his world of technology does not mix well with a small, rural Midwestern town ("Can't hack a hick" anyone?).

203: THE ORDER 23 JOB

D: ROD HARDY. W: CHRIS DOWNEY. Original Air Date: 29 July 2009.

I occasionally see some posts on here that call what the team does to Charles Dodgson in 512: The White Rabbit Job the worst thing the team does to a mark. I have to say, objectively, I think what they do to Eddie Maranjian in this episode is much worse. Of course, Dodgson is a good person, and Eddie is a crook, but still. Objectively? This episode is more evil.

Anyway, this episode has some fantastic moments that I adore a whole lot. I love Eliot and Hardison as cops, Sophie's act is absolutely amazing, and I have a super soft spot for both Nate teaching Parker what he is doing, and also Eliot and his side quest of helping Randy.

I am so incredibly fond of all these little moments where Parker's eventual role of Mastermind is already being planted. She always asks Nate questions, if she doesn't have a part to play in the con, she is with Nate, learning. She says it in the pilot episode already: "I'm really good at one thing, only one thing, that's it. But you, you know other things, and I can't stop doing my one thing, can't retire." And then she does her best to learn the other things Nate knows. This episode particularly, how Nate explains to her how NLP works, that what he is selling is fear. Nate is so patient with her, too. I love them both so very much.

Eliot's side quest with Randy and his abusive dad is an absolutely excellent addition to this episode. Especially after the previous Eliot-centric episode, this small thing just goes to show that, at their core, these are good people. Yes, they are criminals, the lot of them. But they are not bad people. Things like this just make me think that, it had to have been this exact combination of people Dubenich put together. Any other thief, any other hacker, and Nate would have walked away from this alone. It had to be Parker, Hardison and Eliot for this to work exactly as it did. And Eliot looking out for Randy even though they are in the middle of a con, taking his time to make sure Bob, the U.S. Marshall goes to see Randy, is exactly something that brings this point home.

Lastly, I adore that everyone shows up at the court house when Eddie goes to find his money. He knows they all conned him, but they know no one is ever going to believe him. It's a fantastic gloat scene. And I also really love that Nate explains why this works to the others: "So, here's everything you need to know about criminal law. Every crime has two elements, Actus reus, the act itself, and mens rea, Literally "The Guilty Mind." ... Now, for escape, the prisoner has to both break out of custody and show the intent to escape. ... Which brings us back to our friend Eddie and how the brain reacts to fear. In the heat of the moment Eddie didn't ask himself a simple question, who would doubt his guilty mind?"

204: THE FAIRY GODPARENTS JOB

D: JONATHAN FRAKES. W: AMY BERG. Original Air Date: 05 August 2009.

This one was Bernie Madoff inspired, if I recall correctly, who was arrested in 2008, around the time Berg, Downey and Rogers were already bouncing ideas back and forth for this season.

There is so much to love in this episode! Where to even begin. Maybe with Parker replacing Sophie at the client meeting? Or Sophie immediately heading for both popcorn and the cookie tin after the breakup? How about Parker perching on Eliot's arm rest with her food? Nate's headmaster act? Eliot as Coach Brewer (red is a fantastic colour on him, thank you Nadine)? Hipster rich newlyweds Parker and Hardison? The return of my beloved FBI fools McSweetheart and Taggert? Taggert being McSweetheart's biggest supporter in his affection for Parker? Sophie and Widmark? The actual science-sical with all these adorable kids singing about science?

So much to love. Chock-full of greatness, this episode. Also Frakes, once again, directed the hell outta this. I love this episode so very much.

One moment that does, however, absolutely win out over everything else, is the scene at Nate's apartment after Hardison and Parker meet McSweeten and Taggert again:

Eliot: One of you two can identify the gunman, right? Hardison: Oh, yeah, sure. He stopped and let me take a picture of him as I was chasing him. Eliot: Hey, you know what, man? I've been around little kids all day. I don't need to come home and do all this crap.

That line, Mr Spencer? "I don't need to come home and do all this crap"? Home? Sir, we are four episodes into the second season, and you are already calling Nate's apartment home. Honestly, that boy has been invested into this group as a family from the moment Hardison hands him a check in the pilot episode, if not earlier. And I am very much here for all of it.

205: THE THREE DAYS OF THE HUNTER JOB

D: MARC ROSKIN. W: MELISSA GLENN & JESSICA RIEDER (GRASL). Original Air Date: 12 August 2009.

This is another one of those episodes which, when I think about it, I am not entirely into, but then when I watch it, I always love it. It's a brilliant episode, but the mark rubs me in all the wrong ways and I think that's why my general reaction to this episode in theory is mostly "ew". Which I think is kind of the point, as well.

There is much to love in this episode, though. Sophie being Nate in this one, Nate being very wary of this concept and also having difficulties letting someone else take control ("If you don't mind, I would still do the 'Hardison, run it' thing" Nathan you precious little man, I love you so much). I think it's so nicely done. I mean Sophie has run cons before -- she was the Mastermind behind the First David Job, and she runs their con in the Second David Job as well -- but then she was confident, now she is going through things, on the brink of rediscovering herself for who she is. And of course, it bites her in the ass a little bit.

I absolutely adore Conspiracy Nut Hardison and his fantastic apartment. Set Design did a magnificent job here. I am so fond of Parker asking Eliot about the different things -- the council, the moon landing, Loch Ness monster -- and also very much the bit at the end where he and Hardison answer Parker's questions while he prepares food. That ending bit overall is just absolutely excellent and I love it with my whole heart. Eliot cooking for all of them in Nate's kitchen, giving Parker stuff to try, while Hardison sits there and sips his orange soda out of a wine glass. Meanwhile Nate pouring wine for Sophie, and then going over to her to make sure she is alright. For his slightly more sadistic streak in this season, Nate is so good with Sophie here. And honestly I think this conversation here is one of the reasons why Sophie feels able to leave them for a while. It is Nate's reassurance of "Whatever you need, I'm here for you" that lets her take this leave of absence.

206: THE TOP HAT JOB

D: PETER O'FALLON. W: M. SCOTT VEACH & CHRISTINE BOYLAN. Original Air Date: 19 August 2009.

I adore this episode! The fantastic Veach and Boylan on the keyboard for this one (who, I've had to find out, are both tangentially involved with my latest hyperfixation, SHADOW AND BONE -- Veach having written my favourite episode, and Boylan being married to the showrunner), which is just lovely, because they are both excellent.

First off, I would like to, once again, give all my love to Nadine Haders for that Pizza Guy outfit she put Kane in for the recon sequence. A+ costuming, thank you Nadine.

This episode has so many excellent comedic beats and a wonderful many Hardison/Eliot moments. Sophie trying to set up Nate with their client is absolutely hysterical -- especially considering that she had just been broken up with and had been urging Nate to figure out what it is that is between them since day one. I especially love her attempt at finding things Nate has in common with Jameson: "She's a scientist. And well, you're a bit nerdy, aren't you? ... And food, she works with food. Well, you eat, don't you?" Like, girl, what are you trying to do here, really?

I absolutely adore Hardison and Eliot trying to get into the server room so Hardison can access the data they are trying to get before anyone can get rid of it. Eliot hooking Parker's rope to Hardison's belt, Eliot's complete awe at Hardison's ability to remote access their mark's phone ("You can do that?" Eliot, honey, he can do so much more), the two of them wedged underneath the desk, and then, of course, Eliot's huge smile when Hardison hacks the scanner at the door with the help of his gummy frogs. I love these boys together so much, and this episode has given me so many great moments.

I am also incredibly fond of Nate's magician act. That is a brilliant role and it suits him so well. And I love how genuinely enthusiastic he is about magic.

207: THE TWO LIVE CREW JOB

D: DEAN DEVLIN. W: JOHN ROGERS & AMY BERG. Original Air Date: 26 August 2009.

This is an absolutely brilliant episode for so many different reasons. Let me get two things out of the way straight off the bat: 1) Where do I address my "Chaos For Leverage: Redemption" campaign to? and 2) Where do I address my "Apollo Robbins For Leverage: Redemption" campaign to? I want both of them back desperately!

Of course, this episode is important as a major stepping stone in Sophie's character arc. Because of Chaos and his bomb, she has to kill off one of her aliases which is the last thing that then leads to her taking a leave of absence to figure out who she is and who she wants to be. That scene in her apartment with the bomb is also just an excellent moment for the team as a family. The care with which everyone interacts with Sophie, Parker's instant pudding hack, Eliot's instructions on how defuse this situation, Sophie's immediate shift into protector mode once it becomes clear that the only real solution is to run and telling everyone to leave immediately, Nate staying behind and even when Sophie tells him to leave, waiting for her by the apartment door -- they care for each other so much.

I also really love the con-off with Starke's crew. It is so nice to see how similar yet different he and Nate are, and the same goes for the other crew members. I adore their individual confrontations a lot. Eliot's non-fight fight with Mikel Dayan, Parker's thief-off with Apollo, Hardison and Chaos' baby monitor fight. It just really highlights who our beloved characters are and what makes them them, now that we see them, metaphorically, in front of their mirror.

And then, of course, the actual heist is also just amazing. I adore that Starke chooses Nate as his alias to gain access, it is such a great move. Parker and Apollo talking in the ventilation shaft about birds is also just so lovely. And as an admirer of Eliot's arms, I am also very fond of his fight with Mikel. Good choices have been made, I appreciate all of them. The reveal at the end is also absolutely amazing. To beat them they had to save them? Brilliant.

Lastly, of course, Sophie's goodbye at the graveyard with Nate. What a spectacular moment. Also just, the visuals are so beautiful. I love the lighting here. And of course the return of Andy Lange's song, which is just perfect. I am so happy that this is the journey they decided to give Sophie when it became clear that Gina would not be able to be in the full seasons due to her pregnancy. They accommodated her so beautifully and gave Sophie such an amazing moment of character growth. This is why I love this show and the people who made it so much. All my love, to all of them.

208: THE ICE MAN JOB

D: JEREMIAH CHECHIK. W: CHRISTINE BOYLAN. Original Air Date: 02 September 2009.

We love The Ice Man Job! Another fantastic episode by one Christine Boylan who we love in this house. Our very first episode without Sophie being there, and it's a great one. I absolutely adore how they worked in moments with our favourite grifter in a way that so wonderfully accommodates Gina's pregnancy.

I absolutely adore the moments where all of them eventually end up calling Sophie. Parker, hiding underneath the bar after Nate tells her she'll be the grifter in this one, calling her mom Sophie in a panic without wanting the others to know, but still needing her advice and missing her so much. Then Eliot, calling to complain to his mom Sophie about Hardison going overboard again with the grift, needing the knowledge that his concerns are being heard and aren't unfounded, needs to hear the other protector of the family acknowledge his rightful fear that things will go sideways. And of course also Hardison, calling mom Sophie so she can pick him up from the party help him out of the mess he's made, hoping against all hope that she'll be able to help without having to involve Nate. The others both had the luxury to ask Sophie not to tell Nate -- Hardison had no other choice but to let her call it in. Lastly, Nate too, at the end, calling his wife Sophie. And honestly, I love that Sophie drops her phone into her drink after the call, because Nate is the only one not giving her what she wants to hear. The kids, all of them, called with an "I need you" and that is the one thing Nate doesn't give her.

There are many other things in this episode that I love very much. The opening briefing, Parker feeling alone on the big empty couch, trying to sit next to Eliot, but he makes her move. Nate's big DadTM moment of "Eliot, can you please sit next to Parker" and Eliot's very long-suffering oldest child answer "No! I'm sitting here now."

Then of course Eliot and Hardison's two moments -- Eliot telling Hardison "I ain't bailing your ass out" and then when he eventually does anyway, Hardison's smug joy, forcing Eliot to sort-of-hug him back at McRory's. Eliot's unsuccessful attempt to make him helping Hardison a decision forced onto him by Parker, and Parker refusing to accept the "blame" immediately. Their whole dynamic this episode is just so good. Neither Eliot nor Parker being happy with Hardison in this role (Parker's refusal to ride with him in the Ferrari), Eliot proudly watching Parker do her thing over the security camera ("Stuck it!").

Lots of love also to Pasha Lychnikoff as our main Russian goon, who is just fantastic here, our much beloved Lt. Patrick Bonanno, and also Nadine Haders for so many amazing looks, especially on Eliot.

209: THE LOST HEIR JOB

D: PETER WINTHER. W: CHRIS DOWNEY. Original Air Date: 09 September 2009.

Court-room episode, which means we have our friend Chris Downey on the keys here, and he gave us an absolutely excellent introduction for Tara Cole played by the lovely Jeri Ryan. Honestly, the more often I watch this episode, the better it gets. Tara is just so good.

Highlights of this episode include: Sophie's immediate "who died?!" when Nate shows up at her apartment in London, Hardison playing "Where is Waldo Ford," Hardison and Eliot in prison, the first appearance of Nate's lawyer alias Jimmy Papadokalis who wears brilliantly loud and obnoxious suits in outrageous colour-combinations, Hardison stalling Blanchard at court security with his keys, Nate's reveal of Ruth as Kimball's daughter (I am fascinated that he completely drops the character here -- he is just Nate now), and of course, the reveal of Tara at the end.

Honestly, this is such a magnificent episode to introduce Tara's character. We have just watched the team scramble and fuck up without Sophie, and then their next job gets more complicated because of this random lawyer who shows up. And she's so righteous and law-abiding and absolutely not someone they should be taking with them on their job. And Tara plays it perfectly. Her honest try at getting Orson to talk to them, her confusion about her "dogs", her excited smile when she gets to con Blanchard and be a bit dishonest -- it is so good. And then we get that complete 180° when the team finds her in Nate's apartment. Not just visually, but the personality. Her voice drops a bit too. Jeri fucking rocked this introduction. The reveal is so damn good.

210: THE RUNWAY JOB

D: MARC ROSKIN. W: ALBERT KIM. Original Air Date: 13 January 2010.

I have zero interest in fashion but I honest to God love every single one of these characters at fashion week. Fashion!Eliot is absolutely fantastical and I love him. Julien, my beloved. Fashion!Parker is very cute with her braid and even before she gets the model makeover she outshines every single other person at the event. Fashion!Hardison is surprisingly understated but I dig it. Tara as Caprina is also just excellent. And I absolutely, un-ironically adore Fashion!Nate. Jacques is such a character. Nate exchanged the usual "obnoxious and greasy" with "gay," slapped some would-be-French that sounds like German on top of it, and called it a character. And I love it.

I also very much love the three video calls with Sophie in this episode. The kids calling in the beginning, complaining about Tara. I absolutely adore both the "she's hot" moment and Eliot's "...and all the way to Europe?" when Sophie says Nate lets what is good for him walk out the door. Parker's little "I just miss you" before they hang up has me all the way up in my emotions every damn time. Tara calling Sophie to complain about Nate is also just excellent. The whole bit with Nate's "I'm sexy because I'm broken" thing is just *chef's kiss*. And of course Nate's call at the end. I love that Sophie hangs up on him, it is so fair, it is absolutely justified. And I think he knows that too.

So many great other moments too -- Hardison's Steven Seagal comment about Eliot's clothes, Nate's "Julien, sweetheart" and Eliot's little clap before taking the money, Nate and Parker at the mark's house, Eliot and Tara vs the Triads, Eliot and Parker at fashion week together ("It's a fashion show, not Thieves'R'Us"), and of course Tara's "For what it's worth, Sophie was right. You guys are the best I've ever seen ... But no one in the world, is as good as you think you are."

211: THE BOTTLE JOB

D: JONATHAN FRAKES. W: CHRISTINE BOYLAN. Original Air Date: 20 January 2010.

This episode has got to be one of my favourites, if I were forced to chose some. I love a bottle episode, and this one is just magnificent. Excellent client, great mark, fantastic additional characters, wonderful episode for the team. All around just, so good. Not surprising if Frakes and Boylan are at the wheel together, of course.

The addition of Cora is so lovely. I would have loved to see more of her, to be honest. She is such a great character. I love what her presence does to who we see Nate as. I adore when characters get to show new sides of themselves, it's so nice. Also, Nate's comment to Eliot about him not wanting Eliot to like Cora because she's like his niece? Most excellent.

I adore our three police officers too. Mickey, Danny and Johnny are such great additions. I really liked them. How they just went with whatever Nate was planning and in the end decided to just pretend none of this ever happened, it's just so good.

Doyle and the Liams as our villains of the week are also just fantastic. Also I just love Irish accents, it sounds so good. I love to hear it.

Other highlights of this episode include: Tara's "I'm Trish and I'm lonely", the kids going for their individual emergency funds stashed in Nate's place (they are all so fantastically in character, I love it), Nate using his dad's name as his alias, everyone stopping to see if Nate is going to succumb to the booze again, Hardison's excitement about pulling off the wire in under 2h, Hardison faking the weather, Eliot and Parker on safe duty. Also, rewatching this episode, I am absolutely 100% convinced that what Eliot is doing to distract the Liams from Tara conning Doyle, absolutely categorises as flirting. The way he throws that dart at the board and then buys them beer? Mr Spencer, sir, you are flirting with these guys.

212: THE ZANZIBAR MARKETPLACE JOB

D: JEREMIAH CHECHIK. W: MELISSA GLENN & JESSICA RIEDER (GRASL). Original Air Date: 27 January 2010.

The wonder twins with yet another magnificent episode. No surprises here. We have not just the return of Maggie but also of Sterling! We love this!!! (Seriously, I want both of them back in the reboot. I don't care that they're most closely tied to Nate. Bring them back.)

This episode has so many absolutely excellent moments as well. I love the opening sequence in the bar, with them going over possible next clients together, Nate kicking Eliot for flirting with the bartender, and then of course also Sterling walking in. The interaction Nate and Eliot have here is just fantastic.

Sterling: *walks in* Nate: Eliot, I'm gonna ask you not do do anything violent. Eliot: Wha-what are you talking about? I only use violence as an appropriate response. Sterling: Hello, Nate. Eliot: *responds appropriately*

And to think that Sterling only gets beat up here because Mark Sheppard's son was visiting the set that day and wanted to see his dad get beat up by Eliot. We stan one Sheppard Jr.

I very much love the scene where Nate and Sterling go over what they have on Lundy, and then Parker interrupting them out of nowhere, just sitting there on the counter, like she's been there forever (which she probably has). Also just, fantastic clothes on Parker, thank you Nadine. Maggie showing up here is of course also brilliant and I am very fond of Parker making Maggie a fugitive bag. It is so completely adorable. I love my girl so much.

Another favourite moment is, of course, Tara and Eliot getting Chernov to tell them where the sale of the Fabergé egg will take place. Tara not saying a damn thing, Eliot grumpily doing what Tara tells him to ("Do that thing with your eyes that scares people" / "What -- I don't know what you're talking about"), Chernov's complete unease about this whole entire situation, and then of course Tara and Eliot's other interaction:

Tara: What we imagine is always so much better than reality. Eliot, with the tiniest voice possible: Like love? Tara: *just stares at him, confused*

Just, *chef's kiss* this scene.

The scenes in the embassy are also just excellent. Tara and Nate pretending to be a couple, Nate's inability to deal with the idea of Maggie and Alexander, Maggie and Tara hysterically giggling while talking about Nate, Sterling pretending to be drunk (and incredibly gay) to get Parker access to the egg room -- brilliance, all the way through.

I adore Eliot taking charge of the situation once it becomes clear that Maggie and Nate have been taken hostage. Parker doing her magic and switching the bomb with the empty briefcase in the elevators is beautiful. Maggie kissing Nate instead of Lundy in what could have been their final moment and regretting it instantly the moment Parker shows up is excellent.

And the final scene back at McRory's is also just wonderful. The kids watching the news about Sterling with Tara ("I hate this guy" / "Now, you're part of the team"), and Nate talking with Maggie. I adore Maggie in this scene so much. Her and Nate's relationship is so lovely. We know Sophie understands how Nate ticks, but Maggie knows him so well too, still.

213: THE FUTURE JOB

D: MARC ROSKIN. W: CHRIS DOWNEY & AMY BERG. Original Air Date: 03 February 2010.

This episode is so good for so many reasons. First off, I adore Luke Perry (I'm still sad about him) even if he plays creeps like Rand in most everything I've seen him in. He was just so good. Second, Medium Tara is probably my favourite role of hers. It's a lot softer than many of the other characters she's done, and I love it. Also the costuming is just excellent.

But I want to talk about Parker most of all. The scene where Rand cold reads her is so well done. Riesgraf knocked it out of the park here. Also, I love how Nate, as soon as Rand starts approaching and doing his act, barely ever takes his eyes off her. He occasionally glances at Rand, but his attention is on Parker at all times. And it just makes me feel things.

The team coming back to Nate's to find Parker sitting on the floor in front of the couch, crying also makes me super emo. They are all so very careful with her here. Even Tara, who hasn't been with them for that long. I quite like how Eliot and Hardison choose to sit a bit away, giving her space, and Nate carefully approaches and sits closest to her. They are all so good with her here, I love them all so much. And I absolutely adore this part of the conversation:

Tara: So what do we do now? Parker: Cut off his arms. And his head. Yeah. I wanna kill him. Can we make that happen? Eliot: Yeah, I can...I mean, I could...

Also earlier, after Tara acknowledges that Rand is good at what he does, Hardison says "He should be shot." I adore how both our boys would not hesitate to end this man for hurting Parker like this. That's their girl and he went too damn far. And even though Nate suggests a way of retaliation that is less final, he isn't above hurting the man either. Because that's his girl, too:

Hardison: Nate had me rig the table with a mild electrical current. Eliot: You electrocuted him? Nate, smugly: Yes, I did. It helped sell the bit. Parker: I approve. Nate: Thanks, Parker. Eliot: No, her agreeing with you is not a good thing. Nate, whispering to Parker: Thanks.

And add to that the absolute joy each and every one of them have when fucking with Rand to fulfil Tara's predictions? *Chef's kiss.* Absolutely beautiful.

There is so much more absolutely fantastic content in this episode, but I just wanna point out the ending where they meet with the client again. Nate is so good with them here. The way he talks to Jodie about her baby and how she will see her late husband in the child, makes me cry every damn time. Just like Tara says, "Yeah, now I see why you do it," this is why this show is so damn good. It's because of this exactly. Because for one shining moment within so much suck and tragedy, there is goodness and a wrong that has been made right. They help people and it isn't just fleeting momentary relief. They change people's lives for the better. I love this fucking show so much.

214: THE THREE STRIKES JOB

D: DEAN DEVLIN. W: JOHN ROGERS. Original Air Date: 10 February 2010.

First half of the second finale! Patrick Bonanno my beloved! I get so sad every time he gets shot here. My man deserves better than this. I love Bonanno so damn much, man. I absolutely adore that Nate goes to see his family at the hospital. Like, this is a cop. The very opposite side of the law Nate and his people operate on. But he goes to see him anyway, because this is their cop. And I love that Bonanno's wife recognises Nate's name. "He wanted to buy you a drink. And then arrest you." That's just so good.

I also absolutely love Richard Kind as Brad Culpepper, the corrupt mayor. I would love to see him back in the reboot, but I doubt there'd be any reasonable explanation why on earth they'd have to see this particular mayor again. I just think Richard Kind is an absolutely fantastic actor.

Anyway, favourite moments. Hardison and Eliot at Bonanno's house is beautiful. I am so fond of how Hardison deals with law enforcement while impersonating law enforcement. He tears them down and builds them back up again, every single time. And I adore how Eliot just smiles at his antics. He crawls around on that carpet with the young cop and Eliot just stands there and smiles. I love them, guys. I really do. Parker pretending to be Brad's pregnant lover with Tara's help is also just most excellent.

And of course: Roy Chappell. Baseball Eliot, my most beloved. There is so much to love about this whole concept. Eliot's reluctance at first because he doesn't like baseball. The discovery that baseball is actually something cool and something he is good at. His absolute childlike joy at the energy drink commercial Hardison made him. His damn hair during the actual game. The sandwich! The enthusiasm about the sandwich. Hardison admitting that the sandwich thing is cool.

I also absolutely love Hardison and Parker as Beavers Fans. The badly photoshopped picture of Dean Devlin and John Rogers as the radio hosts makes me smile so much. So does hearing their voices on the show. Both Hardison and Parker's phone calls to them are also brilliant. Parker speaking Spanish? Marvelous. The two of them demonstrating the Beavers leaving? *Chef's kiss.*

The final showdown with Brad and then the FBI is also just most excellent. Nate going ballistic on Brad because of Bonanno. Hardison and Lucille. Parker giving Lucille a little kiss before they send her to explode as a distraction. Hardison quoting Spock to say goodbye to Lucille. Hardison being pissed at Nate about Lucille. And of course: Jim Sterling, Interpol. The bastard. I love him.

215: THE MALTESE FALCON JOB

D: DEAN DEVLIN. W: JOHN ROGERS. Original Air Date: 17 February 2010.

Second half of second finale! And it's a good one, too. This show has absolutely brilliant finales, lemme tell you.

What do we love about this episode? MUCH. Tara's naked bit is excellent. Eliot and Parker sharing a look after watching Tara's naked bit is even better. Parker turning on the porn channels on the hotel tv is hilarious. Eliot talking to the receptionist about the gym is hysterical ("Ah, the fitness spa. Isn't the Zen Steam Garden divine?" / "Yeah....delicious").

Nate on stairs vs Sterling in elevator is probably the pettiest thing I have ever watched on television and it is absolutely amazing. I don't think anything can ever top this as pettiest moment. It is just so good.

