#but then again. i keep to my corner of tumblr. it is much more insidious when tabloids et al do it

[muirneach]

toeing a fine line of hypocrisy being an rpf enjoyer and armchair psychoanalyst who hates when people delve into a celebs personal life

[tealin]

Temperatures

As always, when you see one of these posts pop up you can head straight over to twirlynoodle.com/blog to see it properly formatted and with pictures. Tumblr didn't even take the crosspost last time so I don't know what's going on!

It’s all well and good to share photos of Antarctica – after all, it is a beautiful place, and we are predominantly a visual species. The photos can give you a sense of what it looks like, but not what it feels like. If people know anything about Antarctica, it’s that it’s cold. But how cold? And what kind of cold?

I cannot speak to the full range of Antarctic weather.  I was down for exactly a month, in early summer, and aside from the first week, the weather was unusually calm and mild.  To my great disappointment, I didn't see a single blizzard!  But I did get enough to compare the feel of Antarctica with other places I have been, and I hope that by making those comparisons here, I will bring you a little closer to understanding quite literally what it feels like to be there. 

Temperatures are misleading.  A number can only give you an impression of what one might actually feel when one steps out the door.  Humidity, sunshine, and wind are external factors that affect the perception of temperature; this can be further influenced by how much sleep or food you've had, BMI, resting metabolism, your accustomed climate, where you've just come from – so, 6°C can feel different from one day to the next, or to two different people standing side by side.

There are roughly two types of cold: dry and damp. The influential factor is water, because it takes a tremendous amount of energy to make water change temperature – this is why it takes so much power to boil a kettle, and why we bring hot water bottles to bed instead of hot gravel bottles. In dry environments, there is less water vapour in the air to suck up the heat coming off your body, so you get to keep more of it for yourself. It may be well below freezing, but you will feel the cold merely as a sensation on your skin, where it meets the air, and not something that goes right through you. Damp cold, because of the energy-hungry water in the air, feels a lot colder. It’s not enough merely to cover your skin, you need layers of fabrics that have moisture-repelling properties (wool is key; cotton is useless). Your precious body heat will leak out through any weak point in your clothing. Because of their different properties, dry air can be much colder than damp air and yet feel more comfortable. In my experience, damp cold is the worst when it’s above freezing, because below freezing the air can’t hold so much water. Damp climates, however, tend not to get much below freezing, so when people from damp climates imagine very cold temperatures, they imagine the insidious cold they know, only much much worse. It’s not necessarily like that.

Even the objective numerical value of a temperature presents a problem: my historical sources, and the United States of America, report temperatures in Fahrenheit, while the rest of the world operates in Celsius.  Scientists prefer the metric system, but McMurdo is an American base, so it's functionally bilingual.  I tend to think in Celsius, but as the historical record was in °F and I wanted to be able to compare what I was experiencing with what my guys experienced, I paid more attention to °F while I was down there.  In this post, I will report actual temperatures in both, so you can look at whichever one you understand best. 

When I left Britain in mid-October, we had been having a very mild autumn, after a hot summer.  My hopes for hardening up a little on the way to Antarctica were dashed when Vancouver, though objectively colder, felt merely fresh and delightful, I assume because it was unseasonably dry.  LA is always dry in the autumn and usually hot, so that was no surprise; Christchurch however was much warmer than expected, and because it wasn't as dry as LA, felt even hotter.  After several days' delay there, I feared my blood was much too thin to be hurtled into ice and snow. 

It is regulation to wear one's Extreme Cold Weather gear on the plane to McMurdo.  Aware that I'd just had a fortnight of heat to thin my blood, and that they were just coming out of a cold snap down there, I was only too happy to take this precaution.  When the plane landed, everyone piled on their balaclavas and tuques, and when the door opened, an icy-looking fog formed as our pent-up breaths met the cold air from outside.  Here we go, I thought.  As I approached the gangway I braced myself for the smart of cold air on exposed skin and the stiletto keenness as I inhaled, but . . .   

. . . it was fine. 

In fact, it was so fine that when I was allowed to change out of my ECW, I put on my street shoes, not even my cold-weather hiking boots.  I knew dry cold from Utah and Alberta, but I was coming to understand that in an Antarctic context, “well it was -20, but it was a dry cold” isn't a joke, it's just a statement of fact.  +6°C(42°F) would be miserable in damp Cambridge, but -6°C(21°F) was quite comfortable at McMurdo – if it wasn't windy, one could happily go about without a coat.

One always had a coat to hand, though, because the wind could turn up at any time, and it made a big difference.  The first time I went to Cape Evans it was so mild as to be balmy – I was in snow pants because they were required for the snowmobile, but on top I stripped down to just my base layer and a medium-weight sweater, and was even a bit warm in that.  It was -1°C/30°F, but I could happily have sat down to a picnic. 

Before we left, I wanted to make a quick trip up Wind Vane Hill.  I got hot climbing it, but while on top, a breeze kicked up, and before long I was wishing I hadn't left my jacket at the bottom.  The reason I have my hands tucked in my snow pants bib in the above photo is because they were beginning to feel quite nippy.  I always had a jacket with me after that, even if I cursed its dead weight the whole time.  (It was usually my trenchcoat, not the big red parka, for this reason.  I will go into more depth on clothing in a future post.) 

A similar thing happened on my Basler flight.  I'm afraid I don't know the actual temperatures where and when we landed – we were at the inland extremity of the Barrier, though, so everything I'd read told me it ought to be noticeably colder than McMurdo.  It might well have been.  But the only clue that it wasn't a perfectly warm summer day was that the slightest stir in the air breathed ice on my hands.  It felt much the same at the much higher altitude site of CTAM.  The interior of the continent is even drier than the coast: apparently, in the absence of wind and on a bright sunny day, this makes temperature barely perceptible at all. 

A windless day is a vast exception in the case of Antarctic weather, though, and besides chilling a human body, the direction of the wind makes a big difference to the objective air temperature.  A north wind, arriving from over the open sea, was comparatively mild.  Most of the time, however, the wind was from the east to south, coming cold off the icy interior.  This sends it funnelling through The Gap straight at Hut Point. The Hut Point Wind was infamous in the Heroic Age; even now it can be a pleasant day at the station, but one must remember to kit up just to walk around the corner to the Discovery Hut. 

It did make for some great photos, though, because if the conditions were just right – which they were a few times in my month there – the wind would kick up some freshly fallen snow and things would look so very Antarctic.  The funny thing was, on the days when it looked quintessentially polar, it was actually comparatively warm.  The snow was so powdery that a fairly light wind could lift it, so it didn't have to be brutally windy to look brutally windy.  The cold really sets in when a high pressure system stays in place for a while and keeps the air still; if there is turbulence, there is warmth, and if a weather system moves through – such as the kind that delivers snow – the temperature rises considerably.  So in order for there to be fresh snow to blow around, there will have been a recent warm spell, whereas if it's starting to get cold again, the new snow will have compacted enough not to blow around.  The strongest winds I encountered in Antarctica were at Cape Crozier, but you'd never guess it from my photos, which haven't a speck of drift.  I am sure there are exceptions to this, but this was a dependable pattern in my time there. 

Above: two images of light snow blowing off just after a snowfall, when it was comparatively warm. Below: 30-knot winds at Cape Crozier, but you'd never guess.

