#but it’s facts that circumstances led him up to what he did in rots

[skywalkr-nberrie]

Suggesting that Anakin’s love for Padmé was “conditional” doesn’t fit right when you know he continues to love her just as intensely and feel extreme guilt and remorse over what HE did to her for the entirety of his life.

[spinji]

Do you have any idea why Nana continued to dehumanize Shigaraki after learning that her murderer groomed him to be evil?

I think what a lot of people don't get with the whole "you might have to kill Shigaraki" thing is that Nana (and Torino by extension) aren't removing his autonomy when they say that.

At a certain point, it doesn't matter who's fault it is for turning someone into a villian. The entire purpose of Deku's rematch with Muscular is to make it clear that some people aren't going to stop destroying things and hurting people by talking about their abusive dad or their dead mom or whatever tragic circumstances led them here.

Tomura has also reached a similar point, refusing to compromise on his goal to destroy the causes of his suffering. That includes both All for One and the society that left him to rot. AFO meticulously planned a lot of Tenko’s misfortune but he didn't manipulate the strangers that passed him on the street. He didn't create that feeling of abandonment, only pointed it in the wrong direction. Tomura not making this choice for himself because he was groomed genuinely doesn't matter anymore because these are his choices now. He's shown multiple times to understand that AFO is using him against All Might and for his own ends, but he doesn't try to get away and turn to the heroes; he tries to get away so he can be a villian on his own terms.

It's easy to forget, since he's the protagonist, but Izuku's optimism about saving the crying boy at the core of who Tomura is, is a massive outlier and his leaps in logic aren't always solid. Nana is very callous when she talks about it, my personal guess is it's because she's still not fully willing to face her sense of guilt that her attempt to save her son from AFO led to the creation and abuse of Tomura. But she is still correct, regardless of what pain lingers inside Tomura, it is too late to help him.

Even when Izuku reaches his hand to Tenko when he is at his absolute most vulnerable, he maintains his loyalty to the league. He's been cast from society for so long that there's nothing that can convince him to stop. He would rather die destorying than live in a world he couldn't change.

In fact most of the major deaths in the league maintain this theme. Twice would rather die fighting than let his friends get screwed over by his own shortcomings again. Toga would rather die a free girl that lived as she pleased than fall in line with society. The heroes didn't choose to kill any of them from the outset, they could have gone quietly at any time to save their own skin, but their cause was more important.

This is what Nana means when she maintains that Shigaraki dying is a possiblity that needs to stay on the table, because he won't allow anything that isn't victory or death. It's tragic but I think it helps convey the message that the ending wants to, that change in how we treat the strange and disparaged doesn't just need to happen, but it needs to happen sooner. You can't just wait until a villian tries to blow up the country to try and help them, you need to give that kindness to everyone before those villians can even exist.

Sorry this got off topic because I really hate how people simplify the ending as bad writing when to me it seems really obvious that Horikoshi was going for a bittersweet ending with the league. They did destroy society but didn't live long enough to see what it rebuit into because even trust in one person trying to save them isn't enough when you're this far gone.

Either way, Horikoshi's writing style leads to a lot of necessary intuiting about the characters to actually understand the motivations for how they act. I think Nana ends up being a particularly rough victim of this because her stoicism and blunt attitude is very obviously supposed to be a front.

She opened herself up to others and All for One killed her loved ones, so she guards her heart the best she can to avoid showing more weaknesses. She does feel like a failure to her legacy; she never fully believes she made the right choices regarding Kotaro or Tomura. But if she cracks then not only is she done but AFO will make it his duty to twist the knife and hurt the people she cried for too.

She's a contrast to Izuku serving as a cautionary what-if scenario if Izuku's big open heart just makes more people targets by association (which it does!). She's not entirely right when she calls Tomura a monster but she isn't being entirely honest with herself either.

[ineadhyn]

Mizora x Gortash

It occured to me that I never shared this magnificent work of mine where I imagined Mizora and Gortash in a room, trashtalking Tav whilst they wait for them to return from looting every crate in the whole city.

Read it here or below

Or dare to read the extended nsfw version here

It had been a while since Archduke Enver Gortash had entered a pub. There had been nights, in his earlier years, far before the days of the Archduke or even the Lord, that he spent drinking and amusing himself, though he had always found more fulfillment in scheming and tinkering. Now, of course, it would be madness to just walk into the Elfsong by and as himself. So, Lord Enver Gortash had renounced all gold applications on his clothes and wore a hooded cloak. It was unusual to not be the most fashionable person in the city, but it brought back fond memories of his weapon dealer days. Nobody recognized him as he parted the crowd, except for a servant girl that caught a glimpse of his face and dropped a plate. A faint smile appeared on Gortash’s face as he moved past her, making his way to the stairs that led to the upper floor. No one paid attention to him. He knew the party of adventurers had taken rooms in the Elfsong. The whole city talked about it. And also about that nobody had seen them in two days after he’d sent them after Orin. What calmed his mind was that if Orin had killed them, she would not have been able to shut up about it. She would have woken him up by sitting on his bed presumably, telling him all the gory details and licking her blade. Then she would have tried to kill him. Gortash sighed. How much he’d preferred the other Bhaalspawn. But they were dead, nothing to do about it. At this very moment they laid rotting in Orin’s sleep chamber, if he could trust his spies. Gortash pulled his mind back to the present. It was rude to let him, the Archduke and chosen of Bane, wait and he demanded to know why. It was time he took matters into his own hands. Gortash stopped in front of the wooden door and listened. Not a sound. Maybe they truly weren’t home. Well, that wouldn’t stop him. As a villain he was used to standing around, sometimes posing for hours until the heroes arrived and he could turn around dramatically. It was tedious, but never lost its effect. If they weren’t there, he would wait. And perhaps they’d left some clues he could investigate.

Gortash found the door locked, but he had his ways. His fingers fumbled a tool out of his pocket that faintly resembled a key, only it had multiple endings that could be swapped by pressing tiny triggers. Gortash slid it into the lock where it adapted its shape and turned it. The door swung open without a sound. Time to slide back the pathetic hood that probably messed up his carefully styled hair. As he entered, closing the door behind him, he looked around, maybe there was a mirror, but - The large room was not empty. A woman stood there. In fact that was not quite right. A devil stood there. A cambion. Due to unfortunate circumstances Gortash had found himself familiar with devils and their kind. The women that tracked him with bright eyes had red slicked back hair, four horns, giant wings and a perfectly sculpted body, accentuated by a slit in her dress that reached down to her navel and displayed her round tits. Of course. Devils were always so vain.

“Ts Ts”, she said. Her voice was high and unpleasant. “Isn’t that the Archduke himself, breaking and entering on a quiet afternoon. How naughty.” Gortash did not react to her words. Instead he walked over to her. “Forgive my manners, but who are you exactly?” He wiggled the fingers of his hand, so she could notice the Netherstone on his glove. She knew he had no need to fear her. “It seems you haven’t introduced yourself.” “Correct.�� The devil answered. Her glance wandered up and down on him and for a moment he wished he wore his regular fancy attire. Anyways, he still looked splendid as always. “I haven’t. I am Mizora.” “Zariel’s.” “Correct again.” Mizora flashed a false smile. “Mmmh… I wouldn’t walk over these part of the floorboards if I were you.” Gortash was smart enough to stop in his tracks. He looked down. “Is that oil?” "Again, correct. Eager to get the full score I see.” “Why is there oil on the floor?” “Why are you wearing a hood?” Gortash slid it back immediately. “Because breaking and entering, as you phrased, is better done unrecognized as an archduke. Answer me now.” “You think you can command me?” Mizora tilted her head. “How sweet.” Then she rolled her eyes, showing something like genuine annoyance. “One day it’s oil, the other grease. Worst has been poison, though I am mostly immune to that. Still, it stinks.” Gortash narrowed his eyes. “They throw stuff at you?” “Why yes. The party thinks it is exceedingly funny to tease the devil. Some days I’ve to clean myself a dozen times. They say it’s what I get for gracing them with my presence.” “And you still stay?” Gortash tilted his head. Interesting. “Of course I do.” Mizora raised her chin. “I said I’ll keep an eye on my pet and his friends. What they do is only a minor inconvenience. I control hell's magic.” Speaking these words, red flames covered her right hand for a moment. “Your pet?” Gortash queried. “The warlock with the horns. My doing, by the way.” Gortash nodded in recognition. “There’s also one of my former watchdogs in the group. The tiefling.” “Ah, yes. You were the one who sold her to Zariel.” Now the approval came from Mizora. “A dog understands the yank of a leash and the hand of its master, but once they think they’re free they go feral. I am here to assure this will not happen with mine.” “Funny, my words exactly. Tell me now, what else do you know about the group?” “Everything.” Mizora started moving towards Gortash in small steps. “Too much one could say, even for my taste. But it is amusing -” A small scream, a flutter of wings and the magnificent devil hit the floor boards cursing in infernal so vile that Gortash, who knew the language, didn’t understand half of it. Or perhaps he was distracted by the sight of Mizora on her back right before his feet. He could barely contain his schadenfreude. “Every time!” Mizora grumbled, then raised her hand towards Gortash in a demand. Gortash made a note in his head and reached out to help her up, regretting it just a moment later, because it was covered in oil. Mizora came to her feet, shaking herself like a wet dog for a moment, then letting go of him and sending a shiver of hellfire over her form to clean herself. Too bad, the slick film had looked quite nice on her purple skin. And by nice Gortash meant degrading. “What have we been talking about?” “What are they doing?” Gortash repeated his question. “I could tell you.” “You know it?” “I put a little sending stone in my pet's eye socket so I always know what they are up to.” “Tell me then.” “Hmmm.” Mizora tilted her head. “What could you offer me in return?” “Ha”, said Gortash. “Do you take me for a fool? Making a deal with a devil, because I'm bored? “Ts”, countered the devil. “Disappointing.” “Just like you.” “What a high horse you sit on,” Mizora commented. She had crossed the oily plains and instead made her way to one of the red and white beds, seating herself. “You forget I saw everything the group did. So …” She looked at him with an expression Gortash didn’t like at all. “I know about the little detour they took in your palace.”

Shit. Gortash would have rather concealed he’d also fallen victim to the adventurer’s shenanigans. ‘Shenanigans’ might not do the situation justice. Gortash had invited them to his coronation and, despite seeing the tiefling, all went according to plan. Only when he returned to his chambers did he find that, whilst he had been busy talking to the patriars and signing papers, he had been robbed. Stripped bare to the last crate of spare torches. Gortash had no clue how they’d managed to trick their way into every single chamber and less how they’d managed to walk away with half his house in their pockets. He grunted. “Yes.” Mizora smiled, crossing her legs. “It’s the pale elf, you know. Sneaky little pup. And wait until you know why they leave you waiting.” “You are going to tell me now?” “I am feeling generous. And I feel I might have met a kindred spirit.” If Gortash hadn’t known devils, he would have taken her smile for a real one. “At this very moment”, Mizora continued, staring into nothing for a second, “they are in the temple of Bhaal.” “Still? I sent them there two days ago!” “Oh, they only arrived this morning. Don’t you want to sit with me?” She patted the fabric next to her. Gortash sighed internally, but it seemed like he would be here a while. So might as well. He carefully avoided the oil and accepted her invitation, keeping a cautious distance. “As I said, they arrived today. Their leader, Tav, found themselves distracted by a bunch of sad zombies they’d decided to help, searching through every single house on their way and Gale’s cat eating pigeons.” “What?” Gortash needed a moment to process. “All of that is deemed more important than getting the nether brain back under control? There are earthquakes happening. And what is that nonsense about someone's cat? Is that why my letters never arrive?” Mizora shrugged, as amused by his anger as he’d been when she slipped. “And what exactly are they doing now? Is Orin dead? I guess so, because the brain seems even more destabilized, but -” “She is.” Mizora’s tail flicked. “And this very moment our mighty hero is searching every nook and cranny of Bhaal's temple. If you’ve ever been there you might remember it’s quite spacious.” At this point Gortash just groaned as an answer. He barely dared to ask and did it anyway. He was no coward. “What for?” “Ohhh.” The sound was full of pity. “As far as I can tell, for the purpose of collecting every rotten carrot that may be hiding in a vase.” Gortash placed his face in his hands.

He should have known. He really should have known by now. How excited he had been to finally meet the group of adventurers he’d heard so much about, just a few days ago, and then - Gortash recalled that morning vividly. He stood on a balcony of Wyrmbridge and watched an eager person stack every chest and chair in Rivington in front of the gates, climbing up and down the ever growing tower like a mad squirrel. That they fell more than once and spilled blood on his cobblestones didn't stop them. Tav. The whole group was … special to say the least, but their leader was the worst. He should have known. One of his guards had approached. "Lord, are you sure we shouldn't intervene? They might give the refugees ideas." Back then Gortash had just waved it off. "You keep the rest out. That’s what I pay you for, but let this one continue. I want to see if this works." Maybe he had been intrigued by the creative engineering. Maybe it almost made up for the fact that after successfully climbing the Wyrmbridge, the group let him wait two whole days till they joined his coronation. Why do I always have to wait for them? Again the guard approached. "Do you wish for us to get them, archduke? Just say the word. It will be the easiest task." "I wish I could, but you know the protocol. And I'd rather not lose guards to a party that has already obliterated true soul Nere and Raphael himself." Gortash had killed the annoying man a little later. As the nobles of Baldur’s Gate grew impatient, he ordered them to be murdered, too. Little did it help. Tav and their gang were again on their own mission of solving every problem this city had, no matter how trivial. Gortash must have made a sound because Mizora reacted.

“Na na”, she cooed. He got a grip on himself before she could pat his back or worse. “Look now. I spy with my little eye that they are finally leaving the temple. They’ll be back soon.” “Are you sure about that?” “It might take them till the evening.” Mizora leaned to the side of the bed and opened a chest next to it casually. “Ah, yes, full of garlic. They are obsessed with garlic. Is this a mortal thing?” “I guess that at least is normal. Although it explains the smell.” “They’ll be back for dinner. That’s when they make a child serve 14 cloves of this garlic, a lemon and a full crate of Chultan Fireswill.” “I take it back. I take everything back. This is not what mortals do. This is -” He broke off. There were no words anymore. Finally he sighed. “Although this explains a lot.” This was the very moment Gortash scrapped all his plans of forming an alliance. Sure he would pretend to - and then kill them. Someone needed to. Kill them before they lay eggs or something. Kill them with fire. “I saw that look,” Mizora remarked. “You want to kill them.” “And what if I do?” “I guess, I’ll watch.” She reclined slowly. “Save me the pup.”

[anincorrectpetunia]

 Olivia exhaled. "No, Fitz, I didn't want to be married to President Grant. Besides the fact that the ink on your divorce papers was barely dry, all of it felt so fast, so…transactional. That's not who we are. I don't ever want that for us."

"Maybe you don't want to be married at all," Fitz interjected.

Olivia shook her head as her face composed itself of solace and yearning. "Fitz, in my darkest moment when I thought I was going to die, I dreamed of us being married, far away from this town. In a more realistic version, when you weren't president, I dreamed of us being married. In both cases, you were not president. What does that tell you? I didn't want you and me to become the job. I liked what we had for that brief moment between my coming out interview and my father… It wasn't perfect, given the circumstances. But I had you. And I still had me. The freedom I had coming and going, having it both ways…yes, I liked it. What do you want me to say?" Olivia's conscience stopped her in her tracks as multiple thoughts came together producing a truth, she sought to obscure even from herself. Her actions led to the very thing she feared. Her eyes grew wide, the whites of them neon with clarity in the dark. "I see now that pulling that lever to let my father out ultimately led to our end. Maybe I knew that on some level. I'm not sure."

"I don't understand."

"The night I came to you. The night we talked on the balcony into the early morning?" Among other things.

"I remember."

"I told you that I didn't think we could ever survive my father killing your child so that he could give me, what I wanted. That somewhere inside you, even if you weren't conscious of it, that resentment would be aimed at me one day. I never thought you could…. or would punish him. He's too good, too smart. That's not an insult; it's experience. I've had a lifetime of trying to outmaneuver him. You couldn't punish him, but you could punish me. Not by letting me rot in jail. No, that would deprive you of me," she reasoned. "You could imprison me right under your nose. And I thought I deserved it—your punishment. Initially, that's what I told myself. When I was detained, and you showed up, I thought he's never going to forgive this. When you stormed out, I thought that was it. I was right. When you moved me in instead of leaving me in custody, I thought…oh, this is the punishment. House arrest." Silence filled the gap until Olivia was ready to admit the narrative she created in the absence of communication. "It didn't matter why I did it. I went behind your back when I could have let you in on the plan to save us from what would have been a farce of a marriage." She huffed with irony, thinking of what he had said to her before.

"Without trust, Olivia…"

"I didn't trust you enough to tell you because I didn't want to be stopped. I wanted to avoid being married, no matter the cost. I guess we paid it in the end."

Had he stopped breathing? No. The steady calm air slid over the finger held between his nostrils and his lips. Clenched so he would not be tempted to interrupt. But he had stopped blinking. Salty pools of misunderstanding welling up in the corners of his eyes once more. Whether it was the result of psychology or physiology, he let the rivers run down the side of his face. His next words chased their current. "Sometimes, I think where did we go so profoundly off base? Where did I go so wrong that you would think my love was a prison? That telling you there's nothing you could do that I wouldn't forgive became a mission to disprove."

Olivia held her nerve because they were here now. In a moment where time felt like it was standing still for them. Giving them the floor. She wasn't ready to yield back her time...

More

[crumbledcastle28]

Chapter 6: A Jedi

Warnings: traumaaaa, lots of anxiety, like lots of anxiety, the reader really hates herself in this one, minor minor violence, references to violence, mostly just anxiety and hate.

Author’s Note: This is where the series starts to pick up, so I executed it as best as I could! I also went a little off canon with this one, so I hope it makes sense with the story. Thank you for any support!

Your journey to Sorgan was pretty smooth… but Mando was tense.

You tried your best to reassure him multiple times that this was the best choice for the kid and that you could help him with any challenge thrown at him, but he would just respond with a sigh and a solemn nod. So, you decided not to push it.

He had done even riskier missions on his own, so he can handle this one.

Once you arrived, you walked into the common house and met a woman named Cara Dune.

She introduced herself to you and she seemed very friendly, but when Mando mentioned that she was an ex shock trooper for the Republic, that is when you tensed up.

You had done things in your past that you knew would offend her. Not even offend her, but provoke her to strangle you alive. The fact that she was from Alderaan made it obvious enough that the Empire had hurt her deeply.

The only way to protect yourself was to hide who you really were, and your heart sank.

You felt like you had finally broken away from that way of life. The hiding, the anxiety, the fear. You felt like you could be yourself with Mando and the kid and not have to worry about that anymore. But the galaxy was cruel like that.

After the brief introduction, Mando proceeded to outline the plan and everything that the man on the recording (who you later found out to go by the name Greef Karga) had said, and Cara looked far from impressed.

“I don’t know, I’ve been advised to lay low,” she said, “If anyone identifies me, I’ll rot in a cell for the rest of my life.”

That makes two of us, you think.

“I thought you were a veteran,” Mando mumbled.

“I’ve been a lot of things,” Cara replied. “If I so much as book a passage on a ship registered to the New Republic-”

“I have a ship,” Mando replied, “I can bring you there and back with a handsome reward. You can live free of worry.”

“I’m already free of worry,” she said, “and I’m not in the mood to play soldier anymore. Especially fighting a local warlord.”

“He’s not a local warlord,” Mando replied, “He’s Imperial.”

You could see how Cara visibly tensed up at the word “Imperial.” If you weren’t scared of her before, you sure as hell were now.

“I’m in,” she responded, and you smiled at her.

She grinned back to you and asked, “Where do you fit in in this plan?”

You looked at the child in your arms and said, “My job is to keep the child safe. So I will protect him until he is used as the bait, and I will adapt to where he goes from there.”

“She can defend herself plenty,” Mando says, and Cara nods at you.

“I believe you,” she says, and you give her another smile.

I really hope I don’t let her down, you think.

~~*~~

Within the next hour, the four of you had arrived back at the Razor Crest.

Mando started the ship on track to Nevarro while Cara took a look at the weapon arsenal.

You watched as her eyes scanned over the array of options, and you couldn’t help but feel deep sorrow for her.

Her life was torn apart by the Empire, and now she was getting thrown right back into a fight. The fact that she wasn’t even going to join the mission before Mando mentioned that the client was Imperial made you nervous. She was not a woman you wanted to mess with, so you hoped and prayed you would stay on her good side.

The kid had somehow managed to make it to the controls and grab hold of the throttle, which made the ship veer abruptly side to side.

You ran to the child and lifted him away from the throttle while Mando stabilized the ship.

“Are you sure one set of hands is enough to watch that little beast? Worst case scenario, we made need y/n to fight with us. Maybe an extra set of hands could help,” Cara said, trying to catch her breath from running all around the ship.

Mando looked back at you and you nodded.

“She’s right. I can watch the kid as long as you need, but if you guys need me in a fight I can’t keep him with me. He could get hurt.”

Mando nodded and sat back down in the pilot’s chair.

“Looks like we are making a pit stop,” he said.

~~*~~

The Razor Crest landed on the property of a man named Kuiil. Mando said that he had helped him greatly in the past and he trusted him, and if Mando trusted somebody, you did too.

He greeted you with open arms and was incredibly nice. He led the four of you inside his humble home, and you never realized how long it had been since you stayed in an actual home.

Kuiil studied the child in your arms and said, “it hasn’t grown much.”

“What is your name,” he asked you.

“I am y/n. It is nice to meet you Kuiil,” you said and he nodded reverently to you.

“What about this one? Does she have a name,” he said, gesturing to Cara.

“This is Cara. She was a shock trooper,” Mando said.

“You were a dropper,” Kuiil said, and Cara nodded.

“Did you serve,” she asked.

“On the other side, I’m afraid. But I’m proud to say that I paid out my clan’s debt, and now I serve no one but myself,” Kuiil said.

The other side, you think. Kuiil served the Empire? And Mando had worked with him before?

You couldn’t deny the fact that this got your hopes up. Mando… working with the enemy.

If only he knew, you thought.

All of a sudden, the door behind Kuiil opened, and an IG droid stepped inside with a tray in his hands.

Mando immediately sprang to his feet and pointed his blaster at the droid. Cara joined him, and you blocked the pram the child was in with your whole body.

“Would anyone care for some tea,” the droid asked, and your eyebrows knit in confusion.

Weren’t these droids normally hunters?

“Please, lower your blasters. He will not harm you,” Kuiil said, obviously trying to diffuse the situation.

Mando, however, didn’t seem to want to go that route.

He kept his blaster pointed directly at the droid’s head and said, “That thing is programmed to kill the baby.”

You straightened your back at his words, blocking as much of the pram as you could, until Kuiil shook his head and said, “Not anymore.”

He then explained how he found the droid at a battle site and brought it back to his workshop. He decided to repair it, and then spent many days teaching the droid everything from scratch. It developed a personality, Kuiil mentioned, and it’s experiences helped the personality become unique to the droid.

“Is it still a hunter,” Mando asked.

“No, but it will protect,” he said, and Mando finally lowered his blaster.

There was no way Mando was going to let that robot anywhere near the child.

~~*~~

Later that night, you and Cara were sitting in Kuiil’s house while Mando was outside speaking with him, no doubt trying to convince him to protect the child.

“So what’s your story,” Cara asked, taking a sip of tea.

“Oh.. well… Mando picked me up on Tattooine. I worked there as a mechanic for a woman named Peli. It was a good job, but I wanted to get off that planet. I had lived there for a long time, and I wanted to explore the galaxy for once. It sounds cheesy, but I’ve always wanted to do that at some point. Mando agreed to take me with him on his missions in exchange for the child’s safety,” you say, and Cara nods.

“Nice. You made a living for yourself, and were brave enough to walk away when you knew the time was right. Most people never leave their home planet,” she says, and you nod.

“Yeah… I tried my best,” you say, and you try not to let your eyes darken. You didn’t like talking about your past. All it did was stir up old memories that you had worked to push down for years. You hated your past, and you didn’t know how well you could hide it much longer. Especially when you were being questioned by someone like Cara.