Sterling, of course, is always great fun. I love that he has his own little villain theme that announces him before he even enters the screen. Love a good villain theme. And I adore his moment with FBI Bob outside Brad's hotel room.

Sterling: Name's Bob, right? Bob: Yes, sir. Sterling: You've been here the whole time, Bob? Bob: Yes, sir. Sterling: And nobody's gone in or out, Bob? Bob: No, sir. Sterling: Then would you mind explaining, where the HELL THE MAYOR IS?!

Absolutely perfect.

Nate going back to his place always has me all up in my emotions. Also, I think Sterling here absolutely believes that what he is offering Nate, is good for him. That he can save him from himself or something. They were something like friends at some point, after all. And of course, Nate calling Sophie. She is, of course, unbeknownst to him, already on the way to save his ass. But he calls her and finally tells her exactly what she wanted to hear at the end of The Ice Man Job: "I need you. Not the team, me." Sir. I am emo about you.

And then of course the final con and the reveal of Sophie's return. I absolutely love that Parker's first reaction to Tara possibly betraying them was to try and throw her off the roof. That's my girl (I love Tara, but that was fair). Also just, if you pay attention on the boat scenes, you can see Sophie from as early as Kadjic hearing Nate's offer and then leading Nate and Eliot below deck. If you can pick out her hair and know the colour of her coat from the scene in the helicopter, you know that she is there. And then, below deck, you can see her so many times -- at one point essentially back to back with Nate -- before any of the characters know she's there. And can I just say, I absolutely love Nate's completely shocked face when he hears her voice. Those comedically big eyes are just excellent.

Everyone seeing Sophie again is done so well. Hardison and Eliot's confused "Sophie?" when she walks past. Eliot winking at Sophie after they free Nate. Parker hugging her immediately once her and Tara arrive on the ship. Hardison putting his hand on the small of her back as he passes by her to go down the stairs. I just love them all so much.

And lastly of course, the reveal of the plan, Nate cuffing himself to the railing and making Sterling leave his family alone. What Nate says to them always makes me so emo too: "You guys are the most honourable people I have ever met in my life. You have become my family, my only family. And I will never forget that." John Rogers, sir, we need to have some words once I get this lake out of my eyes. And I obviously can't not mention the kiss. Finally, finally Nate gets his shit together. And she slaps him and it is perfect. And then they leave and he sits down and bleeds and Sterling, for a moment, is genuinely concerned about Nate as a person and not merely about Nate as his only way to nail Kadjic.

Bob: Who the hell is this guy? Sterling: I have no idea. Nate: My name is Nate Ford. And I'm a thief.

Yes. Yes you are, you magnificent bastard.

[image taken from the electricnow website]

[blubberquark]

E-Sports

Occasionally, you can read about a game adding or already having “e-sports features“ like tournaments or spectator mode, or about trying to “bootstrap an e-sports scene“ by hosting a tournament with a five- or low-six-figure dollar amount prize pool.

This is not how it works. You can’t turn any game into an e-sport by paying people to play it, or by adding features that enable players to run their own tournaments. E-sports are computer games as competitive spectator sports.

For this to work, you need:

Full-time competitive players

A large audience of passive viewers

A media industry/tournament circuit with sponsors, commentators, broadcasting channels, hosting and monetising professional matches

You cannot have #3 without the first two. You cannot have full-time professional players without #2 and #3. It all feeds into the other pieces.

Maybe, if you cannot afford to have a tournament circuit and full-time pro gamers, you can instead have something similar on a smaller scale:

A high-level hobbyist competitive scene

A small, but committed crowd of enthusiasts keeping the game alive

Enough interest for the enthusiasts to fund an annual tournament

The small-scale model seems to be how speed running and the fighting game community operate. The large-scale model is how StarCraft used to work, and how League of Legends, CS:GO and Overwatch work today.

Professional Competitive High-Level Play

E-sports depends on world-class players who can make a living playing your game at a world-class level. They are called “professional gamers”. They train for the game as their day job, probably with some cardio, gymnastics, and hand-eye coordination exercise mixed in. They have sponsors and trainers, which I will cover more in depth in point #3. For there to even be world-class players, the game has to reward high skill.

A competitive scene needs a a balanced, but competitive game. A competitive game with has skill measurement and a high skill ceiling.

E-sports pro gamers are playing the same game as regular players, but they are very good at it, so good that they dominate matches against average players, and even matches against good players. That’s what makes them world-class. If you could spectate just any game on the ladder, the e-sports scene would nor be special. If the outcomes of a match are heavily influenced by randomness, there can’t be a big difference between world-class players and people who just picked up the game. If the game provides high skill measurement at low levels, but runs into ceiling effects at high levels, for example if pro players frequently play a perfect game of computer golf, or a perfect game of computer bowling, there is no skill measurement at high levels, and high-level matches become boring.

An e-sports scene can only exist when the game is balanced for high-level play and has a long skill chain. I the game is discovered to have boring solutions, it must be patched.

How can you determine who is a “world-class“ player after the game launches? How can you be sure the pro-gamers are really world-class if they only play against other pro gamers? How do players ascend from competitive hobbyist to pro? An e-sports game needs a lively hobbyist competitive scene. Good matchmaking and a public ladder allow professional players to practice against random high-level players, hobbyist players to measure their skill against pro players, and everybody everywhere to know where the metagame is at. After all, what good is skill measurement if you never measure yourself?

An e-sports game needs a ranked ladder and good matchmaking.

The pro gamers will probably spend a significant amount of time each week training, sparring against team mates, practising specific moves, techniques, or strategies. This requires custom matches (ranked ladder matches are still good for raising team brand recognition on twitch though, in addition to getting a feel for the metagame). I heard that during the heyday of StarCraft II, some teams spent hours practising defence against cheese like 6-pool Zerg rush, a bunker rush, or a Zealot/Stalker all-in.

Of course, if you practice defence against bunker rushes for days only for bunkers to be nerfed on the day of a tournament, it’s all moot.

There must be a way for competitive players to practice in custom games against colleagues. Patches affecting balance or tournament play must be small and announced well in advance.

The Passive Watching Experience

The audience cares about the game, knows what’s going on and who is winning, and loosely follows the metagame and the goings-on in the e-sports scene, but not necessarily all the beef and player transfers.

The simplest, but not easiest, way to a large audience for an e-sport is to have a large player base. People who occasionally play the game at a hobbyist level are already familiar with the mechanics, and a little emotionally invested in the outcome of games. Even in some real-life spectator sports (like football), you expect almost all people in your audience to have played the game at some point in the past.

A large hobbyist player base also feeds into the smaller pool of more competitive players, and thus ultimately into the pro gamer scene.

All this is presupposing that the e-sport still resembles the game as most players know it. If the high-level matches look completely different from hobbyist ones, if different skills are important, and if it is difficult to know for a hobbyist player what is going on and who is winning, it is much more difficult to parley a hobbyist player base into an e-sports audience. In some Nintendo party games, like Mario Kart and Smash Bros, (but not Mario Party, which is only casual and does not have a competitive scene) most players are playing only very casually against friends, and in others, most players are only playing in single-player mode. They don’t care about winning or getting good at the game, so they are less likely to care about e-sports.

For a large player base, the game has to be easy to pick up, easy to understand, and still fun and competitive at the entry level. Being easy to pick up and understand also makes e-sports games easier to watch and understand passively.

Having multiple games modes can be a nice compromise, allowing casual players to play in a low-skill game mode while competitive players have a higher skill ceiling. This works best if the cards, units, weapons, or whatever your game has, and all mechanics and physics still follow the same rules, and only a few elements are swapped out. Playing with the same rules but different starting configuration and goal state is better than playing “easy mode” with a completely different balance. Casual observers can follow and appreciate e-sports matches if they know what’s going on. By changing the win condition, starting state, and introducing a couple of new mechanics, new game modes can mostly maintain the game mechanics while shifting the dynamics of a match. Keeping the dynamics but making the moment-to-moment gameplay less predictable for the casual observer is much more confusing.

For the viewers who are not playing the game at all, e-sports broadcasters must explain what’s going on, who is winning, and what the current metagame is.

In some games, the metagame is more important than in others. Card games like Hearthstone are difficult to understand for viewers who are not up-to-date on the metagame, even though the mechanics are easily explained, and the card-specific rules are written on the cards. Without knowledge about the current metagame (which decks are dominating the ladder, whether aggro, control, or combo decks rule, what kinds of tech cards/adjustments players can add to react to small shifts in the metagame) it is nearly impossible to make sense of what is happening. That is true even when the viewers see all the cards and know both decks in advance. Specifically, it is difficult to understand why a player is playing fast or slow, greedy or safe, defensive or aggressive, and also who is winning. The same goes for Magic - The Gathering. It’s nigh impossible to understand how a matchup between two decks works without knowing what other cards could be in there, but aren’t. This can ruin the experience for people who know the rules but play the game only very casually.

Other games may have clearer indicators of who is winning and what is going on, but even fighting games with health bars, RTS games with supply counters, and MOBA games with lanes whose battle lines you can see on the minimap won’t let you tell who is winning based on one factor alone. Such a game would be boring! In every competitive game, there should be a way to sacrifice hit points for better positioning (e.g. in Smash Bros or Virtua Fighter), or to fall back on a lane in exchange for gold, so there is never a “simple” metric to see who is winning. If there were such a metric, the first player who gains a small advantage by that metric would just snowball out of control and dominate the match.

In any case, passive spectators benefit from additional visual feedback, because while the players know which buttons were pressed, the audience does not. Passive watchers have much less information than active players. In the first-person view, it can be enough to just indicate whether something failed or succeeded, hit or missed. A fighting game player knows which button he pressed, and his opponent knows whether he blocked correctly or not. Nonetheless, the game should also communicate visually which type of action the players chose for the benefit of the audience.

Visual spectacle and clear legibility are sometimes at odds with each other, but visual spectacle can make watching a game more “fun“.

Having too clear an indication of who is winning can be a detriment, too. It’s good to have clear visual feedback, but not to have limited gameplay options. If the future trajectory of a match is set in stone as soon as one player establishes a clear lead, the game is no longer fun to watch from that point onwards. In games with perfect information, or with enough information, the losing player might simply resign instead of drawing out the match to its bitter conclusion, but in some games with fog of war, one player might be oblivious of his disadvantage, or he might go on and on looking for “outs“ while the audience already knows how everything will eventually play out.

This is just one way in which games can be boring to watch at higher levels of skill, even if the audience understands what is going on. There needs to be a certain flow of action, to keep viewers engaged and entertained. The game should get going without a long set-up phase, and should wind down without a drawn-out endgame. To keep viewers involved at all times, decisions throughout every phase of the match should influence the outcome.

Comebacks, reversals, pivoting to different strategies, risky plays with big pay-offs are all ways to introduce drama into the watching experience.

Fighting games are harder to read for the audience moment-to-moment, the matches are shorter, they can end abruptly, and they are difficult to get into. All this means they don’t make for as fun a watching experience compared to MOBAs, RTS games, or objective-based modes in first-person shooters.

Digression: Let’s Play and Variety Streaming

E-sports is not the only way to broadcast games for entertainment. Your YouTubers and variety streamers can make a living on games, but they don’t have to be world-class. People don’t watch them because they are good at the game, or sometimes not at all because of the game, but because of the streamer’s personality, the community, and the funny commentary. Playing the right game is a way for small twitch streamers to gain new viewers, but it’s not what keeps people around. Some streamers mainly stream the same single-player game every time, and are so good at it they have a streak of hundreds of games in hard mode. Even they retain their viewers because of their personality, not because they are the best at the game.

Of course, a variety streamer or Youtuber can also play competitive games like Chess, PUBG, or Rainbow Six: Siege. It’s played a different format though: Viewers see what the streamer sees, and a face-cam, and if the streamer is eliminated from a round of PUBG or Fall Guys, the streamer often does not spectate the rest of the round for the viewers find out who wins.

YouTubers of average gaming skill can even play tournaments of casual but competitive (in the sense that you play against each other) games against other YouTubers, or organise tournaments in more casual goofy games like Ultimate Chicken Horse, Duck Game, Mount Your Friends, Golf with Friends, or Rock of Ages and still draw in viewers. This is a common method of cross-promotion.

Variety streamers also play party games like Quiplash, Cards Against Humanity, or Mario Party as a backdrop for conversation with other streamers.

They sometimes play competitive games in a team with other streamers, but the necessity of coordinating within the squad in League of Legends, PUBG or CS:GO means more airtime will be dedicated to the actual game, and banter will suddenly have to make way for tactics.

Events and Broadcasting

E-sports events have legitimacy, teams, sponsors, brand recognition that draws an audience, and commentators.

E-sports broadcasters usually call the commentators their “talent“, not the players. The players or “athletes“ come and go, and they get sponsor money from elsewhere, but the commentators and moderators are hired by the broadcaster/event organiser. The commentators are usually both entertaining personalities and knowledgeable about the game. They fill dead air with background info about he players and their recent matches, explain what’s going on, crack jokes, or just do play-by-play commentary. Viewers are often more attached to commentators than to players. There are usually two commentators and a dedicated off-screen observer controlling the spectator camera, in addition to a referee spectating the game, and the players. Additional moderators and interviewers may be on the stage during an e-sports event. Sometimes experts (retired pro gamers) are brought in to analyse a replay in the pause between matches, like in real sports.

While variety streamers play both the role of “entertainer“ and player, this is split up between players and the commentators/moderators, so players can focus on winning and commentators can focus on filling dead air.

By “legitimacy” I mean this: Players in tournaments are supposed to the best of the best, and the organiser’s brand guarantees that viewers won’t see any old boring game, but a pro game with high stakes. If there is a random member of the public in the pool, you know he played his way through some preliminary rounds. I could host a LAN party, throw a Kernel Panic tournament, and declare the winner the 2021 world champion, but I would not have any legitimacy in the eyes of the player base. Large prize pools, a structured and well-regulated tournament, big-name players, and a blessing from the developers can bestow legitimacy.

Getting players, sponsors, broadcasters and an audience into a room takes a lot of money. E-sports sponsors are usually manufacturers or brands of higher-priced gaming hardware, like Alienware, Razer and ASUS ROG, or snack foods and energy drinks. The products are either used by the pro gamers, thematically connected to the game in some way, or used by the audience. Snack foods go well with watching e-sports, but less well with playing. You wouldn’t want to eat a packet of crisps and move your hands back and forth between the crisps and the keyboard and mouse...

With so much money invested and riding on the success of e-sports events, there is a lot of incentive to diversify and look for the next big thing, but also

Takeaway

When you read news about a developer or publisher “establishing a game as an e-sport“, it often means throwing money at a tournament and getting sponsors on board.

When you read about a developer “adding e-sports features“, it often means a ladder, tournaments, or spectator mode.

Of all the prerequisites established above, the most important to establish a game as an e-sport are:

balance

skill measurement/high skill ceiling

easy to learn

interesting to watch

fun to watch

A game like Fall Guys is popular and “fun to watch“, but not particularly interesting, the drama only works if you follow a single player all the way to the last round, not if you watch the action from high up. Fall Guys has a lot of randomness and a low skill ceiling.

Amazon once even hosted a casual game tournament in which variety streamers played mobile games against each other. The goal of that event was to sell their Fire (Android) tablets. This did not kick-start a competitive mobile gaming scene.

There were rumours of EA trying to “establish“ Star Wars: Battlefront II as an e-sport, by funding a large tournament, but the game was neither interesting nor fun to watch.

It is a fool’s errand to “add e-sports“ to a game, instead of trying to make a good game first, or at least one that is fun to watch.

[cordeliaflyte]

Would love to know your thoughts on the rutger bregman book when you finish it!!!

dearest merle! it took me months to answer this ask - something i'm ashamed of - but i finally got around to finishing the book today.

the below is a condensed version of the ten pages of notes i took while reading it, which are rather chaotic and repetitive at points - but in my defence, bregman repeated his own arguments too.

one of the main arguments that bregman makes is that "evil" or "immorality" - which we'll define as causing unnecessary harm - are rarely caused by the individual, but rather the society they live in. i agree - nothing exists in a vacuum. however, society, as a nebulous concept, isn't imposed on us by some imperceptible power - it is crafted by people. people in society have different levels of power, and the harm they can cause to others is directly proportional to said power - but be it on a micro or macro scale, our actions have an impact on others and while they are influenced by the society we live in, we must nonetheless strive to minimise the harm we cause - and few of us do.

bregman illustrates many of his arguments with heartwarming stories about people coming together in times of crisis - take, for example, natural disasters - and overcoming adversity, selflessly looking out for their neighbours. but crisis very often leads to the creation of divisions, an us vs them mentality, and a complete disregard for the safety of others. the current pandemic is a prime example - see the widening of class differences, the rise in racist hate crimes, and people refusing to take safety precautions because they are inconvenient to them.

another argument repeated quite often throughout the book is the fact that media cherry-picks the most sensationalistic and senseless acts of death and despair, because human suffering is simply more interesting that the mundane - people talking to friends, creating art, laughing and learning. again, i agree with him - many of the more tabloid-adjacent news outlets would have you believe that the everyday norm is dismembered heiresses being found on riverbeds and charming, precocious children being held for ransom in tiny basements. the news doesn't often focus on the mundane - but the mundane isn't just love and work and friendship and boredom and chores, it is also, for billions of people around the world, sexual violence, familial abuse, workplace and housing discrimination, etc. these things aren't sensationalistic either - they're frightfully common, frightfully boring, and thus, they're rarely reported on.

throughout his book, bregman mentions that when he told people what he was working on, they approached the idea that humans are good with a large dose of cynicism, simply because we are raised to believe humans are selfish (which isn't the case worldwide, not all cultures are individualistic). they pick the easier choice - accepting the image of the world and their fellow humans that they are presented with at face value. i'd argue that it is the tendency of humans to pick the easier choice, to obey, to avoid challenging their worldview that leads to - for a lack of better term - immorality (see definition in point 1).

often, when bregman presents his feel good stories about people cooperating in adversity, he also mentions troubling details that, again, show undue harm being done. one of the examples he used were six boys from tonga, aged 13 to 16, who were shipwrecked on an island, and instead of descending into a "lord of the flies" style madness, they built their small community on the basis of communication and cooperation, never resorting to violence, and acting mature beyond their years. after a year spent on the island, they were rescued - and promptly arrested, an event which was probably racially motivated. and the reason they were shipwrecked in the first place was attempting to flee their school, where, according to their reports, they were neglected.

bregman contrasted the example of the boys forming a peaceful society on a small island with the chaos that always ensues when adults in reality shows are put in similar situations. the contestants are pitted against each other by the show runners, who seek to frustrate them and make them lose control for the amusement of the audience. whenever contestants try to cooperate, form a mutually beneficial society for a short while - a radical idea - they are punished. "goodness" - i.e. harm reduction - and radical thought being punished just don't seem like particularly helpful examples for the "humans are inherently good" thesis

bregman seems to be a big fan of primitivism, constantly citing civilisation as a source of harm - a position i'm always sceptical about, because personally i love vaccines and dental care, but i know this is a knee-jerk reaction and bregman isn't plotting a return to a land without dentists. but what i do take ire at is the idea that humans are somehow "corrupt" versions of their natural selves and that our lives have grown too complicated, and only a return to "primitive" society can return us to the aforementioned natural selves.

tied to the previous point - his arguments remind me of the "noble savage"'... archetype? he seems to paint a picture of "primitive" indigenous people as role models for those "corrupted" by civilisation, who in turn must be saved by a return to their "purer" selves, instead of individuals with flaws and agency.

speaking on indigenous populations - bregman also invokes the inhabitants of the easter islands. for a long time, the world at large believed that a hundred years or so before colonization, the islanders effectively perpetrated a genocide, killing off a large proportion of their population - a claim which was later disproven. yay! humans can live in peaceful societies without committing genocide, and thus, are not inherently evil! disregarding the fact that european colonists later massacred a large part of the islands population, and sold most of the survivors into slavery?

i was very excited for one of the chapters, entitled "after auchschwitz". i was interested how bregman would reconcile his argument with the tragedies of the twentieth century - the holocaust, but also genocide, and to a lesser extent war in general.

(this chapter, i might add, was preceded by a quote by anne frank - you know the one, about the inherent goodness of people. i was hoping that bregman would comment on the fact that anne wrote the quote before she and her family were sent to a concentration camp)

so you can imagine my surprise when the chapter was not, in fact, about concentration camps or genocide. but rather about. unethical 70s sociological experiments.

no really! a chapter titled "after auchschwitz" was, in fact, primarily about the stanford prison experiment. an experiment that was, granted, inspired by concentration camps, but still. it's misleading to invoke "real", large scale violence, and focus instead on "simulated", small scale violence.

we all know that the stanford prison experiment was, as far as experiments go, rubbish to legendary degrees. it doesn't prove anything - but it does, perhaps, show that people under large psychological duress are capable of evil, even when they themselves are not "evil".

it is, i'd argue, the human tendency to obey authority and especially to conform to societies standards that poses the largest danger. disobedience is man's original virtue and whatnot.

and when he does briefly refer to concentration camps, bregman treats them like a very 1940s phenomenon, disregarding the fact that they have been around for much longer and still exist today.

in cases like that one experiment with electric shocks. you know the one. do not, perhaps, show an innate tendency to violence, but rather people succumbing to pressure. but history is full of unprovoked instances of violence, of pogroms and lynchings. there is usually an instigator, yes, but judging from reports, people in the right mindset don't need much persuading to butcher other people.

also re: electric shock experiment - those who thought they gave the assistant lethal shocks showed extreme guilt and some even cried but like... so what? what use is a conscience if it doesn't stop you from, to your knowledge, killing someone? are your feelings really more important than your actions?

he doesn't say this, but a lot of the arguments he presents do seem to boil down to "people aren't evil, they're just stupid!" which doesn't sound more encouraging, i'm afraid.

an alternative takeaway would be "people are good, unless they have power" - which isn't exactly a radical, revolutionary idea. most people have heard the maxim "power corrupts". but the thing is that almost everyone holds some amount power over others - the oppressed factory worker in a poor nation who works 12 hours a day for pittance might still execute power over his wife, who relies on him for money, and she in turn might hold power over her children, and so forth. and that power is often used to cause undue harm and exercise control.

he criticises machiavellianism, saying it doesn't reflect how society works, and one of his proofs is that his philosophies were espoused by bismarck, churchill, and stalin - hardly admirable figures in terms of (you guessed it!) causing harm. but i don't see how that discredits machiavelli? like all of the above were very succesful

and he keeps repeating the primitivism argument throughout the book which gets tiring. like i'm truly sorry you were born in the last 5% of human existence thus far when, in your opinion, humanity started going to the shits, but it's getting a bit tiring

he cites money and nations as concepts as harbingers of the current (negative) state of humanity, saying they're very recent concepts and have no basis in reality. they're artificial concepts, sure, but their effect is very much real, and while achieving a nation-less, money-less society is possible on a small scale, i think that at this point they are such large aspects of life that reigning them in seems impossible.

and invokes the noble savage again and again, showing himself in favour of tribal societies, depicting them as egalitarian - i'm sure many of them are, but many also have a strict hierarchy or like. practice fgm. once more he seems to treat tribal people as a monolith of goodness as opposed to... people.

he also cites prehistoric people, their egalitarianism and low rates of violence but. forgive me for my ignorance because i did not research this. how do people know. doesn't the definition of prehistory include a lack of records??

he also mentions that in small, tribal societies, conformism can be a good thing, as it makes people act for the communal good. this is another knee-jerk reaction of mine but i think of conformism as society's most significant vice, so this strikes very much against my beliefs

later on, he also says reproduction is another proof of humanities goodness. perhaps it's a controversial opinion, but i disagree. i find it hard to find reasons for reproduction that aren't egoistic. it's survival instinct, sure, but it's not an "inherently noble pursuit".

later yet, he brings up schools which grant large degrees of freedom to students and shows how they're good for developing their minds. this might be a me thing but i know from experience that when i'm granted freedom without structure, i do nothing - though perhaps that speaks ill of me, and not humanity.

there have, in fact, been many studies on schools like this being helpful to student development and i certainly won't argue with them - but let me nit-pick. bregman says that fewer students have adhd in these schools, as it is a condition caused by being locked inside a room all day which is not only offensive, but also just plain wrong

and also while showing how granting children freedom lets them develop (which i naturally agree with) he brings up that "dangerous playground" study. you know the one. this isn't a coherent argument, this is just my bias speaking , but as a child, i promise i had no desire to play with rusty nails in abandoned warehouses. i liked my boring playgrounds with wooden swings.

then there is a chapter on communism and how it could be a remedy to societies ailments. but bregman and i seem to operate on very different definitions of communism. he naturally starts with saying maoist china and stalinist russia and cambodia under pol pot weren't really communist which... sure, if you want to argue semantics, i'm all for it, but it's an old and essentially useless argument. if "real communism" has never been tried (as the author claims) - why?

and then we pass to perhaps the most bizarre fragment of the book. paraphrasing only slightly: "but why are we now so opposed to the word communism? when we pass each other salt at the dinner table, is that not communism? when we selflessly hold a door open for someone, is that not communism?" i.... no?? no it's not. that's not what communism is girl stop

he then also says facebook is actually communist in many ways since a lot of its value comes from photos people willingly share for free. i could not make this up if i tried.

i think that in most terms i agree with bregman on policy - direct democracy, school and prison systems, changes to the criminal justice system - and our reasoning is partially similar, but i don't think the information we both have access to proves that humans are inherently good.

and then come perhaps my least favourite arguments because i for one am a spiteful bitch but yes. it is time for christian ethics 101 and turning the other cheek.

he cites ghandi and mlk as examples of turning the other cheek working. i think ghandi went too far with his policy, what with saying "jews ought to have marched silently to their deaths or committed mass suicide to make nazis feel ashamed" and like. we do remember they killed mlk, right?

as an example of turning the other cheek, he cites humane prisons in norway, where prisoners are granted much larger freedoms than usual and are on equal footing with the guards, who aren't armed and act more as councillors. i don't really see how this is an example of turning the other cheek, though - the guards are not the victims of the inmates (it was a prison for violent offenders - many of them murderers). i agree with him that prisons, if they must exist, should treat inmates humanely and with respect, but i don't see how this relates to the turning of the cheek. statistically, many of these men probably murdered their mates in a drunken dispute, or killed their wives - and i don't think turning the other cheek would have helped their victims.

he also cites south africa in the sixties as an example of turning the other cheek, when anti-apartheid activists would meet up with pro-apartheid activists and talk - this included nelson mandela who had frequent talks with the leader of a white supremacist paramilitary organisation of afrikaners staunchly opposed to black south africans getting the vote. and it worked - the man, whose aim was starting a civil war, relented. but racism isn't a simple matter that can simply be solved by talking. and it is often a pragmatic policy which i don't disparage, but turning the other cheek and having to treat someone who refuses to acknowledge your humanity with an exorbitantly disproportionate amount of respect is inherently degrading.

skipping ahead, in the epilogue bregman lists ten rules he tries to live by, and one of them is, i shit you not, "don't punch nazis". and punching nazis doesn't stop them from being nazis, but turning the other cheek gets people killed

the rise of fascism is perhaps one the largest threats we are dealing with and fascists are not just isolated and misinformed (and in this day and age, ignorance is a choice). they are dangerous.

this is by no means an essay or an exhaustive list, just a slightly chaotic and much overdue collection of opinions which i don't know how to put under a read more. take care <3

[marvel-and-mischief]

Monkshood & Anemone

Part of my Floriography Series

Pairing: Ezra x GN!Reader   Words: 3900 Warnings: descriptions of an infected wound, threats of death/murder, attempted murder, force labour (reader is in a tricky situation), needles, descriptions of blood, death, reader kills someone in self defence, reader isn't a good person but they're not bad either Synopsis: You're a healer stranded on a moon with no way out of your situation. There's hope when Ezra and Cee cross your path.