One of my oddest temperature memories was in one of those balmy drifty situations.  I had been asked to give my history lecture over at Scott Base, and I was to wait for the Kiwi truck at a designated pickup point on the road coming over from The Gap.  There are three official categories for weather in Antarctica: Condition 3 is when everything can operate as normal: it can be cold, it can be windy, but visibility is fine and the ordinary precautions will see you through.  Condition 2 is when things are starting to get serious: drift and/or winds are reaching dangerous levels, extra precaution is necessary, and venturing outside is discouraged.  Condition 1 is when everyone is required to stay indoors except on vital business as merely venturing outside is a life-threatening risk.  During my month there it was always Condition 3, but within the hour of my pickup a Condition 2 had been declared on the Scott Base side of The Gap.  My ride said she would be coming anyway, as she would be overwintering and needed the practice of driving in Condition 2, so I went up to meet her.  I was hoping I would finally get a blast of Antarctica, but it gave me a surprise.  For one, it was warm.  And, yes, it was windy, but not desperately so, and the wind had a damp sweetness that, weirdly, made me think of swelling streams and crocuses.  The Condition 2 had been called purely because of the drift, which was obscuring the road and therefore made driving more hazardous than usual.  It was surreal to hear my driver checking in with her radio operator as if she were chasing tornadoes when it was really quite pleasant out.

My first few days at McMurdo were by far the coldest of my whole visit.  When I first visited the Discovery Hut it was -18°C, or just below 0°F, and rather windy on the way back.  That was when I learned that one can be feeling really quite cosy all over but one's outermost extremities can still suffer the cold – I distinctly remember wondering why my fingertips were tingling when I felt so warm, and a little while later my toes went numb and I had to stamp them back to life.  The dryness, not sapping your core heat, can lure you into a false sense of security, and nab your digits while you're not looking. 

After that, daily highs mostly hovered around the freezing point, and lows rarely dipped as low as -10°C/+14°F.  This was really very mild – indeed, the people who'd been down since September could often be seen flitting about in t-shirts – and was an amusing irony for me personally.  Twice in the past I'd visited Calgary in search of 'Antarctic' cold and hit, instead, a relatively mild spell; it turned out that in Antarctica I was getting exactly the same weather that I had thought un-Antarctic in Calgary.  Not only was it the same weather on paper, but it felt exactly the same as well – the light, fresh kiss of frosty air on one's cheeks, surprising warmth in the sunshine but a breeze to keep you honest, and even the same granular texture to old snow.  Altitude can give you the same feeling, as the thinner air cannot hold as much moisture as it can at lower levels, so if you've not been to the Prairies but have been on a ski holiday, you can use that as a reference point as well. 

It is much harder to draw parallels with damper climates.  At home in Cambridge, I have a sort of 'misery zone' between 4°-10°C (40°-50°F) where it's too cold to be warm, but not cold enough to be crisp, and the damp seems to seep through every layer to reach in and chill. As the thermometer plunges towards freezing and below, it is, ironically, more comfortable weather, because the colder the air is, the less moisture it can hold.  In Britain I have sometimes found myself taking off layers as the mercury falls.  When imagining Antarctica, people often extrapolate from their own experience of cold temperatures: If your base measure of cold is the 'misery zone' in a damp climate, such as Europe or the Eastern US, then you may think 'If 6°C feels like this, then -6° must feel that much worse' when in fact all the other factors at play can make it preferable.  Even the cold days on my arrival at McMurdo were nicer, experientially, than a misty morning in deepest February back home.  At one point, Cherry describes Antarctic summer weather as resembling a crisp sunny morning in September, and indeed from a British perspective Antarctica often felt more like a bright and breezy 13°C (55°F) than anything closer to freezing.

This gave me some perspective on the early explorers.  If they had spent their lives on this chilly island, and then travelled to Antarctica over a chilly sea, they would be coming at it with all the assumptions one acquires from experience with humid cold.  Finding not an amplification of your worst experiences, but instead a wonderland where the thermometer seemed to exist in a different reality – certainly the case when they arrived in midsummer – would encourage some overconfidence that we might consider reckless.  Some, like Scott, had been down before and knew how deceptive the weather could be; his journals are full of chiding his team for not taking Antarctica seriously.  But there were many who were new to it, and even after an Antarctic winter, sheltered as they were in an insulated hut by the sea, they did not fully grasp how dangerous things could get inland and how narrow the margins were.  A breeze may be thrilling when it brings the truth of -10 to exposed skin warmed by the sun; when the truth is -40 it's instant frostbite.  While I didn't get temperatures that low, my experience with higher ones can, I hope, help me imagine how that would go. 

The dryness that made the cold so bearable granted me a reprieve from an opposing worry.  Outside of Britain I generally find buildings overheated in the winter – I have to remind myself to pack light 'inside clothes' or else I suffocate.  This is especially the case in the States, and McMurdo being an American base I foresaw having to strip five layers off and put them back on again every time I entered or exited a building.  They may have been overheated, but I don't know – dry air saps the potency of heat as well as cold, so it was as comfortable to wear three layers as one, and that saved me a lot of time in the cloakroom.  Thanks, Antarctica! 

I had got so used to the nip in the air that I thought I'd be inured to cold for the rest of the winter, but once I was back on this cold damp North Atlantic island, the misery zone was as potent as ever.  I may not have picked up thermoregulation superpowers in Antarctica, but I did come back with two secret weapons: merino wool base layers, and an utter disregard for my appearance so long as I was warm.  I highly recommend both to anyone in a disagreeable climate. 

[lesdemonium]

I’d Be the Choiceless Hope Chapter 16

Ship: Geraskier Word count: 45187 (total) Chapter: 15/16 Summary:  

“Such a nice, beautiful sound,” the fae crooned. “If only he were this way always.”

Julian’s mother stood up. She claimed she was prepared to stop the fae, to protect her baby, but in Julian’s darkest moments he doubted this part of the story. His mother loved him, of that he had no doubt, but she had been young and weary, and even years later, she couldn’t quite get the twinge of exhaustion out of her eyes when she recalled Julian’s infancy. Even if she had been keen on protecting him, the fae was too close, too fast, too set on his plan.

“A gift, for the new mother,” the fae continued. He leaned a hand in to stroke Julian’s cheek. “I give you the gift of obedience.”

As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier’s mother with Jaskier’s obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the “gift” became more of a curse.

Additional tags: AngstAngst with a Happy EndingHeavy AngstUnrequited LoveNot Actually Unrequited LoveAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceCanon EraNot Canon CompliantCursed Jaskier | DandelionAlternate Universe - Ella Enchanted FusionCurse of ObedienceRape/Non-con ElementsImplied/Referenced Rape/Non-conJaskier | Dandelion Whump

read on ao3 - read chapter 1 on ao3

read chapter 1 on tumblr

Geralt was ushering Cirilla onto Roach’s back by the time Jaskier made it downstairs. By this point, he was so weak, he was leaning against a post holding the stable roof up, but still Geralt eyed him warily, like he was dangerous. Jaskier supposed he was.  He stepped between Jaskier and Ciri, and his fingers stretched out, like he was debating taking his sword.