“The Empire… hurt me a lot. So, I am excited to hurt it back,” you say, and a big grin shows on Cara’s face.

She takes another sip of her tea, and looks up to find Mando walking through the door.

“Any luck,” she says to him, and he shakes his head no.

“Kuiil said that the droid can protect the child, but I don’t trust it,” he says and Cara chuckles.

“Yeah.. I think we got that,” Cara says and you smile.

Mando goes to sit down next to Cara, so she scoots over a bit to make some room for him.

You heard something hit the floor, and you realize Cara had knocked over your bag on accident. You had brought it into Kuiil’s house because you used it to store snacks for the child.

You stored other things in there too, and under no circumstance was anyone allowed to see them.

That was going pretty well, until Cara knocked the entire thing over.

“Whoops. Sorry,” she says and goes to start putting the items back in.

Your body is frozen in place and you feel like your lungs are being squeezed. Your limbs have turned to putty, and you cannot take your eyes off her hands.

If she sees it, I and dead. I am so dead

“It’s- It’s ok Cara. I’ve got it,” you say and start to stand up.

“No no it’s ok, I can-” she says, before her eyes widen.

She picks up an item and starts raising it to eye level, and you are just about ready to vomit.

Your saber.

You feel like your entire body is crumbling before her and she can’t even tell. Your breathing has become almost erratic and the sweat on your forehead starts to drip down to your eyes.

This whole experience, this whole journey with Mando and the kid could be completely undone right now. Everything you have hidden, everything you’ve buried, and everything you hoped you left behind on sandy Tattooine is staring you right in the face.

And Cara is….smiling?

“No way,” she yells excitedly, before laughing and smiling at you. 

“No wonder you were so secretive about your past! You’re a Jedi,” she says.

You take a glance at Mando, who is staring at the saber, looking confused as ever.

Ok, maybe this is good, you think to yourself, trying to relax.

I can pretend I was a Jedi. Sure. I have basically the same training as them.

But who were you kidding. You knew that wasn’t going to cut it.

“A Jedi?” Mando says, and Cara goes into a whole tangent about how amazing the Jedi were. How they fought the Empire till their dying breaths and defended the galaxy. They had been betrayed by their own clone groups, and most of them died in Order 66.

“But you didn’t!” she said and smiled at you.

You managed a smile back, but you had to have looked like a psycho. You were in so much physical and emotional pain from the amount of anxiety flowing through you. You had felt out of control before, but this was more dangerous than you knew.

You were such an idiot getting your hopes up. Thinking that a Mandalorian actually cared for someone like you. How could you have been so stupid.

“Even the colors of the sabers are legendary,” Cara said. “Aren’t they y/n?”

You nod back, but you know what’s coming.

Your truth was about to shine throughout the entire house, reflecting back at you like some sick joke. And you were screwed. You were so screwed.

“Well, let’s see it then,” Cara said and ignited the saber with both hands wrapped around the handle.

“Wait” you scream, but it was too late.

The tears hit your eyes before she even ignited the weapon.

The deep, burning red saber was ignited, and there was no going back.

It’s burning, fire like glow illuminated Cara’s face, and a sunset like tint was shining on Mando’s armor.

He always looked so beautiful when light would reflect off of him, but not like this.

The red from the saber was vibrant, but you had never seen a glow as red as the anger in Cara’s eyes.

She knew what this color meant, and your identity was revealed in all its glory.

A Sith

Tag list:

@leahkenobi @pinkninja200 @bookloverfilmoholic @farfromjustordinary

[marjansmarwani]

I don’t feel alive if i’m not in the fight

1.7k || ao3 

TK and Nancy steal the ambulance and Carlos has concerns ---- A 2x14 missing moment

Titled “TK and Nancy do Crime” until a few minutes ago this one is really all about the friendship vibes. 

---------

“So,” Nancy said as she and TK climbed into her car, “part one is stealing an ambulance, clearly. I’m more curious about part two and this mysterious child care you offered.” 

“It’s not that mysterious,” TK admitted as he pulled out his phone, “it’s Carlos’s day off.” 

Nancy raised an eyebrow, “And you think he’ll be happy to spend it with a pair of 8-year-olds? That’s a bold assumption, Strand.” 

“Carlos loves kids,” TK counters with a roll of his eyes, “and kids love Carlos. It’s a win-win.” 

“No, Carlos loves you and that’s why this is going to work,” Nancy countered and TK grinned, trying to ignore the blush he could feel creeping up his cheeks at the matter-of-fact way Nancy said it. He opened his phone instead of answering, tapping on Carlos’s name on the top of his favorites list. It rang once before he picked up, voice somewhat frantic. 

“TK! Are you okay? This storm…” 

“I’m fine, babe,” TK assured him evenly, “how about you? Everything okay there?” 

“Yeah,” Carlos replied, relief evident in his voice, “everything’s fine. Buttercup and I were just outside surveying the damage. Nothing too bad, by the looks of it.” 

“That’s good,” TK agreed, relieved that nothing serious had happened at his dad’s house. He didn’t think any of them could handle one more loss of a home. “But I do have a favor to ask you.” 

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not on your way home?” Carlos asked, voice suspicious.  

“Because I’m not,” TK admitted. “We were watching the coverage and there are no medical teams out there, Carlos.” 

“But your ambulance is still locked up in the AFD garage, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” TK agreed, “Nancy and I are on our way there now.”

Carlos was quiet for a second before he asked a question that sounded like he already knew the answer to, “TK, are you and Nancy about to steal an ambulance?”

“No!” TK retorted defensively, “We’re just borrowing it. We’ll put it back when we’re done. Besides,” he added, “it is our ambulance.” 

“And Captain Vega is on board with this act of larceny?”

“She is, which brings me to the favor,” TK said quickly, “would you mind watching her girls? Everyone else is on shift and Grace just went back to work today so there is nobody else and…” 

“Sure,” Carlos responded, cutting off TK’s rambling. 

“Really?” TK asked, surprised. It wasn’t that he had thought Carlos would say no, he just hadn’t been expecting him to agree so readily. 

“Really,” Carlos confirmed. “I like the girls and it sounds like Tommy could use all the help she can get. Besides,” he added, voice going more serious, “these aren’t exactly normal circumstances.” 

“When are they ever?” TK joked, but it wasn’t as light-hearted as he would have liked. There has been so much happening lately and he would be lying if he said it wasn’t weighing on him. He knew he wasn’t the only one. 

“That’s fair,” Carlos agreed. “But still, I’m happy to help. Just promise me you’ll be careful out there, and try not to get arrested stealing an ambulance. It would be awkward to have to bail my boyfriend out at my own precinct.” 

“Good news then,” TK quipped, “I don’t think the AFD garage is in your jurisdiction.” 

There was quiet for a second before Carlos’s voice sounded again, “You do realize that’s worse, right?” 

TK was saved the trouble of replying as Nancy pulled into the parking lot of the department garage. 

“Gotta go babe, we’re here!” He said instead, pausing for a moment before he hung up the phone, able to sense Carlos’s unease even from here. “And we’ll be careful, I promise.” 

“Can you at least text me when you leave to let me know you did not in fact get arrested?” Carlos asked wearily, “Because if I don’t hear from you in the next half hour I’m going to assume you did.” 

“You’d know anyways,” TK reminded him brightly, “you’d be my one phone call, for sure.” 

“I’m flattered,” Carlos deadpanned, but TK could hear the smile he was trying to hide. “I love you, be careful.” 

“Always am, and I love you too.” 

He ended the call and went to unbuckle his seatbelt when Nancy spoke from the driver’s seat.

“I didn’t think it was possible but you two are just as nauseating when you’re not even in the same room.” 

“You’re just jealous Gillian,” TK fired back with a cheeky grin. “Besides, he agreed to babysit.” 

“That seemed like an awfully long conversation for just that.” 

“He also had some concerns about us stealing an ambulance,” TK admitted, climbing out of Nancy’s car as he spoke, “but I told him it’ll be fine. It’s barely stealing anyways.” 

Nancy shook her head but didn’t argue, choosing instead to follow TK’s lead out of the car and into the garage. He led the way to a side door that swung open easily before they stepped in. The ambulance wasn’t hard to spot, the side with Tim’s name painted on it clearly visible even from the doorway. They both stared at it for a second before Nancy nudged TK. 

“You said you knew where they kept the keys?” she whispered, and he nodded. 

“Yeah,” he replied, matching her volume, “I’ll go grab them. Can you go and start checking the supplies?” 

She nodded and TK grinned at her before slipping off to the side, disappearing around a corner. Nancy headed forwards instead, approaching the ambulance with reverence. After everything that had happened, just seeing the familiar vehicle brought her a small amount of comfort. She opened the back doors when she reached it, climbing in and taking a second to appreciate the familiar sight and feeling before she set about checking the inventory. 

She was so focused on the task at hand that she didn't even notice the sound of approaching footsteps until they stopped in front of the open ambulance doors. Even then she didn’t look up until an unfamiliar voice sounded from outside: “Gillian?” 

She turned sharply, nearly dropping the handful of wrapped syringes she was holding as she looked towards the figure standing outside the door, “Neiman? What are you doing here?” 

“What am I—you’re the one in the back of an ambulance parked in a secure facility, Gillian! What are you doing here?”

“Not stealing our ambulance?” she suggested tentatively. The new arrival — Clark Neiman, who Nancy had worked with during a brief stint at the 121 — groaned and ran a weary hand over his face. 

“I do not get paid enough to deal with this,” he lamented and Nancy nodded sympathetically. He studied her for a second and sighed. “Look,” he began, “I’m sure you have a very good reason to do whatever it is you’re doing, but I’m in charge of the ambulances that come in and out of here. If one were to go missing, I’m the one that has to answer for that.” 

“And I hear you, really,” Nancy agreed. “That’s a tough spot to be in. But have you seen it out there? It’s chaos and there are not enough medics to cover it all. But we have a team ready and willing to get out there, we just need the ambulance.” 

She threw him a hopeful glance, doing her best to look convincing. After a moment he sighed, “At least tell me you weren’t planning on hotwiring it?” 

“No, we’re getting the—” but she was cut off by the sound of quick footsteps and she trailed off with a wince as her partner came into view. 

“I got the keys!” TK’s voice proclaimed as he jogged over, coming to a halt when he saw Nieman by the doors, his triumphant grin falling from his face. 

The three paramedics studied each other for a tense moment before Nieman threw up his hands. “You know what?” he declared, “I didn’t see a thing. And I think the security cameras are on the fritz from all the dust. They might just be down for the rest of the day.” He turned to walk away before pausing and turning to Nancy one more time, “Just try to bring it back in one piece, please?” 

Nancy nodded and gave him a grateful smile, “We’ll do our best. Thanks, Clark, really.” 

He shook his head before turning away again, “Don’t thank me — literally, I mean that. I was never here.” 

With that, he was gone and Nancy was left with just her handful of syringes and TK’s curious gaze on her. She met his questioning eyes with a shrug, “What?” she challenged, “You think you’re the only one with secret knowledge of the department. I’ve been around, I know people.” 

“Uh-huh,” he agreed, still not convinced but she just rolled her eyes. 

“You’ve got the keys, I’ve checked the supplies — are we doing this or what?”

“Not having second thoughts?” TK asked her as she climbed out of the back of the rig. 

“Did you just miss the part where I talked the guy in charge of the ambulances into letting us steal it? I am very much in this, Strand; you’re not getting rid of me that easily. Besides,” she added with a grin as she climbed into the passenger seat, “If we do get arrested I’m pretty sure Carlos would bail me out too.” 

“You think so, huh?” TK asked cheekily as he slid the key into the ignition and started the ambulance. 

“Oh, I know so. He wouldn’t leave me to rot in prison; he knows I am the only thing keeping you from doing reckless stupid shit in the field.”

TK made an indignant sound but she only grinned in response, buckling her seatbelt and looking at him expectantly, “Well what are you waiting for?” she asked, “There are people who need to be saved.” 

“126 to the rescue?” TK asked as he shifted the ambulance into gear and drove towards the exit, leaving the garage and any chance that they had not just stolen AFD property behind. 

“You know it,” Nancy confirmed with a nod and a grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

[bokubonk]

when we meet again

warnings: mentions of death, blood, zombie apocalypse au, angst

characters: Tendou, y/n

date: 1/27/21

word count: 1.3k+

notes: lol i came up with this at the dentist and i wrote it on a whim so it might not be that great anyway enjoy ;)

don’t forget to read part 2

5 months, 8 days, and 6 hours.

That’s how long it took for your world to fall apart. A mere blink of an eye for some people’s lifetimes yet here you were holding Tendou in your arms like you weren’t seconds away from taking your last breath.

It had been six months since it started. It almost seemed amusing when you thought about it. A zombie apocalypse was only something you ever saw in movies. It was something you talked about at sleepovers, planning out elaborate scenarios on what you would do if an apocalypse were to one day take place. But you never for one second thought your musings would one day come true.

You never considered how harsh it would be having to struggle for survival and not knowing who you could trust. When the news came you thought it was all a joke and your parents would soon be back from grocery shopping. But after two days, you were still waiting in an empty house. 

From what you saw on the t.v. before all forms of communication were cut off, the government knew about the zombies months before the infected began multiplying. Their efforts to prevent the spread were pointless due to how fast the virus spread compared to the time needed to do research and create a cure. 

Hope no longer had any meaning and everyday was spent with only one goal in mind: survival.

You spent the first month alone. It was terrifying at first but you slowly got used to it, it was the only thing you could do if you wanted to survive after all. Those who didn’t adapt died and you refused to be just another number in the growing statistic.

That was when you met Tendou. You were hiding from a group of zombies that were chasing after you and you decided to hide in a run-down store. It wasn’t the best of options considering you would be cornered if they chose to follow you but at this point you were running on your last bit of energy. You no longer had any strength left and you would rather take a chance and hide than continue running and risk passing out. 

You held your breath, your heart pumping out of your chest as you silently prayed they couldn’t sense you. At this point, you were still unsure of how zombies targeted humans but you weren’t about to take a chance and you used what you knew from watching movies to guide your actions.

Sweat beaded on your brow as you watched them pass by, the stench of their rotting flesh making you flinch. Once they were out of sight you heaved a sigh and your shoulders sagged. You leaned against the wall, your eyes scanning the room in search for anything you could take with you.

A hand tapped on your shoulder and you whirled around, your heart rate jumping once again. A gasp lodged itself in your throat before a finger was pressed to your lips and you made eye contact with a wide-eyed boy. His red hair was startling and his features were pale, making him seem ghostly but you could tell he was human. 

“Quiet, now,” he whispered, “We wouldn’t want any of them to hear now, would we?”

His skin was cold against your lips but you couldn’t help the relief that coursed through your veins that there was a living, breathing human in front of you.

“The name’s Tendou,” he grinned as he removed his hand from your lips and extended it for you to shake. 

“y/n,” you replied, placing your hand in his. His grip was firm and comforting. You almost didn’t want to let go. It had been so long since you had been this close to someone else much less had a conversation with anyone.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen anyone since the apocalypse started. There were times when you came across groups of people but you never felt comfortable enough to join any of them, wary of their motives.

“Pleasure to meet you, y/n,” he replied, his hand still hadn’t left yours and you allowed yourself to think that maybe you were as much of a comfort to him as he was to you. “I wish I had met you under better circumstances, but I suppose now is better than never.”

The two of you settled into your friendship well, growing closer as the days passed by. Soon, the friendship turned into something more and the nights you spent sleeping side by side were spent with you sleeping in his arms. 

You had lost so many people but as terrible as it sounded you were grateful that their deaths led you to him. Tendou. The shining boy who always cared about you above himself. The boy who made sure you were never hungrier than he was. The one who told you to look away whenever a scene got a little more gruesome than he expected. The one who stuck by you despite the odds and now became the boy you loved.

So why did it come to this?

You pressed his cold hands to your lips, sending him a small smile of assurance. But his glassy eyes were staring at the sky, now more blue than ever without all of the pollution. He let out a sigh before gasping in pain once again and looking down at the bloodied bite mark on his thigh.

It had been two weeks since he got bitten and you both knew time was running out. The wound began swelling a few days ago after and you both knew what was coming. Tendou tried smiling through it at first, not wanting you to worry but as the days passed you could tell he was beginning to forget his memories. His eye bags only grew darker with every minute and his eyes no longer held the same light they used to. You could barely remember the songs he used to sing and the weight of the gun in your waistband only reminded you of what little time was left but despite all the time that passed, it hadn’t really sunk in it. You hadn’t accepted the fact that he was slowly fading.

He was in your arms but he was no longer the same Tendou you grew to adore.

“So this is how it all ends?” you murmured, brushing the matted hair away from Tendou’s forehead. He was laying his head in your lap, shaky breaths leaving his lips. 

“I guess so,” he muttered weakly, letting out a quiet groan.

“What do you think happens when you die?” you asked, threading your fingers between his.

“Not sure,” he shrugged, “But maybe someday I’ll find my way back to you.”

“Yeah?” you laughed. Out of all the answers he could’ve said, you never expected him to say such a cheesy line. “I hope you do.”

Somewhere along the way your laughter had faded and it wasn’t until Tendou’s cold fingers brushed against your cheeks did you realize you were crying. 

“It’ll be okay,” Tendou reassured. There was nothing but confidence in his tone and you couldn’t help but believe him. 

You nodded, wiping away your tears and giving him a shaky smile. 

‘For just one night,’ you promised yourself. Just one night would you allow yourself to pretend like everything was normal and you were just two teens in love, staying up to name the clouds and watch the stars.

You curled into his side, pressing your face to his chest. You listened to his heartbeat and the rise and fall as he breathed, closing your eyes and imprinting him into your memory.

You woke up a few hours before dawn, the gun now clutched in your hands. Life no longer breathed air into Tendou and you guiltily sucked in oxygen, willing your hands not to shake.

In and out. In and out. 

“Until we meet again,” you murmured, pulling the trigger.

Perhaps one day the sun would shine down on them and they could smile and know this happiness wouldn’t end.

[desertofsnowflakes]

Incorrect Order Chapter 4 (Nessian AU)

A/N: I know I haven't been able to update as fast as you'd want me to but I'll try to fix that. Your comments and feedbacks are very much appreciated. Do inform me if you wanna be added/removed from the taglist! If you happen to find my storyline similar to another fic or one of yours, I'm extremely sorry, I might've just not known. All characters belong to the author Sarah J. Mass. Enjoy!

Summary: Don't first impressions always affect the way you see someone? Well, what more with the Nesta Archeron? Nesta meets Cassian at few unexpected places and to say it didn't go well was a major understatement. Certain circumstances make them become enemies to tolerable company to friends to lovers.

Trigger Warnings: None really

1652words | Incorrect Order Masterlist | Read on AO3

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

The best way to keep whatever problems one has out of their mind was to do something they liked. That was the only way Cassian kept from spiraling. Since sending the woman to her own house, Cassian had more than a few moments when he wanted to repeatedly slam his head against a wall. That’s why he spent most of his time sparring with Azriel. He won’t admit he was simping for that woman in his free time too. Or maybe that was always.

Now, sprawled on a couch in front of the TV, with nothing to do but stare at a blank screen, Cassian led his thoughts to the box he kept all unwanted thoughts locked in. He thought about Tomas, her ex-boyfriend. Funny, he thought. I know her ex's name but not hers.

It took him a little too long the other day to realise they didn't exchange names. Again. He once thought that maybe she was purposely not giving him her name. That maybe, for her, he was just a random stranger who happened to save her life. He snorted. Surely anyone would know the name of the person they saved or was saved by— stranger or not. He supposed he'll have to make do with pronouns for now.

After she left his home, it took every scrap of self-restraint not to beat this Tomas dude to pulp and let him rot in the same alley he had the misfortune of meeting him in. He may or may not have been the cause for some extra injuries. Cassian appreciated the woman’s attempt at mercy. He, however, didn’t trust Tomas at all. He was dubious about just handing him over to the police. Who’s to know he won’t frame him and the woman for absurd things? Anyway, he left a note in Tomas’s house saying something like “Step out of line, lose your favourite part of anatomy. Name it and have it for your meal.” He made sure he printed so that no one would recognise his writing. Yet, all this didn’t calm his nerves one bit. He presumed he’ll have to stay on guard for some time now.

Now, back to the girl. He sighed. He didn’t dare change the sheets in his guest bedroom. He didn’t even let Mor use the room when she came over last weekend— which he could bet created suspicion. No, that room was only open when he craved her scent. He even realised one of his shirts was missing. He shrugged it off thinking he would've left it somewhere and just couldn't find it. Once she came to his house, he was constantly thinking about her. So much that now he started pinching himself often. It was the only way he could stop thinking about her— by creating physical pain.

Cassian glanced at the clock on the wall. 2.30 in the afternoon. He walked to the refrigerator and checked his freezer compartment. Huh. No ice-cream. He sighed, grabbed his jacket and keys and headed to the mall to get an ice-cream with a pout. He’ll have to leave for Rhys and Feyre’s first anniversary only around 5.30 to prepare everything. He has enough time to get an ice-cream and probably hang out for some time. Good enough to stop thinking about her. Or so he thought.

***

Nesta wasn’t sore anymore. Her headache was gone almost a week after the incident. Her nose didn’t hurt anymore. Okay, maybe a little bit. It didn’t hurt unless she bumped her nose against something. Today, her nose was dully throbbing because she hit her nose against a pillow yesterday. A very, very soft pillow and yet it hurt this much.

The man’s first-aid and medicines were really helpful.

It really wasn’t fair that he excelled at basic first aid too. It wasn’t fair that he looked so good. With black tattoos swirling over generously muscled arms and shoulder-length dark hair curling at the edges and gloriously tanned skin and hazel eyes with minute flecks of green and brown when taken a closer look at and dimples and—

A quiet “Who is it?” snapped Nesta out of her moping. She looked up to see Gwyn walking to her.

“Who is what?” she asked, feigning nonchalance. Gwyn's pursed lips and glare conveyed that her act wasn't enough.

“Who are you thinking about?” Gwyn clarified.

“What makes you think I'm thinking about someone?” Nesta retorted.

Gwyn sat on the chair next to her and started assisting with classifying the unceremonious heap of books on the table to be kept back in its correct positions on its own rack.

“Nesta,” Gwyn sighed, “Clotho assigned you this stack almost an hour ago. And you've barely finished a third of the stack. Normally, you'd finish stacks bigger than this in an hour. So there's clearly something.”

“It wasn't anyone,” Nesta mumbled.

As usual, Gwyn saw through her lie. “You were twirling your hair,” she said flatly.

Heat inched up her neck. “I was not!”

Gwyn murmured a “uh-huh” and they lapsed into an easy silence till they were almost over.

Gwyn's eyes lit up as it normally did whenever she got an idea. “Is it him? The guy you came with that day?”

Nesta scowled, “How do you know…” she broke off when she realised which 'that day' Gwyn was talking about. Nesta fought back a blush. “No, no, this isn't about him. We don't know each other. Much. Like, we've seen each other a number of times? That's it. Nothing else.” Cauldron, the first part was a complete lie. But at least the rest are true. Will Gwyn happen to know his name? Maybe I ought to ask her. Or maybe I shouldn't.

She should, she decided. She cleared her throat. “Uh, Gwyn? Do you happen to know his name?”

Gwyn frowned and asked, “He hasn't told you yet?”

Nesta shook her head and answered, “No, we, uh, forgot. I guess. We haven't really exchanged names.”

Gwyn nodded and smiled. “Well, he is—”

“Gwyn!” a voice called. “You can't expect me to come over to you and beg for you to help me. Help me only if you want to or don't work under me.”

Gwyn’s eyes widened. She abruptly stood up and mouthed, “Merrill. I gotta go. I’m so sorry.” She all but ran to Merrill, the very strict librarian Gwyn was working under.

Nesta sighed and continued her work. There wasn’t much left so she was able to finish fast. She picked her things and left the library with a word to Clotho, heading to the mall.

***

The best way to keep whatever problems one has out of their mind was to also eat something they liked. So, ice-cream it was. After having his ice-cream, Cassian was aimlessly walking around the mall. Here, not more than a month ago, he met her for the first time. Almost a month ago. He huffed out a breath. The fact that he was pining for her this long blew his mind off. He��

“This is your fault— not mine. I’m not taking the blame for this,” he told her. They bumped into each other. Again.