Monkshood: danger ahead Anemone: sickness

💐

Five months you had been forced into this. Five months of treating people you would, quite frankly, prefer to see dead. Five months of patching up bandits and thieves, your skills the only thing keeping you from being killed and thrown onto the rapidly growing compost heap at the edge of the forest.

You didn’t intend to step foot on this moon, but your pod had experienced engine failure and the closest planet was too far to safely land on, so this had been your only choice. You had crash landed, tumbling out of the broken door, landing awkwardly and breaking your big toe. You had been found a few days later and dragged to the leader of a pack of bandits, a guy named Taron, that seemed to be in charge of this side of the moon. He’d been impressed with your makeshift toe splint and admired how well you were healing, quickly putting you to work in the medic tents.

It was never quiet in these tents. Minor injuries usually, shoulders dislocated or fingers broken in fights, quick fixes that had you sending them back out in a matter of minutes. Some screamed bloody murder when you sewed up their stab wounds, but you had been here long enough that they trusted you now, you worked quickly and efficiently so they swore though the pain and gave you a pat on the back on their way out of the tent as thank you.

Those touches made you shudder, they were too familiar, friendly but also not, a dark reminder that there was a thin line that if crossed would see you strung up in a heartbeat. But you bit your tongue and played the long game; you would get off this moon when the opportunity struck. Though somedays you wondered if that day would ever come.

So you made preparations for that day. You were allowed to go foraging with a chaperone once a week, gathering plants and herbs that you could find in the forest for medicines. Most of what you found was useless, some plants could be used for soothing burns or treating bug bites but then you found the monkshood hidden in a damp part of the forest. The purple petals stood out amongst the greens and browns but that wasn’t what caught your attention. You knew the roots of the flower could be used as a poison. And as long as nobody else knew that, then you had your way out, you just had to choose your moment wisely.

You were tying off the stitch in someones hand when a man was thrown through the flaps of the tent, landing at your feet with a cry of agony. You jumped out of the way just as he was about to roll onto your feet and you looked up to see one of the bandits, a large guy who usually did the heavy lifting in this place, holding onto the arm of a young girl.

“Taron needs these two healthy and put to work quickly,” he grunted, shaking the girl in his hand and making her squeal.

“I’ll do what I can,” you assured him, pushing out a forced smile before crouching down to the man on the floor who was only half conscious, “leave them both with me,” you eyed the girl who wore an angry scowl, trying to hide any indication that she had been crying behind a feisty spirit.

“If she runs, it’s on your head,” the brute pointed his dirty, meaty finger in your direction and left the tent with a huff.

“I need you to help me get him onto a cot,” you spoke gently to the girl as you gripped the mans arm. The girl nodded and immediately wrapped her arms around the mans waist and it was then you noticed he had no right arm to balance his weight between the two of you. With careful steps you manoeuvred him onto a cot in the corner of the tent.

“What happened?” you asked, beginning to strip away the mans outer suit. His head was lolling from side to side, pained noises escaping him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

“He was stabbed, can you save him?” The girl was clearly panicked as she hovered over your shoulder and watched everything you did to her… dad? Friend? You couldn’t make out what their relationship was.

“And what about the arm?”

“I did my best.”

You had pulled his suit down to his waist, revealing a black long sleeved shirt. You grabbed a pair of scissors from a box next to the cot and cut away the shirt. You saw the stab wound immediately, infected and seeping yellow pus and blood in equal measure. You took a peak at the stump where his arm once was and gave an impressive nod. The bandaging was neat and there was nothing leaking through it so you left it alone in favor of the more pressing issue.

“On the other side of the tent is a pump, fill a tinpot with water and grab some cloths on your way back,” the girl went to work instantly whilst you collected the instruments you needed from around the room. The man was sleeping now but his breathing was ragged and you knew you only had a small amount of time before he became feverish.

You set to work cleaning needles and scalpels before washing the wound out with the water that was handed to you. The girl was at your side, so close you could hear her breathing as you starting to clear the wound of infection.

“What are your names?”

“Cee and Ezra,” she whispered, eyes never leaving your hands as they worked.

“Is he your dad?”

“No, he’s just looking after me.”

“Seems as though it’s the other way round,” you chuckled softly, and you saw Cee smile as she agreed.

Ezra had been sleeping until you began stitching the wound up, the sharp needle entering his sensitive skin making him jolt in surprise as he mumbled unintelligible words.

“Can you hear me Ezra?”

“The…pod. Need to get to… the pod…”

You frowned as you tried to make out his words. You noticed Cee freeze up beside you.

“Shush Ezra, go back to sleep,” Cee urged insistently, placing her hand over his mouth until he fell back to sleep. You eyed her curiously as you tried to squash down the spark of hope threatening to leap out of your chest. They had a pod? Had you just found your way out of this forsaken place? Cee cleared her throat and refused to meet your eye.

“Did you crash land here?”

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Cee’s voice was stern and you worried if you tried to push it she would go into flight or fight mode so stayed quiet.

You’d waited five months for your opportunity to leave, you could be patient a little longer.

-

You had fallen asleep on the other side of the tent shortly afterwards, the excitement of the new arrivals and the prospect of freedom leaving you lethargic. You heard voices as you came to, one you had come to know as Cee’s and the other much deeper, a mans voice you assumed was Ezra, though he sounded stronger than he had in his delirious state.

“…if we stay, we will surely perish in this hole…”

“…not strong enough, you were stabbed…”

“…no further than the edge of the forest…”

Making out their conversation was difficult but you got the gist of it; they wanted to leave, and they had the means to do so.

The vial of monkshood felt heavy in your boot as you planned your next move. You could kill Ezra and force Cee to take you to their pod, one less person was less of a logistical problem for you, especially as he was still recovering from a stab wound. But Cee seemed close to him, she would fight you and maybe make a big enough fuss that you wouldn’t get to the pod with disruption. The only other option you could see was to threaten one or both of their lives and force them into working as a team with you. You’d saved Ezra’s life after all, you’d already proved yourself an invaluable team member.

You began to make your presence known, sitting up from your cot and stretching your arms over your head with a loud yawn. They silenced themselves immediately and watched you carefully as you threw them a friendly smile. Ezra was sitting up in bed, Cee sat on a crate next to him.

“I see you’re awake Ezra,” you greeted him, bending down to untie and tie your shoelace up. In the shadow of the cot you were able to slip out the vial of monkshood from the heel of your boot and conceal it in the sleeve of your sweater as you stood and made you way over to them.

“I have been told that you are my saviour,” Ezra spoke fluidly, not a hint of pain in his voice as he watched you move closer. They were both being cautious of you, you couldn’t blame them with the knowledge of what you were about to do. You felt guilty as Ezra held out his hand for a shake, his lips lopsided in a smile. In a world of scoundrels and thieves and no-gooders he was the first man, the first person, to show you kindness in the months you’d been on this moon and now you were going to give him a reason to mistrust you.

You shook his hand quickly and turned your back on him where a trolley sat filled with various empty pots and jars of pickled plants. You needed to focus and breathe, and remember that this was life or death. Your one shot at freedom, you were putting your trust in these strangers to get you out of here.

“It’s my job to help people, nothing to thank me for,” you turned around to face them, a forced smile planted on your lips. You took a syringe and punched it into the top of the vial and proceeded to pull out the liquid you had made.

“And what, may I ask, is that you’re going there?” Ezra asked, his heart rate spiking as he eyed the needle in your hand.

“Just a little something,” you began, pushing the sharp needle into the tubing of the rudimentary drip you had created to administer fluids to Ezra’s dehydrated state.

“Yes, but what does it do?” Ezra’s tone had take on a dangerous edge as he began to, rightly, suspect that you were up to something. You swallowed and paused with a finger on the plunger, meeting Ezra with the most confident stare you could muster with your heart beating uncomfortably fast in your chest.

“This syringe contains enough poison to kill you within the hour, there’s no antidote,. Now I know you have a pod somewhere, I need you to tell me where it is.”

On the other side of the cot Cee took a step back, ready to launch herself over Ezra to attack you but he shot her a look to stop her. There was a curious glint in his eye and a dark quirk of his lip suggested that there was a part of him that was enjoying this. He was impressed by your show of desperation, the lengths you would go to in order to escape your situation. He nodded slowly, staring at the syringe in your hand.

“If you kill me, you will never leave. You will die alone, amongst the worst of humanity, is that what you want?”

You clenched your jaw, his calmness was irritating you and despite being the one in a position to kill him, you felt like Ezra was in full control.

“Do you enjoy playing with your life, Ezra?” You raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“I have stared death in the face more times than I would like,” Ezra stated calmly and shifted so he was leaning into your space, “you are a healer not a killer, so why don’t we disperse of these unpleasantries and we can talk like adults.”

“I don’t trust you enough to do that,” you admitted, managing to keep your voice from wobbling as you felt your guarded walls start to crumble. This was not going to plan and now you didn’t know what to do. You kept a shaky hand on the syringe, careful not to accidentally push the liquid into the tubing that connected to Ezra’s vein. You noticed Cee eyeing the flaps of the tent and decided to lean away from Ezra and concentrate on her instead.

“Those guards outside? They don’t care if you live or die, they’ll use your corpses as fertiliser,” you stated, an underlying warning not to alert anyone to the situation. It seemed to do more than frighten the girl though, it also made Ezra blink for the first time, a frown creasing his brow.

“Clever girl,” Ezra muttered, realising you could bring the guards to have them dispatched and you would be safe. Still trapped on this moon, but Ezra and Cee had a little more to lose than you did. “I will make a deal with you, if that’s what you wish.”

You nodded, pulling the needle out of the tubing a fraction to show you would keep your word.

“Keep Cee and I alive and we will get you safe passage off this moon,” Ezra promised, just as the flaps of the tent were thrown open and the heavy set man that had brought your new acquaintances to you earlier stepped in.

“Will he live?”

You subtly pulled out the syringe and held it behind your back, out of view of the bandit.

“He’s delirious from the infection in his wound, but I think he will make a full recovery in a couple of days.”

The bandit grunted something under his breath and left, allowing you to finally breathe a sigh of relief.

“We have two days to come up with a plan,” you sighed, anxious at the thought. Ezra nodded in understanding, already formulating a plan in his head.

-

It was less of a plan and more ‘this is the only option we have if we don’t want to get caught’. You had told Ezra about the guards stationed at the front and the back of the medic tent, the one side faced the fire pits that kept people warm and the final side was where the unlit, densely populated forest stood tall, and that was your only way out. If you could get through the forest and up the ridge Ezra and Cee had been found on, they would be able to find the path back to their pod.

You enacted your plan the following night. The tent was crudely held down by nothing more than metal spikes hammered into wet soil that made up this moon. It had taken you no time at all to shimmy a few nails up with your scissors and create an opening big enough for you all to fit through.

You gave Ezra one last check over, eyeing the bandage that peaked through the arm of his shirt and the wound you knew sat above his ribs that he was protecting with his remaining arm.

“Your concern warms my heart, but I promise I will not let anything hold me back from getting us out of here,” Ezra assured you. You realised at that moment that you weren’t worried about him holding you back from your escape, instead you were concerned with his health. You had grown to care for him the past day, amongst monitoring his health and concocting plans. Maybe it was his never-ending charm, or maybe you just couldn’t remember the last time you had genuinely cared for someone you had taken care of. Either way it scared you to think you could be falling for a man you’d threatened to kill the same day you met.

You turned away and popped your head under the tent to see nothing but trees and darkness. You crawled your way through the mud and held the flaps open for Cee and Ezra to do the same.

Entering the forest was dangerous for many reasons. You couldn’t risk lighting a torch because you would be seen by the bandits from a distance, so you had to navigate fallen trees and curled up roots that had broken up through the ground in the dark. It was slow progress for an hour or so, walking in silence, suffocating in the tense atmosphere that sat between the three of you. Cee stuck to Ezra’s side, an arm around his waist to keep him steady. You walked in front of them, pointing out trip hazards the best you could without making any loud noises.

Getting to the other end of the forest was the hardest part so you were relieved when you reached the ridge that went up the hill and hung over a deep cavern that dropped down for miles.

“This is where they found you?” you whispered, eyeing the long drop that would surely see you dead if you were to fall.

“We followed the ridge round until we got here,” Cee answered, and you tore your eyes away from the drop to see Ezra’s face scrunched up in pain. You picked out a small pill from your back pocket and held it up to his mouth. He jerked away on instinct, you couldn’t blame him after your previous antics.

“It’s for the pain.” The glow of the stars above you illuminated the sincerity in your eyes, the concern shown in the crinkle of your brow and he knew you were telling the truth. He opened his mouth enough for you to slip in the pill.

“We should go,” Cee nodded to the hill that would lead to their pod and for the first time that night you allowed yourself to hope.

The climb was gradual but you felt it in your thighs. You hoped the pill was starting to work on Ezra but he kept silent except for a few grunts in an effort to keep climbing. You had taken to holding onto the crook his arm, with Cee on his other side. You were hardly touching his elbow, an unspoken promise that you would help if he needed it but he was a stubborn man, though not prideful enough to shake you off.

You reached the top of the hill and there, maybe two hundred feet away, was the pod. It was barely big enough to fit the three of you but it would have to do. It was caked in dirt and dust, flecks of mud were splashed all the way up to the top indicating that it had been a bumpy landing for Cee and Ezra.

You felt Ezra huff out a laugh as he spotted it but the mood was disturbed when you were suddenly thrown forward, hitting the ground face first. You heard Cee’s scream of surprise and Ezra’s shout of your name as you struggled to breathe underneath the heavy body landing on top of you. You tried to push yourself up off the floor and twist around onto your back but it was no use. There was a scuffle behind you and for a second the weight on top of you let off enough for you to wriggle your arm into your side pocket and grab the scissors you had shoved in there.

Ezra gave a shout of frustration and then the weight was boring down on you once more, but with a firm grip on your scissors you thrust your hand blindly over your shoulder, the blades piercing flesh before you pulled them away to see blood covering your hand and scissors. You quickly shoved the assailant off you with all you could muster, the adrenaline definitely helping more than your strength, and you saw it was a bandit who had followed you from the base. He clutched the side of his neck, blood spurting through his fingers as he struggled to clamp down on the wound.

Cee was helping Ezra to his feet but he was more concerned with you as he stumbled over to gently pry the blood covered scissors out of your hands. You were staring at the bandit, watching as he gurgled around a throat full of blood, slowly dying out next to you.

“Sweet thing, I hope you can recover quickly because we need to get to our pod now,” with fingers pressed to your cheek Ezra softly turned your head to face him and away from the dying man. His voice was firm but not unkind, exactly what you needed to come back to yourself and realise he was right, you needed to leave, who knows how many more bandits were coming your way.

You nodded and stood to your feet, gripping onto Ezra’s arm as you moved towards the pod. Freedom seemed a lot further away than it did before the bandit attacked you.

As soon as you reached the pod door Cee unlatched the bolts and you both helped Ezra up the steps and inside.

It was bright once the lights were switched on, the room small just as it looked from the outside. Ezra reached out for your hand from his seat at the controls and pulled you to sit next to him.

“It must be a shock, to take your first life,” Ezra began, reaching for a strap by your hip to pull over your lap. You took the hint and buckled yourself in as you listened to him.

“I cannot remember mine, and that is why I speak to you now. Do not ever forget it.”

You frowned at him, not understanding what he was saying.

“Don’t make the mistake I have. To forget your first kill is to forget how it feels to kill.”

You felt the thrum of the engine as Cee started up the pod, bringing it to life to get you off this moon once and for all.

“The difference between a good person and a bad person is the bad person forgets the fear and the pain that comes with taking a life.”

You took a deep breath, the first real breath of hope in months and looked into the eyes of your new companion. He looked so tired, dark skin around his eyes and a permanent frown etched into his features.

“Have you forgotten?”

Ezra expected the question, giving you a dejected smile in reply.

Your stomach dropped as it does when you are lifted into the air, and you sat back in your seat as the pod shook with the effort.

“I’m just happy to get out of here,” you smiled, it didn’t quite meet your eyes but it wasn’t false. You were relieved to be finding someplace better than where you’d been. A sadness lingered, and probably would for some time. You were leaving this moon a different person and you would have to learn to live with that, but you could do so knowing you were with two people you could see becoming friends with; Ezra would be the reminder of the darkness within you and Cee would be the hope for a brighter future.

Permanent tag list: @autumnleaves1991-blog @phoenixhalliwell @computeringturtle @anu-simps @bts17army

[kindaeccentric]

nice hook, Marty aka on the intimacy of violence (just a quick overlook, really)

Remember when I said Rust would let Marty beat him up because he hates himself and also wants intimacy from him, but the only way he can get it from Marty, another man, is through violence?

It was the case in their fight in 2002 that lead to their 10 years of breakup. Rust was defending himself, but when they meet again in 2012 Marty knows it could have been much worse if Rust didn’t hold back.

Only, that fight made Rust realize it’s not a good approach, not feasible, because at the end of the day, Marty refused to acknowledge the truth that, as Rust had said in an earlier scene, ‘there is no [Marty] without [him/Rust], that they need each other, that there is a connection between them.

And it’s impossible to discuss this without Maggie in the picture, because she set off a chain reaction. She, who in the past seemed to have compassion for Rust, used him in a way far more nefarious than it seems on the surface, because even though she couldn’t be aware of the complexity of feelings between Marty and Rust, she used Rust’s miserable state to her advantage (although in her defence, their mistake was not seeing her as an individual and her betrayal set her, and accidentally also them in the long run, free).

Now, I haven’t found this trope described anywhere yet (maybe I didn’t search hard enough), but when two male characters have a sexual or romantic relationship with the same woman, the cinematic lense makes her seem to be a surrogate for the object of more complex feelings the man experiences- another man. It doesn’t have to be intentionally suggesting a queer reading, due to the fact the greater complexity of feelings between men can be also ascribed to misogyny of the characters or the scriptwriters, yet it can and should be considered as both a side effect and conscious decision, because whichever one is true cannot be fully determined and the other reading, even if greatly subjective, deserves attention.

For Rust Maggie was a part of Marty’s world, nearly a part of Marty himself. Having rough sex with her in a moment where Rust and Marty completely lost the ability to communicate with each other, their needs, thoughts, seemed like a way of letting out the frustration and realizing his want for intimacy with Maggie as proxy. Yet, in this quiet desperation, he ignored the way it will affect him later and how Marty, always insecure about his place in the world and masculinity will perceive it as trespassing his territory, which was actually what Maggie wanted to achieve.

Marty either couldn’t or wouldn’t understand Rust back then, he wanted to stick to the life he knew, even though it was unsatisfying, because change is always difficult, and Rust was disrupting it with his ideas, with his mere presence. When Maggie told him he invaded his space, knowing full well Marty sees her as his property, extension of himself, it was too much.

Maggie forced them both to cut out the middleman, actually middle woman-herself, and to face each other to settle the issues. However, she didn’t care how they would do it, it never involved her as her own person. And they settled it like emotionally constipated men- with fists.

Rust seemed to be willing to put their differences aside right away, but just like Maggie, he waited for Marty too long and separated from him in hopes of finding, maybe not peace, but at least gain a different perspective on everything, including their case, from distance. Marty, left on his own, was forced to settle down eventually and come to terms with his internal life instead of only running from his problems.

In 2012 we can see Rust never fixed the taillight Marty broke when throwing him and it might be interpreted that he holds a grudge or simply isn’t a man who cares about fixing things, but it’s not true, Rust wants to fix everything, the persistence in trying to finish the case properly is the greatest indication. So I believe he left the taillight broken, because there was no fixing it without fixing his relationship with Marty, it wasn’t a reminder of their mutual animosity, but rather a souvenir from a moment of realization. Violence as intimacy.

Back in 2002 Marty wasn’t ready, didn’t work through his feelings. As Rust said in 2012, Marty was like a raging bull, but by this time he himself knows this and is slowly opening up, feeling vulnerable as he’s at it, with worry about retaliation that he himself feels stupid for, because he should know better than think Rust can be tarred with the same brush as himself.

And it’s actually interesting in relation to other moments of violence, but I want to discuss the final episode, because in it both of them get severely hurt. It’s a moment when violence far greater than ever before was inflicted upon them both, but this time by an outside force and they themselves inflict violence on the same person who hurt them, not out of uncontroled, unchecked anger, like they did before, but to protect each other. In Carcosa anger doesn’t cloud their vision and this brand of violence unifies them, because the aftermath isn’t guilt or shame this one time. Only then Marty finally gives in and cradles Rust’s head in his lap.

From then on he realizes, what Rust already knew for a while, that there is nobody else who shares the knowledge of the horrors they faced in their lives, nobody else who would forgive him and accept him this fully, and that they need each other to feel complete, because they have demons and ghosts that will always torment them, but each other’s closeness stifles their voices and their calling, and, that intimacy can be achieved without violence.