“Don’t come any closer,” Geralt warned, his voice dangerous. “I won’t let you hurt her.”

Jaskier shook his head helplessly. “Geralt, I would never. Not. Not willingly.”

“You tried to kill me.” Geralt pointed an accusing finger at Jaskier.

He had a flat affect, betraying no emotion, as Geralt had spent so many decades training himself to do. Jaskier, however, had spent decades studying his witcher. The corners of his eyes pinched, just slightly, and his mouth was a hard line. Jaskier couldn’t have physically hurt him, though he had gotten close, but Geralt was wounded all the same.

“I’m sorry--the Nilfgaardians--Geralt, they knew,” Jaskier said. “They knew about my curse. Cahir--their leader--he ordered me to kill you. I couldn’t tell you about it. He told me not to. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You have to know I’d never hurt you.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and he searched Jaskier’s face. What he was looking for, Jaskier didn’t know. Geralt took a step closer, his expression turning more wary.

“You were the trap,” Geralt finally said, his shoulders sagging. “The castle--it was so easy to get to you. I was expecting a trap. But nothing came. Because it was you. They used you against me.”

Jaskier nodded. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I tried to tell you. I couldn’t. I tried to get away from you.” He swiped the heel of his hand over his still-wet eyes, then looked up to Cirilla. She still looked so terrified, the poor girl, and was holding onto Roach as if the horse was her only lifeline. “I’m so sorry I scared you. I had no choice, you see. But I’ll never, ever do that again.”

Cirilla stared at him for a long moment, then slowly, carefully, nodded her head.

“He still needs a healer,” Ciri said, letting herself down from Roach’s back.

“I don’t think--” Geralt began, but Ciri pushed past him to Jaskier.

Ciri tugged Jaskier’s arm around her shoulder and eased him off the post. She was struggling, Jaskier could tell, but still she stubbornly turned them both back in the direction of the inn. Ciri probably would have gone the entire way, if Geralt hadn’t come to Jaskier’s other side and shifted Jaskier’s weight onto himself.

The three of them made it back to the inn in silence. Geralt laid Jaskier down on the mattress again, and this time Jaskier went with no fuss. Jaskier heard Geralt kick the dagger out of sight moments before the healer swooped into the room. She fussed over Jaskier’s wounds and Jaskier, begrudgingly, was the best patient she could have asked for, if only because his compliance helped ease the tension in Geralt’s face.

“Apply these salves twice a day,” the healer instructed, pointing to the ceramic pots she had left on the table. “Let him rest, and he should be mobile again in a couple days.”

When the healer left, an awkward silence filled the room. Each of them looked in a different direction. Ciri out the window, Geralt at the door where the healer had just exited, and Jaskier on his own hands sitting in his lap.

“Here,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier looked up just in time to see Geralt hand Ciri something, then nod toward the door. “The next room. I’ll be able to hear you if anything happens.”

Ciri nodded, sparing one last glance at Jaskier before she left the room. The heavy silence continued after she left, and Jaskier felt suffocated by it. He had never much liked silence, but now it felt particularly insidious, after all that had happened.

“Geralt, I’m so--” Jaskier tried, needing to break the tension in the air, but he was cut off as Geralt put up a hand.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. He hesitated a moment, then came to the bedside. He sat on the edge with clunky, disjointed movements, and kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke, “I’m so sorry. What I did--and then avoiding you--I was just trying to protect you.”

Jaskier crossed his arms and glared at Geralt. “I don’t need protecting. Especially not that sort of protecting. You promised me you would never.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.” Geralt finally looked up, and he looked so earnest . As if he had never meant anything more in his life. “When I heard they had you--” He scrubbed a hand over his stubble. “I came as fast as I could. I couldn’t imagine--”

“It’s fine, Geralt. It just. It doesn’t matter.” Jaskier looked away from him, staring instead at the pots of salve. It was safer that way. “I’m safe now. So. You and Ciri can go.”

“We’ll stay until you’re healed.”

Jaskier scoffed. “I don’t need your charity, Geralt. I can handle myself just fine while I heal. I’ll only slow you two down, and I don’t want to force you to stay out of some misguided feelings of guilt. I forgive you. We can move on. You don’t have to pretend to want me around.”

He was so focused on stubbornly not looking at Geralt, that Jaskier jumped when Geralt’s fingers cupped Jaskier’s jaw. He tilted Jaskier’s chin back to look at Geralt, then pressed forward to smooth his thumb along Jaskier’s cheekbone.

“Being without you this last year has been agony, Jaskier,” Geralt said, his voice soft. He shifted, scooting closer to Jaskier, and cupping his face between both hands. “I missed you every single second. I regretted what I did every single second.”

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out an audible breath. His heart pounded in his chest and he leaned into Geralt’s embrace. He could stay in this moment forever.

“So take me with you,” Jaskier breathed.

Now, Geralt sounded regretful. “I can’t. It’s too dangerous. I want to, more than anything. But Nilfgaard is after us, and I won’t put you in harm's way. Not again.”

Jaskier opened his eyes again, furrowing his eyebrows at Geralt. “That makes no sense, Geralt. Nilfgaard already got me once. You missed me. I missed you. I don’t know of any safer place than with you.” His hands covered Geralt’s and he pushed himself up to sit on his knees. “I have to go. You have to take me. We can’t--I couldn’t stand to be parted from you again. Not now that I have you here.”

“Don’t--you can’t do this.” Geralt shook his head, thumbing at Jaskier’s cheeks again. “I need you to stay here.”

Geralt looked devastated. His face was pinched as if he was in physical pain and he held Jaskier’s face as if Jaskier was the most precious thing in the world. And still, he did not seem swayed by Jaskier’s words. That would not do. This time, Jaskier was going to win this fight.

“Then order me.”

Geralt blinked. “What?” he asked.

“Order me. Tell me to stay away from you. I will not listen to your suggestions, Geralt of Rivia. If you want me to stay, then you have to tell me to stay.”

“Jaskier, I’m not going to do that to you,” Geralt said, glaring now. “I won’t do that again.”

“Do it. If you want to keep me safe so badly, then fucking do it . Order me to stay.” Jaskier’s voice was firm, brokering no argument. He had learned from the best, after all.

Geralt looked torn. He grimaced, and though he started by shaking his head, as he took in Jaskier’s set jaw and narrowed eyes, he wavered. Geralt was going to lose this one, and they both knew it now.

“Jaskier, stay here. Don’t follow us,” Geralt finally managed, each word taking a great deal of effort.

Jaskier pulled Geralt’s hands away from his face and climbed forward on his knees. He swung a leg over Geralt’s lap, straddling him, and now he took Geralt’s face in his hands. Geralt stared up at him, perplexed, and wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s hips. Jaskier leaned in, dipping his head and stopping just a hair's-breadth away from kissing Geralt.

“No,” Jaskier breathed against Geralt’s lips. “I will not. I go where you go from now on.”

Geralt huffed into Jaskier’s mouth, and his arms tightened around Jaskier. “But, the curse?”

Jaskier shook his head. “I told my truth. I broke it. I love you, Geralt. I am now, and have always been, yours. And I will not let you cast me aside, never again.”

Jaskier felt drunk on this new power. He was free. Geralt’s order had not settled into him like every other order before it had. For the first time in his life, Jaskier was his own person, free to go wherever he wanted, free to say no whenever he cared to.