Her lips quirked up. “It is kind of my fault. But blame this—,” she poked his chest, “— for making my nose hurt again.”

Just like that, his mood sobered. “How are you?” he asked.

She pointed at the cafe to her left. “Coffee?”

He nodded. Who was he to say no to her?

So they ordered coffee and talked about everything and nothing. He grinned and she laughed. He laughed and she smirked. He wouldn’t say he knew her well but he’d never seen her so carefree. Her laugh was like nectar for a starving man. Her eyes bright and welling up with tears from laughing.

“I don’t think I’ve laughed this much,” she said.

Cassian put a hand on his heart dramatically and said, “I know, I know. I’m very funny.”

Her lips kicked up a notch. She straightened as if she just realised something. He was about to ask when she drawled, “So I just realised that we still haven’t exchanged names.”

Oh. Right. Of course. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Usually, when people meet, they start with introductions but in our case we’ve literally bumped into each other three times and still we don’t know each other.” He shook his head and extended his hand. “Well, hello there. I’m—”

His phone rang in his pocket. Fuck. He was going to kill whoever was calling him now. He was so close to knowing her name. He pulled out his phone to see an incoming call from Azriel. He apologetically looked up at her and said, “I’m sorry. I wish I could choose not to take this call and instead kill this idiot but I can’t. Just give me a moment, okay?”

She nodded and he picked up his call.

“What do you want?” he hissed.

“It’s 5.30 already, you idiot. We’ve got to get the things ready for the party. Mor already went to get the cake and you’re not even at home. Where on all earth and hell are you?” came Az’s faint voice.

“15 minutes only? Mother above, I’m coming.” he said.

Az’s “make it fast” was the last thing he heard before hanging up. “I wish we could stay here and talk forever,” he said to her, “but I have something up in a short while and I totally didn’t realise time was passing this fast. I’m so sorry. It was nice talking to you. Really. And I wish we could meet again. Though without the bumping part.”

He grinned when she smiled and said, “Bye. Have a nice day.”

“You too,” he called back. He didn’t want to think he imagined the subtle look of disappointment on her face because hell, he was a walking epitome of disappointment right now.

taglist:

@shadowsinger07 @im-someone-i-guess @saltyfortunes @cressjacquine @julian-blackthorn-supremacy @champanheandluxxury @zemiraa @ladygabrielli1997 @nehemikkele @heartless--aromantic @sv0430 @ddsworldofbooks @irenethaleia @sjm-things @dontgetsalmonella

[marshmallowprotection]

Iris

Pairing: Choi Saeran/Reader, 707 | Choi Luciel/Main Character

Description: Was there faith in a false paradise with a savior that spilled honey sweet lies to make you agree? There is no life to be found amongst those in a rotting flowerbed, only those clinging to the roots as the world awaits your demise. Why is he still here when others had long been plucked from the dying earth? And better yet, why are you still here after everything, clinging to his roots as if he'll bring you life? Or is he the one clinging to you?

SE Saeran x Former Believer Reader

Word Count: 5900

Next Chapter 

[Read On AO3]

Chapter One

The sky was unbelievably blue for what it was worth. A blue with a vastness of light and color that he never thought that he would be privy to seeing. A sea of endless white and blue that had always felt like a fickle dream because he could never reach out with his hand and touch it with his hands. He could dream that he did, but he couldn’t actually touch it.

Dreams were like that for Saeran. 

In his dreams, he could be anyone, he could be no one, and he could just exist without the weight of his past sinking him deeper and deeper into the abyss of despair and suffering. He could see a sky and fields of grass right in front of him and that vision had been enough to sustain him for two and a half years. 

Two and half years of living of hiding and working himself to the bone. That was behind him in the eyes of the rest of the world but to Saeran, it wasn’t behind him. It was a part of him. There’d be no escape from Mint Eye no matter what he did. 

It was etched on his body in the form of ink, it was burned into his lungs and guts with elixir, and it caked his hands in blood. 

No matter what he did, no matter what he said, and no matter how far he ran, Mint Eye was a part of him and he accepted this. It made him sick to his stomach at times, and the longer he was disconnected from the cult, the more he realized just how badly he had been hurt and how much hurt he had caused in return. 

Shame, guilt, and trauma all wrapped up in a messy bow that contained his life. It wasn’t perfect and he had his doubts that it was ever going to be more than what he had at this point. Even as he was a year away from the aftermath, it still blanketed him with feelings that he hardly spoke aloud as those thoughts were grim and washed over with disrepair. 

Saeran didn’t dare talk about it with his brother. It wasn’t that he wasn’t allowed to do that, it was more of the fact that Saeyoung would want to know everything in grim detail because he felt ashamed of what happened when he trusted the first people to offer safety to his brother without trying to think it through. 

They were children when that happened and while Saeran could now understand the position that Saeyoung was trapped in, the shame that his brother wreaked was something that he didn’t at all have the time or energy to deal with in his own right. Saeyoung had his own problems to face about the past and that wasn’t on Saeran’s time yet.

They tried not to talk about it too much in the present. It was there, humming in the background as they existed in that bunker together, just waiting for the moment for something to blow up and the past to be wrenched out of its hole in the ground so they would have to talk about it. Neither one of them wanted to open that can of worms. 

Given the fact that they both struggled to talk about their emotions outright, it turned into a mess where Saeran would get upset and scream without thinking if Saeyoung kept pushing his buttons, and Saeyoung would realize his mistakes, apologize, and take the blame as he would have back when they were children. 

Their mother wasn’t here and she wasn’t going to beat them if they fought. Which meant that his twin didn’t have to sit there and take on the blame and weight of his mistakes. People said things because they were angry and upset, it didn’t always mean that they meant it. 

It just meant that it would be better to leave the room instead of screaming and shouting. Which is what Saeran would do every time. He would shake his head and leave the room before closing himself off for a few hours. It made things tense sometimes but he would rather be alone than to be stuck dealing with another emotional mess.

It was bad enough that people would walk on eggshells around Saeran. 

He didn’t want to do that in this bunker. He was stuck living here and trying to make the best of it. For a while, it felt like he was being monitored and watched like some kind of child that was going to throw a tantrum. Yeah, he was volatile and upset about his place in the world. He had been a caged animal for years and it was only obvious that he was going to lash out if poked.

Saeyoung had to learn that the hard way. He had to realize that Saeran wasn’t a child anymore and they didn’t know each other the way they used to. They were different people and that had to mean that there was a need to start all over again. Saeran wasn’t sure that he wanted to build any relationship from the bottom up—

His brother needed to establish something about his survivor’s guilt. Well, that was just the pot calling the kettle black, wasn’t it? In retrospect, therapy had given him the ability to poke holes in the logic that had been taught to him as well as being able to see when enough was enough for other people. Giving him the power to see what wasn’t okay and what was a good thing. 

It wasn’t like he had anywhere to go. It wasn’t like anyone was going to hire him. It wasn’t like he could get very far knowing that somewhere out there, his father was lurking and just waiting for either himself or his brother to be caught in the middle of the daylight where he could strike them down. 

Staying with Saeyoung wasn’t about being with his twin happily ever after, it was a matter of his safety and survival. His brother was giving him a place to stay, a roof over his head, food to eat, and the clear safety in knowing that the layered security would keep out anyone that dared to try and hurt him. 

He could say that he didn’t completely despise Saeyoung the way that he used to, but it wasn’t like he wanted to be his best friend or something like that. They both needed to survive from a countless league of players that wanted them dead and gone from this world. It was simply this matter of convenience. 

Saeran was giving him a small chance because of the circumstance and while his therapist noted that wasn’t the best reason to give someone their chance if you weren’t comfortable with them, it was still his choice at the end of the day to pick what he was willing to tolerate and what he wasn’t. 

It was the freedom to choose that Saeran wanted and even though everything had always been chosen for him, he was getting to decide what he wanted now. Saeyoung had always done what he wanted and dragged him along, then Jihyun extended a hand to him and led him into the gardens, and then Rika pushed him down to the ground and made him submit. 

Even now, it wasn’t like he had chosen to live here. Saeyoung had made that choice for him in a moment of desperation. He dragged him from the hospital and here they were now. It made sense given what was going to happen but… it was something that always burned him to think about in any way. 

Another reason to bite his tongue during the conflict. 

Saeran’s ability to choose had always been taken away so these little things that he was able to pick for himself meant a lot. Just in the same way that he would want others to be able to do as they pleased. As long as he had the right to decide what he wanted, then so did everyone else in this world.

Saeyoung could believe whatever he wanted. If it made him happy to think that after a year of dealing with this, their relationship was on the mend, then that was his prerogative. If it helped him sleep at night, whatever, he could think anything he wanted. 

That partner of his seemed to think things were getting better, but they weren’t ignorant enough to think it was all bubblegum and ice cream in the bunker. They, at least, were able to see when enough was enough. They would nudge Saeyoung away if things got tense in the middle of the day and make sure that he knew better. 

Them, he could tolerate somewhat to a lesser degree, but there was a painful sting in the back of his chest whenever he saw them. That kindness was otherworldly and beyond reason. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was a personality and perspective of the world that he would never be able to understand. 

Perhaps, it was because he had chosen them for those eyes they had. Those eyes sparkled warmth and confidence that Saeran did not know. A perfect shiny star that would twist the RFA to their knees if they followed everything that he’d planned, and by the end of it, they had been the very reason for his undoing from torture. 

In a way, they had saved plenty of people from suffering. 

Just not in the way that he had intended for them. 

Either way, living in the bunker with his brother and his brother’s partner was like a minefield. A mess that he didn’t intend to walk into. 

A disaster zone that was just out there and waiting to envelop him in ways that he wasn’t sure that he wanted. It wasn’t always the worst but it wasn’t always the best, either. However, his life had always been a tragedy that he never wanted nor did he ask for it. Nobody would want to live in this mess that was called Choi Saeran. 

Not by choice. 

Not if they knew what it was like. 

“You seem to have something on your mind today, Saeran,” the feminine voice spoke from the other side of the room. Saeran snapped from his thoughts and glanced back in her direction, his therapist was just tapping the tip of her pen against her tablet. She often did that when she was able to hit the nail on the head. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Frankly, I don’t,” he returned. 

That wasn’t a lie. He didn’t want to dredge up what was on his mind. He and Saeyoung had a long conversation the night prior that had ripped up some old wounds that he didn’t want to try and deal with at the moment. It was about those last nights that they had spent together, and how Saeran had been left terrified on his own.

Saeyoung was always gone at the cathedral studying and trying to get them food, clothes, and any other thing that he could get his hands on. But, because of that, Saeran had to deal with his mother on his own and she hated him the most. 

The longer that Saeyoung was gone, the harder and harder it got for Saeran to lie and cover for him.

He was just a child. There was only so much that he could do. He tried to be brave for his brother even though it terrified him to be alone with that woman.

Their conversation had been about how that felt and how Saeran was frustrated with how his twin left without making sure that Jihyun and Rika would keep their promise and get him out of the house. It was always a touchy subject whenever those two names were brought up and it made him want to gag. 

He didn’t want to think about Jihyun nor Rika. He couldn’t bury their memories from his mind but he could avoid them as much as humanly possible. It was better that way. He preferred it that way. 

It was a conversation that they had now and again and it ended the same way every time. It ended the same way because they both weren't exactly ready to deal with that conversation properly. They were both stubborn in that way. Tensions always ran high and they always got too emotional to confront it properly. 

He just left the room and didn't want to deal with it. Saeran knew better than to yell and scream. It got him nothing, in the end, so he just disconnected. His brother would seemingly touch away from the subject and just let it simmer in the darkness. 

It went without saying that this was one of the reasons why it was so hard to live with him now, not that it was the main reason why or anything. It was why he wanted to spend a lot of time out of that place if he could. It was easier that way. If he and Saeyoung were always with each other at all times, it was easier to interact. 

That bunker felt like a prison. Even if it was meant to be a castle that protected them, it felt like a prison. It didn't matter if the walls were gilded, it was still a cage. A cage wasn’t what he wanted. But at least, he had the right to leave this cage. It wasn’t Mint Eye. It wasn’t locking him in until he wept. 

Distract yourself from it. He would think to himself to get by another day. Find ways to get out and make excuses so you can be alone. It was the only thing that he knew how to do. He knew how to be alone. He knew solitude very well. 

It was much like the darkness and it enveloped him like a waiting hand.

He knew how to like that way and it was the only way he knew. At the very least, he could pick for himself how he wanted to be alone. He didn’t have to sit on the monitors for hours to be able to watch everything and anything that was happening around him. He could go see the sky and get ice cream any time he wanted. 

Well, after ignoring the mortifying realization that he would have to ask Saeyoung for money. It was another reason why he felt confined. But, that wasn’t what he wanted to talk about today nor did he want to think about it. He shifted in his seat and sighed. Well, he was already out of there for the rest of the day. 

That was a start. 

With a noted look on her face, his therapist nodded, “Is there anything that you do feel alright or just comfortable talking about today? Oh, I recall you mentioned that you’d started working on a small garden last time we spoke. How is that going?”

She knew how to cut through the cracks whenever his bones felt tired. Her friendly smile was nice enough and he knew that she meant well. She was a foreigner and her grasp of the language had just the smallest twinge of an accent to it. Nothing horrible, but it did stand out to him as she spoke up. 

Jumin Han was the one that gave his brother a list of C&R affiliated centers to pick from that would be perfect for privacy and covering the tracks of anything that could put them at risk. His twin was seeing his therapist, someone else, but from that same list. This woman was only a few years older than him but she seemed to know how to read people. 

Saeran was used to having to learn how to read people quickly for his survival and whenever this woman spoke up, it always felt like she knew that same feeling. That feeling of knowing what it felt like to be afraid of anyone cornering you. To want to survive no matter what kind of person that you had to be to stop them from getting close. He knew that feeling and he had made many people feel the same way in turn before. 

Maybe that was why it wasn’t all that hard to talk to her about whatever was on his mind. She meant well but he knew that there was only so much that he could open up about right now. It had only been six months since he had started seeing her but she was easy to talk to and it was just another excuse to get out of the house. 

Saeran remembered to unclench his jaw, "I suppose it's turning out as well as it can given what I was given to start with. It was dead ground that needed to be resoiled and mended before I could even start considering what to plant in it." 

“Oh? What were you thinking of putting down this season, then? I imagine if it needed the extra care, you would want to start small with the process to heal the earth around it. If you think about it that way, it’s a lot like how humans recover. You start small and work your way up to the bigger issues and bigger challenges.” 

“You always find a way to work this back onto mental health, don’t you?” The tight line in his smile told her all she needed to know. 

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, Mr. Choi. But, yes, you’ve got me there. Don’t worry, I am interested in hearing about your garden without analyzing every little detail of what it could do for your psyche. I hear sunflowers are good this time of year, what do you think about that?” her chuckle washed away some of the dread but not all of it. 

“Actually, that’s a common misconception,” Saeran replied. 

He could focus on that. 

He could breathe when he was thinking about something that he cared about. He let his mind wander away as he spoke and tried to push back those lingering feelings of what had been lingering on the cusp of his mind since the night before. He just wanted to have a day where he didn’t have to deal with everything. 

—

Saeran didn’t go many places when he left the house. 

He stuck to a very specific routine but he would always travel different ways to get there every time. It was something that he did understand from his years of trying to stay out of sight and mind. He may have been granted the keys to a car but he had to watch his back for everything that lingered too close.

Their father was still out there in the world and if he found them, he would never let them go on living. Saeyoung had managed to hide their identities for as long as he could, but there was no way to know that they were safe. That’s why he always was so firm about staying safe, about staying in the bunker away from the world if possible.

It meant that he would have to take the scenic route into the city most days. That wasn’t so bad, to be honest. 

He got to see the cliffside, the mountains, and the ocean all at once. He got to see the forests slowly converge into the city and become a hub for life and humans. 

It was worth the time that it took to ensure that nobody followed him around to or from the few spots that he traversed. He’d go and leave the car parked on the outskirts and travel with the city on foot to better camouflage.

The walking cleared his mind when he needed to cool down from whatever had happened before that. Sure, he hated crowds and being trapped around people, but being around human life wasn’t like being locked away in a gilded cage for his protection. 

When he left his therapist’s office in the afternoons, he would nudge his hat back on his head to cover his red locks.

They stuck out to anyone that noticed him and the less attention he got, the better. It had been an eyesore the entire time that his natural color came back in. He wasn’t allowed to get his hands on bleach nor could he continue to touch up his hair. It had been fried considering how many times he tried to scrub the red from his head. 

It had to heal. 

So, he just stopped bothering trying to dye it and bleach it. It took months for the red to come back in and remove the traces of white and pink. Everyone would give him stares for it and he just covered himself up if it happened. It was easier that way for Saeran. A lot of things were easier that way at the end of the day.

He just took whatever chances he could. His options were limited, just as his freedom was very limited. He couldn’t change his hair because nobody would let him touch the stuff due to what he’d tried to do to himself in the past. 

He wasn’t allowed to venture out far on his own because his father would start hunting him down. He wasn’t allowed to live anywhere but the bunker for his safety. For Saeran, he had to take the easiest road for whatever was going on in his life. 

With gritted teeth and tired eyes, he would get to pick what happened within a small radius of options given to him. His hair was always something that he could control and seeing it red again these days left him feeling unsure of himself. 

He didn’t linger in the mirror. But he often wondered what it looked like to see him go from where he had been to this point. 

How haphazard was it to see someone go from being as white as a sheet to looking like a tomato that just bloomed out of season? 

Did it come with stares of pity? 

Did it come with the thought in their minds that he didn’t belong? 

That this world had never been created for him? It wasn’t like he had anyone to see or greet. He didn’t have to worry about looking a certain way anymore. He didn’t have to think about trying to appear to be a monster, yet he found comfort in dressing that way. 

The borrowed clothes that he got from Saeyoung left his skin crawling left and right. He didn’t like the hand-me-downs. It felt like he was losing himself and with only so much control over who he thought he was, he didn’t like that. 

If he couldn’t control his hair, he could control his clothes and outfits tenfold. With black tones and chains that protected him from being walled in by the rest of the world. If that meant that he searched for leather with a texture that didn’t make him cringe, so be it. 

The sound of a chain on his hip was easy to function with. 

Like a cat with a bell collar, he could remind himself that he existed just with sound alone. 

It was much better than clawing his nails into his forearms over and over again. His therapist had told him that that was not a good way to ground himself to reality. So, he had to find other ways to deal with it. 

These small things were what he had to get by. Saeran found safety in that. He just had to be himself and focus on whatever the hell that meant. It was only for his comfort. The only time that he had peace was when he was able to make sense of the hell that he had been placed in. At the very least, he had the sky. 

As he continued to make his way through the shortcut that cut through the park, he found his eyes watching the people around him very closely. He wasn’t going out of his way to interact with anyone per se. Yet, he was always seeing people chatting and doing things with each other whenever he got the time to come into the city like this. 

He wasn’t interacting with the world but it was interacting with him. Eyes would meet him now and again; that would cause him to look away or try to nod until they decided that he wasn’t the kind of person that they wanted to be around. People laughing, smiling and carrying on like it was no big deal to be enjoying the world. 

Friends, families, and alike would be able to exist without this overwhelming pressure against their chests. Saeran loathed and envied it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to push everyone away or try to let someone in. 

He had tried the latter many times before and it never ended well. When his eyes flickered across the field, he noted someone with mint-colored hair, and his heart quickly dropped. 

“...!” 

He forgot how to breathe until his racing heart caught back up to him and hissed that that man wasn’t around anymore. He pinched himself and tried to ignore that sick feeling as it hissed and bubbled up. He was lost in a daze as the crawling feeling continued to follow his spine. Was it him? Was it that man? 

Was he just lost in a daze in Mint Eye? Was this him slumped over at his desk again? The feeling demanded his attention and he bit into his lower lip to suppress it. It didn’t make it go away but it did pull him from the memory long enough to make sense of his surroundings. He breathed in his much-needed relief. 

Rationalizing his memories didn’t help when this happened. He had to work backward to figure out where he was and what was fact or fiction. He counted off the things that he knew were real to him. The sunshine on his face was real, the fluttering breeze on his arms was real, the sounds of children laughing was real, the smell of freshly cut grass was real, and—

His vision jutted back into focus for him to realize that it wasn’t Jihyun Kim. 

That was a relief but it didn’t change the fact that just the sight of someone with his hair or eyes could send him into a frenzy. Saeran wound up sitting on the ground for a good fifteen minutes as he attempted to get the dread pooling in his loins down enough to justify the ability to walk back to his car. 

With that, he turned his head to the side and continued to hurry through the park once more. It was a shame but it had to be done if he wanted to breathe. Saeran didn’t want these ghosts. He didn’t want these feelings inside of his chest. 

He couldn’t even stop to lay down in the grass and look at the clouds today. It was better when he wasn’t a few yards from the bunker. He didn’t have to worry about people bothering him for the most part but that wasn’t the case today. Saeran had to cut losses and give up on that chance for this week.

The most that he ever talked to others willingly came from the little interactions with his brother or MC. He wasn’t big on talking to the RFA, either. So, none of them were going to look at him and have a word to say the way that he looked or the way that he appeared. He didn’t have to go and think of a flurry of masks and excuses to avoid them. 

He didn’t have to lie to his brother to step outside of the bunker when he was here. 

It wasn’t like he even thought any of them wanted to be close to him. Not after what he did, not after the revelation of his crimes and stalking, and not after they learned what he did. He couldn’t blame them if they didn’t want to see his face ever again and really, he doubted they would hold it against him for choosing to avoid them.

Who would want to be around the man that… did that to their former leader? 

No matter how good the excuse was that they sold, his hands were forever stained with the blood of Jihyun Kim. The sticky feeling of blood against his hands would forever whisper that he was a damned man. 

His skin continued to crawl as the thought fluttered in and out of his mind again. 

Not now, he urged his thoughts. You just did so fucking good today. Don’t blow it up and let it ruin what control you have. If you go home like this, the idiot is going to suffocate you with his bullshit care. 

His mood had felt so much better after he talked for an hour about the things that were meant to be his and his interests alone. But, it was always quickly soured by the act of seeing something, feeling something, or even letting in a single ugly thought. It was just the way that his mind had decided to work. 

A pool that recycled the same water over and over again without being cleansed. 

Better yet, why would anyone want to be around someone that was revealed to have stalked you and made a play-by-play guide on how to destroy you and the fabric of everything that you held so very near and dear? 

It didn’t matter what any of them thought. 

Anything that came from them was going to feel forced. 

He wasn’t going to be able to change that so why should he bother trying with any of them? 

They weren’t going to stop making him think of being trapped behind a monitor for hours, trying to converge plans that interlocked to control them for that woman. They felt only pity for Saeyoung’s precious traumatized little brother… none of them cared about him and it was obvious that they wanted the past back. They wanted that man back. They wanted that woman back. They wanted him to be gone and for things to be normal. They wanted everything to be the way that it had been before and—

It didn't matter. It didn't matter. It didn't matter. Saeyoung was purposefully not telling him what everyone else had been told. He didn't want to know. He avoided them because he had to... because he wanted to. He was the reason that someone was in prison and someone was dead. Nobody could change that fact that nothing would ever shirk that truth. He was the catalyst. He was the reason why it all changed. It didn't matter if they used him to get there, they saw him and they saw the end. 

Good on him, huh, he thought. He wanted to be a monster and now, they really believed he was. 

The thought was shoved away as he continued to walk down the sidewalk. The rest of the world felt like it wasn’t all there. He knew that it was. This was merely a feeling of detachment that he felt when he was riled up with anxiety. Saeran was alone and he could flicker and filter through his thoughts to find better ones than the intrusions. 

He needed to think about something—anything else—just to get away from the looming feeling that whispered that he was going to lose control again. 

He supposed that he could keep walking until his legs felt like they were going to cave, or he could just sit in his car for a few hours until he had no choice but to return home. 

The only thing on his mental checklist that didn’t sound exhausting was getting some ice cream. 