[indurarinks]

the mardi gras conundrum

( 9. ) “Acheron?” Beyond mere passing curiosity, it was the urgency supporting Bonnie’s need to understand the man sitting behind the wheel of his ridiculously expensive car that scalded her tongue. He was ever evasive, enigmatic and rarely straightforward where his past was concerned. But none of it quelled her demand to search for the truth. She didn’t seek it for personal gain either, she only sought to soothe the battle-weary hearts of her hunters. During the long weeks of bonding with each one of them, Bonnie convinced herself their inner peace was too valuable to be overlooked. Neither was the sharing type yet she was determined to help them heal wounds inflicted centuries ago, in a time innocence still characterised their human lives. And only the deepest betrayal could taint it. Riding in comfortable silence, Bonnie suspected the indecipherable Dark Hunter would resort to the infamous technique called feigned indifference where he pretended not to hear her while she would be forced into accepting his choice for silence. Stoic, and his features impassive, Acheron Parthenopaeus held all the charisma in the universe with full lips pressed against one another into a thin line. His gaze seemed focused on the road but behind that wall of opacity from his shades, Bonnie couldn’t be certain. And if her senses were correct, then he was, most definitely, eyeing her with the stealth of a predator. She felt the burn of his gaze on her. “Back at the comp—“ He sighed. As if the weight of the world had been dropped on his shoulders. “You want to know.” He interrupted her train of thought. “About the... incident from earlier.” The wilderness that rolled naturally from the contained storm of his voice offered her familiar security. A balm to her soul, she would never grow weary of it. It was almost as if he could read her innermost thoughts. And though she knew Dark Hunters possessed different gifts, Acheron seemed to be the rarity to that rule. The odd one out. Kyrian once told her he was the first one to be created. And she figured that was why he shared similar abilities to those of his brethren. Perhaps Kyrian and him were even more alike than her initial evaluation, conducted on the spot, back in Sanctuary when she first met Ash. Their personalities, however, differed significatively. “I—I probably can’t imagine...” she started but her words lost their direction when Acheron steered the Porsche into a new destination. No longer on their way toward the Garden District, it wouldn’t be long until Bonnie recognised St. Louis Cemetery’s aged iron gates. The car came to a stop near its old entrance. And without another word, he vacated the cramped space to welcome the fresh air of February. At first, Bonnie didn’t dare moving. She was paralysed in fear, mostly. The waters in which she swam were dangerous and treacherous, she knew of the promise navigating through the past and what it could potentially entail for the one taking a peek, even if brief, into that old chest of memories. She sensed barely contained pain, and worlds of sorrow and unrestrained grief. Outside, Acheron sat on the hood of his car. Alone. His chin slightly raised, it was obvious his gaze was lost to the skies already painted with the light tones of dawn. The night had come fast but the sun showed signs of similar elation for its return. It was now or never, she thought. As she opened the door on her side, left the car and took a seat next to him, Bonnie registered no movement from the embodiment of enigma himself. His shoulders slumped, his gaze finally sought refuge in wide-open doorway to her soul —those forest green eyes he had gotten lost in on multiple occasions before. But Bonnie wasn’t having any of it by allowing him to hide behind the comfort of his ever present shades. Hesitantly, and watching him from beneath curtains of thick lashes, her fingers took possession of his sunglasses as she slowly stripped his eyes naked. She knew what to expect but the gasp of appreciation still escaped. Liquid mercury swam quietly in his eyes as he watched her disarming him. Bonnie was the first and only one to accomplish that since his rebirth. And while he said nothing, a furious tic thrummed visibly along his jaw. She expected the momentary peak of anxiety after the bold exposure of him. A small grin stretching her lips, Bonnie folded his sunglasses and slid them inside her jeans pocket. For the time being, she was holding them hostage. Despite her calm facade, her heart suddenly became a professional gymnast as it did flips back and forth like there was no tomorrow. “It’s okay, Ash. If you prefer to keep your story to yourself,” she interrupted their silence at last. Besides panic and desperation, she was hit with a fathomless wave of grief the likes of which the young witch had never drowned in before. The raw intensity of these emotions flooring her, she was left breathless for several heartbeats. “I just... I hate seeing the torment of your past shadowing the light in your eyes.” Staggering from the onslaught of emotions, tears prickled her eyes. “You’ve been so hurt. I can sense it. I can.” Her chest rose and fell repeatedly. “You still bleed from your wounds. The past still holds you prisoner. And I don’t even know for how long! I can’t imagine the damage that’s caused on your soul.” Disturbed, Bonnie quickly wiped away the disgraceful tears that managed to escape her defences. The gates were now wide open. Beside her, her companion chose immediate silence. Frozen by the prejudice of his past, he walked trough the wastelands of memories without realising her fingers interlocked with his as she slid her palm on top of his massive hand. An earthquake-like tremor shook the whole of him. “It’s eleven thousand years.” He stated matter-of-factly. Surprise and shock registered on her face. It couldn’t be, her meagre knowledge of history told her it wasn’t possible. Yet, the exhaustion etched on his features spoke a whole different tale. “How is tha—?” She started. “That history lesson is too long and complex for tonight.” His gaze wandered to where their fingers stood united, Bonnie’s index finger stroking his knuckles. “And Bonnie? I’m soulless. All Dark Hunters are.” Promptly rolling her eyes, she smacked him on the arm. Like a masochist, he smiled down at her. “Ow.” Acheron massaged his arm, successfully allowing them both a reprieve from the growing tension. “That ought to teach you not to smart-mouth me! You know what I meant. It may not inhabit your body, Ash, but it’s still yours. Still bleeds. I can see it, you know?” The soft, tangent urgency to secure his understanding clung to the breaths expelled. Since the moment she had been brought into their lives, Bonnie had been silently collecting data, studying and gathering every ounce of information about her warriors. Acheron and Kyrian, in particular, as both had been the ones she had spent the most time with. After careful analysis of her research, she was fairly confident Ash loathed the thought of having someone at his back. He even recoiled with the exaggerated proximity of another. With that thought in mind, and wanting to test her theory, Bonnie leaned closer. Purposely invading his personal space. Even though it was minimal and discreet, he drew back. Inside her chest, the thin walls of her beating heart cracked. The desolation mirrored in those pools of mercury laying waste to the fields of her weeping soul. ───Just how much misery has he been put through? Persisting, she tried again. “Back at the Mikaelson’s, before Klaus showed up, you…” With her insides twisting in oceans of anxiety, she lifted her gaze to his face. The urge to see him impossible to bypass. He was now peering right through her. “I know.” Serene but resigned, the direction of his gaze shifted so that he was staring at the horizon whilst pushing closed fists into the pockets of his worn-out leather coat. Soon, the first timid rays of sunshine broke free. Tearing the darkness apart. Had she been sharing this moment with Kyrian, they’d be on their phrenetic way home. As a norm, Dark Hunters were banished from sunlight, yet their leader stood as exception to that rule. Nothing about Acheron Parthenopaeus was ordinary. After several minutes spent in absolute silence, and with a defeated sigh, she rose from the hood of the car and handed him his shades, certain he had murdered the topic and buried its corpse. Her hands tied, Bonnie decided to respect his deafening silence and privacy. “Come on. Let’s face King Stubborn. I can almost hear his tirade from here.” It was her way of letting him know of her decision. “It was my nephew.” Halfway through her march to her side of the car, Bonnie froze. Her curls bounced back and forth with the abrupt movement of her head as she looked back at him. She almost doubted she heard him when he didn’t elaborate. His tone had been so low as well, as if afraid of the damage the words would deliver. Hesitantly, she approached him again. ─── Was Acheron Parthenopaeus finally allowing her to take a peek into the fortress of solitude of his soul? The sunglasses still caged between his fingers, calloused by countless battles, Bonnie found herself peering deeply into the oceans of mercury of his eyes. Saying nothing, the petite woman simply reached for his hand, securing it between her fingers as she gave him a nod of encouragement. “He was murdered while I lay in a drunken stupor in the room next door. His death and my sister’s, his mother, are on me, Bon. Their blood still stains my hands.” Without pretending she was privy to all the details of that tragic night, Bonnie shook her head vehemently. “It wasn’t your fault, Ash. You would probably be killed too if you had gone into their room… And besides, something tells me you weren’t drunk because you felt like partying. You’re not that type. You were drowning. Weren’t you?” She lowered her chin while her thumb and index finger secured his. Turning his head her way, she then forced him to look back at her. “Weren’t you?” Again, she asked. “That’s no excuse, Bonnie.” Rising from his spot on the car hood, the Dark-Hunter swiftly made his way to his side of the car. “I let them die.” With a sense of finality, he tucked himself behind the wheel of his Porsche. But Bonnie couldn’t disregard the raw vulnerability drenching his words. The agony exuding enough to rob the air inside her lungs. Enough to inject her with a weakness capable of driving her to her knees. Leaning over the passenger’s seat, Acheron opened the door to welcome her inside. And without another word, she took her place beside him. A stirring of magic began tickling her senses then, like a foreshadowing of sorts. In the cramped space, Acheron touched her arm in the midst of shifting gears as he brought the engine to life. Taken by surprise, Bonnie gasped loudly. Not by the touch itself but the sudden flashes of ancient memories taking her brain hostage, without an ounce of mercy. Lying in a pool of his own blood, Acheron Parthenopaeus struggled to rise from the slippery floor of the grand palace. Lost to his anger and bloodlust, his attacker, a male figure of pure perfection with a golden aura, sank his knife into Acheron’s heart before slicing him open up to his navel like a hunted animal being gutted by a barbarous predator. The brutality of the scene alone successfully stealing the remaining air flowing through her lungs. “You died that night, too.” She stated in a whisper, haunted by the violence still burning behind her eyelids. This time around, he didn’t elaborate. But he watched her, from the corner of his eye with a strange light reflected on his gaze. The assertiveness supporting her revelation pushing him to put his every available resource to use, he was soon faced with a growing mystery Acheron couldn’t quite figure out yet. Still petrified by the sudden revelation on both parties, the pair rode in a rather strained silence for the remaining journey. At Kyrian’s antebellum mansion’s gate, the young witch finally dared a peek at the man sitting beside her. “Ash—“, she started only to be interrupted by him. “You don’t have to apologise, Bonnie.” He paused as if weighing the impact of his following words. “I wanted you to know. For some reason.” The air of mild astonishment clung to him furiously before quietly leaving her to her own thoughts as he braved the path toward the main entrance of Kyrian’s exuberant manor with regal superiority that bled from every pore without an ounce of vanity exuded. “One day, Ash. One day, you will tell me every secret you’ve buried deep in your soul. Then, I’ll set you free.” With that whispered vow, Bonnie vacated the car to follow him and, finally, confront her latest source of woe. Their gazes locked instantly as she stepped through the door. The cold morning’s timid breeze blowing, dragged her curls behind her shoulders as her fingers made haste to shield Kyrian from the invading sunlight. Even in darkness, the ancient Prince’s blonde curls glistened like an aura of mortal divinity. Incapable of staying unaffected, her heart quickened at the sight. And though his stance prevailed rigid and unfaltering, Kyrian stood silent. Almost defeated, and at a loss for words. In return, Bonnie’s demeanour evolved through different discharges of emotions as her thoughts raced through her mind. Neither willing to break the silence of discomfort. Drowning in conflict, she entertained their staring contest for a little longer just so she gave herself the time to examine the source of all her current heartache. Convinced her stubborn Dark-Hunter had recovered from most of the damage done to him the previous night, she finally mustered the courage to reveal her intentions of returning to Mystic Falls for a few days. “You look better already. That’s a relief.” Pause. Fidgeting fingers found temporary shelter in her jacket’s pockets. Then she cleared her throat. “Ash is taking me home for a couple of days.” ─── There. It’s done. Best to just blurt it out and take them both out of this misery. Unsure he had heard it right, he sought Acheron for clarification. Or any indication of the meaning behind her words. As the sole witness to their exchange, characterised by tension and uneasiness, Ash chose not to elaborate. Leaving that pleasant task to her. “I’m gonna find Nick. There’s something I need to discuss with him.” And just like that, he vanished toward the kitchen. Betrayal spoiled Kyrian’s patrician features. As a member of the male community, he had hoped his boss would join forces with him in solidarity. To dilute the growing tension building between him and Bonnie. But no, the old bastard slipped through the cracks at the first chance. “Why?” Defeated, he couldn’t even hide his dismay. It took him several heartbeats of aching silence to finally tear it apart. In his head, Kyrian had already demanded her all the answers but none were brought into the light. Only that broken whisper seemed to matter. “You know why.” She murmured back, without wasting a heartbeat. Though Bonnie wouldn’t admit it out loud, her poor bruised heart cracked even further. Pain oozed from it like poison as it continued to pump blood unknowingly of the destruction caused. Suddenly lightheaded, and with weakened knees, she sought swift support from the nearby sofa just to avoid worlds of embarrassment. His rejection had been enough. It stung like a viper’s attack and now she bled. She just wanted to bleed alone for a couple of days before raising her chin and throwing her misfortune over her shoulders as if nothing had transpired.

Guilt-ridden, at least he had the decency of showcasing remorse by fixing his stare anywhere but her eyes. “I’m going upstairs to pack. Can you, please, tell Acheron I’ll be ready in a few minutes?” Sighing in extreme desolation, she left him alone to his thoughts. The whole packing process didn’t take her even twenty minutes, she had been taken to New Orleans against her will after all. A bittersweet smile tugged at the ends of her lips as the memory of the first encounter with Kyrian invaded her thoughts like a Trojan’s horse. She nearly laughed reminiscing on their first exchange of words and how much he had feared her even though he had been the one kidnapping her. Instead, a choked sob escaped. Life had to have a grudge against her, she pondered. All her efforts to turn things around when nothing went right could never hold the walls that sustained any form of happiness. It took her a minute of sitting on the bed that had been hers for several weeks to pull herself together. Her emotions ran haywire and she was having some trouble taking their reigns. Once certain she wouldn’t break as easily in front of him, Bonnie grabbed the bag with her clothes. But as she was leaving her room, she felt the urge to leave a memento that would remind him of her. Aware of his instant appreciation for relics, Bonnie decided to gift him with one of her grandmother’s old necklaces, a witch’s talisman. Her favourite and most powerful. Hoping he would find it after her departure, Bonnie made her way downstairs to find both Kyrian and Acheron waiting for her in a silence that felt strange, thick with tension. “I’m ready to go.” She announced bravely while focusing her attention on the straps of her bag, avoiding Kyrian’s burning gaze. Sensing the unresolved tension between them, Acheron gave Kyrian a meaningful stare with a message only privy to them both before getting up and making his exit. “I’ll wait outside for you, Bonnie. Whenever you’re ready.” Emphasising that last sentence, Ash conveyed his belief the two of them should trade some parting words before her temporary departure. In silence, she nodded and waited until Acheron was outside. “I don’t want you to go, Bonnie.” Kyrian’s delivery almost like a plea took the young witch by surprise. She had expected to be one breaking the silence. “I can’t stay and pretend nothing happen. I’m not like that, Kyrian.” The anguish in her voice becoming more solid with each word. “If I’m coming back here to fight against this enemy alongside you then I need time to put my priorities in order.” Unable to withstand the sound of heartache in her voice, her fallen Prince closed the gap between them and took her face with both hands. Admiring the beauty of her strength, Kyrian closed his eyes for a few heartbeats as he cursed his very existence. For the first time in over two thousand years of solitude and misery, his heart awakened from a long death. But they could never be, regardless of his feelings toward her. That would be a direct insult to his vow and the goddess he served. Resting his forehead on hers, temptation bit him hard as they stood on the verge of goodbye. ─── I love you, Bonnie. The words never came. Instead, he breathed in her perfume. “At least let me be the one to take you home...” With tears prickling her eyes, she attempted her escape but he wouldn’t let her. Kyrian remained frozen as if willing to extend their moment. “I can’t. If I allow it, I’ll just delay the inevitable. Better to just rip it off and hope for the best.” Inside, every wall crumbled to the ground. There was shards of glass everywhere. She was a wreck, bleeding and the ruins of what could be would become unfinished dreams. “I should go now, Kyrian.” Fighting off a sobbing session, she rubbed her eyes to dry unspent tears. After all, nothing would change even if she cried. Opposite from her, an ancient warrior stood deep in thought. Tormented by visions of a future he never meant to have or share with another, Kyrian remembered the tragedy of his human days, mostly marked by the betrayal that had murdered him. An inner voice had once convinced him he was not worthy of love but looking down at her, the infamous “what if” tormented him aggressively. Saying nothing, her Prince pressed his lips to her forehead and closed his eyes to savour the bittersweet moment as he committed into memory every piece of her. “Be safe.” The softness of his whisper practically snuffed out Bonnie’s remaining strength as her knees buckled. With a tenderness that rivalled even her grandmother’s, Kyrian caressed her face one last time as if afraid he might not see her again. He was determined to make her departure the hardest one yet. Only by Bonnie’s perseverance did she manage to break them apart. “I will.” Finally turning around to leave, their fingers crossed paths in intimate touch and his self control flew out the window. Awakening from self-inflicted slumber, Kyrian closed his fingers around hers and pulled her back, drawing her into his body by surprise. He, then, stole her breath with a searing kiss, full of longing and unspoken promises her warrior vowed not to disclose in fear of what might befall her were he to defy the goddess he served. Bewildered, Bonnie gaped at him. Giving her half a smile, he knew he had to let her go but his fingers refused the separation by caressing her face while his midnight eyes dove deep into her soul. “You shouldn’t have done this.” The words came barely above a whisper as she enforced their physical distance by taking his hands hostage. “Goodbye, Kyrian.” Barely holding on, with the grip on her emotions fading with each heartbeat, she made a hasty retreat. The front door slammed, effectively shutting another chapter of her life as the weakened walls guarding her heart crumbled. She couldn’t breathe through the onslaught of heartache and agony. ─── Was this what she was destined for? Her gut-wrenching sobs, though quiet, didn’t go unnoticed by Acheron who waited for her by his Porsche. Rather unsure on how to approach her as Bonnie’s heart bled without restraint, he took calculated steps in her direction in hopes that she would note his presence. And she finally did. “I’m ready.” The strain she put on to have her voice sound remotely even through the remains of her shattered heart reinforced Acheron’s respect for her. Perturbed by her breakdown, the ever observant but quiet Dark Hunter offered her a modicum of solace by drawing her trembling frame into his chest, surrounding her with his strength through an unusual embrace. Massive hands stroked her hair with inimitable softness. “You’re an extraordinary woman, Bonnie Bennett.” The admiration reflected on his lilt administered a sense of temporary serenity. “Just remember it is not an obligation to be strong 24/7. Sometimes we have to drown before we can return to shore.” Struggling for words, she merely nodded. “Alright, then. Shall we go?” As if pulling a rabbit out of a magician’s hat, Ash offered her his hand. “We aren’t taking your car?” She asked, perplexed. Tearing a rift in her skies of grief, Acheron Parthenopaeus conjured a disarming smile she felt particularly victimised by. “No. Not this time. Have you ever traveled through the time-space continuum, also commonly known as teleportation?” Openly gaping at him, she then glanced at his exposed palm, the tears making it a near impossible feat. A stirring of excitement unleashed a few wild butterflies in her stomach as her fingers touched Acheron’s calloused hand. “Should I be afraid? How does it work?” Like any other creature, she grew hesitant just as treaded these unknown waters. “For me, it’s like breathing. Do you trust me?” Assuming an almost defensive posture as if expecting the worst, he stared at her intently from behind his trusted sunglasses. Waves of relief rolled off of him when she nodded. “You know that I do.” His fingers had barely taken possession of hers when he dipped his head to whisper in her ear, “You can open your eyes now, Bonnie. You’re home.” She did. One glance around them confirmed his claim. In fact, he even brought them to her grandmother’s unkept porch, once again proving her his powers far exceeded those of his brethren. Apart from the light discomfort in her stomach, she felt fairly confident on her competence to teleport. “It was easier than I expected…” She mumbled as realisation gutted her. She was back. Back in Mystic Falls, her so-called cursed birthplace.

[eryiss]

Summary: 'Freed The Dark, God of Death and ruler of the Netherworld. Followed by a reputation as rotten and stinking as the corpses he gives a home; he had been ostracized by gods and angels alike. And as the war between gods got closer, and those he cared for are dragged into the fight, his seclusion begins to twist his mind against him. But as his darkest day approached, he was forced to choose where his morals lie.' - Levy McGarden: A Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods. [Fraxus One Shot]

Event: Fairy Tail Reverse Bang (Hosted by @ftguildevents​)

This was made in partnership with the great @fairiesherefairiesthere​, who made the beautiful artwork that made this fic possible. You should show them and their work a lot of love, and reblog it from here.

You can read it on Fanfiction, Archive of Our Own, or under the cut. Hope you enjoy.

Once Dead, Now Judged

The God of Death. The God of Judgment.

His is a story many people believe that they know, one that has been spoken of many times. In the telling and retelling of this story, many aspects of what made it so important have been lost. The Gods have been diluted into a single trait, and their significance in the tale is often misunderstood or disregarded entirely. The story has been condensed into a point where it can be explained in a single statement.

'The God of Death wanted the war to end, so he ended it.'

Of course this is not the truth of the matter. This mindset disregards both the personal and the political motivations which led to these decisions. It disregards the humanity behind the Gods, the fact that they were people and had flaws and loves, all of which led to that famous moment. The moment where corpses walked upon water, where souls were ready to kill souls. Where a disrespected God had the world at his feet, and chose to save it rather than destroy it as it perhaps deserved.

The moment where Freed Justine, God of both Death and Judgment, shaped the future.

Artists have often tried to capture the moment in their work. Countless renditions of the battlefield have been painted, each depicting the shadow of the death God looming over the fight to put an end to it. These depictions of the moment, while both beautiful and important, often hide away the humanity behind the story. This moment wasn't the God of Death's. It was Freed Justine's.

One such painting that recognises this is called the 'Knight of Judgment'.

Knight Of Judgement. Artist Unknown. Date Unknown.

Though its artist is uncredited, it is clear that they see the story in the same personal light that I do. It shows the moment that shapes our reality, but not from the perspective of the battlefield. From the perspective of the man who made it happen. That is the story that I will be telling you all today.

The untold story of the man behind the God.

Of the human behind the revolution.

Of Freed the Dark, God of Death, and ruler of the Netherworld. Followed by a reputation as rotten and stinking as the corpses he gave sanctuary; he had been ostracized by Gods and angels alike. And as the war between Gods got closer, and those he cared for are dragged into the fight, his seclusion began to twist his mind against him. But as his darkest day approached, he was forced to choose where his morals lie.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

"Bastards!"

Freed's words echoed throughout the chamber as he stormed through it. Darkness covered almost everything, with light filtering in through the stained-glass windows that circled his throne room. His footsteps reverberated through the room as an accompaniment to his anger, the heels of his boots slamming against the black marble flooring.

On his face sneered a scowl, his fists were clenched at his sides, and he made a sharp gesture towards the large wooden doors before him. They opened with speed, slamming into the walls, and cracking slightly, sending a gust of wind towards the God which lifted his hair and the long black robe that hung behind him.

"Sanctimonious ego driven bastards!" He roared into the nothingness of his castle.

How dare they? How dare they!

He shouldn't have expected anything more. He should have gotten used to his treatment at that fucking table. He should have long since forgone any hope of being treated as an equal before them all, because they didn't see him as such. To them he was nothing but a utility, the person who cleaned up the messed that their ridiculous infighting was responsible for. That was the only reason why he had been called to service, and it was the only reason would ever be called to service, because people were going to die, and they needed him accommodate them.

The Netherworld was nothing but their dumping ground. They saw it as justification for allowing their stupidity to interfere with people. A way out of feeling guilt for the people their fancies killed. They delude themselves into thinking the Netherworld was just another part of life for humans, and refused to listen to anything that would break that illusion.

And Freed: he was nothing to them. He was just the person who kept the gates closed, stopping the corpses and the souls from returning to life with the anger of being wronged by the Gods.

"Bastards!" He yelled for a third time.

With a snarl, he slammed his hand on the wall at his side. The impact created an almost soft cracking sound, and a fissure-like tear ripped apart the wall of the corridor he was walking down. Bricks split apart, and windows shattered into shards on the floor.

The sensation of destruction was cathartic, but only slightly.

A moment later, he heard footsteps behind him, running to catch up with him. It was Evergreen, who he had placed outside of his throne room while he communed with the other Gods. Communication was though the mind, leaving his body essentially empty, so it needed to be guarded. Once, a man had made the mistake of attacking him in that state; now, the attacker endured the sensation of acid being secreted directly into his skin as penance.

Freed always made sure someone was on guard now, predominantly because changing someone's genetic makeup in such a way was a tedious process.

Though at that moment, it sounded delightful.

Everyone seemed to understand that Freed was not a man to target. Though, most people didn't have the opinion of him to do so. So long as you didn't break his trust, he would show a level of decency towards you. Most understood that his decency was a kindness, and they wouldn't risk losing it.

He didn't slow his place, and took a small amount of pleasure from the glass cracking under his feet as he walked. Pushing his arm forward, he slammed another set of doors open, the hinges cracking with the strain of such fast movement. By the time he had reached the threshold and walked into lobby of his castle, Evergreen had caught up to him.

"Freed," She said, and he glanced to his side to see Evergreen had sprouted wings and was hovering slightly to increase her speed. The wings had an odd look to them, and Evergreen had once stated they resembled fairy wings. Freed enjoyed her eccentricities, as odd as they were. It made her more human.

Something the bastards at the 'Table of the Gods' would do good to understand.

"They see us as nothing but a way to distance themselves from responsibility," Freed snapped at her, uncaring for the lack of context. He slowed down a little so Evergreen didn't have to fly to keep up with him, though.

Evergreen was a demon, technically. Freed disliked the term, as there was nothing separating his demons with any other God's angels, other than the fact she lived in the Netherworld rather than in the skies. It was another way that the so-called Higher Gods separated themselves from Freed. They were Gods of the world and they had their angels. He was a God of the Netherworld who had his demons. Ridiculous political bullshit.

She was one of the highest-ranking demons in the Netherworld. Freed had placed her in control of the corpses, or fairies as she called them. Her particular magic allowed her to revitalise the bodies of the dead, as their own genetics failed to do so. Rather than having limbs fall off, she kept them healthy and functional. For those who wanted it, she would change what they looked like slightly to the persons ideal form of beauty. Freed never particularly understood why people cared that much for what they looked like, but it seemed to make his subjects happy so he wouldn't intervene.

Evergreen made up one third of the triad named Raijinshuu. Freed and Bickslow completed it.

"What happened exactly?" Evergreen probed, dropping to the floor and letting her wings flitter away.

"What always happens," Freed growled. "They politely informed me that there would be an influx of dead coming and I'm to accept it without argument nor question. And of course they tried to imbue their politics into the situation, claiming certain dead should be treated better than others."

"Ah," Evergreen said in recognition before echoing Freed's own statement. "What always happens."

She placed a hand on the Gods back in a soft touch. Given his situation, Freed didn't have the chance to get close to people on a human level; an issue faced by all Gods no doubt. But his two top demons were what he considered friends, and he had made a great effort to show that he didn't see himself above them. That couldn't work with all demons, of course, as he needed to keep a level of authority over his land. But the two of them were allowed to see him without any of his facades or defences.

Some of the other Gods who knew this looked down on him for this. But he had spoken to more humans than they knew existed, and each of them had stated the importance of connections with other people. They were more knowledgeable than any God about what made life worth living.

That was why Freed wished to be involved in conversations about dead. He knew humans as more than just a premise. They weren't just hypothetically alive. They had thoughts just as much as any God, they were simply more breakable than them. As the thought struck him, another wave of anger creeped over him.