“You love me,” Geralt said, and Jaskier shivered as Geralt’s thumb trailed over his skin, just above the hem of Jaskier’s trousers. He had missed this entirely too much. “I love you. I love you, too, and I want you safe, even if I’ve done a terrible job of showing that.”

Jaskier’s fingers carded through Geralt’s hair and Geralt tilted his head to capture Jaskier’s lips in a kiss, but Jaskier pulled away. He pulled away far enough to see the questioning quirk of Geralt’s eyebrows. The amber of his eyes.

“You’ll make it up to me. I know you will. Now, ask me to come with you.”

Geralt stared at Jaskier, a small smile creeping across his lips. They drew together again, until their lips just barely touched. For a long moment, that was all they did. They breathed together, Jaskier’s eyes closed as he felt this moment.

“Jaskier, will you come to Kaer Morhen with me?” Geralt whispered.

For the first time, Jaskier had a choice. He had his witcher again. He had his freedom. No one could imprison him or bend his will to their own, ever again. He was his own man, rather than a pawn in anyone else’s game.

Jaskier captured Geralt’s lips in a long, slow kiss, leaving them breathless and wanting more. Geralt leaned Jaskier back on the bed, hovering over Jaskier’s body to keep them close, but let Jaskier rest. Geralt’s hands slipped up Jaskier’s sides, soft but steady, like he was never letting Jaskier go again. Jaskier held Geralt’s face and chased his mouth, knowing, finally, that Geralt was his, and he was Geralt’s. For once, it wasn’t a lie, or a half-truth, or a secret. It was honest, and open, and out there. It was love.

“Yes.” Jaskier pressed a kiss to Geralt’s brow. “I go where you go. Always.”

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

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QUEST 11: SLISKE’S ENDGAME

QUEST SUMMARY:

The eclipse is nigh. The end of Sliske’s games draws near. All the gods gather for one final race for the Stone, taking them through a shadowy labyrinth of the devious Mahjarrat’s design. Not only does Jahaan have to survive the trials Sliske sets out for them, but he has to compete against every major deity in Gielinor. Then, and only then, will he have a shot at ending Sliske’s madness once and for all…

CHAPTER 4 - MORAL MAZE

Jahaan had been traipsing through the maze for quite some time now without running into anyone. After his spat with Saradomin and Zamorak, he was glad for the solitude. He knew at some point he’d run into the dragonkin - just his luck, after all. From Sliske’s announcements, they’d been making quite the mess. Recently Jahaan had stumbled over the debris of a broken statue, no doubt their doing.

Jahaan had no idea how long he’d spent in the maze, but it had to have been a couple of hours by now. His waterskin was empty, and the measly amount of food he’d packed had long since been scoffed. The thing about being stuck in a labyrinth was the lack of visual progression. Sure, he’d reached the glowing orb thing first, but beyond that, it was a free-for-all. Yes, he’d solved a whole bunch of puzzle doors and trap rooms by now, but they didn’t show any signs of lessening. Who’s to say Zaros wasn’t one locked door away from the Stone, or Saradomin hadn’t run himself in circles and was back at the start? Of course, the frustration was exactly what Sliske was hoping to elicit in the competitors. Seeing them squabble and break would surely be amusing for him...

Eventually Jahaan stumbled upon Zaros and company, the deity greeting, “Well met, World Guardian.”

“Hello Zaros,” Jahaan cordially replied. “How are you finding the game so far?”

“It is an unnecessary formality,” Zaros replied, betraying no emotion. “Sliske loves to caper and play the fool, but his time now is almost at an end.”

“You expect to win the game?”

“It is not a question of winning or losing,” Zaros stated. “I have never seen the need, or felt the desire, to participate in mortal entertainments and this is no different. I have made sufficient effort to ensure that whatever the outcome, things will transpire according to my design.”

Jahaan narrowed his eyes, warily. There was something subtly threatening about Zaros’ tone, something insidiously ominous, but Jahaan didn’t want to delve too much into it now, lest he accidentally make another enemy here.

But if I get the Stone, how would that fit into Zaros’ plan? Jahaan couldn’t help but muse to himself.

Such a thought only spurred Jahaan on, not wanting to waste any more time with idle chit-chat. He admired Zaros, but not enough to relinquish the Stone to the deity, should he claim it.

But before he left, he desired a small word with Azzanadra, who looked a lot more sullen and morose than usual. The Mahjarrat seemed to be staring off into space.

“Azzanadra?” Jahaan called.

The Mahjarrat looked up, shaking the cobwebs from his mind. “Apologies, World Guardian. My mind was elsewhere.”

“That’s okay,” Jahaan was slightly worried about Azzanadra’s tone but thought better than to question it. Mahjarrat hated talking about their feelings at the best of times, but in front of their god? Not a chance. But Jahaan had been hoping to run into Azzanadra, so he pushed his concerns aside for a moment and said, “When I met with Wahisietel, he said another Ritual was on the horizon. Did one actually happen?”

Azzanadra nodded, gravely. “A Ritual was conducted, but Sliske did not attend. It does not seem to have affected him, though. Not yet, anyway.”

“Why do you think that is?” Jahaan asked, having ideas of his own but hoping for some clarity.

Clearing his throat, Azzanadra’s eyes darted to Zaros and Char, refusing to meet Jahaan’s own. “Apologies, Jahaan. We can discuss this after the Stone has been claimed.”

Azzanadra strode off down the corridor, Jahaan numbly watching him go. He looked to Zaros in hopes of an explanation, but only received a courteous, “I must continue. Perhaps we will meet at the end, World Guardian.”

Strisath and Sithaph had separated from Kerapac at the start of the labyrinth, not caring for the more reserved strategy of the Dactyl dragonkin. No, the Necrosyrtes didn’t have the patience to follow Kerapac’s lead, instead taking to barrelling through the labyrinth like an unhinged tornado. Unsurprisingly, they hadn’t gotten far in the labyrinth, save for the few mask-based riddle doors they got through by pushing every button until the door yielded. They shrugged off the static shocks they endured like they were pinpricks.

Wings didn’t help them, though they insisted on repeatedly trying to fly over the walls, the forcefield stopping them every time.

Unfortunately for Armadyl, he just so happened to run into these dragonkin.

Armadyl’s breath caught in his throat as soon as he saw the dragonkin storm around the corner, halting his avianse and trying to subtly move in front of them to protect them.

Gulping, he whispered to his entourage, “Stay back. Don’t provoke them.”

As soon as Strisath and Sithaph locked eyes with Armadyl, they stalked over, a hoarse gargle from a forgotten flame dying in their throats.

“Why so scared, little budgie?” Strisath taunted, hungry eyes raking up the avianse god’s tall frame.

“I have no quarrel with you,” Armadyl tried to sound confident, but his tone was wavering.

“Nor we with you,” Sithaph’s tone was taunting and cruel. “Why would we fight the ‘Great Armadyl, holder of the Siphon’?”

“‘Great Armadyl, Beheader of Bandos’,” Strisath joined in with a cackle, skulking around to block one of Armadyl’s exits.

“‘Great Armadyl, Stone Coveter’,” Sithaph hissed, a strangled rasp of a sound.