It was the only other saving grace he had apart from trying to enjoy the sky. He had ice cream, he had the sky, and he had himself. It felt like the uncomfortable feeling was going to follow him whether he was alone or not, so trying to salvage his day wasn’t going to change whether he did what he wanted or not.

At the very least, he could try to maintain his perception of the present if he proved to himself that he controlled some aspects of his life. Certain things may have robbed him of that, but he had the power to take back some of it. In a sea of triggers and things that left him feeling out of place. 

He just had to remind himself. 

That was all. 

Saeran took the long way around to get there so he could ward off everything. He didn’t want to be tongue-tied when he spoke. It was bad enough that he had to address people when he went to do anything but he wanted it to be blunt and to the point so it didn’t last longer than it needed to. The last thing he needed was someone pointing out how spread thin he was.

The colorful shop at the corner of the block always caught his eye when he was walking through this part of town. It wasn’t too crowded and it wasn’t too busy. The owners were elderly and liked to put smiles on the face of anyone that dropped by, be they old or young customers. 

That’s why the shop itself had such a childish theme to it.

Colorful characters and bright colors were decorating the walls. In a way, it was comforting because it was so far away from the stark walls of a hospital or of the lackluster world that he had lived in as he grew up. Saeran might have stood out against the pinks and blues given the way he dressed, but he didn’t care. 

He liked how warm it felt. 

He wondered if he would’ve enjoyed looking at something like that when he was young and if that might be the reason why he liked it so much now. As a small child, he believed in fairytales and happily ever afters. He wanted to believe the world beyond his reach was like a story that he could read whenever Saeyoung smuggled in a book or two to read to him at bedtime.

This was a memory that didn’t crush him whenever he thought about it. Those were few and far, far between these days. Beggars can’t be choosers, he guessed. 

Saeran paid no mind to the chime of the bell as he entered. It seemed mostly empty today given the hour and he wasn’t about to complain about that. 

The fewer people he had to concern himself with, the better. He could have some ice cream in peace and cool his brain down before it started to burn up on the way back to the bunker.

What would he have today? 

Something new? Or would he stick to the same flavor that his tongue had grown accustomed to? Who was to say. It was a double-edged sword. 

He would always pick mint because while he liked it, it'd reminded him that he'd never forget. Much like the tattoo on his arm that he'd had dug deeply into his skin. A reminder and a mark that would never go away. It was funny that he liked mint so much as the color often left him reeling, huh?

He paused, only briefly, as he turned his head to walk towards the small corner booth that he would always sit in when he came here.

Only to realize that someone was already sitting in his spot. 

That someone happened to be a person that he never thought he would ever see again. 

A person whose memory lay deeply entrenched in layers of guilt and shame and failure. A person who he tried to bury in the back of his mind to protect himself from thinking the worst of the worst, and that person was—

You.

[amethystpath-writes]

P3 A Sculpture and Fate

Part 2 here

******

Briella would have never imagined she’d be delighted at the sound of a gasp- they seemed to signify an ending, like when one was stabbed and left to bleed out between an alley of the market all alone. She’d seen it happen before- witnessed Death claim a soul in the dead of night. It’s what made running from her home so difficult. Because if Death were so accustomed to her village, and those surrounding it, why wouldn’t they love the woods just as much?

And anyways, Death wasn’t the only dreadful deity in existence, for gasps could also signify shock and fear- such as Briella’s first night in the woods when she spotted her first tuft of fur. She had thought it to be a rabbit, but of course, it was not. Anyone would have thought this was the fastest she ever ran in her life, after seeing a wolf- one starving and more aggressive because of the fact- but this was not the case. See, it wasn’t until weeks of living in an old cottage that Briella experienced the feeling of her lungs collapsing in on her, when she sought for a sword nowhere to be found.

What a miracle it was, now, though, to hear a gasp- an intake of breath usually followed by such horrific connotations, but was, in this moment, only chased with delightful tears.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” Mum cried. Briella could tell how genuine her mother was- not just by the hug and breaking voice, but also her greasy hair and cold hands. This happened when Mum was stressed, when she felt hopeless- like the world was out to get her.

“I’m okay,” Briella assured in a soft voice. In truth, she was still shaken, and unconvinced this moment was even real. How was it possible to be home after she had been running for weeks, after she had been chased- sought out for simply existing? Being home, in her mother’s arms…it was impossible, wasn’t it?

“Your father…” Mum trailed off with a heavy sigh. Suddenly, sighs were a dreadful thing once again, something that arrived just before the Bearer of Bad News.

“He left to save me, didn’t he?”

Mum nodded, stepping away from her daughter. Looking at Briella now, all she could think was, Goodness, child, you are filthy. Of course, Mum wasn’t in much of a better state, but her personal hygiene was less of a concern given how her daughter was in the woods for weeks on end, living on her own, living with a murderer on her trail. She shook her head in the disbelief and shock of it all. “How are you here, Ella?”

In other words, how had Briella escaped Vince? Where was he? Was he dead? Did Briella kill him? Did he never find her? Should she still be running? So many questions packed into one, and all Briella could say was this: “Sir Vince brought me home.”

This, without doubt, only created more questions, but what did it matter? There would always be more questions, more fear as time passed by and Briella still wasn’t dead.

What an awful circumstance- to fear every day you are alive. Sure, Vince decided to not kill Briella, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his mind again. And it didn’t mean that possible change of mind wouldn’t be soon. Any breath could be Briella’s last…she almost wished she would have let Vince kill her.

“What do you mean he brought you home?” Mum demanded. “Are you sure you should be here?” She thought Briella was imagining circumstances, didn’t she? Thought her poor daughter was so deeply rooted into her own fear that she imagined everything working out when it didn’t.

Maybe it was a hallucination. Maybe Briella imagined that encounter in the woods- when Vince shoved her face in the mud and told her to find a sword. When she searched for her father’s weapon in the rotting cottage and found it in Vince’s hand instead. When she convinced him to let her live by telling him a story- a rather short story at that. And finally, when Vince took her home, or at least within kingdom territory. Maybe it was Briella’s hopeful imagination- to save herself, or to be saved at all.

“Well, I will not go back into the woods,” Briella finally said, snapping herself out of her own thoughts. She added, “Unless it’s to being Father home.”

Mum shook her head. “No. Absolutely not.” For another time, Ella was drawn into a hug, squeezed as if her mother thought she’d slip into the woods again.

“If someone doesn’t go after him, then he will stay in there forever.” They both knew this- both knew Father would walk through every inch of the woods to find Briella. He’d kill himself if it brought him closer to her, brought him closer to saving his daughter’s life.

“But you don’t have to be the one to find him, Ella,” Mum scorned. “You should have never been in those woods.”

“I would have been killed if I’d never gone in them.” Briella swallowed at the thought, and at the thought thereafter. Vince handled himself well enough in the woods. “I’ll ask my knight to go after Father.”

Mum pushed away again. “Your knight?” she questioned, tone like a knife. “I don’t care what Fate says, that man- if you can call him one- is an abomination, one Death should have stolen-”

“Fate put us together!” Briella sucked in a breath before apologizing. “I don’t like him any more than you do, Mum, but…well, listen, Mum. Vince-” Sir Vince, she thought to herself- “is the only person worthy of those woods who would walk in for Father. He’ll brave the woods for a fellow knight.”

“He tried to kill you because Fate bounded him to you. Why would he care for a runaway soldier- one that is your father? He’s doomed,” Mum said about her husband.

“I’m not going to let him die in those woods. I’ll die finding him, or I’ll die making Vince find him.”

“Or,” Mum ventured, “you can avoid dying at all. Lay down for tonight and we’ll figure out what to do in the morning, yeah?” Her daughter nodded. They went to bed.

***

Briella didn’t sleep that night, but instead left to find Vince in the barracks. It was a feat to enter- a feat to make herself appear like a measly squire running late after his knight. But when she made it in, she found Vince almost immediately. His eyes found her, and Briella could almost swear her feet were on fire. She wanted to run out the way she came.

“A moment, men,” Vince had said to the other soldiers which sat at his table. They were playing a game of cards, but now had to wait as Vince took Briella’s elbow in his hands, squeezing with all his wrath. He led them outside, where the breeze managed to push Briella’s hood off. “Unfortunate to see you made it home.”

It was clear how much anger Vince was holding back. If he had been in his own home and Briella would have shown up like this, she had no doubt he would kill her then and there. Right now, however, his men were inside, and they probably weren’t fond of soulmates killing soulmates.

“I need your help.” Vince spun on a heel. Before Briella could think about what she was doing, she put a hand on his arm- his arm which she now realized was bare…his whole chest was bare. Her eyes went wide, but she cleared her throat and dropped her hand. “Please. My father, he’s- he went looking for me and I know he won’t come back until he finds me. He doesn’t know I’m alive, Vin- Sir Vince.”

“You seem to be so fond of Fate- maybe if he is meant to come back alive then he will.”

“It doesn’t work like that and you know it.”

“Maybe I know and simply don’t care.”

Briella protested. “You do care- I know you do. However little your heart is, I know there’s an even smaller part of it that is crippling at the thought of not helping me.”

Vince crossed his arms, his head tilting down in a manner which told Briella he didn’t care at all to be standing. “Not at all.”

Shaking her head, Briella huffed. “What is wrong with you?” She said it quietly enough that even she could barely hear herself, but Vince was a wolf- of course he heard her.

“I don’t like being told who I should love.”

“You are a soldier! You take commands every day!”

Vince’s clenched his fists since his arms were already crossed tightly. “Quiet,” he warned. It wasn’t he who would be in trouble for Briella being here. It would be her- for pretending to be someone else and sneaking into the barracks. He warned her…because he was protecting her. Did Vince even realize it?

“Those commands are different,” he said. “Those commands serve to save lives, to preserve the kingdom. This”- Vince raised his crossed arms, gesturing to Briella- “is a different field of command- one that shouldn’t exist.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “Have you ever even thought of getting to know me? Maybe you would like me.”

“I could never.”

“Because you won’t allow yourself to!” Briella whisper-shouted. She sighed and shook her head, crossed her arms like Vince had done from the beginning. “I already told you that I don’t expect you to love, or even like me, but will you at least let me admire you for the soldier you are and ask for your help? Will you help me, Sir Vince?”

He considered her for a moment, looking her up and down, as if he were expecting Fate to reveal herself in Briella’s eyes. Maybe Briella would simply fade away and her image would be overtaken by the evil deity.

Vince looked at the night sky and his shoulders fell into a relaxed state. He bit his cheek.

“Come back at sunrise. Your father wouldn’t have gotten far without a horse.”

Despite herself, Briella opened her arms and enveloped Vince in a hug. “Thank you,” she said, and repeated, with tears lining her eyes in a burst of relief she could never describe, “Thank you.” Then? Her arms slid away. “Wait, what do you mean ‘come back’? You want me to go into the woods with you?”

“Maybe a wolf will attack, and you’ll be out of my hair for good.”

Briella squinted her eyes, swearing she saw a hint of a smile on the brooding knight’s face. As quickly as she thought it appeared, a definite frown took its place. “Go home. If you show up at sunrise like you just woke up, then I’m not taking you.”

“Is that right?” Briella dared to continue. “Me being sleepy should sound convenient to you- means I’d have less ability to defend myself if you decided to try and kill me again.”

He peered at her, brows drawn together. “You couldn’t fend me off if you tried.”

“Combat isn’t always physical, soldier. I talked you out of killing me the first time, remember?”

She didn’t watch for his response, or even listen for it. Briella turned her back on him- perhaps a daring act- and began to walk away. “Until sunrise, Sir Vince.”

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,205

Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced past suic.ide

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur tries very hard to hold a productive meeting, and does not quite succeed.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Seventeen: ‘til the work is done

In retrospect, it’s not his best idea. He seems to be full of those, lately. Not-great ideas. This one is foolish simply for the fact that he is already tired, and gifting energy to Schlatt is a strain on his already depleted reserves. It takes about twenty minutes for him to get dizzy, and another two after that before spots start drifting across his vision, and at that point, he has to admit defeat, cutting himself off mid-sentence and breaking their connection. Schlatt swears as he loses his tangibility.

“Fuck, that felt weird,” he says. “What the fuck was that, why’d you stop?”

He wets his lips. It takes longer than it should for the words to formulate.

“I told you, we’re essentially sharing a lifeforce, Schlatt,” he says. “There’s only so much I can give you.”

Schlatt starts hovering in the air again, regarding him with a dark stare. And then, his expression clears.

“Oh, I see, so you’re being a dumbass,” he says, and Wilbur wants to protest, but he can’t get a word in edgewise. “Why the fuck are you giving me shit you can’t afford to lose, then? Jesus Christ, Wilbur, would you sit down?”

“There isn’t time for that,” he replies. “I’ve spent too long up here already. I need to go and meet with the others.”

Schlatt stares at him for a long moment. He’s not sure why. And when he speaks, his voice is—strange.

“I was right about you,” he says. “You really don’t change. Not when it comes to yourself. You’re just as stupid and self-destructive as you always have been. And now that coating of paint you try to put on over it? That’s flaking off. The only question is how many people you’re going to bring down with you this time.” He shakes his head, and his eyes narrow, expression hovering somewhere between a dark satisfaction and something else, something difficult to interpret. “You’re wearing yourself thin. I see it, everyone else can probably see it. But you can’t. Or you do, but you can’t accept it.”

(you put on a smile for the masses an upbeat tone for your friends but you’re a sinking ship and you know it, and you think it might be easier to let yourself drown even though you know you won’t, because you cannot allow yourself to fail because you are leader you are president and this is everything you fought for so it is a fault in you if you cannot handle it so you push through you make yourself and you scream into your pillow and cry yourself to sleep because at the end of the day your self-loathing clings to you like cobwebs and secondhand smoke)

He inhales.

“I don’t see how me needing to have a meeting with everyone else has led you to that conclusion,” he says, tone frosty, “but you can think what you want. And besides, you can hardly talk. We’ve had a conversation like this already.”

He turns on his heel, letting his coat flare out behind him; though, it’s still damp, so the motion isn’t nearly as satisfying as it usually is. But Schlatt follows along with him, and he grits his teeth, letting each of his footfalls resound with purpose, with confidence that he is struggling to truly find.

This was definitely a bad idea. Engaging with Schlatt always is. He should know this by now, should know that a welcome distraction can turn unwelcome at the drop of a hat.

“I never said that I was any better,” Schlatt says, “but that’s the difference between you and me, Wilbur. I know exactly what I am. You don’t know who the fuck you are, so you hide behind labels because that makes it easier for you to think about.”

(general president exile villain and round and round it goes and there is truth to his words because he scrambles for stability scrambles to fit the old roles but the fact of the matter is that he is something new and he is floundering because for all that he wants to be better he has never known how so it’s casting a coin in a wishing well and hoping)

“I know exactly who I am for the moment,” he says, “and that’s someone who’s going to get rid of the fucking Egg and pummel Dream’s face into the ground. For now, that’s more than good enough.”

He gets to the stairs again, and takes them two at a time on his way down.

“Fine, then, just don’t come crying to me later,” Schlatt says. “So, what’s the deal with Dream anyway? How the fuck did he get out of prison?”

That actually gives him pause for a second.

“I’m not actually sure,” he says. “A question for the warden.” One that he does intend to ask, if only to know how, exactly, Dream made what was supposed to be a secure prison seem like child’s play to escape. Was he waiting for the right moment all along? He’s not sure he likes the implications of that,

(especially since he deemed the right moment to be after Wilbur’s return, during the implementation of a plan that he helped to form, and it sickens him that he might have played any role in Dream’s decision making, that he might have led everyone into these circumstances, eyes wide open but blind all the same)

but it would make sense, considering everything that he’s learned, considering what he now knows of the rot that’s woven  itself into Dream’s very being. The corruption that lends him power.

“How much have you even been here for?” he continues, glancing at the ghost out of the corner of his eye. “Do you have any idea what’s been going on, or have you just been fucking around since the last time I saw you?” When you ran away from Tubbo, he does not say, and he wonders if Schlatt catches it anyway.

There is a beat, and then, “I—know that Dream’s out,” Schlatt says, the words reluctant, and he suppresses a bark of laughter.

“So, you know jack shit,” he says.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You know jack shit,” he repeats. “That’s fine. Stick around, I’m sure you’ll get caught up to speed.”

“Oh, great, yeah, that’s exactly what I want, hanging around you chumps some more,” Schlatt mutters. “What a good time. God, I need a drink. Or you know what, I’d settle for a fucking protein shake. You got any of those around?”

He doesn’t respond. It takes some effort, but anything he could say would only rile him up further, and any indication of actually, you do not need a drink, and I am going to make sure that you don’t get one literally ever is sure to set him off, which is exactly what he doesn’t need right now. So he lets Schlatt complain as he backtracks to the entrance hall, and then to the throne room where he assumes everyone else is.

His assumptions are proved correct the moment he draws close enough to hear everyone’s voices. Talking over each other, tones fluctuating. It sounds anything but peaceful.

Eret has moved their throne aside, he notes as he stops in the doorway. Most of the room is now taken up by a large wooden table, clearly meant to be a place for meeting. He appreciates the gesture, or would, if anyone seemed to be using it. His eyes find Techno and Phil first, next to a cluster of torches; Techno is still wringing water from his hair, looking very put out, but his posture is tense, on guard, and Phil looks about the same, even as he helps Ranboo get the last of his armor off without flicking himself with water.

(it is easy to forget that his family is among enemies there, that at least a few of these people would like to see them dead)

He finds Fundy next. He’s standing by himself, ears flat against his skull, and every now and then he twitches toward Eret. But the main spectacle in the room is the ongoing argument, and he narrows his eyes, trying to pick out the participants and their stances. There’s Quackity—and that’s an interesting scar on his face, though with what he knows of the man’s combat ability, or lack thereof, he was bound to gain an injury like that sooner or later, with the server being what it is—shouting at Sam, who looks like hell, frankly, and Puffy next to Sam trying to defend him, maybe, and Sapnap by Quackity’s side trying to calm him, and then there’s Eret, who appears to be trying to mediate with little success.

“—don’t fucking care,” Quackity is saying, and he sounds near-hysterical, words spat out at a record pace, even for him, “I do not fucking care what the rules were, I do not fucking care, just, fuck, Puffy, stop trying to defend him, if he’d kept Dream locked up like he was supposed to, like his job was, like we all trusted him to, we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, just, I don’t fucking understand how you could’ve let that happen, Sam, I don’t—”

He keeps going, and at the same time, Eret’s voice overlaps—“We’ve been through this already, Quackity, and I don’t see how this is helping.”—with Puffy’s—“You’re the one who needs to fucking stop, it wasn’t his fault, so stop yelling at him!”—and Sapnap’s—“C’mon, Q, please, I know, but you think tearing into each other is gonna help right now?”—and Sam himself is just standing there, taking it, eyes dull.

On the other side of the room, Tommy and Tubbo appear in the opposing set of doors and draw up short, Tubbo placing his hand on Tommy’s shoulder to pull him back, face settling into what might be resignation. This isn’t the first time, then.

Schlatt whistles. “Damn,” he says. “Something about this is familiar.”

“I do not want to know that,” he replies, eyeing Quackity. “Don’t tell me anything about your relationship, I categorically do not want to know.”

“Wait, what the fuck do you think I’m talking about—”

He meets Techno’s gaze. Techno raises an eyebrow, pointedly squeezes his hair with a towel, and inclines his head, as if to say, You deal with this. He glares back, trying to convey, Fuck off, I am not in charge of corralling these fuckers, and Techno rolls his eyes, the arsehole, because of course, he knows that that’s a damn lie, and actually, he kind of has put himself in charge of corralling these fuckers.

(something about this is familiar indeed, and these could be earlier days if he takes a step back and squints, looks at them all through blurry vision, and this could be a nation risen up around a drug van if he tilts his head just right, and he could be in charge of leading them, because the original members are all here, him and Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy and Eret all here, except the arguments are sharper and lined with more desperation than any of their original squabbles, before the war became real, before everything, before it all fell apart for the first time, before it was never meant to be, and he can lead, can pretend that it is all like it was then, but it would be unwise, perhaps, to forget that it is not like then at all)

So he steps further inside, notes with some displeasure the way that no one has marked his presence yet, and says, as loud as he can, “What the fuck are you all shouting at each other for, then?”

Quackity cuts off abruptly, which solves eighty percent of the noise problem, and Puffy stops after he does, which solves another fifteen percent. Quackity wheels toward him, not quite shocked, but still surprised, perhaps.

“Holy shit,” he says. “They said you were back, but—wow, Wilbur, you’re looking good. For a dead guy, I mean.”

“Thank you, Quackity,” he says, nodding. He strides up to the table, though he doesn’t sit, and splays his hands against it. It would probably be more picturesque if he weren’t still dripping a bit, but he made his choice to forgo towels and that’s the hill he’s dying on, apparently. “You’re also looking good. It’s nice to see you.”

“Tell him he looks sexy,” Schlatt suggests, and with a great amount of fortitude, he ignores him.

“So,” he continues, “is any of this arguing actually something that needs to be happening right now? Or can we move on to arguing about different things?”

Quackity’s face twists. “I’d say we do need to be arguing about it, actually,” he says. “Look, Wilbur, I know you—you left a while ago, right, so you’ve missed a lot, so I’m not sure how much about this you know. But Sam was supposed to be in charge of the prison. He had one job, and that was to keep Dream in his cell. And now look at where we are. So, yeah, I’d say it’s something that needs to be happening.”

(people keep saying that, that he left, and that’s not quite right, because leaving is slinging a bag over one shoulder and waving goodbye and leaving implies going somewhere when he wanted to go nowhere at all, and leaving is a sanitary way to phrase the desperate exit he made and perhaps they don’t know better or perhaps they do but don’t want to confront it but either way something in him recoils whenever they say he left because that is not the word is not the word at all and if they’re going to bring it up he wishes that they would actually bring it up rather than dance all around it dance in quicksteps that serve nothing)

“I agree that it’s important,” he says. “I would like Sam to explain what happened. But I also don’t see that recriminations are where we need to be directing our energy at the moment. Considering that what’s done is done” —He meets Quackity’s gaze as steadily as he can, meets his gaze and brings all the weight of their history to bear, from the debate floor to the podium and the stage to the dark caverns of the rebellion— “and going through all of the ways that everyone in this room has fucked everyone else over hardly seems like the best use of our time.”

He knows the statement won’t land like it should. He knows that he of all people has no right to ask for this. But the longer he stands here, the more aware he is of all the bad blood in this room, the more aware he is that this particular group of people is like a powder keg set to explode, that they could all turn on each other and do Dream’s job for him at a poorly placed jab or threat. The air is thick with the complicated web that binds them all.

(betrayals and lives taken and homes destroyed and even the bedrock of a once stable foundation shaken and torn up)

“Well, that’s kind of a convenient stance to take,” Quackity shoots back, and it’s precisely the response he expected “considering what you did.”

“I’m aware,” he says, drowning out the way that Tommy audibly starts to protest. “I think my point still stands, though. Unless you really think now is the time to air out everyone’s dirty laundry. I’m sure Dream would find it entertaining, at least.”

(the words taste like ash and he feels like a hypocrite but he can’t let them see how off balance he is can’t let them know because a leader is needed and he could step aside and let someone else take the position but that has always been a weakness of his, his need for control, so even when the control is slipping he grasps it with both hands and hangs on to it with all his worth whether it’s wise or not because someone needs to lead and he does not trust himself but he trusts others even less and he has always been one to take on the responsibility even when he ought not to even when)

Quackity breathes in and out, eyes narrow.

“Alright,” he says. “No, you’re right.” He steps up to the table as well, pulling out a chair for himself, though he doesn’t yet sit. He also, Wilbur notes, does not apologize to Sam, but that’s not a requirement, even though the way Puffy is glaring suggests that she would like it to be.

“Wait,” someone says, and Wilbur starts, looking to—George, and how did he not realize George was here, too? Perhaps because he’s been quiet. Quieter than the norm, though he can’t say that he’s ever known George all that well. Or perhaps it’s just a surprise to see him around. “Is he in charge?” George continues. “Why is he in charge?” He sounds genuinely confused more than upset, but he still feels his hackles raise.