He leant his back against Evergreen's hand. Physical contact with other people grounded him.

"Come on," Evergreen said, apparently noticing Freed's return to rigid posture. "We thought this might happen."

Eventually, after walking through many of the hallways in his home, he was guided towards one of the many sitting rooms. It was his favourite, given its large fireplace, the fact it was at the back of the castle, and the view overlooking the garden. It was the most secluded place in the building, and therefore the most comfortable for him.

When they walked in, Bickslow was waiting for him. The fire was roaring and crackling, the wooden shutters had been closed to keep the light inside, and a china teapot was steaming out of the funnel with three teacups resting beside it.

It was nice to have connections with people. People did kind things for you.

"There's the big scary God of Death," Bickslow said with a taunt in his voice. "Did someone get angry and demolish a corridor again?"

"Do you really think it's wise to antagonise me, Bickslow?" Freed said, the amusement almost unnoticeably seeping into his tone. "I control this realm entirely; I can force you to eat a human heart and drown on the blood, should the mood take me."

"I prefer a liver, really. Less messy," Bickslow said with a cackle.

Freed smiled a little at that, relaxing into the easy-going environment Bickslow always projected. Making up the final part of Raijinshuu – or the tribe of hell – he was of equal power to Evergreen, and equally important to Freed.

Whereas Evergreen looked after the bodies of the deceased, Bickslow looked after the souls. This was an equally important job, as both the soul and the body made life. Just like an uncared-for body would fall apart and crumble without care, the soul would spiral into darkness and insanity, becoming self-destructive and dying out like a star. Bickslow both used his magic and his personality – so he claimed – to keep the souls both sane and content.

The two demons worked together well. They needed to. Death was the process of splitting up a soul from one's body. For an afterlife to begin, the soul and the body needed to be brought back together. Evergreen and Bickslow were responsible for merging them both when possible.

They were quite affective at their work.

The process was often a tedious one, it must be said. Bodies and souls could appear anywhere in the Netherworld, and could often go unfound for centuries. Sometimes a body would be destroyed to the point where Evergreen couldn't save it, sometimes a soul had gone mad before anyone could even find it. Thankfully, this usually only happened to those who were truly evil, perhaps as some form of karmic punishment, but both Evergreen and Bickslow were still respectful in how they dealt with those cases.

Evergreen had created a forest, fertilised with what remained of the corpses. Bickslow had created a spell where the remnants of souls could be merged together, making an entirely new soul. It had happened thousands of times, and Bickslow had crafted only five souls out of these remnants. They had been assigned to little dolls, which followed the man around constantly.

"Since I knew you'd be all icy," Bickslow continued, picking up a teacup and proffering it to Freed. "I thought you'd enjoy this. Masala tea, nice and hot."

Freed took the cup with a word of thanks. He tried to keep the culture of the living at arm's length for most of the time, but he had once drunk tea and found it rather spectacular, and decided he would allow certain parts of humanity into his own life. He was allowed to have a weakness, and a warm drink was a good one to have.

"What happened then?" Evergreen asked, sitting at one of the red sofas opposite the God. "Specifically."

"There's a war coming, so they think," Freed sighed, placing the teacup down. "Apparently they don't intend to be subtle if it does happen, and humans will be killed in thousands. We have been instructed to make plans to accommodate the dead."

"Instructed huh?" Bickslow said with a small grunt.

"Indeed," Freed nodded. "Apparently the ridiculous feud between Makarov and his idiot son has boiled over. They expect the first casualty within months. And once one person is killed, either man will willingly do anything in return to prove their point."

"And they have to drag the people into it?" Evergreen sighed.

"I doubt that they have to, but they will," Freed mused. "They don't see the people as being alive any more than an ocean, or a mountain. They're just little creatures to them, barely thinking in comparison to a God. Why would the bother with the effort of keeping them alive?"

"They didn't listen to ya when you told them that, huh?" Bickslow asked.

"Ivan's exact words to me were 'Keep your corpse fucker mouth shut,'" Freed shrugged.

"He hasn't gotten any smarter, then, if that's the best insult he could think of," Evergreen muttered, and Freed laughed. It was a clipped, cynical laugh, but better than nothing.

"If he ever ends up down here, I shall need one of your souls to possess that ridiculous suit of armour he insists on wearing," Freed said, looking to Bickslow. "It would be a nice level of irony that the thing he wears to protect him ends up ripping his bowels out and crushes them as he watches. I'd find that pleasant."

"I'll get em trained up ready," Bickslow said with a grin. "But you don't think they can be cooled off. Makarov and Ivan I mean. They've never gotten along, you said, but they've never gone to war."

"Laxus is trying to calm them both down, but I doubt he'll be of any help. He fights with Ivan as much as his grandfather does," Freed lifted the teacup to his lips again, sipping at the spicy liquid and allowing it to warm his cold blood. "And it seems like their millenniums worth of grievances has come to return all at once. Laxus would have to be a saint as well as a God to get them to even consider being diplomatic."

"So we gotta play clean-up because their pissing contest is gonna get violent," Bickslow surmised, and Freed nodded. "And they don't even have the fucking courtesy to talk to you like an equal."

"They consider themselves to be the most important beings in existence. Annoyingly, existence seems to agree," Freed said with a tired expression. "Why would they care about the ants they're crushing? Or the people who try to help them?"

"Should we be expecting Laxus here anytime soon?" Evergreen asked.

"Perhaps, though not in the next few days. Calming them both will be his priority," Freed stood up, placing his tea in its saucer again. "I suppose they're right, though. We need to prepare if half the world is going to be slaughtered."

Bickslow and Evergreen shared a look.

"Tomorrow," Bickslow said firmly. "We start tomorrow."

"There's hardly any reason to prolong-"

"Tomorrow," The demons said in unison, and Evergreen continued talking. "You've not slept in days, if nothing else allow yourself a night's rest."

"A few hours ain't gonna affect anything," Bickslow added. "And we both know that anything you do while pissed off ain't gonna be as good as if you're calm. So take the night off and sleep."

Freed took a moment to think, then sighed and nodded. He returned to the chair like they so clearly wanted and allowed Bickslow to pour him another cup of tea. He brought it to his lips and watched as his friends smiled in contentment of their actions. It was important that he had these people in his life, and he was glad that they were there.

As tedious as they may be.

~~~

Often disregarded in the story of Freed the Dark is the people close to him. His relationships with both his friends and those he ruled were imperative to his overall decision to enter the war. As leader of the Netherworld, he was shaped more by humanity than any other God, and without this influence it is unclear as to whether or not he would have walked into the fight or not.

The closeness he held to those not of his blood was anomalous for a God, and was part of the reason as to why he was disrespected and looked down upon by some of his fellow Gods. They saw him as impure, tainted by the lesser beings of the land.

It is important to state that not every God looked down upon him. He was not the victim of complete ostracization, and certain Gods looked to him as an ally, friend and, in the case of Laxus Dreyar, a lover.

Laxus was the youngest son of the Higher God's, known colloquially as the Dreyar's. The grandfather and patriarch of the family, Makarov, was known to be God of Expansion and Family. He sat at the head of the God's Table, and was seen by all as the ruler of the Gods. Makarov's son Ivan, the God of Persona, and later the God of Tricksters, showed great levels of jealousy towards his father and tried on many occasions to usurp him, both through manipulations and violence.

The family of Gods were all-powerful and volatile.

However, Laxus showed himself to be different. After being manipulated against Makarov, Laxus chose to leave the skies. It is stated that he was unsure where Ivan's manipulations ended, and his own personality began. His exile was so he could become his own man.

It was during this exile he found himself in the Netherworld, walking through the garden of the castle.

Meeting the God of death, they quickly found solace in each other's company. Laxus understood better than most the hardships of being a God, particularly one involved in the politics of others. They could relate to each other on a level nobody else could, and what started as a mutual fondness quickly developed into love.

Their relationship was kept secret from most, with only those closest to the men knowing in the days before the war. Despite the secretive nature of the romance, both men adored each other. It cannot be overstated how important this relationship was in proceeds that ended the war.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

Having loved the man for so long, Freed knew what to look for when Laxus was approaching.

Being the God of both Thunder and Lightning, when Laxus was around there was a certain feeling in the air. The slight presence of static, a partial increase of humidity, and a tiny chill to the air. Freed would compare it to the feeling of standing in a cloud that was just about to bear lightning. Most people either didn't notice the feeling, or saw it as an imposition. Freed rather liked the sensation, it was as if he was being wrapped up in the long fur lined cloak that Laxus wore.

The feeling arrived before the man himself. Laxus' abilities allowed him to become one with the clouds and lightning, and to form a cloud wherever he saw fit. So when he wished to visit Freed, he would summon a cloud into the castle, and bring his consciousness into it, his body following soon after.

In the first few instances of his arrival, the cloud had struck lightning and Laxus had formed out of that. Laxus later revealed it was an unnecessary level of showmanship, and he was showing off.

Freed looked back on that confession with fondness.

When the smoke coming from the fireplace started to pool in the air, followed by the sensation of static, humidity and a chill, Freed knew that his lover would soon be with him. The God placed his wine glass at the table beside him with a soft smile, waiting patiently for the cloud to dissipate and for his lover to be by his side.

"Mr Dreyar," Freed said pleasantly, watching as the cloud burst and left Laxus in its place. "A pleasure to see you again."

Laxus didn't say anything at first, but instead stalked over towards Freed and wrapped his arms around the man tightly. Freed couldn't be sure what had spurred the action on, but hugged his lover back with an equally strong grasp. They stayed like this for a moment, tightly embracing one another as the fire crackled beside them.

"Sorry it took so long to get here," Laxus muttered into Freed's shoulder.

"You needn't be," Freed replied almost automatically. "They're your family, and you have a responsibility to them."

It had been just shy of a week since the meeting of the Gods, and where Freed had yet again been dismissed by the leaders. Laxus had been in attendance at the meeting, of course, and Freed hadn't seen him since he had walked out.

The time since then had been mainly spent preparing the Netherworld for the inevitable influx of dead. His demons had been told to be vigilant for new souls and corpses, as when they would come was unknown. The dead had been told to begin preparing buildings and homes for the newly dead, as Freed would not allow for overpopulation. And everyone had been informed that their ancestors and relatives might die soon, and they would need their families to help them adjust, so to prepare themselves for that. It had all been busywork for Freed, and partly because he wanted to distract himself from his lover's absence.

"I should have come to you sooner," Laxus said, burying his face into the crook of Freed's neck.

"You're here now," Freed whispered. "And that's enough. And anyway, Bickslow and Evergreen have been keeping me sane. As has the work."

"I'll thank 'em later," Laxus mumbled, pressing his lips into Freed's neck in a kiss. "You sure you're okay?"

"I believe I've calmed down," Freed said with a nod.

"Can't believe you stormed out like that," Laxus said, removing himself from Freed's arms. "Don't think either of the bastards ever had someone do anything like that to them before, you should have seen their faces after you left."

"I doubt it'll change anything," Freed shrugged, picking up his wine again.

"You pissed 'em both off, that's something," Laxus said with a hint of a laugh in his voice. "You know when they realise we've been together for centuries, they're gonna think that you're the reason I rebelled against them."

"Finally I'll be credited for something worthwhile," Freed chuckled a little at that.

Freed was unaware of it, but Laxus looked towards him with a hint of sadness in his eyes. He had long since been aware of the disrespect Freed faced from both the Dreyar's and many of the other Gods. He had tried what he could to change that, so far as to defend him both before and after Freed had left the meeting a week prior. But the Gods were stubborn, and set in their prejudices. Laxus just hoped that one day they would change their ways.

"I'm sorry they don't treat you right," Laxus apologised, speaking softly.

"Don't be," Freed instructed, standing up and walking to the window. He was in a study overlooking the Netherworld, and looked out over the dead before him. "I should have gotten over it by now."

"You shouldn't have to," Laxus insisted, standing up.

"Maybe it's for the best," Freed sighed, tapping his fingers against the windowsill. "I'm sure if they paid more attention to me then they'd look upon this world with distain. No doubt they'd have hundreds of issues with how I treat my subjects. With their logic they'd want me to torture the good and kneel before the bad."

"And they'd be wrong," Laxus assured him, wrapping his arms around the man. "You're a good man, Freed, and a damn good God, too."

"There's a certain level of irony in calling me a 'damn' good God," Freed chuckled, turning around in his lover's arms, grinning.

He pressed their lips together, Laxus leaning into the kiss softly. They had not kissed in a month and, even with their seemingly endless lives, that was far too long a time to go without it. Freed adored his Lightning God, the beautiful man who split open the skies with a wave of his hand, and created the most spectacular tapestries of light on the canvas of a cloudy night. He was a poet in actions, even if he refused the claim, and Freed was enamoured with the man and wished to show it with his kiss.

Love was something the humans had taught him. He liked it.

When they pulled apart, they stood in each other's arms with content expressions. Laxus looked spectacular like this, with a soft smile and no falseness on his face. He had once confessed that he truly only felt himself when with Freed. Though the sadness of the statement was not lost on him, Freed was thankful that he and his kingdom could offer the man sanctuary.

"You chose to come here through smoke, rather than your own cloud," Freed eventually spoke, and Laxus looked down on him with a quirk in his eyebrow. "May I assume that was so you could hide how you felt."

Laxus sighed. His ability to control the weather was slightly tethered to his emotions. The more emotional he felt, the stronger the impact of his abilities. If he was emotional, the lighting would be more ferocious, the thunder would echo louder, and the rain would be heavier. It also affected the clouds, and the darker his mood, the darker the clouds. Had he not used the smoke from Freed's fireplace, the cloud he summoned would have been blacker than the nights sky.

"I needed to prioritise you without you worrying," Laxus sighed. "You were upset, I wanted to make you feel better."

"I appreciate that," Freed nodded, bringing his hands up to stroke Laxus' cheeks. "But you need comfort too. So would you like to discuss what's wrong?"

Laxus took a moment, before deflating slightly.

"They're gonna fight, Freed," He whispered, almost not believing his own words. "I couldn't talk 'em down from it. I thought I could; Makarov at least would have listed to reason I thought. But neither of them even looked at me, they didn't care. Gramps said that Ivan would turn the world to darkness if left to his own devices, and Ivan said he should have killed him a millennia ago. There was nothing I could do."

"It wasn't your responsibility to stop them," Freed spoke softly. "Don't you dare start blaming this on yourself."

"They're both getting troops together. And nobody else can stop them because they're scared of 'em, so they're just gonna keep dragging everybody into the fight. I don't even think it's gonna be a fight, it's just gonna be the two of them pissed off and sending people to slaughter."

"It's unfortunate," Freed sighed. "But I'll do good by the dead, if that's any consolation."

"It ain't your job to clean up after them. And it shouldn't be the people's job to fight for them," Laxus argued with a growl. "They should just fucking fight between themselves if they need to. Why do they have to drag people into it?"

Freed didn't have an answer to that, so instead took his lovers hand in his own and held it. The man was shaking, and Freed felt that it wasn't entirely because of anger. He looked at the man's face and his heart almost broke. Laxus was portraying anger, but Freed had looked at enough humans faces to know fear when he saw it. He pressed their foreheads together in a gesture that hopefully calmed the man, before he spoke.

"I won't let them take you if you don't want to fight," He promised softly.

"You can't stop them," Laxus sighed, leaning against Freed. "They'll invade this place and rip apart everything you've done if they want to."

"Perhaps they won't want to."

"He called me a strategic advantage," Laxus sighed. "Ivan, my own father, said having me on his side would be a strategic advantage. I command the sky, so having me fight for them would ensue a victory. And gramps didn't say it, but he knows that it's true. They ain't gonna let me hide away. And I'm not gonna let them bring their fight here because of me."

Freed wanted to argue the point, but couldn't. The fight would take place in the skies. Having someone bring lightning down on any oncoming army would be invaluable. But Laxus didn't need to hear that.

"You can stay with me for as long as you please," Freed promised. "But you're right. You probably will be brought into the fight, so I want you to make me a promise."

"Anything," Laxus nodded.

"Pick the right side," Freed said firmly. "There is cruelty in them both, but we both know who the better leader will be. And so long as you have the choice in who you fight for, you must promise me that you pick the right one."

"I will," Laxus promised, and brought both of Freed's hands to his mouth to kiss, as if sealing the promise.

"How long do you expect we have until the war begins?" Freed asked.

"Months, at most," Laxus sighed. "I don't know when exactly, but everyone seems to know this is gonna be important, and neither side is gonna want to make a mistake early on. So they'll take time to build up their support and make their armies stronger. But they both wanna make the first hit, so they can't be building forever. In a year's time we'll be in deep."

"Perhaps we could do something," Freed offered. "Sabotage them in some way."

"They'll have more defences than we can imagine," Laxus rebutted. "Right now, I just wanna sleep."

"My bed chamber is always open for use for you," Freed assured him, unwrapping himself from his lover's arms. "Take all the time you need."

"Only if you join me," Laxus said, voice firm. "Ever and Bix already told me that you've been working yourself hard, and that you've been delaying sleep when you can get away with it. So if I sleep, then you have to too."

"If you insist," Freed said with a smile. "And I suppose it's appropriate."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, given that we're in the Netherworld, sleeping seems appropriate," He looked to Laxus with a mischievous grin. "Where else is there to rest in peace?"

Laxus barked out a disbelieving laugh. "You've the most fucking morbid sense of humour, it's fucking great."

And, in spite of the situation, both men smiled as they retired to bed.

~~~

I believe that the 'Knight of Judgment' is a unique painting as it shows what was important to Freed in the days of the war.

Located in the lower regions of the painting, you can see both Laxus and the Raijinshuu. They are shown to be sitting at a table, which multiple artists and historians agree signifies how they influenced Freed in his actions. In many ways, this is a representation of Freed's own Table of the Gods, with those he held close holding his council.

The location of them in the painting is also significant. They are placed in his stomach: they are a part of him that he carried with him throughout the darkest days of his life.

It is a great sorrow that he needed to be secluded from them for the war to end.

The affect that the war had on the Netherworld was unique. Although the realm was secluded and the battle never neared the doors to the Netherworld, the impact of the fighting was said to have been felt in different ways. An overall atmosphere of unease is said to have filled the land, and there was an obvious influx of the dead. Both humans and angels were being slayed at an alarming rate.

The horrors of the war were unseen, but not unknown.

It is said that Freed often found himself at the doors of the Netherworld, contemplating seeing the fray first hand. He stopped himself each time, instead putting his focus on the new wave of deaths that came with each day. At this time, he relied on his friends and lover for support. As often told, this reliance could only last for so long.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

"I'm glad that you're here again," Freed said softly.

The God was lying on his large bed, arm in arm with his lover. Draped in velvet sheets, Freed couldn't help the look of fondness that adorned his features, nor did he care to try. It had been months since he had last had Laxus in his arms, and the loss of his lover's presence was starting to take effect. When he had felt the familiar static, humidity, and chill, he had worn a smile that could almost be described as giddy.

He had needed something to make him happy. The war had brought wave after wave of dead, meaning Freed and his demons were worked to the bone in accommodating them. Every day, hundreds of scared people were brought to his door, traumatised from their murder.

Every day, his anger at the fighting Gods increased.

Freed had worked himself harder than he'd ever needed to. Not only did he go about his usual roles as leader, but he also tried to assist his demons. Sometimes he would search the plains of the Netherworld to find lost souls. Sometimes he would work with The Raijinshuu to merge a body with its owner. Sometimes he would go to the city and build homes for the newly deceased. Ivan and Makarov had already taken their lives away, Freed should do whatever he could to keep them safe in his domain.

He and Laxus had spoken often, but not once in person. Laxus had been doing whatever he could to calm the fighting, even in the smallest of ways. He worked mainly with his grandfather, trying to veer him away from more destructive ways of attack. He had been successful for a while, but Ivan's power was growing and apparently it was getting harder for Laxus to keep Makarov's destructive plans at bay.

The longer the war lasted, the harder it was for Laxus to do anything really.

It was why he had come to Freed's castle. They both knew it.

"Sorry it ain't with better news," Laxus sighed, placing a hand on Freed's cheek with adoration in his eyes. "They're not gonna stop until someone wins. And I think they're just gonna get worse."

"So there's no point in trying to mediate anymore," Freed concluded.

"I think I have to join in first hand," Laxus said in a defeated tone, and Freed stroked his cheek with his knuckle. "I'm not doing anything on the side-lines anymore, they're both too focused on the fight to listen anymore. At least if I join in now, I get to choose which side I'm on rather than being dragged into it against my will."

"And, for full clarity, who's side will you be fighting for?" Freed asked, cautiously.

He was almost certain as to who Laxus would side with, but couldn't be sure. Ivan was a master manipulator and had unfortunately groomed Laxus into being his ideal child before Laxus had left him. It was always a lingering worry of Freed's that Laxus might be manipulated again.

He trusted the man, though. He had to.

"Gramps," Laxus said, nodding slightly to affirm his choice. "The way he's fighting is fucking awful, and he's not acting like he used to. But he's definitely the better of two evils right now. If Ivan wins control, everything he wants is so twisted and cruel. And if we can't get them in a room to talk it out, or stop it some other way, then we have to stop him with force. And, like he said, whatever side has me on it has an advantage. Might as well use it for some good, I guess."

"It's not right that they use you as a weapon," Freed sighed, pressing their foreheads together.

"I'd rather be a weapon for good, than nothing," Laxus mumbled, but there was a level of defeat in his tone.

Freed hated hearing his lover in such a state. His relationship with his father had always been strained, but Laxus had looked up to his grandfather and loved the man dearly. But the way he spoke of Makarov as of late made Freed think he was a shell of his former self. His defence of his values had made him cruel. Makarov preached love and family more than most Gods, and yet he sent people to die to keep these values. He had become a hypocrite of the worst kind, and it seemed to be hurting Laxus more than he would admit.

Placing a hand on Laxus' cheek, Freed looked at him with a soft expression. Laxus closed his eyes and leant into his hand, and it was clear how much strain the man was putting on himself. Freed let his face turn sad for a moment.

"He's not as he used to be, is he?" He eventually asked, speaking about Makarov.

"He's so focused on winning the fight, he's not paying attention to what he's doing," Laxus admitted. "Sometimes, I worry what he'll be like when the war's over."

"You need to make sure he keeps his humanity then," Freed said as he nuzzled further into his lover's grasp. "If you're going to be fighting with him, then you can at least try and keep him sane and kind."

"I'll do what I can, but I might have lost him already."

Before Freed could try to argue the point, Laxus shifted so he was sitting up in the bed. He made a gesture with his hand, and a dark cloud crackled to life in front of them, with lighting shimmering all over it. Freed recognised it as the same spell they had been using to talk when away from each other. It was essentially a looking glass into another location; Laxus was showing him part of the war, something Freed hadn't yet been privy too.

It was abhorrent.

The fighting was taking place over the ocean, and it looked near cataclysmic. Huge waves were sloshing and forming, higher than any wave should be. They crashed into oncoming soldiers with thoughtless ferocity, and Ivan's fighters looked practically ant-like against the attacks from the sea. They were washed away, most probably drowning. Despite knowing what the world would be like if Ivan's troops won, Freed felt something like sympathy for them.

In the centre of the spyglass stood Juvia, Goddess of the Sea, who was clearly controlling the ocean. Her expression was stern and face without regret. Standing either side of her were Natsu, God of Fire, and Lucy, Goddess of the Stars.

Lucy's eyes glowed and she raised a hand into the air. Suddenly the nights sky was plunged into darkness, as if all of the stars had been extinguished within a moment. Even knowing that behind the darkness was a hellish fighting, it was almost a moment of calm. Just the darkness and the sound of the ocean.

And then there was screaming. Fire spread through the enemy forces, illuminating their pain and nothing else. The removal of light had been a distraction that allowed Natsu to climb aboard the ships of the opposing troops. Some of them jumped over the edge of the boats, and found themselves churned up in a whirlpool of Juvia's creation. It was only when he saw the angels battered against the rocks did Freed realise how close they were to the coast.

How close they were to the humans, who had nothing to do with the fight.

It was sickening to watch, made worse by the fact Freed knew the three Gods responsible. Natsu and Lucy were some of the most optimistic people he had met, and had never judged him. And although he didn't know Juvia well, she had always been kind to him. Everything he watched contrasted with what he knew of these people.

"Gramps orchestrated this," Laxus sighed, flicking his wrist, and removing the spyglass.

"Yes," Freed agreed, voice quiet. "I expect it isn't easy to see."

"I told him not to do it," Laxus said with a growl. "I told him that he shouldn't do it near the coast, that people are gonna die because of it. And not just because they get dragged into the whirlpool, but because it's gonna affect the landscape. Juvia can't make water, so she's getting it from the clouds. It won't rain for months so crops are gonna die. And the fish ain't gonna be where they should be, so who fucking knows when they're gonna eat."

"Don't hold yourself accountable for that," Freed said firmly.

"But when I join the fight, it'll be my fucking fault," Laxus exclaimed with equal parts annoyance and exasperation. "But I can't let that stop me, because if I stay out of the fight then I'll either be complacent in it or I'll be dragged into it and forced to do the same crap against my own will. It's just… it's just shit."

Rather than speaking – there was nothing he could say to make it better – Freed kissed his lover slowly. Laxus moved his lips with Freed's, and it was almost in a desperate way. It was awful to see Laxus with such fear in his soul. Freed wished he could do more.