Trying to quell his shaking, Armadyl let out a long breath and began, “Look, I am not interested in the Stone. Not personally. I want to lock it away, far away from any gods. I'm here to end this. And I could help all of you! I may be powerless here, but away from this game - I would free you. I would try to free you!”

Sithaph tilted his head to one side, licking his lips with a forked tongue. “You would do that for us? You would set us free? We wouldn't feel this... rage, this strength in pain? It would be gone?”

Sighing with relief, Armadyl excitedly continued, “Yes, all of it! I would dedicate myself to returning you to your noble roots, I-”

He was cut off by having to duck a fireball that was aimed too close to his head. Smoke huffed from Strisath’s nostrils as he grunted, “Foolish pigeon, it would be easier to rip out your stupidity than rip out the Stone's curse.”

Sithaph barred his fearsome set of teeth. “You stand here, with the gift of the elder gods removed from you, and claim to save us? Arrogant bird. The fury of the dragonkin cannot be quelled! Not by you, and not by any of the other pathetic creatures that call themselves gods…”

With that, they both let out an ear-piercing scream in tandem and bolted down the next corridor.

Armadyl watched them go, thankfully with a pride more singed than his feathers.

Once again, a vexing puzzle door blocked Zaros and his entourage from progressing in the maze. The puzzle blocking the door in question was a mechanism of sorts, one comprised of a dial that could only be solved by deciphering the rune symbols surrounding it. There were dozens of potential combinations, but Zaros had soon figured out the correlation between the composite runes in an incorrect colour and the number of twists required on the dial. A good twenty minutes at a previous gateway had led to that discovery and, to their relief, Sliske had been consistent in his solutions.

When they walked through, who was there to greet them at the other side, but Zamorak and his entourage.

The thick tension between the two groups was suffocating, a choking silence of calculations and false bravado.

Of all of them, Azzanadra was the first one to break the silence. “Well… this takes me back.”

“Be silent, worm,” Lord Daquarius warned. “You are in the presence of a god!”

Licking his lips, Azzanadra cracked a challenging sneer. “Do you have any idea who we are?”

“Relics of the past who should have stayed buried,” Lord Daquarius spat back, clutching onto the hilt of his sword.

“Better a relic than an usurper!” Char boldly retorted.

“Enough, all of you,” Zamorak groaned, exasperatedly. “Zaros, Azzanadra… it’s been a minute.”

Azzanadra replied, “We seem to be running into each other a lot these days,” he squinted at Moia. “I do not recognise the company you are keeping. What is she supposed to be?”

Zamorak introduced, “This is Moia. Lucien's daughter.”

Azzanadra’s face turned a sickening shade of disgust. “Lucien's… daughter? How? But… her face. What is wrong with her face?”

“I am half-human,” Moia announced, lifting her chin in dignified defiance.

“Half?” Azzanadra choked. “But that is not possible… my lord, did you know of this abomination?”

“Yes,” Zaros confirmed. “But she is not important. The secret of her creation died with Lucien.”

“Thankfully!”

“But I could be the future of our race!” an insulted Moia protested.

“Our race?” Azzanadra spluttered through the indignity. “Better to not have a future than this… this 'hybrid'!”

“Zamorak told me you were a self righteous fool,” Moia growled, baring her teeth. “I see now how right he was!”

Shaking his head, Azzanadra asked, “Zamorak, how can you stand to be around this 'thing'?”

Zamorak simply replied, “Moia is a loyal follower. She is also perfectly capable of speaking for herself.”

Still, Azzanadra persisted, “My lord, we cannot let this abomination roam free. It is an insult to the Mahjarrat. We must kill it!”

“We must do nothing of the sort,” Zaros firmly disuaged. “Moia is here as Zamorak's agent, and Zamorak and I have come to an understanding, as you should remember.”

“Oh, really? And here I was hoping for the big showdown…”

Zaros audibly sighed. “Hello Sliske.”

“By all means, don’t let me disturb you,” Sliske continued, his honeyed voice dripping through everyone’s last nerve like acid. “I really am sorry to have missed that shindig on Freneskae. You two finally kiss and make up, hm?”

Zamorak’s grin turned malicious. “Sliske! You know, I really wish you had made it to the Ritual,” he flashed a devilish sneer at Azzanadra. “It would have been fun to see some of your closest companions finally prove they were sick of you.”

At this, Azzanadra started to storm forward, but Zaros held an arm out to stop him.

“Come on Zaros, let them get it out of their system. After all, I’ve stripped you all of your powers. Even Azzy’s feeling the effects. It would be fun to see a little fist-fight between him and Zammy.”

“Be quiet, Sliske,” Zaros warned, coldly.

Naturally, it was a warning Sliske did not heed. “Then Zamorak, maybe you could take Zaros on personally? After all, you’ve already spent an eternity without your god powers. You KNOW how to fight. You could easily take him.”

Zamorak had had enough. “Shut the FUCK UP Sliske!”

Sliske tutted. “Oh, Zammy, you're still such a bore. Go on, then. Go back to your disappointingly non-violent squabbling.”

“It is time to leave,” Zaros announced.

“Actually, I wanted to speak to you alone, Zaros,” Zamorak’s tone was measured, his anger dissipated.

Char boldly interjected, “Whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of all of us, usurper.”

Hushing her, Zaros assured, “Do not fear, my child. Zamorak and I have come to an understanding. I wish to hear him out. Please…”

He motioned for Zamorak to follow him to the far end of the corridor, though both deities knew they were being watched like hawks by the beedy eyes of their respective entourages.

“Your followers are very protective over you,” Zamorak commented, looking over his shoulder at the glare Char was shooting him. He waved in return.

“They are,” Zaros simply replied.

“Of course, while we’re both here, stripped of our powers…” Zamorak trailed off, an unreadable glint in his eyes.

“Yes?”

“This would be the perfect time to complete the rebellion.”

“By killing me?”

“Yes. I don’t think they could save you in time.”

Calmly, Zaros inquired, “And will you do so?”

After a long pause, Zamorak let out a deep, pent up sigh, and said, “It’s very, very tempting... but no.”

“And why not?” Zaros’ stoism did not waver.

“Because the rebellion’s thousands of years in the past. Because you helped save the Mahjarrat. Because we share a mother? But also because perhaps... I finally realise that I haven’t got shit to prove to you anymore. When you were gone, I conquered worlds. I brought death to whole races and redemption to others. Thousands of years ago I wanted to prove I could be a better leader than you. I’ve since proven that a hundred fucking times over.”

Though it couldn’t be seen behind his mask, Zaros’ lips danced with the faintest glimmer of a warm smile, one he hadn’t achieved in a milenia. “Good. It was always my hope for you that you would fulfil your potential. I simply did not anticipate it coming in the form it did.”

Zamorak felt like smiling too, but he restrained himself. “Yes, I recall you spoke of my potential when you made me your Legatus Maximus, back when I first became a general of your armies and swore to do your bidding.”

Zamorak relaxed his tensed up stance, his face washing over with a tranquility he hadn’t felt since stepping inside Sliske’s labyrinth. “It’s strange… we have not spoken like this in so long, my lord. I feel… 'loyal'...” his eyes grew wide. “Wait…”

Zaros brought a single finger to the lips of his mask, signalling quiet. “Sliske must not know. I will not take advantage of you.”