(he is placing himself in this position and it feels natural and right and feels wrong and unsteady like his footing is slipping like he’s on the edge of the cliff face and below the rockslide is starting but he can do this, he can, he can lead this, it’s just one meeting and he can do it because if not him then who else will and he can do it)

“I’m not ‘in charge,’” he

(lies? he doesn’t know doesn’t know)

says. “I’m just trying to get a meeting started. We’re all here, aren’t we?”

“Everyone we were able to find is in this room,” Eret says softly, and then, to everyone else. “And I agree with Wilbur. We need to plan out our next move. And seeing as a meeting table has been provided—” They gesture, rather pointedly, and Puffy is the first to nod, pulling out a seat and all but collapsing into it, running a hand through her hair. Sam is next, and then Tommy and Tubbo enter fully, situating themselves directly to his right. Phil is the next to approach, followed by Techno and Ranboo, and he does not miss the way Quackity’s eyes track Techno’s movements.

Before long, it’s just him and Quackity standing. A concession might be needed here, or at least, a show of one; he doesn’t actually want to cause too much conflict with the man, if it can be avoided, not right this second, so he tilts his head slightly and sits in a chair of his own, though carefully, so as not to slump into it. Sitting seems to make him realize just how tired he still is, and the urge to let himself sag is strong. But the ploy works; Quackity seats himself, Sapnap on one side and George on the other, and really, this has to be one of the strangest collections of allies to have ever existed.

It reminds him of the final days of the rebellion, a little bit. The way that so many flocked to their banner to depose Schlatt. It’s difficult to look back on, but that aspect of it, at least, is not entirely tainted. There was a sense of camaraderie among them that is not quite present here, but he doesn’t miss it for himself; in those days, too, he held himself apart, struggling to resolve himself to what he was going to do, knowing too well that the traitor they all feared existed was him.

But there’s people here who weren’t here then. And people here then who are missing now.

“Who couldn’t be found?” he asks, and it is Puffy who answers first.

“Niki,” she says, and his heart skips several beats, unprepared for that answer, though its truth is undeniable. “I tried, but we only had so much time, and I have no idea where she’s been staying these days. There also wasn’t time to get to Foolish, but he lives a long way out, so he’s probably fine.”

It is a struggle not to react outwardly. Niki. He hadn’t even thought to—

No. Now isn’t the time.

(even though he wronged her, too, wronged her as he wronged everyone else and she deserved so much better than what he could give her and she is a dear friend so dear that even Ghostbur always remembered her but it seems that in the midst of everything else he might have failed her again and she deserves a thousand apologies and all the atonement he can offer but now he may never get that chance, may never and now is not the time to focus on it but oh gods Niki)

“Jack Manifold, too,” Tubbo chimes in. “He was staying in Snowchester, but I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Karl’s gone,” Quackity says. “But he does that a lot, so that might not necessarily mean anything.” His voice is too strained to be causal, and Wilbur has to make an effort not to react to that, too, though for an entirely different reason. He’s not sure how much Quackity knows. Not sure how much he should say, if anything at all.

(but he has seen Karl bargain with a god has seen the universe cling to him has seen the way he sidesteps in and out of reality and through time to the places inbetween and he would not have thought it of Karl of all people but perhaps that is the point)

“Hannah,” Sam offers, and nothing else. It’s not a name he knows.

“That might be everybody, though,” Sapnap says. “Alyssa and Callahan are long gone, and people like Vikkstar and Lazar haven’t been around for a while, now. Or, wait, actually, I have no idea where Hbomb is.”

“And there’s Purpled, too,” George says around a yawn. “No clue what he’s been up to these days, but he was always pretty close to Punz.”

“Oh, yeah, and the vines were all over his UFO,” Puffy agrees. “Um, and we might want to add Skeppy onto that. I have no clue where he is, but I’d be surprised if he weren’t Team Egg, since Bad is.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Is that actually everybody, then?” George says. “That’s more people than I thought.”

“It could be worse,” Phil says. His head is tilted back, eyes tracing the ceiling, though Wilbur knows him better than to think he’s actually relaxed. “We know about Dream, and BadBoyHalo, Antfrost, Ponk, and Punz. It’s a maybe on Niki, Jack Manifold, Hbomb, Skeppy, Karl—”

“Not Karl,” Quackity insists, and Wilbur is inclined to agree with that much, at least, even while Phil presses on.

“—Purpled, and—Hannah, did you say? And possibly Foolish, since we don’t know, but I’m inclined to agree with Puffy that he’s probably alright. So absolute worst-case scenario, that’s twelve, maybe thirteen people we’re up against. Pretty even odds.”

Phil’s definition of even odds, he thinks, is slightly skewed.

“Yeah, except you’re forgetting that the Egg is a demon. Dreamon, whatever. And Dream is also a demon, kind of,” Sapnap says. “That doesn’t sound even to me.”

“He’s still homeless,” Techno murmurs.

“The fuck does it matter if he’s homeless?” Quackity snaps, and then visibly quails when Technoblade looks at him, even though it’s also obvious that he’s trying not to. History there that he’s not privy to, perhaps, and he’s hardly going to bring it up right now.

“Well, I mean, we’ve already—” Fundy tries to speak up, but he’s drowned out by about four other people trying to weigh in on whether Dream’s homelessness has any bearing on the conversation, and Wilbur takes a second to frown at Techno for the hornet’s nest he’s kicked up, and by that time, Puffy’s speaking again.

(it’s fine, it’s still under control, he has this under control, it’s fine, and so what if he’s running on too few hours of sleep and so what if he wants to set his head down on the table and stay there, because he’s not about to actually do that, and it’s fine, he’s fine, it’s all fine)

“What about you guys?” she says, and everyone else falls quieter. “You were looking for dreamon-related stuff, right? Did you find anything? Honestly, we weren’t sure that you guys would be back this soon.”

“Is that where you went?” Schlatt asks. “How the fuck did that lead to you antagonizing a god?”

He ignores him, still. It’s the only option, really. “We went through as many of the stronghold’s” —There are several exclamations at that, at the fact that they know where one of the server’s strongholds is, as well as a sigh from Phil, no doubt an objection to spreading that tidbit around, but he continues— “books as we could, but we didn’t find anything. I did attempt to provoke a god into helping us, so we’ll see if that pans out at all, but I wouldn’t call it a wasted trip. I also managed to confirm for sure that the Egg is a dreamon, but I think we pretty much knew that.”

There is another moment of complete silence.

“I’m sorry, you did what now?” Quackity asks, and from where he’s drifting behind him, Schlatt starts cackling, loud and extremely irritating, a wheezy undertone to it that makes no sense considering that he does not need to breathe.

“I attempted to provoke a god into helping us,” he repeats. “I’m not sure whether I succeeded or not—in the helping area, at least. They were very provoked. But—” He pauses, considering. It’s always a tricky game, figuring out what to say and what to keep close to the chest, but this case is harder than most. “Actually, Sapnap and George, I’d like to ask, were you aware that Dream is a god? Or was a god?”

He is predicting the chaos that erupts after that, all exclamations and incoherent sounds, most of them some variation on either “What?” or “Fuck!” or some combination of both. But he keeps his gaze flickering between George and Sapnap, measuring their reactions. George’s face goes blank—shock, he thinks, rather than the expression of someone being caught out. And Sapnap’s jaw drops slightly.

“Dream’s not a god,” he says, and his voice overrides everyone else’s. “Dream’s not—there’s no way he could’ve kept that from us. Absolutely no way.”

“He’s not now,” he agrees. “He separated himself from the vast majority of his power, somehow, when he realized he’d be corrupted by the remnants of the dreamon. But he was one. I’m sure of that much. He may have hidden it from you, but I am certain of it.”

Sapnap’s face reddens.

“Aw, I think you hurt his feelings, Wilbur,” Schlatt says.

“Dream’s not a god,” Sapnap says again. “He’s not.”

“Even if he is, what does it matter?” Fundy says suddenly. “Especially if he’s not one now. It’s the dreamons that we have to deal with. The Egg, and whatever’s left in Dream. So if we don’t have anything that can take care of that, then what the fuck is all of this for? We have nothing.”

“Weird time for the kid to grow a spine,” Schlatt comments, and he’s ignoring him, he’s ignoring him, even though the vitriol in his son’s voice hits like a knife driven through stitches, back into a wound not yet healed. Fundy’s not looking at him, and the avoidance only makes it worse.

(it is directed at you it has to be it has to be that it is directed at you and it hurts hurts hurts and there is no one to blame but yourself and it hurts and you’re so tired and you have to stay in control but it hurts)

A hand touches his. He glances down to find that he’s clenched them, that his knuckles are white and his palms are stinging from the bite of his fingernails in his flesh, and Tommy has placed his hand on his, watching him. It is an effort to relax even a little bit, but for Tommy’s sake, he manages it.

Tubbo clears his throat. “What Fundy is getting at, I think, is that even with the stuff that me and Fundy have, it won’t be enough to kill them. Maybe we could banish the Egg, but apparently the exorcism we used on Dream wasn’t entirely effective, so we can’t be sure of that much. So maybe we’re not quite at square one, still, but we haven’t gotten that far. And if we can’t beat the dreamons, we can’t beat the Egg. Since the Egg is a dreamon.” He shrugs. “We’ve managed to keep it out. And as long as none of us break the enchantments from the inside, we should be fine to hold out here. But in the way of attacks, we don’t have much.”

“Great,” Quackity says. “So where the fuck does that leave us, then?”

He narrows his eyes at the table, attempting to collect his thoughts, and then looks back up. “I think we’re getting a bit off track,” he says. “Sam, is there anything that you can remember from the moment that Dream broke out that you think might be relevant?”

He tries to keep his voice, if not gentle, then at least free of blame, perhaps because he sees what Quackity apparently doesn’t; there is nothing he could say that would assign more fault than Sam has already assigned to himself. His eyes are dark, shadowed, and what skin is visible above the lines of his mask is pale and gaunt. It’s only been two days, little though that seems possible, but Sam appears as though he hasn’t eaten or slept for a week. Frankly, Wilbur hopes that he’s not planning to join in the fight that is sure to be on the horizon; he hardly looks as if he could effectively wield a sword. He is a far cry from the confident, stoic warden he met in the prison a few weeks ago.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, voice half a moan. “I think—I didn’t go in his cell. I know that for sure. I’d have no reason to. I didn’t go in, and the lava wasn’t lowered, so somehow, he escaped despite that. Which doesn’t make any sense, since the prison was designed to cut people off from any extraneous powers that they might otherwise have access to, and that includes admin abilities.” He stops for a second. The table has fallen silent again, though this time, there is a certain anticipation to it, a horror. Even Quackity looks considering rather than outraged. “I didn’t see him coming. He stabbed right through my armor. And I don’t—maybe it’s related to the demon thing. Or maybe—Wilbur, you said he was a god?”

His voice rises in pitch on the last sentence, cracks a bit on the last word, and Wilbur is suddenly reminded that Sam, like Sapnap and George, has known Dream for a very long time. Known Dream for a very long time and somehow, not known this.

“He was,” he says. “I don’t know how much of that power he still has. Not much, I’d imagine, but in combination with demonic corruption, perhaps that doesn’t matter. And in any case, it’s not something you would have known to plan for.”

“Wait,” Schlatt says, “is that why he could see me? Wilbur, what does it mean that he could see me? Does that mean something?”

He blinks. That—might actually be a good point. One that he hasn’t thought about in some time, though where he fits that into the mess of puzzle pieces spread out before him, he has no idea.

“So we’re back to square one there as well,” Phil says.

“Then I’ll reiterate, where the fuck does this leave us?” Quackity says. “We’ve been doing a whole lot of talking here, but not a whole lot of actual planning. Does anybody actually have an idea of what to do, or are we going around in circles?”

“I don’t see you offering much of anything either,” Eret points out.

“Yeah, ‘cause I don’t know what the fuck is happening!” Quackity shoots back. “At least I can admit that instead of yanking everyone around pretending like I know what I’m doing!”

That is a barb, probably, but Quackity isn’t even looking at him, is glaring at Eret, and this is about to erupt into another argument, and he thinks he’s going to allow it to, because even laying out all the information available to them isn’t getting them anywhere, and even if he had the ability to impose control over the room, there is still a part of him that whispers, that cries out that he does not have the right, and any moment now they will decide that punishing him for his crimes should be higher on the list of priorities, especially if he tries to step back into his old role, and—he’s not nearly as over this as he hoped he was, is he?

(he forgot how to trust a long time ago and perhaps these fears are baseless but that makes them no less potent and he forgot how to trust a long time ago he cannot trust them he cannot and he holds none of his former power not even that which was rightfully his he holds none of it and he cannot trust)

(he can control this he can lead but)

(but he)

(he’s supposed to be)

(a question, one that you do not want to confront: were you ever in control?)

So he lets them. He lets them talk over each other. Even Tommy joins in after a moment, after a sideways glance and another squeeze of his hand, and he can’t even pay attention to what everyone is saying.

It is difficult to keep his shoulders erect. There is a weight trying to bring his head down to his chest. It’s just an argument, and he can hardly expect anything less from these people, so bitter have the tides of history turned between them all, but it feels like a failure on his part, and his thoughts are fracturing again, flying beyond his grasp.

“Wil,” Phil murmurs next to him, but he just shakes his head.

“Yeah, this is going great,” Schlatt says. “Good job with the meeting. Y’know, when I was in charge, I didn’t let any of this happen. I ruled with an iron first. People listened to me. They respected me.”

“And then you died in a drug van,” he says, “from a heart attack, surrounded by people who hated you.”

This gets him an extraordinarily strange glance from Phil, but no one else is paying attention. He can’t keep track of who is snapping at who, but they’re all snapping at each other. In a way, Schlatt is right; the peace lasted, what, ten minutes at most?

Schlatt is silent.

Fundy is looking at him, too. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t want to read the expression on his face. He doesn’t want—

“Wait,” Schlatt says suddenly, “wait, fuck, do you feel that?” He sounds genuinely alarmed, for once, and after a second, Wilbur feels it too, feels

(the air in the room alight and alive and their voices waver in and out of tune with the underlying melody and the regard lies heavily on them all and the universe is always there is always with you in the back of your mind but it is leaning in closer leaning in over your shoulder and you feel)

the way the atmosphere shifts. His ears fill with white noise. Everyone is still arguing, and they need to stop, but he can’t force the words out. Beside him, Phil jolts. Tommy grips his hand tighter. He doesn’t know if they’re saying anything, can’t hear anything past the ringing.

(a realization, dim and far too late: he really should have tried to get some more sleep)

Schlatt curses. He can hear that, for some reason, loud and clear. And then, he becomes aware of the tether again, aware that the tether is being pulled, is being yanked on, a burst of energy departing from him, energy that he’s fairly sure he might not actually have to give, and—

“Hey, could you all just shut up for two fucking seconds?” Schlatt says, voice almost causal, strong, no longer echoing, and the static clears from his mind and ears, and the room is once again quiet. His hands have begun to shake, and the tether is pulling on his heart, he thinks. He doesn’t have to turn to know that Schlatt stands behind his chair, solid as anything.

His heart is literally fluttering. That might not be good.

“What,” Quackity says, “the fuck.”

And he doesn’t say anything else. Because the god appears, then, hovering over the meeting table, cloak fluttering without wind, twin halos circling their head, and it’s interesting, that he can see those now without straining his mind. The space under their hood no longer appears full of shadows, but rather of the universe itself, a darkness that is not empty, starstuff swirling just out of view.

“Oh, shit, that actually is a god,” Schlatt mutters.

He hears the humming. It bolsters him, a bit, boosts his flagging strength. He takes in a deep breath, and his heart calms, steadies.

He focuses.

“Is hovering over tables the only way you know how to make an entrance?” he asks.

The god’s hood swings his way.

“I asked the universe,” they say. “The universe did not refuse.”

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” Quackity is muttering under his breath. Eret is staring, jaw slack. Puffy has grabbed onto Sam’s arm. The reactions on his side of the table are less pronounced; Phil and Ranboo have seen the god before, Techno is not one to be impressed without what he considers due reason, and Tommy refuses to be cowed on general principle, though he does hear him and Tubbo both let out a, “Holy shit,” under their breaths, almost in unison.

But Sapnap has risen to his feet, eyes wide.

And George says, “Dream?” His voice does not waver. He sounds curious, confused. Perhaps hopeful.

The god actually seems to still, the motion of their cloak dying down as they turn away from Wilbur and toward the other side of the table.

“Once,” they say, and Wilbur is surprised that they’re answering at all, to be honest. “No longer.” They pause. “He loved you. May yet still, under the corruption that has taken him. I am sorry.”

The god does not know human emotions. The god is not a person in their own right, not really; they are built of the power of a god and little else. But somehow, Wilbur almost believes that they mean it.

Sapnap makes a gasping sound, like air tried to escape his lungs but got caught in his throat. George has sat up straighter in his seat, his whole body leaning toward where the god is hovering. His hands rest on the table, palms facing upward, as if in invitation.

If it is one, the god does not take it.

(DreamXD, Karl called the god, DreamXD, Dream XD, Dream Xed, Dream crossed out, Dream but not, and perhaps this is the cruelest thing he could have done to these two, inviting a facsimile of their friend to hover in front of them, a reminder of what they lost and are not likely to ever have again, because this god could never hope to replace the man that Wilbur remembers from the beginning, the Dream that used to be and will likely never be again)

“I asked the universe,” the god says again, and turns back toward him. “The universe did not refuse. The universe sees you, and the universe would reply.” They pause, allowing that declaration to simmer in the air for a moment. Their voice echoes, and he can hear in that echo the overlay of the song, the tune, the notes that the stars hum reverberating in the world’s atoms. “If I alone were strong enough to exorcise this corruption, he would have done so when we were whole. But you have met with the universe, and the universe would aid me, so that I might aid you.”

His attention is fixed on them. But in his peripheral vision, he sees Sapnap slump back into his seat, face contorted.

(yes, this is the cruelest thing he could have done, bringing their dearest friend’s mirror reflection here)

“And what—” He stops. Wets his lips. His mouth is dry. “And what aid would that be?”

The folds of their cloak stir. A hand emerges, and the hand, too, is darkness-that-is-the-universe, and it is not connected to any arm that he can see. Their fingers splay wide, and then dropping from the air and onto the table, there are two swords. On first glance, they seem to have been forged from diamonds, sparkling blue in the throne room’s flickering firelight, but there are runes crawling up and down the blades and hilts, runes that seem to squirm and dance and shift.

And the runes are lit with starlight. He’s not sure that anyone else can see it. But he knows.

(the runes hum)

“The void is not so easily subsumed,” the god says, “and it is from the void that the corruption comes. But the void is part of the universe even as it exists outside of the universe. Corruption can be destroyed.” The hand gestures to the swords, now lying beneath them on the table. “With great effort, but the universe has joined me in it. These are the result.”

“I’ve never seen runes like those before,” Tubbo breathes, eyes wide. He leans forward, apparently overcoming his wariness. “These can—these can kill a dreamon? Like, actually?”

“The blow must be lethal,” the god says. “But the corruption can be destroyed. You asked me for help. This is all I can offer you.”

“It’s far better than nothing,” he says, and pauses, just to hear the hum, now coming from multiple sources, the swords and the god alike. “Thank you.”

“Do not fail,” the god says, and under any other circumstance, Wilbur might laugh at the words, so stereotypical, like something out of a television show. Do not fail. As if he plans to, as if he would without this prompting. “Do not allow this to be in vain.”

The world folds around them. The air compresses. Just as they appeared, they are vanish again, the only sign of their presence the swords that still glimmer before them all. The atmosphere lightens, the sensation of being watched easing away, like storm clouds dissipating. The god is truly gone, then, and staring at the blades, he’s not sure what to feel. He supposes that he hoped for more, somehow, hoped that the god would have the power to solve the issue for them, that if he could just persuade them to act then their troubles would go away. But it makes sense that they can’t; if the god’s power were enough to destroy a dreamon, then Dream wouldn’t have been possessed in the first place, and none of this would be happening at all.

This is the second best thing. The universe itself has interceded.

(and it’s such a strange thought is something that he never would have thought plausible because the universe does not interfere the universe watches and waits but he has been there in the cradle of the cosmos and felt them watching heard them whisper the stars and the space between and they watch but they watch with love and the universe has not fixed their problems has not made them magically disappear but it has given the means to do it themselves and upon further reflection that is like the universe that is very like the universe and perhaps what it has given them is hope)

“Well, that was enlightnin’,” Techno drawls. “So glad we got all of that cleared up. Can I have one of those fancy swords, or do we need to have a whole argument about this, too?”

“Why the fuck are you being so calm about this?” Quackity says. “Why the fuck—what the fuck even was—and you!” He stands, the motion quick and sharp, and he throws an accusing finger in his—no, in Schlatt’s direction, because the god is gone and he can feel his heart fluttering again, his energy tugged away from him at a rate that should perhaps be considered alarming, and he can sense Schlatt’s presence behind him, solid and breathing. “How are you here, you’re dead, you are so fucking dead, I ate your fucking heart that’s how dead you are, I literally own your, your leg bones, I have your femurs, how are you here, and can you just die again, right now?”

“Aw, did you miss me, honey bear?” Schlatt says.

“No, I hate your fucking guts, I hate you so fucking much, you are—” And he keeps going, and Sapnap has shaken himself out of his stupor enough to glare daggers at—shit, at his fiance’s ex-husband, and that’s a bit messy, isn’t it? And absolutely no one at the table appears pleased that Schlatt is here, even though several people seem to be too focused on absorbing what’s just happened with the literal god to be too concerned at the sudden reappearance of a former dictator, but Quackity continues and Schlatt eggs him on, and Tubbo is a few seats down, swiveled in his chair and staring at Schlatt with an expression that’s impossible to determine

(but that he doesn’t like, doesn’t like the mix of hope and fear and want and disgust, doesn’t like it at all)

and it’s all too much, and his chest hurts. Like it’s too tight. Like his lungs aren’t inflating.

(Schlatt died of a heart attack hated and alone even surrounded as he was he was alone and he died of a heart attack of a)

He glances around the table one last time, hoping for some indication that somebody, anybody, wants this conversation to get back on track. Instead, his gaze lands on Fundy, who is watching Schlatt with shock and open anticipation but very little anger, and somehow, that is what does it, what sends everything boiling over, the fact that his son is looking at Schlatt with a more welcoming expression than he greeted him with.

(and he deserves it he deserves it he knows but)

He never had control here. He has to face that.

He yanks at the tether, pulls with what little strength he has left, and the flow of energy halts, and Schlatt goes translucent mid-sentence.

“Just to be transparent, the bastard’s always around,” he says into the silence, rising from his seat, blinking black spots from his vision. His own voice sounds distant, but clear, at least. “But he literally has to draw from my lifeforce to do that, so that’s enough for now, I think. Please direct your complaints to the empty air rather than me, as I have very little say in where he decides to go poking around, and I probably agree with all of your objections to his general everything in any case.” He leans against the table, and tries not to make it obvious that that’s what’s keeping him upright. “I suggest we conclude our discussion for now, and come back in a few hours to actually formulate a plan based on our new resources.”

He gives it a second, but only waits for one person—Puffy, he thinks, though his vision is swimming—to nod, hesitantly, before turning on his heel and leaving the room. Going anywhere. Anywhere else.

(you lost control of them and you’re losing control of yourself and how long until you have to admit that you never had control in the first place that you claim to be better but don’t even know what that means that the paint really is scraping off and once it’s all gone there will be no more lying to yourself and then where will you be, Wilbur, where will you be)

No one stops him. A few people call out. Schlatt—sounding irritated, but that’s tough; he’s going to have to deal with it—and Tommy, and Phil.

He took a few minutes before the meeting began. To compose himself, to relax. That didn’t work, so he’ll take a few hours. And then get back to it. There’s no choice otherwise, after all. No real rest until this nightmare is over with, whenever that may be.

He ignores the voice that whispers that he’s not going to make it that far. He’s pushed through times like this before.

He can do it again.

[johaerys-writes]

Where Blood Roses Bloom

Fandom: Castlevania

Pairing: Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades

Summary:

After Trevor gets grievously injured by a night creature, he and Sypha return to Dracula's castle to seek Alucard's help. The man they find there, however, is but a shadow of the friend they left behind.