"Even in this war, you are still your own man, Laxus," Freed said softly, pulling apart. "You have your own mind, your own opinions, and your own morality. If you don't want to change, then you don't have to. Hold onto yourself, that's all you can do."

"What if I can't?" Laxus asked weakly.

"You can," Freed assured him. "You have fought against the influences of your family constantly, and you have become the best of them because of it. It will be difficult from time to time, I'm sure, but I know you Laxus. I know you well enough to be sure you will never change your values for anyone, let alone your father and grandfather."

Laxus took a moment to think, and Freed pressed their foreheads together. It was a silent reminder that he was there for him.

"Thanks," Laxus eventually said. "For being here, and for saying all of that."

"I mean it," Freed reaffirmed, stroking Laxus' cheek again. "You have a stubborn side like no other, it's rather an attractive quality for me."

Laxus laughed slightly, appreciating Freed's attempt at lifting the mood slightly. He pressed their lips together in a soft and chaste kiss, wrapping his arm around Freed's waist and pulling their bodies closer to each other. Laxus often felt more comfortable under the protection of Freed's sheets than he did in his own home. Freed's castle felt so far detached from the reality of what was happening, it was like a safe haven for him. The irony wasn't lost on Laxus.

"I'll talk to Gramps about what I can do to help," Laxus eventually said. "While I still can. And like ya said, maybe if I'm fighting on his side then I can try and keep him kind."

"It's probably for the best," Freed agreed, but the worlds felt like acid.

Of course he didn't want Laxus in the fight, but he knew his personal opinion wasn't needed now. If he could have his way, Laxus would happily reside in his castle for the entirety of the war. But that wasn't possible, and Laxus would make a difference. Freed just had to hope that Laxus' inclusion could shorten the length of the war and stop the deaths.

It was an unlikely hope, but all Freed had.

"Can I stay here before I do it," Laxus asked softly, almost weakly. "I need to be with you."

"For as long as you need," Freed promised.

When they fell asleep, they both felt sick with what was to come.

~~~

Many people begin telling the story of how the war ended long after Laxus had become involved. As Freed and Laxus' relationship is often disregarded and forgotten, many people don't see the significance of Laxus' choice to join the fight and leave the Death God in his realm. Most people just see this as another God being forced to take a side and fight, but it was much more.

Laxus leaving to fight was a further hit to Freed. The added work and general disrespect from other God's had already taken affect, and to have these Gods take his lover from him, and to hurt his lover in the way they did, was something of a breaking point.

In retrospect, this is possibly the moment Freed's descent began.

Of course we can only conclude this with the advantage of history. The story of how Freed the Dark got his title is one often untold, and therefore unexplored. But there is a general consensus that it was due to the seclusion he enforced on himself after those he loved were dragged into the fight. This was the first example of this happening for the God, and is seen as the first real hit the man's sanity took.

The change was gradual, and often his own tendencies were the most self-destructive. In the ensuing days and weeks, Freed's temperament got worse and his actions became more thoughtless. It is said that this wasn't clear to most at the time, but with the benefit of hindsight those close to him could see the affect his lover's absence had on him.

To truly explore how Freed became the man who stopped the war, we must explain his descent into solitude. The next step in that process came on the day he sent away the Raijinshuu, and left his castle empty.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

Humans could be quite antagonising, Freed was finding.

He had always done this. As part of being the lord of the Netherworld, he tried his best to make the realm as pleasant for his subjects as he could. Being in complete control of everything meant he had abilities beyond the regular king, and therefore could be a better server to his kingdom. Because of this, he had always allowed his subjects to talk to him, make requests of him in ways that could improve their afterlife.

Today was one such a day. When the dawn had arisen, a queue of the dead had spiralled around the walls of the castle. The majority of them were recently deceased, and Freed knew the moment he laid eyes on them that they didn't want anything of importance, but rather childish requests that Freed had no interest in granting.

He was in a foul mood before he saw the first person. It did not get better.

The requests were ridiculous. Two ex-lovers had their homes in the same street and spent five minutes arguing that the other should be moved to the far end of the city. An adult man had asked for the water in his home to be turned into wine, and claimed it was because of religious beliefs and denying him would be an affront to his faith; it would be an affront to his alcoholism if anything.

And now he was forced to endure an elderly woman ranting at him, claiming her neighbours had been stealing her food provisions and should be punished for it. Her suggestion was that he and his family be starved for a week and to have his food supplies lessened permanently. It was absurd. He was a God, not a mediator for ridiculous arguments. It was tempting to starve her out of spite.

Still, at least he could let his mind wonder and drown out the obsessive whining of the humans for a little while.

With the hordes of the dead coming to his world because of the war, he hadn't had time to relax. Even when he did have a few moments to himself, his mind usually went to Laxus and whatever he might be doing. That was never for good.

It had been months since they had even spoken to one another. After Laxus decided to join the fight, they had spent a few days together before the blonde had returned to the skies to take his grandfather's side and join the battle. After that, they hadn't so much as seen one another. Freed had no idea what his lover was doing, if he was safe, or if he was in danger. The absence of the man he loved was starting to affect him.

In the past, even on the long stretches where they couldn't see each other in person, they could at least talk. But not this time, and Freed missed him. Now he just had idiot humans to distract him.

The amusement was wearing thin.

Because these ridiculous creatures were not treating him like a God. They were not treating him as something to be feared or looked up to. They were treating him as some odd wish granter who is supposed to care about their damn stupid problems!

"May I interrupt you, ma'am," Freed snapped suddenly, hands gripping the side of the throne.

Apparently the woman was the breaking point for him. She stopped, and looked to him almost affronted.

"Because if I'm completely honest with you ma'am, I couldn't give less of a damn about your problems, ma'am. In fact, ma'am, you're such a tedious person that I'm considering granting your neighbour twice the food than he gets now out of spite of you. So, ma'am, I feel as though it's in your best interest to shut your damned mouth right now before my spite becomes something more sour."

The woman looked at him with a gape. Freed glared at her. Did she not understand that he was a God?

"I allow you my council because I wish to make this place good for you all," Freed continued. He stood up from his throne and started to pace. Those in the room all looked towards him. "I make changes to accommodate you all. And this is what you want from me? To act as a ridiculous mediator for all your petty bullshit."

"Petty?" The woman had the arrogance to actually scoff as if offended.

"Quiet!" He yelled, and the glass in the room cracked at the echoing sound. His jaw clenched and he glared at the woman. "I am a God. I am above you, yet nobody seems to understand that. I am not a fucking serviceman; I am your better!"

Freed's tempered flared, and his eyes pulsated with darkness. From the corner of the room, Bickslow winced a little at the rise in anger. He went to speak but Freed interrupted.

"All of you leave," He roared at the congregated humans in his throne room. "Get out. Now!"

"But we've been waiting since sunset last night," One of the men in the line protested, and Freed turned his glare to him.

"Then you'll learn that next time you should get here earlier, won't you," He spat, acid dripping into his tone and he stalked towards the man. He cowered below Freed, and the God would be lying if he said it wasn't satisfying. When he next spoke, his voice was a calm, threatening tone. "If you have any further objections, I would be delighted to hear them. But be warned of the consequences if I disagree with you."

Bickslow opened the door to the throne room and ushered the humans out before anybody could speak further, shutting the door when it was just him and the God. Freed stormed towards his throne and collapsed onto it, eyes still a shadowy purple glow.

Rather than speaking, the demon simply waited for the God to calm down. Freed was typically a calm man, only reserving his anger for when he had met with other Gods, so to see him acting in such a way as a result of speaking with humans was unusual and concerning. Bickslow knew, when Freed's rage had gotten the best of him, that it was best to allow the man to decompress and let his anger dissipate without interrupting him.

The silence lasted a short while, and was only interrupted when the door to the throne room opened. Bickslow let out a held breath when he saw that it was Evergreen, rather than someone who didn't know Freed and might further his anger. She, too, didn't say anything and waited for Freed to calm, giving him a concerned expression; she must have seen the humans retreating.

"Mindless cretins," Freed eventually said, his voice quieter now. "I am a God, for fucks sake. Does nobody understand that?"

"What actually happened?" Evergreen asked, walking towards Freed and speaking softly.

"The same thing that always happens," Freed growled, though it was aimed more at his lap than at the demon. "I attempt to show an ounce of kindness to people and they see it as weakness. I am their God and they disrespect me, treat me like one of their own. Perhaps the idiots at that intolerable table were correct and I should treat my subjects with cruelty. At least then I wouldn't be forced to endure their mindless whining about their ridiculous problems."

"You know you don't mean that," Bickslow sighed, placing a hand on Freed's shoulder. "She was fucking stupid. You know some people are just up their own asses. There're thousands of people who respect you because you ain't some dictator."

"Perhaps," Freed said, though his voice didn't portray confidence.

"He's right Freed," Evergreen encouraged, sitting on the arm of the throne, and smiling at the God. "Remember what you told Laxus before he left. He has to make sure he doesn't change who he is. You have to do the same thing, keep yourself kind."

Freed didn't say anything, and deflated at the sound of his lover's name. Bickslow and Evergreen shared a look at that.

Though the two of them had known Laxus was important to Freed, they hadn't known just how much the God cared for him until recently. Freed's mood had changed slightly, and he was both more forlorn and had a shorter temper. It was clear that Laxus had been some kind of a light in Freed's life, in some sense, and to have him ripped away from him and into a warzone was harming Freed more than he let on.

The influx of work probably wasn't helping either and the God was facing more stress than he probably ever had before. They did their best to keep him happy, of course, but Freed insisted on keeping himself busy and making more work for himself than needed.

"He'll come back eventually," Bickslow said, in a voice almost soft. He patted the man's shoulder gently.

"He hasn't yet," Freed snapped, looking up with a glare.

"We know he hasn't, Freed," Evergreen sighed, placing a hand on his thigh comfortingly. "But you had to know that it'd take a while for anything to give."

"I suppose," Freed let his gaze fall again.

"You just gotta make sure you're still the man he loves when he comes back," Bickslow grinned. "And that's why you've got the two of us, right? So we can keep you on the straight and narrow for your man. That way, when he comes back covered in scars and even hotter than he was before, the two of you can pick up where you left off and start kissing each other. And you won't have to do it with Ivan Fuckface in charge."

"I suppose not," Freed chuckled, and it was only slightly bitter. "I do understand that what he's doing is important. I just miss him."

"Of course you do," Evergreen smiled. "I don't know what it's like, but the way you smile at him shows how much you care. But you just need to be patient."

Freed agreed with the statement, but didn't say anything. Selfishly he would have rather Laxus not go to the war. He would have offered the man safe haven in his castle and fought off the forces who tried to take him, and he would do so with both tooth and claw. But his demons were right; Laxus needed to fight for the more moral side and Freed couldn't stop him. If Freed were any other God, he too would probably be fighting on Makarov's side at that moment. But he had to look after his people, and doing that meant he had to allow his lover some trust.

"Thank you for putting up with me," Freed eventually spoke again. "I understand that it might get annoying listening to me complain about not being treated well, I'm sorry."

"We agree with you, idiot," Bickslow laughed. "The Gods are dicks to you and some of the new guys down here don't know a good thing when they see it, and they complain about it. You're allowed to rant at us whenever you want."

"Whenever we meet another God's angel and they talk about how they're treated, we realise just how good we get it with you," Evergreen laughed. "And that's quite a claim, because you can be quite annoying when you want to be."

"Oh," Freed raised an eyebrow. He knew Evergreen was baiting him to another, more cheerful topic, and he allowed it to happen. "Give me an example."

"I know," Bickslow grinned, voice loud again to lift the mood. The demons were doing what they always did to get Freed out of a bad mood, wait until he was willing to talk and then be optimistic and loud. "When you saw her looking at the Strauss brother with moony eyes so got him to work in the castle and then you made the climate warmer, so he'd take his shirt off to make Ever implode."

"Yes," Ever muttered. "That was annoying."

Freed chuckled, and his shoulders relaxed, and jaw unclenched. He relaxed in his throne and glanced to the window that had shattered at his shout. He waved a hand towards it and it slowly started to melt back into place.

Just like Laxus' magic was connected to the weather; Freed's was connected to the structure of the Netherworld. He managed to keep his destructive tendencies to the castle, and when he was calm he would fix anything he had broken in his anger. He didn't miss the shared smile of his demons when the window was fixed. They clearly knew that, to an extent, his mental wellbeing was reflected by the structure of his home. Laxus had storm clouds, Freed had crumbling stone.

"The two of you are far too good for me," Freed claimed, cricking his neck.

"You're only saying that because you haven't seen how obedient some of the other angels are," Bickslow chuckled.

Obedience was much less appealing than having friends. Freed wasn't going to say that, though.

"You're fine as you are," Freed assured them.

"That's good. I doubt we'll change anytime soon," Evergreen chuckled, smiling. "But, you do know that if there's anything we can do for you, you just have to ask. We know that this isn't easy for you."

Freed thought for a moment. There was, of course, one thing that he wanted to ask of his demons, but he couldn't. It was a purely selfish request and could endanger their wellbeing. He dismissed the thought almost as it came to him, but apparently his demons had seen the momentary flicker of an idea strike him. They looked at him expectantly, and that didn't stop when he made a passive motion with his hand.

"You needn't do this if you don't want to," Freed began. "In fact it's probably better if you don't. It's a fanciful idea at best."

"Tell us," Evergreen requested.

"Laxus. I need to know that he's alive, and safe," Freed admitted, weakly. "It's killing me not knowing what's happening with him."

"You want us to find him and make sure he ain't injured?" Bickslow concluded, raising an eyebrow towards Freed.

The God nodded, though had no expectations that his demons would indulge his ideas. Bickslow and Evergreen looked to one another and seemed to have a silent conversation between themselves; Freed had often wondered if his demons could actually speak without their voice and they just hadn't told him. After a few seconds of silent communication, they looked back to Freed with a concerning amount of determination in their expressions.

"Will you be okay without us?" Evergreen asked, and her voice was serious.

"You're considering it?" Freed asked. They both nodded, and Freed felt a mixture of sickness and relief. "I-I can merge souls on my own. That's most of your responsibilities as of late."

"We meant if you could look after yourself while we're gone, Freed," Bickslow sighed.

"If I can look after a realm of millions, I can look after myself," Freed spoke with offence shaping his tone. He knew of their reason for asking though.

"We'll leave in the morning," Bickslow stated, and Evergreen nodded.

Freed looked at his demons with shock. He knew they had respect and fondness for him, but hadn't expected this. He was asking his friends to walk into the most vicious battlefield in history, and all because he couldn't bear to not know what was happening with his lover. It was an almost pathetic request and yet they were happy to risk their lives for it.

"Thank you," He whispered, bowing his head to them.

They both smiled, and it made Freed's stomach ache. He loved them both, and they were too good to him, despite their protests. Anyone willing to walk through hell for him was worth more than Freed could give them.

And tomorrow, they would be gone…

He would be alone in his castle.

And he would have to deal with that.

~~~

It is unclear as to how long Freed expected his demons to be gone from The Netherworld, looking for his lover. Many of the records claim it was only meant to be days, but that is heavily contested and criticised. But no matter what the expectations, the time taken to gather any information on Laxus' state was long enough to have a great effect on Freed.

Again, this is something reflected in the 'Knight of Judgement' art piece. The flowers located in both the death Gods eye and heart are reflective of his emotional state.

Art historians claim that the flower located in Freed's eye is reflective of the beauty he saw in the world, and the people. The encroaching purple effect is a show of how, without those he loved to influence his actions, that optimism and beauty he saw in existence was slowly being taken away in his solitude.

The flower in his chest is said to be orange and red as his heart is stained with blood. It acts as a mirror for the more violent side of the man after his loved ones left, something that gets more and more prominent as his seclusion continues.

This can be seen in his interaction with the angel known as Jackal.

Jackal is known to be a cursed angel, a criminal of the war and part of Ivan's Tartaros Nine. He is responsible for some of the most brutal deaths during the war, many of which were humans who he saw collateral damage. He is said to be one of the most sadistically cruel of the angels on Ivan's side, and has often been shown as the man who encouraged Ivan into his most aggressive and twisted attacks.

The death of the angel was seen as a large victory for Makarov's side, and the strike of lightning that sank his ship and led to his drowning is sometimes accredited for a shift in the war. Many people think Jackal's story ends there, but this is untrue.

Jackal's story truly ends in the afterlife, with Freed. And for those with a sensitive disposition, I advise caution into reading the details of this meeting.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

At the back left of Freed's castle was a tower.

Inside the tower was a room that often went unused. A torture chamber of sorts.

Often, those who might have justifiably occupied such a room were never given an afterlife. Luck seemed determined to spawn their souls and bodies in places where they couldn't be found, meaning the truly cruel people usually had their bodies composted and their souls fizzled by insanity before they could even near an afterlife. Fate must determine that death being permanent a larger punishment than anything Freed could have done to them.

That apparently wasn't seen as true with a certain person. Both the body and the soul of Jackal had formed at the foot of Freed's door. It was practically an offering, and Freed understood what he had to do.

An angel's death was similar to a human's, in the Netherworld. Although they were considerably rarer, the process was the same. Death ripped apart the soul and the body, and if they were brought back then they would be indistinguishable from humans. Other than the demons and Freed himself, nobody in the underworld was different from the other. That meant, whereas previously an angel would have a higher tolerance for pain, they were now as breakable and damageable than any human would be.

This was convenient, given what Freed was going to do.

He knew who Jackal was. The murderer of countless, the angel who bathed in the ashes of his victims, the Demigod of destruction. The titles he gained were overly dramatic, but were not exaggerated. Jackal was a murderer, and even the presence of his soul and body had seemingly sent a shiver down the Netherworld.

And he had been given straight to Freed. As a gift almost. The idea that the leader of the Netherworld would punish sinners was something greatly exaggerated, but Freed felt he could conform to the stereotype for now. It might be rather therapeutic.

Fun, even.

A welcome distraction too. After sending his closest demons into the warzone, he had been alone in the castle. The only interactions he'd had were with the people whose souls and bodies he had merged together, and he had dismissed them without a word. Being alone in his castle was something he hadn't experiences in millennia's, and he wasn't dealing with the situation. He was allowing his anger to permeate, with nobody to use as an outlet.

But now he had someone. His anger at how cruel the war had become, and how it affected those he loved, could now be directed at someone who has responsible for it.

Maybe that was why Jackal had been delivered to him where no cruel man had been before. Freed was now a fate worse than death.

The doors to the tower creaked and groaned as they slowly opened, and the light flittering into the room from behind Freed illuminated the dusty chamber dimly. Cobwebs cluttered the room, the stonework lacked the usual polish of the rest of the castle, and the only things that had any level of care attributed to them were the shackles, manacles and chains that were keeping the man contained.

Jackal couldn't move. Metal bands wrapped around his wrists, ankles, biceps, thighs, stomach, neck, and chest. A large metal plate blocked his mouth and, although it couldn't be seen, Freed knew that there was a rusted shaft of metal holding down the man's tongue and resting in his throat.

Freed looked at the man with no sympathy. He knew what he had done.

"Typically, the devil is meant to confront a person with their sins in a situation like this," Freed began, and Jackal looked at him. His expression was hidden by his bounds. "But I expect you lack the morality to feel guilt."

Jackal made a choking, raspy sound. He was laughing.

Freed's didn't show any reaction other than a slight tensing of his posture. He had heard stories about how Jackal worked. His sadistic nature was prevalent in everything he did, and one way he entertained himself was by toying with people. Many of the dead had been forced to beg for mercy by the man, only to have him kill them a moment later. It would be in keeping with his reputation for him to try and antagonise Freed, and he wasn't going to give the man the satisfaction of getting under his skin.

"No," Freed continued. "You much prefer the hands-on approach, I expect."

Clenching his fist, he slammed it forward in a sharp punch to the man's gut. It was a simple enough movement, but the God's strength mixed with the angel's newfound vulnerability forced out a small choking sound. Jackal quickly manipulated it into another throaty laugh, but the pain the action had caused was obvious. Freed looked at him with almost curiosity.

He punched the man three more times, in quick succession, hitting the same part of his stomach each time. His only partially restored body bruised easier than a living person would, and a purple mound spread from where Freed had punched. Jackal was still laughing.

The reaction was interesting to Freed. That was perhaps not what Jackal wanted from it.

"I'm curious to see what your intention is, with the laughter," Freed said, stepping back and looking at the man plainly. "Because even if you succeed in antagonising me, I won't let you out. You'll be here for as long as I want, and I'll hurt you in whatever way I see fit no matter how much you laugh, or how angry you make me."

He just kept laughing.

"Furthermore, if this is some form of manipulation to make me do something I might regret, then I must inform you that my mortality is not as rigid and clear cut as you might think. And with a man such as yourself, regret is unlikely to take effect."

He was still laughing.

And Freed didn't find himself annoyed by it, for the moment. He knew what a manipulator looked like; he had met Ivan after all. All men like that were clearly after a certain reaction and the worst outcome for them was to be denied it. So Freed turned to the side, looked at the large wheel that was attached to the chains containing Jackal, and began to turn it. The shackles tightened around the man, the chains started to stretch him, and the skin bruised beneath the metal.

"I expect you thought yourself above death, so you probably didn't bother to learn the rules of the Netherworld," Freed continued, removing his hands from the crank and looking back to his capture, who was wincing with his eyes. "Your body won't heal, at all. We have people with the ability to heal it, but they work for me, and they will not help you. So anything I do to you, will be a permanent fixture."

Freed absently ran a sharp nail down the man's leg. It split open as if cut by a knife, and Freed noticed the slight widening of the man's eyes.

Good.

"Of course I might heal you eventually. The definition of your muscles, and the lack of any blemishes, shows you keep pride in what you look like," Freed mused aloud, looking him up and down as one might assess their prey. "Ruining it multiple times in multiple ways might be interesting."

Jackal didn't react to that, but Freed had a feeling he would have a comment if he could speak. He thought only for a moment before placing his hand on the large metal gag, pulling it forward and taking the man's head with it. The leather straps flicked open at the pressure, and Freed pulled the rusted iron out of his prisoners' mouth. He didn't miss the raspy cough that Jackal allowed, nor did he miss his dried lips.

He was more affected than he was letting on. Freed almost felt some sympathy.

But he knew what this man had done. The purposeful attacks on the shorelines just to kill humans and hurt them. The joyous laughter he had projected as the skies lit up with death and anguish. The disregard for anything other than his own twisted amusement. This man had lost his chance at sympathy more times than it was possible to count.

"So you're the corpse fucker Ivan's always talkin' about," Jackal rasped.

"He's yet to come up with a more creative insult, it seems," Freed brushed the comment off. "A pity."

Before Jackal could say anything again, he grabbed the man by his neck and lifted him up. The chains fought against it, and strained their grip on Jackal. Freed's claw like nails dug into the man's neck and a slight trail of blood slithered down one of Freed's fingers. Now without the obtrusive gag, Freed could see more how the man was shaking and gritting his teeth to stop some kind of exhalation of pain. Freed's grasp tightened just a little.

"I'm conflicted on how to treat you, Jackal," Freed stated, forcing eye contact with the bound man. "Given this is a form of punishment, it seems only right there to be some kind of irony involved. Perhaps for everyone you've made cry, I should make you cry. For everyone you've left to burn, I burn you. Perhaps I could invite your victims here, use you as a form of entertainment for them. Have them flog you and laugh as you weep, which you will. Although, selfishly, it might be more fun if I were to make you my personal… plaything."

Jackal laughed hoarsely. "Heard that you were a pacifist. This is a surprise."

"Who told you that," Freed chuckled, pushing his claws further into the man's neck. Something popped under the pressure; he didn't know what, but there was more blood now.

"Everyone," Jackal said, and he gargled. Blood was coming from his mouth. "They say you got corrupted by those fucking half-life's you let in here and those little bitch demons. Say that they made ya weak."

"Perhaps they did," Freed mused. "But do you know what else they did?" He leant close to Jackal, grinning. "They left me. And now it's just you and me."

Freed pushed the man forward, as if throwing him to the side, but the chains kept him where he was. Blood slid out of some of the wounds Freed gave him, but he was still laughing weakly. Freed looked at him with intrigue, but didn't say anything. He let the man laugh for a little while before he tired himself out, then he spoke again.

"You see, I've had a lot of time to think as of late," Freed mused, looking at the man as the amusement was settled. "And I've decided, the war doesn't make me sad. It doesn't make me feel bad. It makes me feel angry. Because an imbecilic man and his equally idiotic father decided to take out their anger on the world. Just to destroy it. Not because they need to fight, nor because anything needs to change. Because they're ridiculous little people with so much arrogance that they think they're problems are the world's problems.

"And then there's people like you. The enablers. The puppet masters, perhaps. The people whispering in their ears, telling them they need to act larger. Get angrier and more destructive. To go bigger and stronger because that's what power demands and that's what happens in wars. And all just to feed your evil wank fantasies. You saw an opportunity and you took it, and expected no consequences."

Freed slammed his fist forward and punched the man in his gut again, and Jackal visibly deflated at the action, coughing up blood. The bruise on the man's stomach got larger, and Jackal's laughter was weaker this time.

"Interesting," Jackal commented, voice gravely and quiet now.

"Speak up," Freed demanded with a sharp tone.

"I said it's interesting. Which of the Dreyar's you chose to mention," Jackal cackled, looking up at Freed with a manic grin. Freed's posture tightened at the statement. "You talk about Ivan and the decrepit bastard. But not little Laxus."

"The point being?" Freed demanded, the sound of Laxus' name on the angel's tongue sounding wrong. Evil.