Zamorak knew this feeling - he felt it many times before, even right before he stabbed Zaros with the Staff of Armadyl. It was the insidious, smoky feeling of having his mind infiltrated, a power Zaros held and administered so easily. The ‘curse’ that Zaros spoke of, doomed to enforce loyalty in the beings he commanded over, never knowing if it was genuine or not.

What the fuck? Was his divinity… somehow not stripped...

However, instead of anger at this unwelcomed familiarity, he only felt serenity. He knew not to ask questions, and he knew why not to ask, because he knew the answers; these questions and answers belonged to Zaros - they were not his own. “Then... this feeling of calm...?

“It is not real,” Zaros confirmed. “Your rage will return. Your rage at me, in particular. But I urge you, Zamorak, for the sake of the warlord who once showed so much promise, and the righteous divinity you have become, do not let it master you. Now, I must depart.”

“Goodbye my lor-...” Zamorak shook his head, clearing his mind. “Goodbye, Zaros.”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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[hannah-writes]

RNM Creators Appreciation Week

So I’ve not been in the right headspace to flail and rec as much as I wanted to, but today, on Cheerleader Appreciation Day, I can’t let this one pass me by. Without cheerleaders, I don’t think I’ve have posted much past my first couple of fics, and I certainly wouldn’t have finished some of the fics I found hard to write, and Not in this World would be nothing but a pipe-dream.

I don’t think those people who spend time cheerleading realise just how important they are. It’s not always telling you that you’re great (which does happen), but it’s helping bounce plot ideas off, boost you when you want to give up, to scream in excitement and help tell people that you’ve posted fic when you’re too shy to do anything more than post it and stick the link on Tumblr.

I’m so grateful for those people I have in my life right now that are fearlessly cheerleading me through everything that I want to do, especially when it comes to fic. They’re kind when I’m having trouble wording, they help unjumble the shite I write sometimes that’s full of spelling mistakes and half-finished thoughts. They bump up my confidence and tell me I’m awesome when I feel anything but. They make me feel less like I’m throwing my stuff into the void.

There are a few I really want to say a special thank you to:

@mandsangelfox: y’all know that she’s my wife, but she’s also a massive cheerleader behind the scenes. She deals with me texting her randomly, or telling her to pause what she’s watching so I can read a section to her to see if it sounds okay. She puts up with me throwing ideas at her until something sticks (and it was her idea to build out my current sci-fi horror Roswell project into something that resembles a choose your own adventure, and when I’m done you’ll all be amazed). She’s an unwavering pillar of patient support, and deals with my nonsense with aplomb.

@insidious-intent: What can I say about you? You’re always so kind and enthusiastic and impromptu beta-services help de-jumblify and sensify my fever-written crap and helps shape it into something better, and also removes some of the Britishisms that sneak in despite my best efforts! You’re a delight to talk to, and genuinely one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Talking with you is genuinely a highlight of my day, and having you as a sounding board has helped up the angst factor of my stories, past and present (Darkest Before Dawn, I’m looking at you!). Your unwavering support and reassurance is so helpful, and I’m honoured that you let me do the same for you. Even being a small part of your creative process, I’m honoured to be included. You’ve got such a big heart, and I love that you’ve got such a loud voice when I post. I’m 100% sure that most of the people who read Not in this World ended up reading it because you yelled so loudly about it. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. And I am so grateful to have met you.

@beamirang My fellow angst queen! Man, I don’t even have words to describe how much I adore you. Not only your writing - and how you let me cheerlead for you even when all it is is incoherent screaming, emojis and gifs - but who you are as a person. I’ve never told the time in a regular way, but my time is now split into MJ leaving for work, @insidious-intent saying good morning and then 4:30am LA time when you wake up and say hello. I’ve told you this before, but I’m going to say it again, I have learned so much about how to craft stories from reading your work and from talking to you. Your enthusiasm and excitement for the things that I write constantly baffles me as you’re amazing and I’m bowled over every time you tell me that you like what I write/you’re excited. You’ve been such a boost for my confidence in sharing random snippets, you’ve inspired some of my personal favourite fics that I’ve written (including not so starcrossed, as Baxu was 100% your fault and I adore you for it) and being able to scream at you when the muse isn’t working helps immensely. I’m so glad to have messaged you out of the blue a while back, it feels like we’ve been talking forever and that’s something that I treasure. I can’t wait for our DA Fusion to be ready to share so we can cement our places as rulers of Angst.

@lire-casander & @ubiestcaelum - you ladies were the first two people I started talking to in the fandom properly and I’m so very glad I did! Getting to know you both, being able to be part of your creative process and see your wonderous works unfold and being the recipient of your feedback and comments as I post random bits of crap into our chats has helped me refine things that don’t work. You are both so ridiculously kind and talented and I’d not have posted my earlier works without you two in my corner, gently encouraging me on.

@saadiestuff SADIE. WHAT MORE CAN I SAY THAN YOU ARE GOOD PEPPE. The creator of 🐸 [frog emoji, if it doesn’t work]. It’s delightful that we have entire conversations that, to anyone else, might seem like code because we’ve got so many ridiculous jokes between ourselves. And I love that sometimes we don’t even say hello to each other, we just go 🐸🐸🐸 [frog frog frog] because of something we’ve seen each other post or mention on tumblr, or in a discord server. I adore you, girl. So very much. I’m glad we started talking.

@el-gilliath I’m SO GRATEFUL FOR YOU. Though we don’t talk as much as I want us to, the fact that we have so much in common and spend a large chunk of time screaming at each other about what we’re writing really brightens my day. Knowing that you’re on the other end of a message if I’m struggling and you’re ready to listen is such a boon. Knowing that you don’t care if I’m typoing all over the place and am generally a mess makes me feel so safe when we talk, that I don’t have to second guess everything. And knowing that, no matter what it is, you’ll read it and give me an opinion means I genuinely feel that it’s okay to just swing in and ask you for help whenever. And you know the feeling is mutual. I adore you, dude.

There are so many others, too, and I couldn’t possibly list them all though I want to, but the Junkyard folk, @jumbled-nonsense, @nielrian, @soberqueerinthewild... all of you guys who yelled at me during Not in this World and encouraged me to keep writing when all I wanted to do was pack it in. You’re SO VALUED. I’m sure there are people I’ve forgotten, and if I have, please don’t think that doesn’t mean I don’t value you, because I do. So much. Omg. 

And, as a quick special mention, to those of you who are kind enough to let me cheerlead for you? It is my honour and privilege to scream at you in excitement for things. I love helping people create, I love encouraging people to keep going and do something they love and I am thankful that you let me do that for you. 

Finally, finally! I can’t leave out @queersirius. Though I’ve never spoken to you, you have taken on a mammoth task with your rec list. I’ve been on there a few times and each time I’m flabbergasted by the nice things you have to say about what I’ve written. But it’s not only me, you’re a gift to the fandom, a one-stop shop for recs that has proven to be such a good way to discover new fic. I’m always excited to see what new fics you rec, I’d discovered a few new favourites as a direct result of your list. The fact that you take the time to write such detailed, thoughtful commentary and tailor a gif for each fic is mindblowing. Thank you! <3 

[ellenembee]

The Revelation of All Things - 49. In which reality rears its ugly head

Read the full fic on AO3.