Meanwhile, in far Styria, Hector does his best to survive in the vampires' court, a lamb amidst wolves. Little do the wolves know, the lamb has fangs of its own.

Or: I saw the new artwork for Season 4 and I’m SO HYPED, and I want more Castlevania content now, or preferably yesterday. Also, my boy Alucard needs love. :’)

CW: Blood (obviously), Injury

Read here or on AO3!

Chapter 1: Blood on White

Blood. There is blood everywhere: on his hands, on the sheets, on the floor, on the gilded bedposts. The smell of it, thick and cloying, clinging to his nostrils. Sumi and Taka's bodies are lying beside him, unmoving, and he lies still with them. The silence that spreads after their hearts finally stop beating and their eyes glaze over is deafening.

How did this happen? How?

It is minutes, hours, days later, for all he knows, when he finally pushes himself up. He sits at the edge of the bed, for he is sure his legs will give way if he stands. Adrian glances about him, at the place that was his room, and not a place of death, only a short while before. His gaze falls on the vase of roses by his bedside table; blood roses, their crimson blossoms soft like velvet under his fingertips. His mother's favourites, said to bloom where blood has been spilled the thickest.

There's hope to be found in the grimmest of places, Adrian, she would always say, and smile. Kindness is a gift freely given.

Kindness. Hope. Notions he tried to fool himself with, sentiments that were dangled before him, like an apple before a starving man. He ran after them, stretched bodily to grasp them, only for them to turn to ashes in his hands. Only for the people he trusted —so readily, foolishly— to turn against him at the first chance they got.

Adrian could laugh. Who is he, to be kind and hopeful? Does he deserve it? Can he afford it?

Can anyone?

The vase crashes against the wall when he swipes at it with his arm, the glass shattering, the blooms scattering on the floor. He is not his mother's son.

"I am my father's son," he declares as he drags Sumi and Taka's lifeless bodies to his front door, as he sharpens the stakes, as he mounts them both on them. He stands long, makes himself watch their blood stained nightclothes flutter with the wind, the morning sun touch their ashen faces.

This is trust, he tells himself, and its price.

It is not a mistake he is about to make again.

~

“Just hold on. We’ll be there soon.”

Trevor blinks blearily when bright sunlight stabs his sore, tired eyes. His head hurts. His lungs burn. The wound at his side sends sharp jolts of pain through him every time the carriage bumps on a rock or a fallen log- which is, frankly, all the bloody time as they follow that old, unkempt dirt road. The reek of old booze and acrid night creature blood that still clings to his cloak is not helping the situation much, either.

God, he just needs a fucking drink.

“I don’t see how riding to a castle in the middle of nowhere is going to help us, Sypha,” he groans, and immediately regrets it when the dryness in his throat sends him into a fit of coughing.

Sypha clicks her tongue and frowns. “It’s not about the castle, you—”

Trevor can almost hear the mild insult that's lingering at the tip of her tongue, but she bites it back. The fact that she refrains from snapping at him, even though she's worried and obviously frustrated, only reminds him of the seriousness of his injury. And he doesn't bloody need any further bloody reminders that his life is hanging by a thread.

“I’m fine,” he croaks. “Really.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Sypha mutters irritably, eyes fixed on the road before her as she urges the horses to go faster. Her full, rosy lips are set in a grim line, her eyes red, her cheeks drawn from weariness. They have been riding like mad for two days now, stopping only to rest and water the horses for a bit. Trevor is feeling quite weary himself, but seeing Sypha so haggard only makes everything a thousand times worse. He hates to see her so worried, and for a louse like him.

He shifts a little closer to her, wincing at the sharp pain from the wound. “Sypha—”

“You are not fine, Trevor!” Her gaze flicks to him, her bright blue eyes sparkling with anger, gleaming with tears that are this close to being shed. “You are not. I’ve done all I can for you, but I can do no more. That’s why we’re going there. You are not going to change my mind.”  

“And how exactly is Alucard going to help? Is he a healer as well as an arrogant bastard?”

“He knows far more about medicine than anyone within a hundred miles from here, and then some. The castle holds ingredients that most people in the rest of the world have never even seen. We are going there, and you will be nice to him, or I will box your ears. Yes?”

Trevor rolls his eyes and looks away, mumbling curses under his breath. It is hard to argue with her when his wound stabs at him at every breath. Yes, it is definitely the wound, he tells himself. He is perfectly capable of holding his own in an argument with her under any other circumstances. Perfectly capable. Absolutely.  

Trevor sighs. He just needs a drink. And a nice, long sleep. That's what he needs, what will sort him out. It always does. He leans back into the seat, letting his head rest on the smooth wood.

“There.”

Sypha’s voice rouses him from what must have been a very light and troubled sleep. Not that he can tell the difference between that and utter agony these days. He opens his eyes, squinting at the familiar curve of the road that led to the Belmont hold. To his once home.

“Just hold on a moment longer,” she says soothingly, drawing the horses back to a steady canter. “Alucard will fix you right up. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see us after so long, don’t you think?”

The stench of rotting flesh drifting with the eastern wind reaches them well before the carriage finally stops. Two corpses, cold and rigid, their eye-sockets picked clean by the vultures, staring up into a grey, unforgiving sky.

Sypha gapes at them, unblinking, like she has forgotten how to breathe.

“I don’t know, Sypha,” Trevor mutters, strained, under his breath. “That doesn’t look like a bloody warm welcome to me.”

Without a word, she hops down from the carriage, taking a few tentative steps forward. The staked corpses are frightful to look at, without a doubt. Whoever did that, Trevor thinks, must have been holding a hell of a grudge.

“What on earth,” he hears Sypha whispering under her breath. She turns to look at him, and he simply shrugs. What can he possibly do?

Sypha blinks slowly up at the stakes once more, her brows gathered in a furrow, before coming back to the carriage. Making himself stand up and lower himself to the ground takes up every last bit of strength that has been left to him, despite him dropping most of his weight on poor Sypha. She groans underneath him, wrapping her arm around his waist to keep him steady.

“God, you stink,” she protests, taking a shaky step forward. Trevor rolls his eyes, but even that takes effort.

“You don’t exactly smell like roses yourself,” he grunts, following as best he could without tripping on the hem of his bedraggled cloak.

Sypha snorts, leaning her head against his shoulder for a breath. “Ass.”

He tries for a clever quip to make her laugh, but her smile falters when he starts coughing again, so hard that he is sure the wound has opened again. He shivers when he feels warm blood seeping through the bandage. "I sure hope Alucard is home," he pants weakly, "and hasn't gone into a little nightly escapade."

Sypha holds him more tightly, even though her arms and legs are shaking now. “Just a little further. Just until we get to the steps-”

Trevor barely hears what she says before his vision darkens. The stone steps rise up to meet him at lightning speed, knocking the air out of his lungs. White hot pain lances through his entire body, blocking out everything else.

Sypha frantically banging on the tall, gilded door of the castle is what pulls him out if the darkness.

“Alucard!” she cries, again and again, hitting the door with her fists. Her voice is raw and hoarse— she must have been at it for a while while he was unconscious. “Alucard! Open up! Ugh, where is he?” She turns to him, her round blue eyes wide and disturbingly liquid in the morning light. “Just— just hold on, Trevor,” she pleads before raising her fist to knock on the door once more.  

The heavy doors creak ominously as they slowly peel apart. Sypha’s hand hovers in the air for a breath before she lets it fall, watching while sunlight flooded the thick darkness beyond the door.

The figure that walks out is pale, skin almost translucent in the bright light. Hair like spun gold falling freely about his shoulders. Face smooth and cold, as if carved in marble. Gaunt. More gaunt than Trevor remembers. His gaze hard and aloof when it sweeps over them both. Trevor sees those familiar golden eyes widening in shock when they fall on him, sprawled as he is on the ground.

“Sypha,” Alucard says. “What happened?”

The voice is low and throaty, hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in a while. Or like he just woke up. Wouldn’t surprise him if Alucard decided to take a bloody nap the whole time he and Sypha were out, killing monsters. That’s what vampires do after all, isn't it? Yet, those corpses were fresh. No more than a couple days, a week at the most. That week has been cold, so it would have stopped the flesh from rotting too soon. If it is Alucard that did it, that is. There is still the possibility that he didn't, and that he isn't the mindless beast that Trevor has been brought up to believe of his kind.

He blinks up at him, watching him through the cloud that threatens to descend on him again. Alucard’s gaze does not fall on the bodies when he drags it away from Trevor and fixes it on Sypha. Not once. Not even by accident.

The absolute, bloody bastard.

Sypha straightens, regarding him curiously. It evidently hasn’t been lost on her either that Alucard is not in the least surprised by the bodies at his front door. “Trevor has been hurt,” she says, her voice trembling only a little. “Will you help us?”

Instead of a response, Alucard brushes past her, coming to loom over him. The sunlight casts a halo around his golden hair, shadows on his sharp features. “Can you walk?”

Trevor scoffs, then coughs. He brings his hand before his mouth, and when he withdraws it, there is blood. “Do I look like I can walk?”

Alucard raises a brow at that. Whether it is for his response or for the blood on his hand, Trevor can't say. He kneels before him, snaking one arm behind his shoulders, the other under his knees. “I’m going to lift you now.”

“Whoa, wait-” Trevor doesn't even manage to protest before he is picked up off the ground and lifted into Alucard’s arms, like a blushing bride on the way to her marriage bed. He attempts a weak struggle, but Alucard’s voice is firm.

“Stop moving. You’ll hurt yourself even more. Not that you need much help with that, but still.”

Trevor rolls his eyes, frowning even as he winces in pain. “Ever the pompous prick,  Alucard. How nice to see you again.”

The dhampir’s gaze is locked straight ahead as he walks, not even deigning to answer. That is… odd. To say the least. Alucard always rises to his barbs, and Trevor to his, however petulant or childish. There is a somberness to him, a sort of stillness; it is like looking at the smooth surface of a frozen lake. It unnerves Trevor more than he can say.

But then again, it could just be that Trevor's not thinking straight. The pain that stabs him every time he so much as bloody blinks isn't exactly conducive to thought.

Sypha shuffles after them, the hem of her robes whispering around her ankles as she tries to catch up with Alucard’s long strides. He walks smoothly, evenly, with the grace of a dancer, or that of a swan gliding along calm waters, and the steady rocking makes it even harder to keep his eyes open. Trevor loses track of how many flights of stairs they ascend, or how many endless, identical-looking corridors they cross, but at length Alucard stops before a door and pushes it open.

The room he takes him in is wide and spacious, with a large hearth, a thick red carpet that muffles the sound of Alucard's boots, and one of the biggest beds Trevor has ever laid eyes upon- with a mountain of pillows and a red velvet canopy, with carved mahogany bedposts and gilded bedside tables and whatnot- he is far too dazed to notice more, but even he can tell the thing is luxurious.

Alucard’s hair brushes his face when he gently -surprisingly gently- sets him atop the bed. His pale golden strands smell of fresh chopped wood and wild berries, Trevor remarks absently.

“How did he get hurt?” he asks, turning to Sypha.

“Oy,” Trevor grumbles weakly. The mattress is so soft and inviting he feels like he is sinking in it, but he makes an effort to keep his eyes open. “I’m still conscious, thank you very much. You don’t have to talk like I'm not here.”

“As it is, Belmont, I do not believe you’re in any position to give an accurate account of your injuries,” Alucard replied coldly. “It is best, perhaps for everyone, if you try not to talk much.” His golden gaze slides off him swiftly to return to Sypha. Arrogant sod.

“We were in Lindenfeld, a few days ago.” Sypha comes to sit beside him on the bed. “There was… an attack. Night creatures. Powerful ones. There was a portal, and they kept streaming… We managed to make it out of there alive, but the damage was already done. All the night creatures within twenty miles from here have gathered in the woods beyond the town, and are terrorising the villages along the country road. We tried to stop them, kill as many as we could, but...” Her lips tightens in a line, her gaze falling on Trevor.

“A portal?” Alucard asks, as if he hasn't heard a word of what Sypha has said.

Her eyes meet his. “An Infinite Corridor.”

Fair eyebrows lift ever so slightly along a pale, smooth forehead. “Those creatures you speak of. What kind of night creature was it that attacked him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know its name, or its kind. I’ve never seen the like. It possessed a level of intelligence, for one. And it was made up of dozens of souls. Like the one that was trapped under the priory in Lindenfeld, but... different. Vicious. Frantic.”

“The bastard wouldn’t stay dead,” Trevor croaks, and coughs again.

“It had those glowy eyes and those sharp claws—” She rubs her temples, sighing. “It caught Trevor with one of those claws. I’ve done all I can to heal him, but the wound refuses to close. The flesh knits back together, albeit weakly, but then the smallest movements rip it open again. Healing is not my expertise, but even so, I should have been able to treat it. I don’t know what it is—”

The desperation in her voice makes Trevor’s heart tighten. He hates that she's so tired, so worried; he hates that it is he that has brought her to this state. He never makes things easy for her, damn him. Not that she makes things easy for him, but even so, it is he that should be looking out for her, not the other way round. If only he'd been more careful, if only he'd seen the attack before it came—

He reaches out to place his hand on her forearm. “Sypha,” he says softly.

She pats his hand and gives him a tight smile. “We’ll find out what it is. Yes? Alucard and I. We’ll heal you. Right, Alucard?” She turns her gaze to their friend. Their once friend. God knows what he is now. Trevor does not dare to trust him, but he's their last hope.

Alucard’s eyes linger on them for a long moment, and Trevor thinks he sees something flashing in them; something sad and desperate, but it's gone in an instant. The dhampir's gaze is icy once more when he says, “I have to see the wound for myself. I'll need you to take off your clothes.”

“Now, hold on—”

“I’ll help,” Sypha says promptly, reaching out to undo the clasp of his cloak. “You needed a change of clothes anyway.” Her smile is still on her lips, but it never reaches her eyes, so it is hardly a comfort. His cloak comes off, then his thick leather jerkin. He tenses when she starts pulling at the laces on his undershirt, with Alucard watching over her shoulder.

“That'll do,” he hears Alucard say. “I can inspect the wound without completely undressing him.”

Well, that, at least, is somewhat fortunate.

Sypha edges back as Alucard bent over him, long fingers dragging his shirt up from the waistband of his breeches. Even though the wound is wrapped with fresh bandages he can still feel the fabric brushing over it, and he bites his lip down hard to stop himself from wincing. Alucard produces a small pocket knife out of thin air and starts cutting away the blood soaked cloth. When he peels it back, a strong acrid smell of sepsis fills his nostrils. Trevor almost gags, almost —almost— faints.

The frown that creases Alucard’s brow does not help one bit.

“How long ago did he get this?” he asks Sypha.

“Three days ago,” Trevor responds, more gruffly than he intends as pain lanced through him once again. Even the air touching the wound makes him squirm.

Alucard’s frown deepens. “It shouldn’t have reached this level of infection in just three days. I’m surprised you’re still on your feet.”

“Us Belmonts are hard kill,” he says, and regrets it as soon as does. Sympathy warms Alucard’s gaze for the briefest of moment, so brief Trevor thinks he imagines it, before it is swiftly hidden behind his impervious mask once more. It is enough to make a spark of irritation flicker in his chest, however weak. Why s Alucard pitying him, anyway? His lot is worse than his own.

That shouldn’t have made Trevor’s heart clench as it does. He looks away.

There is nothing that Trevor can make out of Alucard's expression when he straightens. Or perhaps it is that the pain and the exhaustion finally taking hold. “I’ll bring something for the pain, and to stem the bleeding. As to how to treat the infection, that will require some research.”

“How much?” Sypha asks, and this time she doesn't even bother to hide her worry. “It’s spreading quickly. I don’t think we-” She stops herself, her fists bunching up the fabric of her skirt.

“Just say it, Sypha." Trevor lets out a huff and sinks back into the pillows. "I’m not a child.”

She shoots him a glare. “What I meant to say, is that I don’t think we can afford to let more time pass.”

“What we can afford even less is a mistake," Alucard says. He clasps his hands behind his back as he draws himself up to his full height. The bastard is tall, Trevor will give him that. "I’m not much of a healer, but I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Sypha says softly, breathing a sigh of relief. “We appreciate it. Really.”

Alucard’s gaze flicks between the two for a breath —golden, luminous, and so bloody cold and aloof it sends a shiver up Trevor's spine— before he turns to leave. The room somehow feels warmer after he's gone.

As soon as he was gone, Sypha lets out a long sigh, dragging her palm down her face. Her hand stops just before her eyes, and she peers at him through her fingers.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Trevor groans. “If I had any clue what was going on, I wouldn’t be lying here on this bed, waiting for Alucard, of all people, to take pity on me and save my life.”

“No one’s taking pity on you, you silly ox,” she mutters, shifting closer beside him on the bed again. She stares at him, her large, clear sky eyes reflecting the sunlight pouring through the window like glass. “Something very wrong has happened here, Trevor. I can feel it.”

“What gave it away? The staked corpses by the front door? Or that the half-vampire lordling seems to have a stick farther up his arse than usual?”

She blinks. “Both?”

Trevor sighs. “Yes. Both. More, probably. Give it some time. We’ve only been here a few minutes.”

She taps her chin thoughtfully, glancing towards the door. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” she says, her brows gathering in that determined frown of hers he’s come to know quite well. “We have to. Something’s fishy. Very fishy.”

“Sure, sure, yeah. For now, let's just hope whatever he brings for the pain is strong enough to knock me out for a day or two.” He sinks back into the bed, his eyes closing on their own, but not before his gaze falls on a gilded cabinet by the window. “Think there’s any liquor in there?”

Sypha snorts, rolling her eyes. “Just go to sleep, Belmont.”

Her cool fingertips against his brow is the last thing Trevor feels before the world grows dark.

[lankoshine]

Star Wars. Far away galaxy forever Khaetskaya Elena Vladimirovna

My preface: I've wanted to post this for a long time. This text literally expresses my attitude to what is happening with my favorite character Anakin Skywalker, and confirms my doubts about the "wisdom" of the Jedi Order (they are not fools, but they are not wise men either). Wisdom should include all aspects and all-round thinking, but at times it "stagnates", "ossifies" and turns into a rotting swamp, in which the light that it should carry is drowning. And as a result, enlightenment turns into extinction and darkness.

Further words of the author:

Jedi: "the era of stagnation"

“The main content of the second trilogy, that is, the prequel, was the story of how Anakin crossed over to the dark side of the Force and how the entire Templar was destroyed ... That is, excuse the reservation: not the Templars, of course. Jedi. All Jedi were destroyed. Except for a few - Obi Wan Kenobi and Teacher Yoda. The first film, The Phantom Menace, portrayed Anakin as a boy; the next two - "The Clone Wars" and "Revenge of the Sith" - a handsome young man.

Anakin's childhood was not that unbearably difficult or completely bleak, but it could have been better. His mother Shmi and he himself (father, by the way, is unknown) were in slavery from the dealer of spare parts Watto, on the familiar "hole of the universe" - the planet Tatooine. Since Anakin from an early age was distinguished by diverse talents (for repairing equipment, for programming), the owner encouraged his studies, and the boy was busy with creativity: he would assemble a racing car from the trash, then he would build a robot and program artificial intelligence for it.

So, by the way, the boy Anakin created, again, the well-known droid C-3PO. Talkative, cowardly, endowed with useless good manners, the bore C-3PO, whom we fell in love with as Luke Skywalker's "funny magic assistant", it turns out that it was once designed by his father. (But then this droid's memory was erased, so he started the "original" trilogy from scratch.)

Naturally, such an outstanding embodiment of the Force as the boy Anakin could not remain unnoticed for long, and soon he was discovered by the Jedi Qui-Gon Jinn, who immediately recognized the Young Anakin as the Chosen One. According to ancient prophecy, the Chosen One must restore balance to the Force (by exterminating the Dark Ones). In any case, the Jedi were obliged to take possession of this promising child.

By and large, it was the Light Jedi who brought Anakin the first real grief. It was they who separated him from his mother when they took him from Tatooine for the sake of a "great future" which, for Anakin himself, remained an empty phrase. The reason why the powerful (and, undoubtedly, not in need of funds) light and noble knights left the boy's mother in slavery and inflicted severe moral and psychological trauma on him remains unknown. You can find some kind of "rational" explanations, for example: a real Jedi must free himself from all earthly attachments - but this does not change the essence of the matter. Which of the nine-year-old Anakin is a "real Jedi"? And why should he suddenly free himself from attachment to his mother? After all, this is the most natural and, in general, the most positive of all emotions - love for mom!

Jedi ideology, presented in different ways from the screen, is constantly bursting at the seams. You can, for example, remember how Obi Wan Kenobi, in the form of a Force ghost, appears to Luke in Return of the Jedi: "You must stop Darth Vader." Luke, a mentally healthy and sensible young man, answers quite logically: "I cannot kill my own father." Then the luminous ghost of Obi Wan sighs and says, “Then everything is lost. You were our last hope."  What happens? That the Jedi were urging Luke to commit an unnatural act - parricide? And they did it right from the focus of the Power! If the earthly, living Obi Wan spoke so, it would be possible to write off such speeches for the usual human ability to make mistakes, to be delusional. But Obi Wan is already a ghost of the Force, so he cannot be wrong. Why is he pushing Luke to the brink of a psychological and moral abyss? Maybe this is the last test? Provocation? Harsh - and risky, especially when Luke remains "the last hope" ...

The Jedi's behavior towards Anakin Skywalker looks much more brutal and far more risky. No matter what they argued, remaining within the framework of naked theorizing, in practice the picture looked monstrous: in fact, they raised a man with their own hands, for whom it was the most natural choice to kill all the Jedi.

Moreover, the viewer, on common sense, comes to the conclusion that Anakin, in general, if he was not completely right, then, in any case, was not greatly mistaken when he chose the Dark Side.

Let's try to trace the path that led Anakin to the dark side.

... Qui-Gon took the boy with him to the planet Coruscant (where the capital of the Galactic Republic was located) and demanded permission from the Jedi Council to teach the Chosen One in all the intricacies of Jedism. By the way, the Jedi Council is very pompous meeting in the spectacular Jedi Temple on the same Coruscant. This temple plays an important role in the history of Anakin and consists of five giant spiers. The largest spire, in the center, serves as a sacred place for contemplation. The other four are the High Council, the Primordial Knowledge Council, the Reconciliation Council, and the Reassignment Council. (This structure alone can judge how complicated, even bureaucratic, everything was arranged in the Jedi world ... somehow not in Zen, to be honest!)

So, the Council did not give permission to train the boy Anakin. There is nothing to spoil the child! First, Anakin is too old to start training. The boy is already at a conscious age, he has significant life experience. It will be difficult to brainwash such a guy. Secondly, Anakin experiences negative emotions - fear and anger. Which is not surprising given his past. (The fact that the attitude of the Jedi to Anakin's life circumstances was the reason for the increase in fear and anger is not taken into account.) Quite conveniently, there was an occasion to regale Anakin (and the audience) with the maxim: “Fear is the way to the dark side. Fear breeds anger; anger breeds hatred; hatred is the key to suffering. I feel a strong fear in you, ”says the wise Master Yoda to Anakin during the Jedi Council.

Yoda is right in essence: fear is the father of many troubles and vices. But how soulless and out of place it all is!

Eventually, the dying Qui-Gon will instruct Obi Wan to train Anakin. Here the Council, albeit reluctantly, agrees. Why?

The most logical thing would be to assume that the Council, though slowly, came to the conclusion: it is much more dangerous to leave such a gifted boy unattended at all than to start his training, despite the "strong fear" and other "shortcomings."

At first glance, the choice of a mentor looks somewhat artificial. Obi Wan Kenobi was considered a very average Jedi, so Anakin kept saving his life along the way. The behavior of Obi Wan himself regularly looks completely reckless (if not "stupid"), and the young student had to "clean up" after the teacher. Although it is postulated that they were friends, Obi Wan constantly nags Anakin and actually humiliates him. Then Anakin, and for the umpteenth time, has to pull the "mentor" out of the next pit.

So was Qui-Gon Jinn wrong about Obi Wan Kenobi? Why did he choose such a weak teacher for such a dangerous young man?