"We all fucking know about what the two of you fuckers do when he's down here," Jackal laughed manically, and Freed tensed. "And daddy Ivan isn't happy. And when he wins he's gonna come down here and get ya. And I've heard what he's gonna do to ya. And you're not gonna like it. And he's gonna make little Laxus watch as he rips open his demonic little secret."

"Don't assume you have the right to say his name."

"What are ya gonna do to stop me," Jackal giggled, allowing himself to go limp in the chains. "Lock me up. Torture me. It ain't working yet. And that'd be ironic – since ya like irony – that you'd be hurting me because little Laxus is away. Because that's why you're acting like this, and not just letting me die. Because you miss him. Ain't that just fucking sweet."

"Don't say his name."

"Or maybe you just miss him shoving his dick in your ass," Jackal cackled again, eyes wide and unhinged as he looked at his torturer. "You'll might have to get used to it. Because if Ivan has his way, there won't be much left of your fuck toy when the war is done."

Freed paused at that, then his gaze sharpened.

"What do you mean?" He asked, voice cutting. "What does he intend to do."

"Oh, I don't think I want to tell you yet," Jackal laughed. "I just heard that Ivan needs a nice little powerhouse for the rest of the fight and has his eyes on little Laxus. But once he's won, he doesn't need him anymore. And he had a lot of plans for traitors, and your Lightning God is the most traitorous little fucker of all. I won't tell you all of what he'll go through. But I think that it will be spectacular, I just wished I could see it."

There was a moment of silence. Then Freed saw red.

Everything that had happened since the war began flashed into his mind. The endless slaughter of innocent people. The forced involvement of his lover. The decisions made to force his friends into the fray. The slow but persistent chipping away at his kindness. The cruelty shown by all who were involved. Everything was twisted and wrong.

And here, before him, was Jackal. An orchestrator of this hellish existence. A manipulator and abuser.

Someone who deserved agony.

He slammed his hand forward again, eyes glowing. Darkness swirled up his arm and manipulated his flesh, replacing his skin with fur and talons and his hand with a claw. He reached out with a snarl, his drumming heartbeat drowning out the sound of Jackal's laughter. His claw dug into the man's chest, ripping open his flesh as if it were nothing. He dug in further, cutting through the flesh, muscle, and bone before finding his target, and he grabbed it.

The man's heart.

He pulled.

Jackal screamed.

Blood dripped from both the wound and the organ, before Jackal slumped. The removed of a heart was a way of killing the undead. It would ensure that the body and soul were split apart again, and couldn't be returned. The rest of the soul's partial existence would be agony. An infinite hell preserved by the last flickers of consciousness.

Freed dropped the organ, letting it fall to the ground. He spun on his heel and allowed the body to slump and bruise in chains, not sparing the angel another glance.

After leaving the room, his boots clicked on the marble as he walked down a corridor. Either side was a stained-glass depiction of both Evergreen and Bickslow, decorations that hadn't been there before. The castle was trying to tell him something, apparently. Either a warning or a judgment on his morality. Freed spared them a glance but stormed through it without much care for his friend's depictions.

At the end of the corridor, he slammed the door shut. The corridor crumbled to nothing behind him, destroying the glass visages of his friends as it did. It was just wreckage in his wake.

~~~

The hand with which Freed removed Jackal's heart was his right. The 'Knight of Judgement' art piece portrays his right hand as being overtaken by thorn like chains, showing the affect the darkness had on him. It acts as judgment for what he did, and when he allowed his cruelty to overtake him and taint his actions.

After that day, Freed was changed. This art piece shows it.

Although it is argued as to whether Freed's actions were justified or not, it is almost unanimous that this was the only time Freed acted solely out of blind rage and anger. This was the only time in the war where he lost himself entirely to his emotions.

Also often disputed is why Freed had destroyed the corridor leading to the torture tower. Some claim he did so because he wished the block his path from the room off so that he could move on from what he had done and not repeat it. Others claim it was a clear objection to the judgment of Bickslow and Evergreen through their stained-glass visages. Either way, the corridor was one room that was never fixed after its destruction.

Despite the fact Freed never acted out of blind anger again, his mind did not heal immediately. The following weeks, he secluded himself in his castle. No demons nor humans were allowed in. The doors were replaced by walls, the windows bricked up, and moat surrounding it filled with melted stones and magma. He had finalised his own prison.

His self-destruction and seclusion continued for a while longer, the precise time is unknown. What is known is that the next time Freed would see any other creature is the return of his demons to the Netherworld, which is often where the story of the end of the war is said to begin.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

There was something wrong in the Netherworld.

It was the first thing that Bickslow and Evergreen noticed when they returned. There was a certain edge to the atmosphere that hadn't been present before. Whereas previously the Netherworld had been welcoming by design – death was jarring enough, why make the new environment hostile to the deceased – now it was darker and sharper almost. It was no longer the bustling city it had once been, but instead was a shell of itself, an endless expanse of buildings.

Two demons glanced at each other with concern. The people who should have populated the streets were nowhere to be seen, the ever-present sound of talking that came with humans had been lost, and the feeling of loneliness was practically palpable.

Their immediate concern was for their God.

As they flew through the streets, they could see the dead were in their homes. Some people were working the farms needed to keep food, but only the bare minimum. The Netherworld was a skeleton of what it once was, and everything the two demons saw were making them more worried for their friend. Freed had done whatever he could to make the place better than this, so to see what had happened in their absence was more than concerning.

"Maybe we should have stayed with him," Bickslow sighed. "At least one of us."

"There's no point in dwelling on that," Evergreen said, looking at the abandoned streets with a frown. "We should just get to him as soon as we can and try and help him."

"Guess we should."

The demons sped up their flight through the city, both wearing expressions of concern as they got nearer and nearer to the castle where their God resided. As the building became more than just a silhouette, they both looked at it with wide eyes.

Whereas previously it had been somewhat welcoming, it now stood both secluded and crumbling. The windows had been replaced by bricks, the moat had been expanded to the point where the castle was on its own island, and the drawbridge was lifted and bolted upright. The brickwork was cracked, and it was clear some of the more vulnerable pieces of stone had fallen to the ground below. Doors were removed and any form of entrance seemed blocked up or destroyed. It was entirely closed off, no doubt with Freed inside.

After flitting around the top of the castle in hopes of finding an entrance, their concern grew. Freed was secluding himself. Completely.

Of course, they couldn't allow this. Freed was a man more emotional than he would openly admit, and clearly the toll of the war was affecting him greatly. Worse, he was a powerful man, and it would be entirely possible that Freed's seclusion could lead to something more destructive. It would only take the wrong thing to happen before Freed's emotions contorted into anger, and he use it against his subjects.

It took a little while, but after flying around the walls of the castle, they managed to find a single unblocked door. It was at the back of the castle, and only allowed access to the private garden. The place where Freed and Laxus had met.

When they entered, they saw the state of disrepair was worse inside. Carpets were muddied, dusty and torn, curtains clumped on the floor having fallen form the walls, paintings were either destroyed or removed, light had been eradicated entirely and shards of brick and stone populated the ground. It was a wreck, and the fact that Freed seemed either unaware of it or simply didn't care sent a surge of fear through the demons.

The castle was a reflection of Freed. If he didn't care about the castle, he didn't care about his own wellbeing.

Guided by the light of Bickslow's glowing souls, they quietly navigated the silent castle. They checked Freed's chambers and the study that he preferred, but saw they were both unoccupied and equally as run down as the rest of the building. They then searched more of the rooms Freed could often be found in, before walking towards the throne room. They had hoped they wouldn't need to go there, that Freed would be elsewhere, but all signs pointed that this was where he was.

Freed was never in the throne room for a good reason. It was normally the source of his anger.

When they pushed open the door, they were greeted with the sight of their God. The room itself was more ruined than any other, with streams of light flitting in through the cracks in the walls, hitting Freed in various places. Every decoration was in tatters, burned away or non-existent. The only thing still in its former glory was the throne itself, and that made Evergreen and Bickslow look on in worry. Freed hated that throne, only used it when needed, and yet now it was the only thing he was bothering to keep immaculate.

Why he was doing that they didn't know, but it wasn't going to be for a good reason.

Freed himself looked different too. His face was emotionless, his right hand replaced with an obviously demonic claw, his clothing ripped and in the same state as the castle, and his right eye was pulsating in a dark purple glow.

"You've returned," He commented, looking at his demons enigmatically.

"What the hell happened here?" Bickslow demanded, looking around in almost disbelief.

"Progress," Freed shrugged, not moving from his throne. "I had something of a realisation. Call is an epiphany if you want to romanticise it."

"Okay," Evergreen said slowly, approaching Freed with something akin to caution. Freed raised an eyebrow at that. "And what did you realise."

"That humans brought this upon themselves," Freed said plainly. "They worship these Gods without care for the consequences. They build up their dammed egos to the point where they believe that their Gods can do no wrong, and the Gods believe them right back. They're complicit in their own destruction. They have a hunger for mistreatment, whether they're aware of it or not, and I have granted them their wish. I expect they're thrilled at what they've got."

"Freed, that ain't-" Bickslow began, but Evergreen put a hand on his arm to stop him. They needed the full story before they could help.

"Why did you let the castle get like this?" She asked.

"I didn't see the point in maintaining it," Freed stated, looking at his demons with almost curiosity. "Nobody but me is going to see it, and I don't particularly care for the frivolities of it all. Why waste the effort in making it look respectable if there's nobody to appreciate it?"

"And the moat?" Bickslow prompted.

"There were complaints about the way I was changing things, and people thought it wise to try and change my mind," Freed sighed, in annoyance most likely. "The moat acts as a deterrent. There's no way to approach me, and those who try will have their bodies boiled. It proved quite effective, after the first few attempts were unsuccessfully made."

"And why remove the windows?"

"Predominantly to further keep out anyone who wished to try their luck in speaking with me," Freed glanced at where a window had once been, then back to his demons. "And partly because the light seeping in was a bother. I can see without it; it was simply a functionality for the human's ease. Unneeded now."

The two demons shared a look. They had perhaps expected a blind rage from their God, but this calm, detached nature was a lot more concerning. It was as if all the emotion had been sapped out of him.

"What made you do this Freed?" Evergreen asked, stepping closer again. Bickslow did the same.

"I told you, I came to a greater understanding of the world," Freed shrugged. "Humans are addicted to pain and turmoil. They bring it upon themselves so it makes their short existences seem worthwhile; they force agony on themselves so that they can feel better when they get rid of it. I have been a crutch to them, and they haven't earned my help, so I have removed it from them. I have also removed their influence from me."

While Evergreen looked at their God with concern, Bickslow's eyes widened and he felt a rush of guilt wash over him. He had seen emotions of all type in humans, both repressed and volatile, and he knew what Freed was doing. He was a man of pride and duty, and he wouldn't allow his true feelings to be known to anyone. But it was plain to see that he was lonely.

Bickslow and Evergreen had left him alone when he was struggling. He was more alone than he had ever been, and he had closed himself off.

Perhaps he thought that emotions were the reason he was hurting so much on his own, and was trying to remove their influence from him. Perhaps he just wasn't thinking straight, and his self-inflicted seclusion from the world had led him to make stupid decisions. But it was very clear what was happening; Freed was angry and lonely and didn't know how to deal with it, so was lashing out at the world.

Walking up to Freed, he was met with an inquisitive eyebrow raise and nothing more. Before Freed could stop him, the demon wrapped his arms tightly around the man, pulling him into a tight hug.

Freed went rigid against Bickslow's chest and for a moment he was unmoving.

"I'm sorry we left you," Bickslow stated softly, and his voice quivered. "And I'm sorry you're having to go through all this shit with nobody to understand how hard it is for you. And I'm sorry that people constantly undermine you. I'm sorry we haven't been here for you and I promise we won't do that to you again. But we are here for you, and we love you."

A sob slipped through Freed's lips.

He wrapped his arms tightly around Bickslow, clinging to him as if he might disappear. Bickslow tightened his own grip, and allowed Freed to press his face into his torso for as long as he needed. He was probably crying, and most likely wouldn't end the hug until he stopped. That was fine, he could deal with that.

Evergreen had walked over and was gently stroking Freed's back, and the two demons shared a sympathetic look. They knew now that one of them should have stayed behind to look after him, they knew that Freed wasn't as in control as he liked to think and should have anticipated he might need help.

But like Evergreen had said earlier, they couldn't focus on that.

Eventually Freed did remove himself from the hug, and the dampness around his eyes told Bickslow that he had indeed cried. They didn't comment on anything as Freed rubbed the back of his left hand against his face, cleaning it slightly and making himself look more presentable. The glowing in his right eye diminished now, but the effect of his time alone was still obvious in both the castle and in his demonic right arm.

"I shouldn't need to rely on you," Freed whispered. "And I'm sorry that I do."

"Everyone needs people, Freed," Evergreen said softly. "And the people who think otherwise are the people who start wars and bring cruelty for no reason. You are not one of those people."

"But what I've done over the last-"

"Anything you've done can be fixed, Freed," Bickslow firmly stated, leaving no room for argument. "You're allowed mistakes, more than anyone. People can forgive you and move on, they're good at that."

Freed thought for a moment, before ducking his head in defeat. Evergreen patted his shoulder while Bickslow ruffled the top of his already messy head. Freed chuckled slightly at the action, though his heart was barely in it. The demons wished that they could do more to help their friend, but he could only heal himself. And, unfortunately, part of that healing process would involve the God's lover, something which Freed would soon find out about.

"We found Laxus," Evergreen said after Freed looked up again. The man's head snapped towards her. "And I'm going to need you to promise to keep calm."

"If he okay?" Freed demanded, regret replaced by a small mixture of fear and anger.

"He's alive," Bickslow said calmly, and the lack of affirmation of anything better made Freed tense. "A couple of weeks ago, he was captured by Ivan's forces. They're using him against Makarov, we're not exactly sure how, but they're managed to draw his lightning out of him against his will."

Freed's eyes went hollow as he thought back to what Jackal had said. If captured, they would use Laxus for as long as needed, before killing him.

"Are they hurting him?"

"Yes," Evergreen sighed, placing a hand on Freed in the hope of calming him. "We're not sure, but we think they're using some kind of torture to get him to use his lightning."

"We couldn't save him on our own, he's heavily guarded," Bickslow confessed, looking at the floor with an angered expression. "We did what we could, but we had to leave. We came here immediately because you needed to know. I'm sorry we couldn't save him."

"What exactly are they doing to him?" Freed said, standing up.

"They've got him in chains, and when we were there they were constantly beating him," Evergreen explained softly, watching as Freed moved. "There's these things, they look like crystals, which looked like they were coming from his back and his chest. Every time he was hit, and a spark of lighting came across him, the crystals picked it up and sent it into a metal structure. We think it's a weapon, a lightning canon of some kind."

"They're beating him," Freed echoed quietly. "They're torturing him."

Many things happened next.

The castle seemed to shift around them, stone cracking against stone, shards of glass and rubble lifting from the air and floating towards the walls, ruined tapestries and curtains reforming and returning to their previous places around the room. Light streamed into the room where the windows now reformed. The room was just as it once had been, in its perfected glory, and both demons felt the rumble of movement through the castle that told them the entire building was the same.

Freed himself changed too. Any signs of him being haggard or exhausted were removed, and replaced with perfection. He stood upright, tall, and proud. He was more regal and God-like in that moment than he had ever been.

Two sharp, curved horns twisted out of his head, parting his hair. His eye glowed bright as he looked back to his demons, an expression of barely restrained fury on his face. Air seemed to twist around him and darken, as if magically inclined to support his rage and passion. He was not just a God, at that moment. He was a warrior.

"I will speak to my people," Freed proclaimed, turning on his heal and started to move through his castle.

"And say what?" Evergreen asked, sprouting wings to keep up with him.

"To announce that we will no longer be passive in this war," Freed stated, motioning to the drawbridge which fell with a dramatic shutter, lava sloshing around it. "They have captured the man I love and are using his gifts to slaughter innocent people. His own father is responsible and will show no guilt nor compassion. This war has been happening for years and has twisted those who have been dragged into it. It is a blight on anyone who has seen it yet was born of the whim of two egotists. But it will continue no more."

"What are you gonna do?" Bickslow questioned as Freed walked out of his castle for the first time in months.

"I will bring hell to them," Freed proclaimed. "And anyone who dares try and stop me will do battle with the devil himself."

~~~

The day the doors to the Netherworld opened was the day the war ended. The day Freed ended it.

It was a momentous occasion, one which will forever be recognised in history. The day that the God of Death saw the war for the first time, and decided that he would end it. The day where the dead fought for the living. The day the leading Gods were shown for what they were; weak and uncaring to those below them.

On that day, Freed became a fighter. The horns he grew symbolised that, both as a reflection of the helmets worn by warriors as well as a clear declaration of his strength. The God was a weapon, something dangerous and to be feared. He had no weaknesses, no vulnerabilities. He was something that could not be destroyed by lesser beings, not could be looked down upon. Freed was often assumed to be an incompetent leader of the Netherworld by other Gods, but in that moment he was more devilish than any God could hope to be.

That day, everything Freed did struck fear into the hearts of Gods.

The day the doors to the Netherworld opened was often feared. In prophecy it claimed to be the day the dead rose to overtake the living, angered by their treatment and mortality. Even Gods were taught to fear the opening of hell.

And when it happened, a shiver went through the world.

And even a God as twisted as Ivan Dreyar felt fear.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

Ivan was a bastard.

Laxus had always thought this, ever since he had realised just how much of his life had been manipulated by his father. The man was a cruel and vindictive person, doing whatever he wanted and hurting anyone he could just to get his own way. The only thing that he had ever thought of was the best way to achieve his own goals, all of which were only designed to increase his power and influence. He had never been a good person.

But now, he was more than just cruel. He was more than just a bastard. He was evil. There was no other term for what he was doing, no other way to describe him.

He had captured Laxus himself. He's set up a diversion, starting a battle on the land and murdering an entire town of humans just for the sake of it. Laxus had taken to the skies to stop the forces, but had apparently left himself open for attack, and Ivan had taken the chance. One of his angels had put Laxus to sleep, and the thunder God had awoken in his father's clutches.

When he had woken up, he was in chains. The room was small and filled with smoke, something of an engine room Laxus guessed. He didn't have time to dwell on that, as when he looked down to see a large, jagged blue crystal had been sewed into his skin. He had panicked instantly, lightning crackling across his skin. It flickered towards the crystal and was absorbed by it, skittering up a large metal column that he was wired up to. It wasn't hard to understand what was happening, this was some way for his father to steal his lighting and use it for whatever he pleased.

Bastard.

Over the next few days, Laxus had been forced to endure a lot. Ivan knew that his lightning was an instinctive thing, and that the easiest way to get it from him was to hurt him. Well, perhaps not the easiest, but Ivan didn't seem to care.

Beatings and threats came thick and fast, the intensity of them depending on how much lightning he needed. For one particularly large fight where the Lighting Dragon – the name he had given the weapon – was needed, Ivan had decided to take a knife to Laxus' face. No doubt a jagged scar would be there when Laxus next saw his reflection.

He tried not to think about it. He tried not to think much about anything that was happening, instead he was just focusing on trying not to show how his father was affecting him.

If nothing else, he would keep his damned dignity.

It was getting harder to do that, though.

Mostly, one of Ivan's angels had been beating Laxus, but Ivan himself sometimes did it. Today was one such day. The old man had rid himself of the metal armour he had constantly been wearing since the start of the war, and was holding something that Laxus had become all too familiar with. A two-pronged weapon that Ivan would have rested against an open flame. It was simple, vicious, and effective. So Ivan either wanted a lot of electricity today, or just wanted to hurt him.

"It really is a shame I have to do this," Ivan commented as he walked forward. "It would have been much easier if you had just followed logic and chosen to fight my side without objection. I wouldn't have had to kill you that way."

Laxus didn't speak. He wouldn't speak.

"Well, perhaps kill isn't the correct term," Ivan continued, gently running the sharp tool against Laxus' torso. "Because if I killed you, you'd go into the arms of that little harlot of yours. Rather, I'll force you into something akin to death."

Gritting his teeth, Laxus glared at his father. He didn't know how the man knew about his relationship with Freed, but it was now one of Ivan's favourite ways to torment him.

"I've a few ways in which I could do that," Ivan mused aloud. "There's burying you alive, of course. Drowning you then resuscitating you only to drown you again. I could do some experimentation on the ways in which a God can replenish their body after grievous injury. Or I could just keep you here and make an example out of you in case anybody had any thoughts about trying to usurp me. The possibilities are endless."

"Fuck yourself," Laxus growled, voice hoarse from lack of water.

"Oh, you're speaking today are you?" Ivan asked almost conversationally, pushing the prong against Laxus' new face scar. "What's got you so chatty?"

"You won't win," Laxus grunted.

"Oh I think that I will," Ivan chuckled, pushing the device further against Laxus' injury. "In fact, I think I'll win rather soon. My father is far too reliant on those angels of his. But I think by the end of the week, they'll be here with you. Think of it as a present, some company for you."

"He'll stop you."

"No. No I don't think he will," Ivan chuckled. "He's struggling already. It's why he hasn't tried to save you yet. Did you know that? There's not even been an attempt. Not even a single angel has been sent for you. Not one."

Laxus growled, and lightning flickered across his skin. The crystals hummed as they absorbed it, and Laxus winced at the fizzing sensation that he was forced to endure. Ivan laughed at the reaction, pushing the hot poker further against his sensitive skin. Laxus grit his teeth and did what he could to force back the shout of pain that was trying to fight its way out of him. His entire body was tensed up, but his father clearly saw the pain Laxus was in. He was almost revelling in it.

The sessions could last days. And with the sadistic glee that the man seemed to be taking in his pain told Laxus that today would be such a session.

He had a plethora of devices that he took delight in using. He had brought them all with him and looked through them, settling on one and raising it up.

Throughout his weeks in his father's clutches, Laxus had done whatever he could to distract himself from his pain. He focused on happier memories; those of his grandfather before he had started his war. His time in the underworld, laughing and relaxing with the Raijinshuu and his lover. It didn't stop Ivan's torture from hurting any more, but at least it was something of a distraction, as well as a comfort.

Even thinking about Freed was calming. Laxus could picture him perfectly. His sharp features, his long silky hair, his strong arms, his beautiful laughter, his ardent passion. Everything about him was perfect, and Laxus missed seeing him so damn much.

They should have spoken after Laxus had left for the war.

He might never see him again.

Shutting his eyes, he tried to let memories of his lover overtake him. The first time they had seen each other, in Freed's garden, where they had spoken about the difficulties of being a God that nobody seemed to talk about. The meals they shared together, where Freed was slowly introducing Laxus to more of the human's culture. Just lying in bed with him, side by side while relishing in the man's beauty. His everything.

He had such an overwhelming presence. When he walked into a room, Laxus could feel him there. Freed had once said that Laxus had an aura to him; something about humidity and a chill. Laxus thought Freed had one too; a level of coolness, like the feeling of running your hand through moss. There was also a smell of damp stone, which was slight and barely noticeable to anyone but Laxus.

It was almost like he could feel it now.

Then, after a moment, he realised he could feel it.

He opened his eyes to see that Ivan had stopped his torment, and was looking around with confusion. Laxus suddenly felt a familiar feeling of comfort overtaking him. The feeling he got whenever he had entered the Netherworld. It was like he was there, with Freed beside him. With his moss like coolness and his stone scent. It was as if the Netherworld was bleeding into the world of the land of the living.

Then, Laxus realised what was happening.

He couldn't help it. He laughed.

"What?" Ivan snapped, glaring at his bound son. "What is this?"

"You can feel it too," Laxus laughed again. "You wanna know what it is, huh? I don't think you'll like the answer."

"Tell me!" Ivan shouted, backhanding Laxus. The blonde kept laughing despite the hit.

"Guess you wouldn't recognise it, since you've not been down there. But that's what I feel like whenever I go down to the underworld," Laxus laughed at the look of panic that flicked onto Ivan's face. "And if we can both feel it all the way out here, I think you can guess what's happening."

"No," Ivan growled.

"The devil's coming out to claim the world," Laxus quoted from one of many prophesies about the Netherworld opening its doors. "I wonder how happy he'll be when he finds out what you've been doing to me."

Laxus continued laughing while Ivan slowly looked towards him, before flicking on his heel and walking out of Laxus' chamber. Laxus allowed his limbs to fall limp in his bounds, closing his eyes and allowing the sensation of Freed to overtake him. Even in the situation, with the residual pain from Ivan's attacks, this was the most comfortable he had felt in months.