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Evana paused outside the massive wooden door to the war room and placed cool hands on her still heated cheeks. She'd calmed her breathless, heart-pounding physical reaction on the short walk between Cullen's tower and the war room, but she had yet to collect her disordered thoughts.

After weeks of doubt and worry, she'd wanted to make the evening lighthearted and pleasant for them both. She'd assumed he'd be embarrassed but pleased by her playful teasing. She'd planned to keep their encounter chaste out of respect for his desire to go slow.

But he hadn't been embarrassed. He'd teased right back, and she'd been the one to blush at his forwardness: Lock the doors, Inquisitor, for I will have you to myself tonight. A delicious shiver slid down her spine as she recalled the tenor of his voice, feel of his hands on her, the demands of his ravenous mouth. He'd responded to her teasing with ardent insistence, and she found herself wondering how far things might have progressed if they hadn't been interrupted.

Which only set her heart to pounding all over again, her cheeks warming from the delicious thought. She summoned a cooling spell before throwing back her shoulders and taking a deep breath in an attempt to clear her mind and focus. Raising her chin slightly, she reminded herself that she had a war to win and pushed the door open.

Josephine and Leliana were already gathered around the table. She'd only had a moment to greet them before Cullen's heavy footsteps echoed along the passage. Leliana didn't bother to wait for him to finish crossing to the table before she started in.

"I'm sorry to disturb you both after our meeting only hours ago, but I've just received word from my scouts in the Western Approach. They've seen signs of powerful magic at Adamant. It seems the Venatori have officially begun the process of turning the remaining Grey Wardens."

Evana let her head fall forward, and her eyes closed briefly. "Good gods." She lifted her head and looked at Leliana. "Do we have any idea how long the ritual is taking? Do we have time?"

"It seems to be a rather slow process right now. Undoubtedly, the Venatori are worried the Warden warriors will come to their senses before they have enough Warden mages enslaved with demons. But they obviously don't want to rush the ritual." Leliana turned to Cullen. "If anything can be done to speed up preparations on our end, we need to do it."

Cullen nodded as he leaned over the table, his face fixed in a scowl. "Yes. Lieutenant Rozellene has arrived, which will help things along. I've sent as many troops to Rylen as are ready, and Harritt is working double time on armor for the rest. Even still, I don't think the final contingent of troops will be ready to march before... no... no, not for at least another three weeks. The siege equipment won't arrive at Griffon Wing Keep until next week. Then it will need to be assembled... I just don't see how we can speed things up much more."

Leliana pursed her lips. "What about the new smith? Have you made a choice?"

Cullen looked over at Leliana and then glanced toward Evana. The look confused her, but she didn't have time to dwell on it as Cullen responded.

"I need to get Rozellene back up to speed and started on several assignments tomorrow, but I will leave the following day to visit the other smith. If this one is the better choice, we'll bring him back with us. He and Harritt can have the forge and armory running day and night."

Leliana seemed satisfied. "I will respond tonight to let them know to be on high alert. If you can find a way to get us there sooner..."

Cullen gave a curt nod and pushed away from the table. "I'll do everything in my power."

Leliana turned to Evana. "You should know that we have received reports of rifts as well as large Venatori encampments in the Hissing Wastes in the north of the Western Approach. It might be best for you and your companions to address the issues there and then meet at Griffon Wing Keep for the assault. However, I don't anticipate a full report on the Wastes for several days, and I would rather not send you out unprepared. I will let you know as soon as I hear from Scout Harding."

Evana nodded. "I'll be ready. Anything else?"

Josephine cleared her throat a little. "Don't forget to be in the great hall tomorrow morning. We have many prisoners who must be judged."

Evana's stomach flip-flopped and then twisted into a knot. Tomorrow, she would sit in judgment of the people who had been heretofore simply rotting away in the Skyhold dungeon. It wasn't right to just leave them in prison. She knew it. But how could she judge them?

She could because she must. She gave Josie a curt nod, careful to keep all emotion from her face.

"I will be ready for that as well."

They ended the meeting shortly after that. Evana thought about speaking with Cullen, but she could see his mind already working on plans to speed up their readiness. The best thing she could do for him would be to let him get to work. However, as Evana paused to bid him goodnight before they entered the great hall, Cullen surprised her by suddenly pulling her against him. He leaned down and kissed her long and hard before pulling away to give her a small, tight-lipped smile.

"It seems as though we're always being interrupted," he murmured with more than a hint of disappointment in his tone. "I... I wish I didn't have to go back and work right now, but..."

She allowed her own disappointment to show in her face and voice even as she responded, "That's part of the job, isn't it? Making sacrifices for the greater good. We both have to do it. I'm certainly not going to make you feel guilty for giving your best to our cause."

The corner of his mouth quirked upward as he slid a gloved hand across her cheek. "Tomorrow will be a busy day for us, but... come see me when you have a moment?"

She smiled up at him, running her hand along his jaw and then gripping his breastplate to pull him down to her. She kissed him softly and then turned to open the door, looking at him over her shoulder.

"Just try and stop me."

He gave her a lustful look and pulled her back into the darkened anteroom for a final kiss that scattered her thoughts and made her knees week. A small, breathy moan escaped before she could stifle it. When he finally broke the kiss, he lifted his head just enough to reveal a slow, wicked smirk tugging at his stupidly perfect mouth. With a soft "goodnight," he backed away, his eyes locked on hers, his hands sliding from where they gripped her hips. She followed to watch him turn and stride down the hall and disappear through the door on the left.

Huffing out a little sigh, she turned in the opposite direction and passed through the door to her quarters. For many reasons, sleep would be hard to come by tonight.

 **

 She wasn't wrong. After a fitful night of tossing and turning and fretting about the judgments she would have to render, she'd finally fallen asleep... only to dream of the awful things she would have to do to her prisoners the next day.

But they deserve it, she reminded herself. All the people who had fallen for Corypheus' lies of power and prestige... they had traded the welfare of the people of Thedas for their own gain. She could not afford to pity them now. The spirits of those they had killed, or who had died as a result of their actions, demanded justice. She must render appropriate judgment.

So, like a good Inquisitor, she put on a stone face and met Josephine in the great hall at the appointed hour. The great, stained glass windows above the throne at the end of the hall turned the room varying shades of blue, red and yellow, causing a strange juxtaposition of festive glow and somber duty. A crowd had gathered at the news of the proceedings, and Evana straightened her spine as Josephine guided her to the throne on the dias. Despite her determination to show no emotion, Evana sat stiffly at the edge of the golden, spiked chair. Judgment might be her duty, but she had no desire to get comfortable with it.

And so the procession began... and she found she simply couldn't be hard.

The first to be judged was the Avvar chief whose son had kidnapped Inquisition soldiers and challenged her to fight in the Fallow Mire. The chief had "attacked" Skyhold with a goat, as demanded by his clan for the death of a tribesman. So, she armed the entire Avvar clan and exiled them to Tevinter. He seemed fairly pleased by the judgment, but that didn't bother her. She had, after all, killed his "idiot son."