According to one suggestion, Obi Wan was just pretending. But in fact ... Secretly ... Carefully hiding from everyone, he was a mighty Jedi. He just successfully pretended to be a weakling. But then why? Where is the logic?

Or maybe the Jedi reasoned like this: since we could not get rid of the inconvenient Anakin, we will give him a frankly bad mentor so that he does not reach the Jedi heights?

But here - in general, it does not even lurk, but lies on the surface - there is a great danger: surpassing the teacher, the student begins to wise up on his own and in the end it is not known what he will think of (which, in fact, happened). No, a strong student needs a strong teacher, and the Jedi could not help but understand this (otherwise how did they even manage to exist for so long).

It seems to us that the answer is simple: and there was simply no one better.

The Jedi in the prequel are reminiscent of the Politburo of the mature stagnation era. A formal approach, indifference to a particular living being, a complete lack of flexibility, undercover intrigues ... Yoda - and he looks ossified in his great wisdom. Humanity will come to the old Taoist much later, when the Jedi are exterminated. Presumably, then Obi Wan will cover his famous ability not to condemn anyone (you see, he had enough time, living as a hermit on Tatooine, to think over everything that happened and analyze his own behavior first of all).

The Jedi actually used Anakin. And this is very insulting: to understand that you were taken advantage of by those whom you idolized, considered the focus of the Power of Light.

By the way, Obi Wan Kenobi had a flaw with the Jedi Code: Anakin did not understand many of the provisions. And then Chancellor Palpatine appears, who begins to secretly, but consistently and intelligently cultivate the seeds of Darkness in Anakin's soul ...

* * *

So, one of the most important factors in Anakin's transition to the dark side was the lack of trust in mentors. And in this, Anakin was right: such mentors do not deserve any trust. Virtually every prominent member of the Jedi Council had a purpose of their own, and Anakin did not like being a puppet of someone else's interests at all.

One of the most important reasons for Anakin's fall is his forbidden love for Padma Amidala.

It is obvious to Palpatine (as to any sane creature) that one who has loved ones is extremely vulnerable. Therefore, noticing Anakin's attraction to Padmé, Palpatine arranges so that Obi Wan and his student receive a responsible task - to be the beauty's personal guard. And then Palpatine could just relax and wait, allowing events to develop naturally.

The Jedi Council further aided Palpatine's plan by recalling Obi Wan for another assignment. So in the end, a handsome young Anakin, not fully trained, subject to all sorts of passions and weaknesses (the Council is well aware of all this, but for some reason no one, not even Yoda, attaches much importance to this), is left alone with a young beautiful girl ... Of course, this girl is formerly a queen, and now a senator, and Anakin is previously a slave of some dealer in spare parts on a seedy planet, and now a Jedi-dropout and a bodyguard ... But when and who was it stopping?

However, yes. After all, the Jedi explained to the young Skywalker that passionate feelings are absolutely unacceptable. Was there an explanatory conversation? Was! What's more?

Only the "era of stagnation" in the Jedi world can explain such thoughtlessness. Here, what is called the “formal attitude” to the personality, its individual characteristics, and its fate worked in full measure.

Didn't it occur to any of the Jedi that it was more than enough to tell the young boy about the "harmful passions"? In order to achieve true dispassion - not the ability to control oneself after a sleepless night spent in hot fantasies, but real dispassion, when a young girl evokes nothing but warm, brotherly or paternal feelings - years of spiritual exercise are needed. And even then there are breakdowns, because all people are human and nothing human is alien to them.

And then for some reason everyone decided that it was enough for a guy overwhelmed by passions to say: "Don't look at the beautiful Padmé, she is not for you, and in general your destiny is celibacy, because that's how it is for us, the Jedi," and that's it, the job is ready , he will obey. What arrogance!

... But we remember that arrogance is one of the greatest vices in the interpretation of "late Ben", "officer and gentleman" performed by Guinness. The true wisdom of Alec Guinness gave us the answers to all our questions twenty years ago ...

However, let us follow how the Jedi themselves dug their own grave.

Anakin's feeling is passionate; his love is earthly, he longs to possess a girl. In theory, such feelings are a direct route to the dark side. In theory. In fact, they represent a completely natural stage in the emotional and physical development of a young person. Demanding that the young man behave like an eight-hundred-year old man, the Jedi actually expected the impossible from him: that he should distort, mutilate his nature. He, in their opinion, should not improve himself, not investigate and subordinate himself to reason, but simply break.

Anakin had the will to disobey. And in his attraction to Padmé, he is absolutely right.

And then the detonator of Anakin's first earthly affection is triggered: in a dream he sees that his mother is in danger. The Jedi were of no help to Shmi Skywalker. They simply took away from her the only living being that she held dear. Well, yes, she later got married, but how can you forget your son, being apart from him? Of course, she was sad and not completely happy.

And then - the raid of the sand people (the very same Tatooine natives, whom we saw in the "original" trilogy, in "A New Hope"), who captured Shmi as prey. This is what caused Anakin's disturbing dreams - he did not cut ties with his mother. The young man already knows: it is useless to ask the Jedi for help in such an "empty" case as rescuing some kind of Shmi Skywalker on the distant planet Tatooine. Serious adults have more important things to do. Therefore, Anakin simply takes the matter of saving mom into his own hands and flies to Tatooine. True, the Council sends him some orders after him, but this is about mom! And Anakin sends the Council to hell.

Mom still has time to die in the arms of her beloved son. And then Anakin is overcome with hatred. Undoubtedly, this hatred affected everyone who treated his mother so cruelly. Including the Jedi Council. But only sand people were at hand for revenge. And, not remembering himself from grief and rage, Anakin exterminated the entire tribe, including the elderly and children.

It was here that Master Yoda felt the "great outrage of the Force." Mostly caused not by the death of a minor barbarian tribe, but by the rage of a young Skywalker. It's time to actually draw at least some conclusions ...

And Anakin completely lost faith in the Light side. What intriguers they are, liars and mumblers! They didn’t really teach anything, they jerked them with discontent, tortured them with senseless (unrealizable) demands, they forbade saving my mother, they forbade me to love Padme, they forbade me to be a normal person at all - but what in return? Never mind! The sacred right to be a brainless tool in the hands of politicians who do not even consider it necessary to explain something to him.

Then another episode takes place, which can be considered the most important step of Anakin on the path to Darkness. To some extent, the Light Ones are again responsible for this step. We are talking about the operation to free the captured Chancellor Palpatine (then he had not yet revealed his true face - for some reason, even the wise Yoda did not know about anything and did not feel any "disturbances of the Force").

The intrigue was complex, but overall it looked like Chancellor Palpatine was captured by rebels - separatists. Their leader, Count Dooku, seriously wounded Obi Wan Kenobi, after which Anakin had to join the battle, who defeated the count. And then Palpatine gives the order: to decapitate the unarmed, defeated enemy - "he is too dangerous to be left alive!" (recalls, by the way, the requirement of the ghost of old Ben: to destroy Darth Vader).

Anakin, however, freezes in some doubts: somehow not chivalrously ... The enemy is defeated, he surrendered, he is wounded and unarmed ... But Palpatine is the chancellor, Palpatine insists, and Anakin obeys.

Why did Anakin obey an inhuman order that seemed wrong to him? And why on other occasions did he violate the wrong orders of the Council?

Because Anakin didn't trust the Jedi at all. And he did not have a clear idea which orders were correct and which were not, so the young man was forced to be guided by one single criterion: his own opinion. If it was about mom, then the advice is not a decree to him: in any case, mom needs to be saved. When it comes to Padmé, the Council is also not a decree: he loves Padmé. But if we are talking about Count Dooku, who is not related to Anakin at all ... here a hesitant young man who does not have clear moral criteria may obey the order. After all, in the end, he was trained: the Council is always right, obey the orders of your elders!

But the Council, as it turned out, was almost never right ...

* * *

Anakin was still with the Jedi — perhaps by momentum, but most likely — because of Padmé. Anakin eventually entered into a secret marriage with her (witnessed by two droids, our old friends R2-D2 and C-3PO).

Meanwhile, the Council is giving Anakin another reason to part with the Light Side. For starters, the young man is publicly humiliated by refusing to be promoted to the rank of Jedi Master. Moreover, he is ordered to spy on his patron, Palpatine. And this is simply low.

And then Anakin had another ominous dream: as if Padmé had died. He remembered well how the affair ended when he had a similar vision of his mother. Therefore, Anakin is terrified.

He is still trying to find some way out of the situation, remaining on the Light side. It seems that the Jedi temple contains some information that could save Padmé. But access to this part of the archive for him - as for the uninitiated - is closed. And the Jedi refused to raise the young Skywalker to the rank of Jedi, despite the high patronage of Chancellor Palpatine.

Finally, Anakin turns to the wisest of all - to Master Yoda: prophetic visions persistently tell him about the imminent death of a loved one ... what to do, what to do?

In response, Master Yoda burst out with a priceless sermon:

“Death is a natural part of life,” he said in his inimitable florid style. - Rejoice for your loved ones, who have transformed into Power. Do not mourn for them and do not grieve for them. After all, attachment leads to jealousy, and a shadow of greed leads to jealousy. You must let go of everything that you are so afraid of losing. Fear of loss can lead to the Dark Side. "

Oh, how wonderful - for eight hundred years! But it is definitely not feasible when you are barely twenty and the woman you love is facing death. (Subsequently, Yoda tried to advise something similar to Luke, but he stopped in time: it did not work with father, and will not work with his son.)

... And Chancellor Palpatine is right there: he promises to save Padmé if Anakin goes to the dark side. The dark side, according to Palpatine, has the power to conquer death.

By and large, there is nothing holding Anakin on the Light Side anymore. And he becomes a supporter of Palpatine - all, "with giblets."

And then finally the truth is revealed to him: Chancellor Palpatine is the very Sith Lord Darth Sidious, whom the Jedi hunted for a long time and without success.

Once again, Anakin’s moral precariousness is evident, and nothing has convinced him that the Jedi Council can be trusted. Discipline required the Sith Lord to be “turned in”. And Anakin reports his discovery to one of the masters, Windu. And he once again demonstrates distrust of Anakin: they say, you wait for me in the Jedi temple, and I will grab a couple of faithful knights and go and figure it out myself. Maybe this was the last straw. Either way, Anakin changed his mind.

Palpatine promised to help rescue Padmé; Palpatine was the only one who treated him with respect and support all this time. Therefore, Anakin at the last moment intervened in the duel between Master Windu and Palpatine and with a sudden blow cut off the Master's hand with a sword. After that, Darth Sidious easily destroys Windu. The choice is made, the die is cast, the Rubicon is crossed. From now on, Anakin finally goes to the dark side and receives a Sith name - Darth Vader.

* * *

It is instructive to compare how Palpatine / Darth Sidious / The Emperor lures Anakin Skywalker to his place and how unsuccessfully he tries to repeat this act with Luke Skywalker.

In the case of Anakin, the entire Jedi order is on the side of the dark side: it was the Jedi who, in their arrogance, finally shattered the moral foundations of a very dangerous young man. In the case of Luke, on the contrary, on the side of the Light side - even as if Darth Vader himself. After all, it was Darth Vader who clearly explained to Luke what an unsightly future awaits him: loneliness, universal hatred and selfless service to the nasty evil old man who, as if on purpose, gets into an important conversation between father and son, shouting: “Oh yes! I can feel the hate flowing through your veins, my disciple! " - although in fact, the Emperor in Luke does not cause anything but irritation in this scene. Palpatine is not just not listened to - he is a hindrance, a buzzing fly.

The success could not be repeated. Why?

It is speculated that because Anakin was vulnerable because of Padmé Amidala. Luke didn't have such a passionate affection.

But love, even passionate, cannot in itself be the cause of the fall. Many additional factors are required.

Everything was pushing Anakin to fall.

And everything kept Luke from falling.

The Jedi paid a terrible price for understanding, but those who remained were able to correct the mistake.

Anakin was unlucky in that sense. Nothing - neither the state nor the knightly order - can exist for a long time in a state of stagnation. At some point, there is an explosion, a revolution. In this case, Anakin - Darth Vader served as a weapon of revolution: he begins the systematic extermination of the Jedi.

Obi Wan and Yoda survived, as we know. In the final battle between his former mentor and former apprentice, Obi Wan managed to cripple Anakin and throw him into the boiling lava. Not bad for a mentor who has failed his mentorship.

"Obi Wan killed your father" - remember? Oh yes, Obi Wan, Master Yoda and all the wise Jedi Council - they all somehow killed "the good man Anakin Skywalker." All of them, with lies, manipulation, arrogance, intrigue, mistrust, insults, inattention, a formal approach to a very gifted and very young person - they all pushed him to the Dark Side.

And when this, quite naturally, happened - they tried to destroy it physically.

However, Darth Vader did not die: burned and barely alive, he was saved by Darth Sidious. Now Darth Vader has to live in a special spacesuit, equipped with a special life support system, and breathe through a mask: inhale - exhale.

Well well. It's time to remember the "prophecy": that the young Skywalker is destined to "restore the balance of the Force." In fact, such prophecies are very insidious: those who know them do their best to ensure that something sinister does not come true - and usually achieve the exact opposite result.

The prophecy said that the chosen youth would restore the balance of the Force ... by destroying the Sith. It is somehow illogical: what kind of "balance" can there be when the Dark Ones are destroyed? This is not a "balance" of the Force, but simply the triumph of Light. If you think about what happened, the Council itself brought Anakin to the point that he ... really restored the balance: on each side there were two left (Obi Wan and Yoda - Light Ones, Darth Sidious and Darth Vader - Dark Ones). What they wanted to get - they got it. “Maybe we misinterpreted the prophecy,” the wise Master Yoda dropped meaningfully on this matter ...”

I apologize for the crooked translation, mainly the translator helped, but the essence seems to be conveyed. After reading it, I stopped believing even more in the "Light Jedi", and indeed in everything that is openly declared as "bringing good and light." In Star Wars, only Luke, little Anakin and Padmé were true goodness and light. And when someone starts talking about what the Jedi Council is the wisest and the kindest, and Obi-Wan is the very embodiment of kindness and fluffiness, then think about what they will do to you if you are not pleasing to them. They will not even lift a finger to somehow save or sort out your problem, and will you be immured in disgusting armor, equipped with prostheses, while morally and physically crippled. Them easy to say that you yourself chose to be bad, instead of trying with your wisdom and experience to understand what drives you. Wisdom should cover all aspects, and not be one-sided and divide the world into black and white. "Only the Sith make everything to the absolute" remember? Oh god! How many times have Jedi done the same thing? Or does it not count? In short, pleasant reading and may the force be with you, my fair ones.

https://biography.wikireading.ru/1240

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

Werewolf Thomas x Merman Sammy.

This might end up taking multiple chapters, in addition to me digging in too deep, this ship in general just gives off a petty enemies, to reluctant allies due to supernatural circumstances, to ‘hey you’re not as bad as I thought.’, to friends, to lovers vibe.

Occam's razor indicates that the simplest explanation to a scenario is also the most likely scenario to be the true one.

For example: when an animation studio suddenly closes down and gets condemned, people who are on the outside looking in are much more likely to blame the studio's poor money management than go look for some extraordinary truth. That, paired with the workers of the said studio also coming out to site the terrible conditions of the place as an added cause for the studio's demise. When people have to work long hours with little pay to show for it in a dingy, gloomy, constantly-falling-apart studio that clearly wasn't going anywhere except six feet under or lower, they aren't exactly motivated to work hard or happy.

The Hunger was intense, growing beyond mere gnawing and was now consuming the cursed mechanic. The first change he felt was his teeth, the Curse deciding it was easier to make them all fall out at once so his new ones would grow in. He cut up his own tongue on the newly-made fangs. Call it an act of mercy or an act of mockery, but the tongue followed the teeth's example, falling out altogether so that the tongue of a wolf could grow in.

No one batted an eye when a majority of the studio's former workers left with some of them being untraceable, the lucky ones moved on to greener and happier pastures, others simply got a change in scenery, and sadly, accidents happen all the time in such an unsafe studio, people got severely injured in there all the time, so it was gut-wrenching for many, but not a shock to discover that it was common for unlucky people to lose their lives in the Dancing Demon's domain.

His entire body burned on the inside and outside, taking off his clothes did nothing for him as his new, thick coat grew in, a coat that was the same pitch black as his hair, at least, most of it was. The change did not hurt as much as he thought it would. As painful as it sounded when his bones became a crackling choir that reminded him of fireworks, it was not pure agony, he was sore, afraid, and so, very, very, hungry, but he was physically fine.

No one suspected anything like somebody intentionally sabotaging the many pipes that pumped ink through the entire building, that would just be silly! It was more than obvious that the pipes got the same treatment as the rotting wooden walls: they were ignored until it was too late. With all the wood, paper, flammable ink, candles, no windows, and avid smokers in that place, it was only a matter of time before that place went up in flames.

Colors began to dim and fade out leaving him with vision that could only see black, white, and the several shades of gray inbetween them. The trade off with his senses made itself clear as his sense of smell and hearing both grew stronger, he could barely think as the smells and sounds his human self had been blind to came to him at full force, overwhelming the mechanic. He held back the urge to scream and call for help, he knew none would come, unless it was the dogcatcher at this point. However he would not hold back the urge to whine, whimper and cry, as pathetic as he looked and sounded, he would at least give himself that mercy, even if he didn't deserve it.

No one thought the ink machine was anything more but an expensive and stupid project that definitely sped up the studio's already fast decline, but only with it's mere presence. Honestly, a machine that made models out of ink, wouldn't it be cheaper and easier to make a statue of your beloved mascots out of plastic or something like that?

Thomas yelped in surprise when the tail grew in, it felt like somebody gave his spine a good sharp yank. He was furious, scared, even remorseful as he knew he was responsible for this happening to himself and possibly others knowing Mr. Drew, and by god, did he want to sink his teeth into something.

No one except for crazy cross-clutching worrywarts who want to spoil every one else's fun and or conspiracy theorists would assume that the Little devil darling who graced the comics and silver screens for at least a decade would have literal satanic magic going on behind the scenes, no matter how screwy the man in charge seemed.

He was starving all day ever since the ritual, but now that the changes were over, he felt hungrier than ever before, like his stomach was a black hole that would make him consume everything in his path.

No one would ever seriously suggest that magic was real and led to being the studio's final nail in the coffin instead of becoming its savior like it's founder had wanted it to.

In the moment, Thomas Conner believed that Occam's razor was bullshit.

The mechanic knew what he'd seen, he knew to an extent what he took part in, he saw what happened to some of the unluckier members of the "Missing" studio workers, and most importantly of all, he experienced what he just went through. There was no 'simple' or 'normal' explanation for it; the ritual failed and as a result, he and a handful of other people had gotten cursed.

Here the new wolf was, squeezing his now much larger body underneath his bed to do nothing but cower like a frighted animal while trying to convince himself not to panic or to eat his pet snake. Keeping his human mind at the moment was both a blessing and a cur- -some extra salt to rub into his fresh wounds.

On one hand, the fact he was still smart enough to know better than to jump out the window and follow his nose for food like his instincts were telling him to was a lifesaver that kept him safe from animal control. On the other hand; if he was a beast in mind, he would at least be doing something more productive than sulking in his apartment thinking about anything else other than how badly he got fucked over, how his life was in shatters and how he had nobody but himself to blame for it (Well, aside from Joey, but that wasn't the point).

While far from ideal, his current plan was to remain under that bed, try his best to go to sleep, and occasionally chew its legs to stop himself from going on a rampage. He might not be the most supernaturally informed person, but he had seen enough werewolf horror flicks to know that nothing good would come if he gave into his hunger or if he tried to leave. Best case scenario; he'd become as sick as a dog after eating something he found in the garbage. Worst case scenario; Somebody decides that he'd make a great living room rug and BANG!

And then, his ears perked up as he heard the song.

It was a simple, repetitive tune, made with a music box maybe? It was the first time he heard it yet it felt familiar to him. The song itself was muffled, used a lot of ambiance in its melody, and if he strained his ears enough, he could almost pick up the sound of a voice singing along with it, but it was far too faint for him to tell who or what was singing, let alone what the lyrics to the song were. It sounded nice in spite of it's strangeness, but it gave him goosebumps. He knew it wasn't playing from the radio, he only kept it on when he was fixing something at home.

The curious wolf struggled to push a window open with his snout to figure out where it was coming from. He was making progress, the song did sound slightly less muffled now that he was poking his head out the window. Was it just him, or did the tune become faster? And it was also louder and more frantic, and he swore that the constantly repeating motif sounded like something he knew. The mechanic never considered himself to be a man with a keen ear for music, but he knew he heard it before.

Three short notes, three slightly longer notes, three more short notes, again and again and again repeating endlessly...---...Wait a minute. Thomas didn't recognize that pattern from a song, he recognized that that was a call for help!

"Don't do it..." He grumbled to himself as he put his paws up on the windowsill. "You don't know what'll happen, or if you'll even get there in time. Just go back inside and you'll figure out what to do with yourself in the morning."

The song, almost as if it was aware he was trying to ignore it like he was ignoring his hunger, grew louder and faster.

"Don't give in..." The wolf turned back. "You can't help anyone like this anyway, you'll only end up hurting yourself."

It... started to die down, back to its regular, chilling melody and grew even softer. Flickering away like a candlelight in the cold.

"Don't..." The wolf let out a very tired sigh as he looked out the window. "Oh fuck me."

Thomas leapt out the window and sped towards the source of the song, not caring who or what saw him in the city that never sleeps, he bolted directly into the forest. He tried to block out the new sounds of various creatures he couldn't hear before as well as the new smells of the earth underneath his paws and the plants all around him.

Strange marks were on the ground, they looked like someone dragging themselves through the dirt and the marks themselves smelled vaguely of fish and ink.

The song, while faint was very close, he was hot on the mysterious caller's trail! In fact, the wolf's new sense of smell started to become useful as he picked up some familiar scents in the woods; the smell of ink, smoke from a fire, and the smell of cologne- Wait, he recognized that specific cologne, it was that fancy European brand that the "missing" hot-headed music director used to keep himself from smelling like cigar smoke, vomit, and despair.

And the voice of the singer in the distress call 'song' did sound like him now that he was close enough to hear it. He felt a pit of dread in his stomach that almost made him forget his hunger. He knew that the musician was far too prideful to call for help for anyone unless this was his very last option and his will to live made the difficult task of overpowering his ego.

Squelch.

Almost confirming his fears and adding a new one that he was too late, the mechanic made the mistake of looking down and saw that he stepped on a severed leg. A black, tar-like substance that smelled like ink and rotten meat was squeezed out of the part of the thigh that should've been attached to a person.

"...Mr. Lawrence?" He hesitantly called out, thankfully getting him an exhausted groan in response. "Lawrence, where are you?"

"Here." A hoarse yet relieved sounding voice answered. "Look down."

The wolf looked down into a shallow pool to see what had become of the musician. If he was being honest with himself, he wouldn't deny that the music director was always easy on the eyes, and while the curse effected him drastically, that fact about him didn't change.

The water was clear enough to show off the musician's jet black, fish-like tail which glistened in the moonlight, the still human half of his body went through some changes as well; his hands were webbed and clawed, unlikely to properly hold any instrument, let alone use it, his torso, arms, and neck had patches of black scales scattered about haphazardly like splashes of paint on a canvas. Aside from the siren's new set of teeth (which looked like they could haunt anyone's nightmares), waist-long hair when it was previously shoulder length hair, and glassier eyes, the man's head seemed relatively unchanged.

"Could you stop gawking!?" Sammy re-positioned himself to keep his tail out of sight, or at least he tried to, the damn thing was two thirds of his body and he didn't exactly have something to cover himself up with. "I'm not exactly 'thrilled’ about this... Change, for lack of a better term."

"That's one way to put it." The mechanic almost let out a sympathetic chuckle. "I’d never thought I’d be saying this, but it’s great to see you haven’t died yet.”

“Why thank you.” The merman sarcastically responded. “That’s exactly why I went through all the trouble of literally singing my fucking lungs out!” He exclaimed while gesturing to a pair of charcoal-black things that the wolf previously thought were rocks. “To hear you tell me that ‘it’s great I haven’t died yet’.”

The wolf rolled his eyes.