Freed was coming. And, at least for Laxus, that meant hope.

~~~

Often, this is where people being telling the story of how the war ends.

The gates to the Netherworld open, the God of Darkness walks out of his domain and lays judgment on those who have caused slaughter. The suffering ends and the war is finished. In the retelling of the God's of Fiore, this is one of the most famous and important moments of history. This is reflected in poems, songs, artwork, and stories told about it.

Again, the 'Knight of Judgement' reflects this.

The dagger laden with an all-seeing eye is a reflection of the strength that he showed in these moments. It is often referred to as the Blade of Judgement. Both the way Freed saw the injustices in the world, and how he punished them. It encapsulates how, in that moment, he was both Judge, Jury and Executioner.

A role which ended the war and gifted him the title 'God of Judgement'.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

The opening of the Netherworld was near apocalyptic.

From the depths of the ocean walked forward an endless army of corpses. They were all unkillable, without fear nor regret, and brandishing weapons that could kill angels and humans alike. Above them floated their souls, warping and swirling through the air as dark purple fire. The fire of a soul cannot touch a living creature, and thus acted further as weapons against the oncoming fight.

Waves sloshed and churned as the water was toyed with, the armada of bodies waling atop the surface. The boats of the already fighting fleets were taken on the whim of the seas, losing all control, and becoming useless. They creaked and moaned in protest, but the sound fell to nothing.

Instead, there was silence.

The shadow of the God of Death loomed over the entire battlefield. His size was monolithic, and he looked down upon the living with an expression of calm, quelling rage. He towered over both men and mountains alike, and the ferocious wind of battle hit him and flung back the endless green hair that seemed to merge with the cloak he wore. It plastered against the surface of the sea, and the Death God slowly walked forward, creating waves of tidal size with each movement.

The waves gained a purple sheen to them, both by the shade of the God and the aura he exuded. The sensation of death and the Netherworld was slowly tainting the land of the living.

In that moment, eclipsed by the sun behind him and looking on the living with a sneer, he was more of a God than he had ever been. And it seemed everyone who saw him wouldn't dare deny the fact, as they looked upon the man with fear.

With every step, the fighting stopped.

The Death God looked at the congregation before him. At Gods and angels and humans fighting a war that should have never happened. How they had been twisted by pointless agendas and how many of them had been turned to savages. How once good people now saw the removal of life as an everyday occurrence, or even pleasure, rather than the travesty that it was.

Life ending should not be seen as a possibility. It should not be seen as something required for the future. It should be seen as something that only nature and time should control. These Gods had removed fate's hand in death, and for that they must be punished.

"Stand before me, Gods," The Death God demanded, voice echoing through the ocean.

He waited a moment. Nobody came, it felt like nobody moved.

Lifting his hand, the Death God allowed swirls of magic to form around him. Runic lettering fluttered through the air, a language of the Gods often thought to be lost or dead, at his control. They shot off in two directions, hunting down the Gods responsible for the war. A moment later they returned to him, this time carrying two men in their grasps, who struggled against them. The bounds were tight around the ruling Gods, and the Death God looked to them with indignation.

The last time he had seen them in person was when he had stormed form their meeting. He had forgotten just how human they looked. How pathetic they looked. But they had caused such destruction and heartbreak, and all for nothing.

They were ants compared to him.

"Look upon your creation," Freed demanded, making a gesture which turned the two men around.

They were forced to look over the battlefield that they had made. A battlefield Freed had no doubt that neither man had stepped onto themselves. They saw the hordes of corpses Freed had at his disposal, the ocean of souls that had been ripped from their bodies because of the whims of the two men, the angels and Gods that would soon be dead as well, the blood that had stained both the hands of the fighters and the water itself.

"Do you deem your actions good?" He asked, voice loud enough for everyone fighting to hear.

"Not damn near enough," Ivan snarled struggling against the runes keeping him in place.

With a quick hand gesture, Ivan was flung forward. He was tiny in comparison to the Death God, and struggled under the intense gaze of the man who controlled him. He sent a defiant glare to the other man, who looked at him without pity nor fear. He showed no emotion at all.

"Repeat yourself," The Death God demanded.

"I said it ain't near enough," Ivan growled, and the runes tightened around him slightly. "This world needs to change, or it'll die, and I'm the man who's going to change it. And no corpse fucking Demi-God is going to stop me."

"Still with the same insult. You're a tiresome man, Ivan Dreyar," The Death God chuckled, but his face showed no humour.

"I will slaughter you like I have anyone who has gotten in my way," Ivan spat, wincing as the runic bounds got tighter still.

"Like you would your own son?" Makarov spoke up, voice gravely and a growl. "You're disgusting."

"You raised a deviant, old man," Ivan growled to his father. "How you can be proud of him is astonishing to me. You should have killed him at birth, for all the good he's done to either of us. I am proud I have done what is required of me, and once this imposition is dealt with I will finish my work and end his disrespect."

With closed eyes, the Death God sent another flurry of runes to find Laxus. It might take longer, Ivan no doubt kept him hidden, but they would find him.

"He is the only good thing you've done," Makarov continued. "And when I found out whatever you've done to him you will be beaten for each scratch you're responsible for; you can be sure of that."

"It's a shame that you will not live to see that opportunity," Ivan retorted.

"Silence!" The Death God yelled. "You are both unimportant, inconsequential in this war from this point on. Neither of you will make an order, demand, or bring further death. You are both to be silent. Unless you wish to fight me, your war is over."

"You couldn't begin to fight me," Ivan spat, looking to the Death God again.

"Yes, I could," The God snarled back, and Ivan flinched at the sudden emotion. "You, Ivan Dreyar, are nothing but a bug that I could crush beneath me. I have an infinite army of souls and corpses, all rotten by your manipulation. They feel rage and anger towards you that is unrivalled, and that fury will drive them to be more vicious and cruel than your most twisted of dreams.

"My soldiers are unkillable, and immovable. They cannot be reasons with nor can they be stopped. And with every life my soldiers take, we recruit another. And endless spiral of people who can and will put an end to your power, Mr Dreyar."

As the Death God spoke, the bounds around both Makarov and Ivan got tighter. The latter seemed to struggle with breathing now.

"I am more a God than you could ever wish to be, and I will do whatever is needed to end your tyranny on this land," The death God growled, lowing his gaze on the man with sadistic calm. "So help me I will bring rule on it myself if that is what's required of me."

And it would be easy, oh so easy to do it.

He could shape the world in his image, remove those who would cause harm and destruction onto it in the same way that Ivan had to him. He would remove the judgement and prejudices that had plagued his own life, and preach better ideals to his subjects. He could be both the king of the Netherworld and the living.

A flutter of runes suddenly appeared before him, and there stood Laxus.

The God was naked, revealing the extent of his injuries. Scars and bruises and cuts and burns populated his skin where previously there had been none. Marks that connoted restraints were still visible around his arms and legs, and his exhaustion told the Death God that Laxus had not slept nor rested since his capture. He looked more vulnerable than he had ever been, and something inside the God of Death's heart broke at the sight.

He couldn't be the ruler of the living.

Because wanting that might twist him into someone who could hurt another in the way Ivan had hurt Laxus.

All he could be was himself.

Freed made a motion with his hand, his body twisting to its normal size as he stepped through the air. He brought Laxus into his arms and grasped him tight, the two Gods holding one another as if their lives depended on it. They buried their faces into the other's neck, not speaking nor sobbing. But they both felt a rush of exhaustion, relief, and joy flood through them as they were brought together again.

Laxus shook in his arms slightly, and Freed made a quiet promise to him that he would do whatever he could to help the God. Laxus nodded into Freed's neck and pressed his lips against it, feeling a sense of safety that he hadn't in months. A sense of home.

"Fucking disgusting," Ivan rasped.

Pulling away, Freed removed his cloak and wrapped it around Laxus, who took in the warmth of the clothing readily. Freed looked towards the two elder Dreyar's with anger on his face again. Ivan had a sneer which he was trying to maintain despite losing his breath, and Makarov was looking at the display between Laxus and Freed with an expression of confusion and disbelief. Freed ignored it as best he could as he walked towards the two bound men.

"Ivan Dreyar," He began, walking to the struggling man first. Ivan stared directly at him in some ridiculous display of ego. "You are made of cruelty and nothing more. Your actions are done without repent nor regret. Your goals are selfish and the way you attempt to realise them are evil. You have shown no guilt nor understanding of what you have done. What do you say to this?"

"Fuck you," Ivan grunted, the bounds getting tighter and tighter.

"Very well," Freed sighed, raising his left hand. "You cannot be changed. You cannot be fixed. You cannot be trusted. Therefore, you will be killed."

"You can't kill a God," Ivan laughed, and Freed shook his head.

"No. You can't kill a God," He took a step forward. "I can."

The runes around the God started to glow, burning into him. They spiralled around him, their lettering blurring into purple bands that tore into his skin. The sound of their humming could only do so much as to mute out his screaming as his flesh was torn open and scolded. The process was soon covered by a blurring purple halo of runes, which died away a moment later and left Ivan's body desecrated, cut apart and scolding. His soul started to rise from his body, but Freed ripped it open with a flick of his wrist, dismissing it entirely. He would get no afterlife, nor did he deserve one.

Freed turned slowly towards Makarov, who was looking on the body of his son with a look more disappointed than grieving. He looked towards Freed and his expression seemed to be one of acceptance. At least he had some morality left.

"Makarov Dreyar," Freed continued. "In this war, you chose to fight for the freedom of the people you govern. But by doing so, you forgot the value of life. It became unimportant, and people just tools for your victory. Furthermore, you dragged other Gods into this fight and infected them with your violent mindset. You were both complicit and responsible for the deaths of many, and you will be punished accordingly."

"I understand," Makarov hung his head.

"Wait," Laxus said, voice slightly hoarse. "You don't need t'–"

"Let me finish," Freed put a gentle hand up to quell his lover, still looking at Makarov. "This world needs a ruler, and you were once a good one. Throughout the war you have been changed from who you once were, and you need to become that man again. You must relearn the value of a human life, and how important kindness and respect are. Furthermore, you must learn that you are not above the humans, rather their servant and protector. Do you agree?"

"I do."

"Then your punishment will be this," Freed continued. "You will walk this land, and see every inch of it. You will see every human that walks upon it. You will see heartbreak and joy and birth and death and understand it as every human does. No living creature will see you, and you will walk alone. You will use this time to reflect on your actions, and how better you will serve these people. Once you have seen every corner of the land, we will meet again, and I will determine if you're ready to rule. In the time before that happens, your grandson will take the place as Leader of the Gods temporarily, and I will act as his advisor."

Makarov nodded with his head bowed. He seemed to understand that this was a kindness. A mercy. Nothing more.

"Before you leave, I'm sure that your grandson will wish to speak with you. Take the opportunity while you still have it."

He released the runes that were holding Makarov in place, and the two Dreyar's walked through the air and towards one another. Freed watched as they pulled each other into their arms and hugged, Makarov whispering what Freed could only assume was an apology. Laxus seemed to have forgiven him, so long as he accepted what Freed was suggesting was the right thing to do. When Makarov assured him that he would come back a better man, Freed felt a sense of relief. He had mainly offered Makarov the chance at redemption for Laxus' sake.

After the two men had said their goodbyes, Freed made a gesture with his hand and the older God was swirled in runes, taken somewhere on the land that hadn't been completely destroyed by the war, so his punishment could begin.

Laxus and Freed walked towards each other, and rested their foreheads together. They stood in silence for a moment, relishing in each other's presence in such a way that they hadn't been able to do for months. To be together again, in one another's arms, was such a strong relief neither had expected, but both needed so damn much. Neither man was willing to let go, and Freed slowly leant up and pressed his lips against Laxus', uncaring of who saw it.

Kissing his lover was euphoria.

Evergreen and Bickslow, who had watched Freed's proclamations from the side-lines, slowly flew towards both men. When they broke their kiss and pulled the other close, both demons were dragged into the embrace with them. Freed felt tears prickle at his eyes because of it.

The three people he loved more than anything were here with him again. At his side.

"I love you all," He whispered into someone's head. "So much."

They stayed in each other's arms for a time, before eventually pulling apart and looking at the battlefield before them. The fighting had stopped – it felt like the world itself had stopped – and everyone was looking at them. Looking at Freed in particular.

He took a step forward from his loved ones, and made the proclamation to everyone involved in the fight.

The war, finally, was over.

~~~

It was in those moments that Freed gained the title of the God of Judgment. Where he looked at the actions of the two Gods and sentenced them for their crimes. He looked into their souls and saw darkness in one, and potential for good in the other. He used this judgment to change the course of history for the better, and for that the world should be thankful.

His judgment did not end there. In the ensuing days he had every major fighter of the war take council with him, from both sides of the fight. He judged them both on their ability to be good and the possibility for reformation. He devised punishments suited for them all.

Thus, he became the God of Judgement. This is reflected in the 'Knight of Judgment' art piece by the reflection of the scales of justice. The two skulls represent the value someone puts on a life, something pivotal for Freed's own judgment.

This is where some might end the story.

However, this is not an appropriate stopping point for the life of Freed Justine. As established, his actions were heavily influenced by those he loved. It is, in my view, important to explore how these relationships evolved and changed after he had ended the war. Thus, the story continues and ends more happier than some historians may tell you.

Levy McGarden; An Examination and Retelling of the Fiorean Gods

~~~

"At last, you're here!"

At Evergreen's exclamation, Freed chuckled. He walked into the garden of his castle, where a small table had been set up on the patio beside the pond. Both of his demons were already sitting there, and most likely had been waiting for a little while for both him and his lover to leave the castle to meet with them.

They did this once a week. They put aside an afternoon to meet up, talk, and share a drink.

Freed had been the one to suggest it. His time alone in the castle had made him realise a lot of things, and one was just how important his loved ones were. His castle was large, and felt larger when he was alone. He had relied on their support more often that he would have previously admitted, and wanted to treat them better than he had in the past. This was his solution.

There were rules for the meetings. No talking about their various duties. They couldn't bring a bad attitude with them. They had to try something new from human culture each time.

The reason both Freed and Laxus were late was, as the God's in charge of a post-war earth, they always had a lot of work to do. Today was no exception; they had spoken to two of Makarov's high-ranking angels about what they had done during the war and what they should do next to become better. It had taken longer than they had expected, but thankfully for no other reason than one of the angel's had arrived late. Laxus and Freed had done their job and walked from the throne room to the garden quickly, side by side.

"Apologies for the lateness," Freed spoke. "Apparently timekeeping isn't something Mr Fullbuster excels at."

"You know the rules. No work talk," Bickslow chastised, though he grinned.

"Yeah Freed," Laxus chuckled into Freed's ear. "You know the rules."

Freed shook his head, half tempted to point out their short walk to the patio had been dominated by Laxus muttering about the angel in question not arriving on time. Instead, he took his seat close to the pond and absent flicked his eyes over the table. It had been Bickslow's job to decide what part of living culture they would be exploring today, and he usually went for something that could be eaten. Today was no different.

Seemingly picking up on Freed curiosity, Bickslow handed him an empty glass and plate. He poured fresh lemonade into the glass from a pitcher, and then cut a slice of chocolate cake and placed it on the plate. Freed quirked an eyebrow at the cake.

"We're meant to try something new, with the intention of expanding our knowledge of their culture," Freed commented. "The last three times you've been in charge, we've had cake."

"Different recipes," Bickslow grinned. "And if you say it doesn't count, then you're disregarding the time and effort put into this recipe in particular. Which is a real dick mood if you ask me."

"You really are intolerable sometimes, aren't you," Freed chuckled, shaking his head.

After that, they fell into the normal routine of these meetings. They talked, joked, teased fun at each other and enjoyed an afternoon without responsibility. It was a welcome break for them all, and each of them were glad when Freed had proposed they do it. Particularly Evergreen and Bickslow, who had been taking on the slack that Freed's occasional absences had left in the Netherworld.

Although there was no setting sun in Freed's realm, it was clear that the evening was turning to night by the gradual quieting of the world outside the castle. People were returning to their homes to sleep, as their bodies demanded.

Returning the netherworld to its old state had been a large undertaking after the war had ended. First, Freed had been forced to merge the souls back together with their bodies after they had been split for his army, which had taken weeks of literal endless work. Then he had to get back to bringing the culture of the Netherworld to its lively state. The first thing he had done was to make a general apology to everyone for his angered and dismissive behaviour as of late. He then made personal apologies to those in particular he had wronged.

He did so reluctantly to the woman who complained about her neighbour stealing her food.

It was slow and somewhat arduous, but it was working. Slowly he was regaining their respect and improving the Netherworld from what it had once been. There were now more decorations lining the streets, as well as more placed to gather and be social. The open-air marketplace and cafés were particularly popular, and had been very helpful in making the Netherworld feel more human. They had been Laxus' idea.

"Okay," Laxus said, stretching his arms as he stood up. "It's getting late, and we all know that if we don't leave soon Bix'll start teasing Ever about the big guy she likes, and I don't wanna pull them apart again. So I think I'm gonna call it a night."

"I do not like him," Evergreen exclaimed.

"And teasing her about him is my favourite part of the evening!" Bickslow whined.

"Well, perhaps we'll allow you to do it when you don't decide to get us a chocolate cake for us to eat again," Freed said with a smirk, and Bickslow pouted at him. "I think I might be done for the night too."

The Death God stood up also, and moved beside Laxus. The Thunder God grinned and wrapped an arm around his lover, giving a curt wave to Freed's demons after they bid the two Gods farewell. Freed also wished them both a pleasant night as a pure white cloud appeared above the perfect garden, a stream of lighting slamming down and hitting them both, absorbing them inside of it and transporting them to Laxus' own home.

A moment later, they walked through to Laxus' bedroom. The entire place was open and airy, modelled after the architecture of the buildings from the Greek islands. It was a pleasant place, and Freed wouldn't deny he enjoyed the view from above the clouds.

Glancing down, Freed's eyes landed on a large map of the earth placed upon a plinth. It was partly coloured black, signifying where Makarov had walked as part of his punishment. He was making his way across the land, slowly but certainly. When he caught him looking at it, Laxus wrapped an arm around Freed's waist from behind.

"How long d'you think it'll take?" The Thunder God asked.

"About a year, at this rate," Freed said, turning in Laxus' arms and resting against his lover. "Do you miss him?"

"A bit, but he's gonna be better for doing it," Laxus shrugged.

"I hope so," Freed smiled, leaning up and placing his lips against Laxus' in a chaste kiss.

Both smiling with expressions bordering on lovesick, they pulled apart, slid out of their outfits, and climbed into the sun-warmed sheets of Laxus' bed. Laxus pulled Freed into his arms softly, pressing their lips together in another soft kiss before they both closed their eyes. Freed shifted closer to him, letting out a quiet yawn and allowed sleep to overtake him.

And, in the arms of his lover, filled with the warm love of his friends, the God of Death and Judgement found rest.

Again, the amazing artwork in this was made by @fairiesherefairiesthere​ and you should reblog it and show them so much love.

[rebelincdk]

Oh, my God...

I'm having a rather interesting debate in the comments section, on a slightly "blasphemous" cartoon drawing, on Facebook. These christian people – I will not name – reveals not to have a strong ability for rational thinking, and have a hard time distinguishing between facts and jokes, i.e. claimed that I was some kind of believer in witchcraft, because I have stated that I was educated at Hogwarts. Take a few seconds to let that sink in. Now you get the level.

Usually I try to avoid these kind of fruitless debates with people living in their own awkward fantasy universe, but in this case it has been aiding me in a direction, that might make me more capable of understanding why the world is in the state it is in.

That kind of people generally makes a few weird assumptions, primarily trying to monopolise love, compassion and moral standards, and putting them into a box with some "family values", blasphemy-phobia, homophobia, and condemnation, without any rational explanation. Welcome down the rabbit hole!

One: They often claim that there's a relation between morals, love and their superstition. You know, like saying that only people with a specific conviction are fitted with emotions and a moral compass.

I'll leave it to the history geeks, and people with some life experience, to have a field day with this argument.

In this particular thread I have been accused of condoling child pornography, because I find it funny that a priest has a hard time nailing Jesus to a cross (IKEA-style).

So some of them actually believe that their own superstition is the only defence against the evils of the world. And they believe that blasphemy is linked to harmfull behaviour, in some way. I should find it hilarious, but it actually makes me sad. It means that they are trapped in this cirkle of misguided bullshit.

Two: Referring to the number of people believing, as a proof of being right. That makes God present and true in the US, and not true in the Scandinavian countries. So God has a limited territory, and is subject to democratic realities. I don't even know how to respond to that.

Three: As a wise man said "Believing in the Bible will make you a believer, actually reading the Bible will make you an atheist". Many of these christians squeezes their faith into the moral values of their surroundings and present life. Jesus was – according to the gospels found in the Bible – a rebel, who would forgive the traitors and sinners, hang out with prostitutes, vandalise the temple, living a very humble life, and claiming to be the son of God. He never condemned anyone to hell (the concept of hell is actually not mentioned in the gospels), and he did not conform to the predominant family values of the time and place. But it is common among religious fanatics to use their faith as an argument for traditional family values, and against prostitution, premarital sex, and a number of other things, that reveals that they have read the gospels with a preconceived opinion.

Every time I read the gospels I think "Wow – this could make a GREAT religion, if the world needed one!" But sadly, even the gospels could have made a religion focused on the open mind, tolerance and forgiveness of the Jesus myth, it has been turned upside down, ever since the Romans took over the religion: Crusades, inquisition, witch hunts, conquistadors, and so on.

I'll make a short detour here, on the subject of prostitutes, as it is quite interesting. If we follow the mindset of this Jesus character, he would (according to the chosen gospels) hang out with prostitutes, even pointing out one as no more sinful than her persecutors, and thereby saving her life. I can not think that Jesus would condole prostitution. That would just be odd. But embracing the people living a misguided life was right up his alley. That is actually characteristically for the legend about Jesus: Embracing instead of condemning. Setting an example instead of blaming. I actually fail to find a single line in the gospels that claims he tried to make them turn away from prostitution.

So if we take this line of thinking into a different context: How to deal with an alcoholic. Sit down and have a drink with him. Befriend him, and show – by example – how life can be improved by drinking in moderation, as blaming and condemning will only have an alienating effect. And behold: Most people working with addicts actually confirms that this is the only way that works. No shit, Sherlock?

Four: Many of them claim that God makes them do good things for the world. Well... Atheist – for example making up the vast majority of the people involved with Doctors Without Borders – do good as well, without the "divine inspiration". As the world shows good people do good things, with or without God. Even good religious people, loosing their faith, continue to do good things (but with a slightly more open mind).

Faith in God has no more claim to charitable behaviour than it has to love.

Five: Many of them claim that rituals are bound to religion. Rituals are – often – a healthy psychological act, but all they see is idolatry, hidden faith or witchcraft.

Six: In their twisted minds many of them compare religion with science, or see a conflict between them. That's like comparing colour with size; it doesn't make any sense. Religion is a faith in a phantom, often referring to books that are very seldom updated and edited to reflect the progress of knowledge and society. Science is simply the collection of our rational observations, and are updated every time we find flaws, at a rate of more than 10.000 a day (if we count all scientific fields). It happens ever so often that science will prove the religious books wrong, simply because the religious books are venturing into areas where they have no function, like human history or natural history. It's like a professor of psychology doing heart surgery.

If the religious books – and priests – would just keep to moral guidance all would be fine and dandy, and this argument, or weird comparison, would never be an issue.

Unfortunately they do overlap in one context: The mind. Science dictates an open mind, and religion dictates a closed mind, when it comes to examination. A scientist will accept criticism, or ridicule, with joy and curiosity, while a religious fanatic will often be offended and defensive.

Seven: When the romans took over christianity they mixed it up with the ancient greek concepts of hell and condemnation. If he could, Jesus would rotate in his grave with frustration, I'm sure. Suppressing people with alternating values or natures, such as homosexuals, rock'n'roll fans, premarital sex, and people with different faiths is not suited for people claiming to believe in an all loving, caring, forgiving God. But so it went, in so many cases.

And this makes these seven points the "seven mortal sins" of a large group of christians: They have turned christianity into a tool of evil. Sending their homosexual sons off to "rehabilitation", condemning certain kinds of cultural expression, keeping their children from medical treatment, blowing up abortion clinics, etc. – added to the long bloody history of genocide and persecutions.

But worst of all, there is even a point eight:

Eight: The world is a miraculous place, full of amazing wonders. Every grain of sand, every wave, every breath of fresh air, every tone, every colour, every life, and every BigMac is a wonder. A true miracle! The probability of you being alive, as a result of many millions of generations living long enough to breed with success, on this inhabitable planet, is mind-blowing. You, and everything that surrounds you, are such a miracle that it is impossible to wrap your head around it.

Many of these people claim that it is not a miracle at all, but was simply planed and executed by a higher being. On top of that they try to monopolise the concept of "miracles".

Simple people need simple explanations...

So should we detain them, and maybe eradicate them? Oh, no, that's THEIR way, and we are better than that! We have to treat them with a concept they talk about, but rarely put into practise: Compassion.

Loving my cat doesn't make me love everything it leaves on my doorstep. Compassion for a person doesn't mean that you should condole – or accept – their faith, especially not when it is used for suppression. Keep them in the friend zone, show them, by example, the benefits of a life based on rational thinking, keep an eye on their children, so you can pull them away in case the parents commits some form of abuse.

Thankfully, even some change religion, and some religious people see that as a marker of their succes, truth is that fewer and fewer people in this world are religious, and in some distant future our descendants will live in a world where it is a thing of the past, to be puzzled about.

Like with ancient greek and mayan religions, people will scratch their heads, asking "how could they believe THAT???"

Please note that I have only discussed the gospels that made their way into the Bible. There are many other gospels ("apocryphal") with deviating stories of Jesus of Nazareth, claiming, for example, that he was a prophet (not the son of God), that Mary Magdalene was his "companion" (spouse), and not a prostitute, that he was not resurrected, and so on.

Neither have I dived into the wide array of other texts that make up the Bible, as they are so messy and contradictory, that they don't actually make any sense to discuss. In them you can find arguments both for and against almost anything, from animal sacrifices to pedophilia and slavery. The God portrayed in the old testament is racist, vicious, vengeful and petty, in stark contrast to the conception of God presented in the gospels. You simply can not claim to believe in – or follow – the Bible in its entirety, as you would then be suffering from severe split personality disorder.