“So why did you go through all the trouble for summoning me here then? Aside from the whole ...fish thing, you seem perfectly fine.”

“It... wasn't intentional.” The fish-man begrudgingly admitted, his voice sounded bitter, but his eyes shone with fear. “I wasn’t thinking about who or what would hear me or come at the moment. My body was falling apart before my eyes and all that was on my mind during it was; ‘Oh god, I’m going to die here, aren’t I?! And if not, my life will be ruined beyond repair!’. And when I sang out as a panicked response, you became the first to show up. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The siren swam to the other side of his aquatic prison and sighed resignedly.

Tom’s ears folded back in guilt, It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the musician was cursed by the failed ritual HE played a giant part in. As strongly as he disliked the musician, it didn’t feel right to leave him like this; alone, scared, and immobile in a place that could even spell out his death if he was unlucky enough.

He walked over to the other side of the pool and laid down beside the edge of it.

“Hey, you don’t need water to breathe, right?”

The siren looked confused.

“I’ve been breathing air just fine, in fact, I think one of the few advantages to this new body is that it replaced my old lungs with healthier ones. Why are you asking?”

“Climb on my back and I’ll take you out of here, granted, I don’t know where we’re gonna go, but where ever it is, it’ll be better than sitting around waiting for your pool to dry up.”

The merman, while hesitant, did climb up on the wolf man’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck to keep him from falling off, the wolf stood up and ran deeper into the woods.

[gffa]

Hi!  I don’t think it’s easy to put Anakin and Padme’s relationship into just one category or the other, that we see it’s both of these aspects to their relationship. On a storytelling level, on a very foundational level, I think there has to be love between them, because why else would we at all care about the tragedy of them, if they were only obsessed with each other, rather than genuinely loved each other?  If there was no love there, why would we care at all when they fell apart? At the same time, they do fall apart and that’s something that’s been building since the first episode.  They never get a chance to really know each other--how can they?  Anakin and Padme met when he was 9 and she was 14, for a week or two at most, during an incredibly busy time on Naboo, so it’s not like they would have had time to get to know each other very well. He spends the next ten years dreaming of her despite not talking to her in any way that we see (and I think the implication of AOTC is that they have not been in contact, given that she’s surprised to see him all grown up, and the way they introduce themselves to each other), of course he’s built up this idea of her in his mind. They know each other for about another week during Attack of the Clones, put into really intense circumstances, and then marry each other despite not having time to get to actually know who the other person is.  Padme talks about how getting into a secret relationship like this might destroy them, she’s already acknowledging that this would put a huge strain on their relationship, but they throw that caution to the wind because their feelings have been wound up so intensely. This also comes along with what happens on Tatooine, that Padme sets aside that Anakin murdered indigenous children in his anger and this is really important to their story, not just because she should be seeing some giant red flags or having some reaction other than “to be angry is to be human” (when talking about the murder of children), but because it’s going to come into play in Revenge of the Sith, where Padme absolutely knows what happened the last time Anakin had dreams about his mother.

She’s the one who knows those dreams were nightmares, she’s the one who knows what Anakin did to the Tusken children after those dreams haunted him, and she says, “It’s just a dream.” when she sees Anakin getting disturbed about her in ROTS.

Padme is just as blind to who Anakin really is as Anakin is blind to who Padme really is--partly because they never have the time to get to know each other, even the week or so that they spend together in the movie (during/after TPM and during/after AOTC) are times where there’s so much going on, that even if a week or so were enough time to get to know someone (it’s not), they wouldn’t have been able to.  Naboo was being invaded!  Padme had an assassin trying to kill her!  Anakin was freaking out about his mom!  An entire war was unfolding around them! And even after that, the war kept them apart for months at a time, they probably spent far more time apart than they did together. They both idealize the other to an extent, they’re both tremendous romantics, they love the epic, sweeping romance that they fling themselves into--Padme just as much as Anakin.  Her heart absolutely wins out over her mind when it comes to him, because she is just as into this romance that sweeps them off their feet. That’s why the scene from The Clone Wars’ first season, where Padme is trying to get important work done--work that has other people’s lives depending on her--that’s interrupted by Anakin because feelings are more important to him than the people she’s trying to help, is important to show that she absolutely gets swept up in this.  Padme wants this grand, sweeping romance just as much as Anakin does, she melts when he hands over his lightsaber and leans in to kiss her, because this speaks so strongly to her heart. That’s a fantastic scene because it shows the beginnings of how things are going to go so wrong, how they’re sweet and loving in that moment, but it sets the stage for how they don’t handle their shit and how they’re ignoring the bigger problems in the room. It leads to scenes like what happens with Clovis in season five, where Padme repeatedly tells Anakin that she’s not romantically interested in Clovis and he still is so jealous that he tries to forbid her from doing anything with him to help uncover what’s going on on Scipio.  She has poured everything of her heart into this relationship and still when Anakin walks into a scene where they’re kissing, even when it’s clear to the audience that Clovis initiated it, Anakin says that he thinks Padme was the one kissing Clovis, that he still questions if she has feelings for him.

We, the audience, see that Clovis tried to push himself onto Padme, but the conversation between Anakin and Padme afterwards has none of Anakin saying anything about that, instead he specifically says--while he’s defending himself and trying to explain his actions after beating up Clovis--”It’s just, when I saw you about to kiss him--”, showing that it’s about his lack of trust in her, his lack of understanding that she’s truly committed to him, despite everything they’ve said to each other. It’s a direct line to Revenge of the Sith where Anakin is so easily willing to believe that Padme would betray him (by siding with Obi-Wan behind his back, also believing so easily that Obi-Wan would side against him, despite that Obi-Wan has practically been trying to move mountains to help Anakin), showing that these misunderstandings about who the other person is have been there from the beginning and are never fixed. And, ultimately, they don’t actually talk through any of what happened with Clovis, they take a brief break, shit on Scipio hits the fan, he saves her life, they cuddle on the roof of the banking building, and that’s it. They come back together because of intense circumstances creating intense feelings all over again. It isn’t just the secrecy that tears them apart, it’s all the internal stuff as well, the things they don’t address, the things they ignore, the things they don’t see about each other, the way they both won’t make a real choice between their duty and their personal relationship.  Both paths are valuable to each of them, both paths are good--being a Jedi, being a Senator or having this passionate marriage where you want to take off and do whatever you want whenever you want, but as Dave Filoni says it’s about:  “What you choose to do and how you choose to have a relationship, what you sacrifice, then that becomes a bigger deal when he’s made an oath to the Jedi Order to be selfless, to put everyone else ahead of himself.” The oaths they both swore to something bigger than themselves are a big deal and Anakin and Padme both never really figure that out for themselves. And that’s why they’re ultimately torn apart, because Anakin got attached (in the Star Wars meaning of the word) and fell to the dark side because he refused to actually achieve balance within himself, that he rejected the Jedi teachings on how to love without possession. “The fact that everything must change and that things come and go through his life and that he can’t hold onto things, which is a basic Jedi philosophy that he isn’t willing to accept emotionally and the reason that is because he was raised by his mother rather than the Jedi. If he’d have been taken in his first year and started to study to be a Jedi, he wouldn’t have this particular connection as strong as it is and he’d have been trained to love people but not to become attached to them. “But he has become attached to his mother and he will become attached to Padme and these things are, for a Jedi, who needs to have a clear mind and not be influenced by threats to their attachments, a dangerous situation. And it feeds into fear of losing things, which feeds into greed, wanting to keep things, wanting to keep his possessions and things that he should be letting go of. His fear of losing her turns to anger at losing her, which ultimately turns to revenge in wiping out the village. The scene with the Tusken Raiders is the first scene that ultimately takes him on the road to the dark side. I mean he’s been prepping for this, but that’s the one where he’s sort of doing something that is completely inappropriate.“   --George Lucas, Attack of the Clones commentary “He turns into Darth Vader because he gets attached to things. He can’t let go of his mother; he can’t let go of his girlfriend. He can’t let go of things. It makes you greedy. And when you’re greedy, you are on the path to the dark side, because you fear you’re going to lose things, that you’re not going to have the power you need.”  --George Lucas, Time Magazine interview And that’s how we get to this:

That they were in a relationship wasn’t bad, but that Anakin’s attachment to his mother and to Padme led him to do terrible, horrible things, it led him to mistrust Padme even when there was nothing to indicate that she had betrayed him, that these things happened all along the way. They did idealize each other, they did romanticize each other, they did ignore the looming specter of the oaths they swore were being damaged by the way they lived their relationship, they never had time to know each other, Anakin’s feelings for her were the most important thing thing for him--even more important than what Padme herself wanted. “Nothing is more important than the way I feel about you,” he says.  Which is romantic until you realize the lengths he’s willing to be entirely literal about that. “And the bad part is saying, 'I'm doing this for Padme.'" --George Lucas directing Hayden Christensen in Revenge of the Sith on his turn to Darth Vader, that the justification of doing this for her is the bad side of him. Another interesting perspective on this is from the Star Wars Adventures 2019 Annual comic, where Breha talks about Padme to a young baby Leia, which is mostly about Padme’s legacy and the plot-related things she achieved, but briefly talks about her relationship with Anakin, and describes it as, “As fate tried to dictate her response, as love almost diverted her from her quest...”

Breha isn’t someone who would be against love if it were done for the right reasons, she’s married to Bail Organa and we see in Leia: Princess of Alderaan and From a Certain Point of View that they love each other very much.  For her to say this about Padme’s relationship, it says a lot. Now, all that said--and, yes, I’ve given the pairing a real scrubbing because there was a lot to establish and I find those aspects of their relationship fascinating, but this part is just as important--they also genuinely cared about each other. Look at the scene in season 7 of The Clone Wars, where (setting aside that he’s sneaking around to do it), Padme’s advice to him is really warm-hearted and she does gently tease him about his personal feelings driving him too much sometimes, getting him to acknowledge it, showing that Anakin does have the wisdom and training to recognize this. As well as it shows that they gain comfort from each other, they’re soft with each other, they both genuinely enjoy the other’s company:

That’s an incredibly lovely moment, the hand touching says volumes about how they feel about each other, what that small gesture means to each of them and their feelings towards the other. Or, backing up a ways, to further the idea that of course there was love here, look at the way their wedding was shown to us--it’s beautiful and perhaps there’s a touch of bittersweetness to it, but it’s genuinely shown in a gorgeous, romantic way.

It’s even paralleled to the scene of Luke and Leia at the end of ESB, furthering context that there’s a lot of genuine love and care here. (Not to mention the focus on the way they touch hands at their wedding, the way the music is epic and sweeping, telling us with sound and visuals both, that this is a beautiful moment in this very moment.) Or look at how they are in Forces of Destiny:

These are two people who want to be together, you can see it in the way they huddle together and the way they speak to each other. Or look at the beautiful way their kiss is framed in the Age of Republic comic, it’s clear from the visuals that it’s meant to be a romantic, sweet moment. Even if we can talk about the bigger context around it, how Padme is keeping secrets from Anakin and her handmaidens, not letting anyone into her thoughts, the moment itself shows us very clearly that they’re in love, the romance is meant to be seen as genuine:

Or there are some really cute, genuine moments, like in the Star Wars Adventures main series, where Anakin and Padme go on a vacation together and there’s some very cute flirting:

There is nothing about this that’s not completely sweet and adorable!  (And there are some other moments in those two issues that are more cute, sweet flirting.) I don’t think you can have one without the other--Anakin and Padme’s relationship is full of a lot of really disastrous elements on a foundational level.  The lengths Anakin is willing to go to for her, that his fall is directly attributed to his unwillingness to accept the Jedi teachings of that you can (and should) love, but you can’t possess someone, you can’t be greedy about being owed that person, those are baked into the relationship. But so are the cute moments, the genuine care they had for each other, that none of the tragedy would have any meaning or impact if they didn’t genuinely enjoy being around each other, if there wasn’t something genuine there.

[tanadrin]

Seven Swords Against Difficult Problems

When Alexander the conquering king came to Gordium, he heard the legend of the Gordian Knot, which no one could untie. Whoever could separate the ox-cart Gordias had tied to its post, should rule all of Asia; and Alexander, ambitious and cunning, thought for a long time on the problem. Finally, he arose and went to the marketplace where the cart was tied, unsheathed his sharp word, and cut it in half with a single stroke. From Gordium, his armies marched as far as India, fulfilling the prophecy of the oracles.

The first sword, which is the key to all others: In the real world, the constraints of the problem as presented are often not the same as the actual constraints you must labor under.

* * *

When Alexander the conquering king came to Gordium, he heard the legend of the Gordian Knot, which no one could untie. Whoever could separate Gordias' ox-cart from the post it was tied to, should be a mighty king indeed, and Alexander very much desired power and glory. After thinking for a long time, he arose and went to the marketplace, and approached the knot. He drew his sharp sword; but a wise old priest in the crowd, seeing this, cried, "Halt!"

"What is it?" Alexander asked.

"Do you propose to cut the knot, and in so doing, fulfill the prophecy?"

"I do," said Alexander.

"But that's not right," the priest said. "The prophecy isn't 'whoever separates the ox-cart from the post, by whatever means they choose, will be king of all Asia.' Perhaps you've been misled by the Greek translation, which is λύω, λύειν, and can mean either 'untie' or simply 'separate.' But the original prophecy was in Phrygian, and there the distinction is quite clear: the knot must be untied, not merely cut."

Alexander looked at the knot. It was tied of a rope made of cornel-bark, and very old; and such was its age that it had rotted and frayed, and years of exposure to the rain and sun had wetted and dried it again, until it was all a single hardened mass of organic matter. It was not even really a rope anymore.

"I doubt that it can be untied. It hardly qualifies as a knot anymore."

"Nonetheless, untied it must be."

"And if I do cut the knot?"

"The prophecy is void, your kingdom will fail, and you die alone in the desert and be eaten by wild dogs."

"That's in the prophecy?"

"It's in the commentaries, which are considered extremely reliable."

Alexander thought about this for a moment; then he shoved the old priest aside, cut the knot with his sword, and went on to conquer all of Asia in defiance of both the prophecy and its commentaries.

The second sword: Metaphysically perfect methods are no virtue, if they cannot in fact yield benefit. Metaphysically imperfect methods are no vice, if they yield the desired aim.

* * *

When Alexander the benevolent prince came to Gordium, he found in the marketplace there some beggars; and moved by pity at their state, he enquired among some of the townsfolk as to how these unhappy persons came to their condition in life. "It the same sad old tale," the townsfolk answered, "the same vicious cycle that occurs in many places, but which we call here the Gordian Knot, for it is so difficult to untangle. They are unrighteous souls, mired in poverty by their own bad decisions; but though we have offered them virtuous paths out of that poverty--welfare programs with a work requirement, sober living facilities with a curfew, and other ways they can become productive members of society--they either disdain them, or when their desperation finally drives them to try, they fail, and return to their previous state. We can do nothing to help them."

Alexander was puzzled by this. "Tell me, sir," he said, turning to a well-dressed man next to him. "Are you sober?"

"At the moment, or generally?"

"Generally, I mean."

"Well, no."

He turned to a woman on his other side.

"Do you observe a curfew?"

"Of course not," the woman said. "But then, I'm a productive member of society."

He turned to a third person.

"Have your bad choices ever led you astray?"

"Perhaps," the third person said.

“And did you suffer the consequences?”

“For a time,” they admitted, “until my friends came to my aid.”

"Yet no one here will be a friend to these beggars."

"Look," said one of the townsfolk, "we're not heartless. We want to help. But we want to be sure our charity isn't wasted on the undeserving."

Alexander thought about this for a little while. Then he went to the marketplace, gave all the money he had on him to the indigents there, and told his personal assistant to write as many checks as his accounts would bear, to ensure that at least for a time each would have a place to live and food to eat and clothes to wear, whatever happened.

"But," the townsfolk said to him, "aren't you worried your money will go to waste?"

"It seems to me," Alexander said, "that the surest way to turn an undeserving wretch into a deserving one is not to set them up to fail. I note that all the help you have offered the beggars of Gordium is conditional on them behaving in ways more austere and virtuous than you would ever impose on yourselves. And on top of that, none of you have to deal with even a small part of the hardship that these beggars do; so if you cannot aspire to the virtue you demand of them, even in your comfortable lives, how can you say that this demand for great virtue on their part in order to be worthy of your help is fair? Better to give help without conditions, in the hopes that at least some part of the cycle will be broken, than to give help that is no help really at all.

"And even if in the end their condition returns to what it was before, they shall have had warm beds and hot food tonight, and that is not nothing."

The third sword: No kindness at all is wasted. No compassion is useless.

* * *

When Alexander the thoughtful prince came to Gordium, he inquired after the history of that place, for he knew that by the careful study of history, the wise prince better understands the forces that shape a realm in the present day. He learned from the governing priests that lately the city was in a great malaise; for its spiritual life was in decline, its lords tried in vain to revive the piety of the people, and there was a general decadence and falling-off of virtue among the people.

"When I came to this city, I saw many beggars," said Alexander.

"Yes," said the priests, "for there are those who disdain hard work, and will only beg for their living now."

"And when passed by the workshops and factories, I saw laborers grumbling about bad wages, and precarious positions."

"Yes," said the priests, "for they have lost all respect for authority."

"Perhaps," said Alexander. "But would feeding the beggars, and looking to the health of Gordium's industry, and attending to the needs of the city's body not do much to alleviate her ills?"

"But nothing to alleviate the ills of her spirit," said the priests, "for which prayer and piety are the only answer."

"Perhaps, perhaps," said Alexander, bemused. "But maybe it is easier to be pious when your belly is full, and your livelihood is not imperiled."

The fourth sword: Let the question 'but what are the material implications?' be your most ardent refrain.

* * *

When Alexander the thoughtful prince came to Gordium, he inquired after the history of that place, for he knew that by the careful study of history, the wise prince better understands the forces that shape a realm in the present day. He learned from the governing priests that lately the city was in a great malaise; for its spiritual life was in decline, its lords tried in vain to revive the piety of the people, and there was a general decadence and falling-off of virtue among the people.

"Yet when I came to this city, I passed no beggars in the marketplace," Alexander said.

"The city is wealthy, it is true; but its heart is sterile," said the priests.

"And I saw many happy youths in Gordium's parks and gardens."

"But they have turned away from the gods, for their parents have not taught them piety," said the priests.

"And the laborers in the workshops and factories were content; and Gordium is safe from all her enemies."

"But we are a pale shadow of the city we once were, when our hearts were filled with devotion."

"Do you see any remedy for this situation?" Alexander asked.

"Perhaps not, for the people will not suffer anything to upset the status quo--but maybe some great calamity will intervene, and our people will be shaken out of their complacency. Then the youths might learn the virtues of patriotism and service, of fighting for their homeland; then in privation, the people might learn the meaning of sacrifice. Then the virtues might be cultivated that would be necessary to make Gordium once again a moral place."

"Let me get this straight," Alexander said carefully. "Your people are prosperous and content and they bring their children up in safety; they yearn, perhaps, for a metaphysical fulfillment which is sadly absent in the present age--but the thing they seem to have obtained in exchange for this is a life superior in all other respects. And you believe the comparatively happy remedy to this circumstance would be war, ruin, famine, and terror?"

The fifth sword: As for those matters which are purely metaphysical--you may safely permit the gods attend to them on their own time.

* * *

When Alexander the thoughtful prince came to Gordium, he heard there was a legend that once, there were many scholars gathered there to debate a difficult question, which they called in honor of their meeting-place the Gordian Knot. The question was this: how best does a society promote freedom for its citizens? They discussed many matters that seemed related to this question to them: free enterprise, and free markets, and the freedom to enter contracts; free speech; universal suffrage; and bills of rights. In the end, they produced a new constitution for the entire realm of Phrygia, which was intended to give every person within its borders complete freedom and equality under the law; and the state reserved for itself only those powers necessary to defend that constitution.

When the notables of Gordium told him this, Alexander was puzzled. "But I passed many beggars as I entered the market-place today," he said.

"We do not claim our realm is a utopia," the gathered notables said. "Only that here, we are very free. A beggar may still vote in Gordium; they have the perfect freedom to become a minister in government--if they are able."

"Has that ever happened?"

"Well... no," admitted the notables.

"And when I passed by the city's workshops and factories," Alexander said, "it seemed to me that there were many workers who worked long hours and grumbled about their wages, who were very discontent with their jobs."

"It's true," the notables said. "There are those who barely make a living wage here. But they can choose different and better jobs--if they can find them."

"Do such jobs exist?"

"We're not sure," the notables admitted. "But even the lowest worker may become a wealthy capitalist--if they are able."

"Has that ever happened?"

"It is rare, but it has happened."

"And what is this I hear about your rival realm to the west, Lydia, that you despise?"

"Oh, there a man is not free!" said the notables. "Their constitution is wicked; the rights of property are contingent, the rights of employees to enter into free employment contracts are hampered, for the kinds of contract permitted are regulated by the state. Taxes are onerous, for private charity is scorned, and they attempt to provide all necessities at the expense of the wealthy."

"I just passed through Lydia. They are a democracy like you, are they not?"

"They are."

"Lydia has wealthy men and women?"

"Oh yes, many. They are not as wealthy as in Phrygia, though."

"And they seem to have many fewer beggars."

"That... may be so," the notables said. "But it comes at a great cost."

"And the benefits employers provide are better in Lydia. And workers have a say in how their workshops and factories are run."

"It is a cruel limit to freedom."

"And a man in Lydia was just telling me that because of government assistance, he was able to take some time off work and go back to college to get his degree. He expected to earn more when he returned as a result. Does this happen often in Phrygia?"

"Only if you can afford the time off, and pay for college. But it's an incentive to work hard."

"It seems to me," said Alexander, "that here in Phrygia, one has many rights, but one must be very wealthy or very lucky to use them. Perhaps in Lydia, one has fewer rights--but the rights which one actually has the opportunity to exercise are far greater. It must seem to the Lydians that they are far freer than the Phrygians."

"It is not so," the notables said.

"Maybe--if you are a wealthy or powerful Phrygian. Or if you aspire to be. But there are few of those, and many ordinary Lydians who consider themselves very free."

The sixth sword: The usefulness of a definition is contingent on the circumstances in which it is applied.

* * *

When Alexander came to Gordium, as in each other city he visited, he made it his habit to speak to both its noble and downtrodden citizens alike. In those days in Gordium, there were the Mark-Bearers, so called for they were born with a serpentine shape on their forehead, which resembled a knotted cord of cornel-bark. They were considered cursed by the gods, and were expelled from their families; and they dwelt apart, at the edge of the city. They were not permitted to vote, to own property, to marry, or to hold office; and if a child without the sign of the knot was born to them, it was taken away as soon as it was discovered.

Alexander went among the mark-bearers and spoke to them as friends; and they welcomed him. "We are pleased you have come, noble prince," they said to him; "Perhaps you can help us convince the people of Gordium to end their oppression of us."

"What shall I say to them?” asked Alexander.

The mark-bearers debated among themselves for a little while, then said to him, "We think you should say this: by the careful study of natural philosophy, we have determined both that the sign of the knot is a harmless genetic feature, a mere quirk of melanin which appears on the forehead owing to a benign gene; and it cannot be removed, whether by prayer or washing; and therefore it is unjust that we should be considered unclean and outcast; for this is a property we cannot change, and with which we were fated to be born."

But Alexander was aghast at this. "Have the markless among which you live so poisoned your perception of yourselves, that these are your paramount arguments: We cannot change it; and, it is innate? Had a wicked sorcerer come to Gordium in the night and, contriving to create dissension among the people, arbitrarily marked every twentieth soul with the sign of the knot--would then your suffering be deserved? If you had tattooed yourselves, as a sign of your fraternal association, but in no other way changed your behavior toward your fellow human beings--would you then be unclean and wicked?

Those of you who bear this mark deserve not to be scorned and shunned by your fellows, not because this is a condition from which you cannot escape--though that may be true--but because there is no evil to them in it; because their prejudice is cruel and unreasonable in itself, not because your humanity is a thing to be justified to them."

The seventh sword: Who you are, whether that can be changed, whether that should be changed, whether it is natural, and whether you deserve to be treated humanely, are each distinct questions. And the answer to the last one is always 'yes.'