Alexius was harder. He'd put the entirety of Thedas in danger. He'd done it to save his son, but the havoc he might have wreaked if he'd succeeded - she couldn't contemplate being lenient. But then she'd glanced at the list of possible punishments Josephine presented for her consideration and froze in horror at the hateful word staring back at her.

Tranquility.

Her façade of calm crumbled. With a shocked and disgusted glance at Josephine, Evana only just kept herself from bursting off the throne in outrage. More upsetting was the insidious voice in the back of her mind that whispered Cullen might have had something to do with the suggestion. But no... surely he would understand at least that much? That she, a mage, could never, ever justify Tranquility? Josephine, sensing the shift, furrowed her brows and took a second look at the sheet. Without a word or even a noticeable shift in her expression, Josie leaned in and murmured in Evana's ear.

"My deepest apologies, Evana. I did not review this after it came back from Mother Giselle. She must have made an addition. It will not happen again, I promise you."

Josie leaned back and locked her gaze with Evana's in a silent plea for forgiveness. The rage still roared through Evana's veins and made it difficult to think, but she took a breath, then another, and then finally gave Josie a tiny nod of acknowledgement.

And so, perhaps out of pity for losing his son, but more likely as a rebellion against those who would consider that hideous practice an option, she simply recruited him to assist in studying magic and the arcane for the Inquisition's benefit. He would not be free, but neither would he be left to rot in a dungeon. She saw Dorian smile at her from the back of the crowd as she rendered the judgment, and the flame inside her died down a bit, allowing her to put on her façade once more. Inside, however, she seethed.

The Mayor of Crestwood presented even more difficulties. What he'd done sickened her. But he'd done it to save the remaining residents from the Blight. Or so he said. She struggled with his judgment for some time. Josephine gave her several significant looks as the crowd began to grow restless, so she decided to make him useful. He would stay in prison until the Grey Warden situation was reconciled. Then, if any loyal Wardens remained, he would be conscripted into the service of the Grey Wardens to fight the Blight until death took him. If the Grey Wardens were destroyed, she would judge him again.

Finally, the Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons appeared before her. Evana watched the other woman throughout Josephine's pronouncements of her crimes. The Duchess' manner and words were haughty and scathing, but her posture reflected defeated. Evana wondered briefly if she dared put the Grand Duchess to work for the Inquisition, but her distrust and general distaste for the woman quickly drove out that thought. No, the Duchess would labor in the fields. If it was the only good and useful thing the woman ever did in her life, so be it.

By the time Evana finally stood up from the throne, the sun had passed its zenith. Exhausted from the spectacle as well as the emotional roller coaster of Alexius' judgment, she silently slipped away from the lingering crowds, grabbed a plate of food from the kitchens, and then took it up to the gardens to eat in her favorite secluded corner, being sure to avoid the Chantry Mother in the process. Her rage had cooled into indignation the intervening hours, but she knew she'd still chew the other woman's head off if they met right now.

As she lounged in a spot of sunlight, she reflected on the events of the morning. Barring the unpleasant "suggestion" for Alexius, the morning hadn't been as horrible as she'd imagined. She didn't feel sick to her stomach about any of her actual judgments, though she knew this was only the beginning. If they took Erimond alive, she doubted she would feel right about doing less than the worst she could rightfully do to him. And she couldn't even think about Samson. He had wreaked so much havoc. If they took him alive...

The sounds of afternoon officer's practice floated over the garden walls and roused Evana from her musings. She put aside her empty plate and leaned back, raising her face to the warmth. A chill hung in the air, but the late winter sun felt marvelous on her skin as she pushed aside her fears and anger for now and contemplated what to do with her afternoon.

She had plenty of things she needed accomplish, but for the first time since Haven, Josephine had given her the freedom to prioritize her own duties. A loosening of the leash, so to speak.

She thought about spending a bit of her afternoon practicing a few new spells. With Solas gone, she'd have to convince Dorian to join her. As she had lamented many times while out traveling with her non-mage companions, it wasn't any fun practicing spells by yourself. Or perhaps she would continue her and Dorian's research into improving their camp wards...

It was a strange feeling being able to plan her own afternoon. After having her days planned out for her for so long - first with the clan and then with the Inquisition - the freedom overwhelmed her. She still had meetings with Josephine, but after the Winter Palace, the ambassador's strict lessons had shifted into occasional "interludes," which she insisted were necessary to maintain their connection with each other as colleagues. Mostly they just discussed current happenings among the nobility over tea with Leliana. Cullen was also invited, but he never appeared. She couldn't blame him. It was mostly gossip, but Josephine did tell the most hilarious stories about the scandalous nobles. She found herself thoroughly entertained most of the time.

"Inquisitor? Er... Your Worship?"

Evana shook herself from her thoughts and looked up to see a small, elven boy of about eight or nine standing just outside of her circle of sunlight. "Yes? What can I do for you, da'len?"

He smiled shyly at her endearment and fiddled with his thumbs. His hands were dirty, as if he'd been playing in the magic-warmed garden for some time. He shyly looked away and then fixed his pale gray eyes on her before attempting to speak again.

"The others. The mages. They say you are good with growing things? Mamae didn't make it out of Haven, but she was good with growing, too. I wanted to plant her some flowers, but they don't seem to want to grow. Will you... would you help me?"

Even as a pang of regret for Haven echoed through her chest, a warm smile spread across her face as she regarded the pale-skinned child with a row of freckles across his nose that rivaled her own.

"Of course, da'len. What is your name?"

"Orian."

"My name is Evana." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You can call me that when no one else is around. OK?"

His thin lips bloomed into a secretive smile as he nodded his head vehemently. Unruly brown locks quivered with his enthusiasm, covering his eyes, and Evana struggled to keep a straight face. Standing up, she offered him her hand, and he took it, quickly tugging her to a back corner of the garden.

Suddenly, Evana couldn't think of a better way to spend her afternoon.

 **

 The afternoon slid by quickly as she and Orian worked the earth, and Evana placed a few spells over the bed of flowers to encourage growth. The young boy had turned out to be quite precocious and not at all shy after his initial introduction. She found herself enjoying his company more than she'd expected and couldn't help wondering about the child. She made a mental note to check up on his situation when she had a free moment.

After bidding Orian a good evening, Evana slipped out of the garden and over the bridge to see Cullen. As busy as he was, she doubted she'd have more than a few minutes with him, which meant she shouldn't be late to the interlude with Josephine.

She opened the door to find him miraculously alone and scanning titles at his bookshelf. He turned to face her and smiled as she walked closer.

"There you are," he declared warmly.

She smiled right back, but couldn't help teasing him a little. "Were you waiting for me all afternoon, then?"

Cullen flushed. "Yes. I-I mean, no!"

"I can come back later if you'd prefer..."

She feigned turning toward the door, but he caught her hand and gently pulled her back. Her teasing smile faded as she finally registered his nervousness.

"No! Please stay. I... uh... we have some dealings in Ferelden, as you know. I'm leaving tomorrow to visit with one of the blacksmiths Harritt picked out, and... I was hoping you'd accompany me. If you can spare the time, of course."

He had become more nervous with each word. Evana couldn't help responding in kind, her brow furrowing with worry.

"Is something wrong?"

"What? No! I thought just you might wish to go... but if you're not interested, it's no problem."

"Oh, I'm definitely interested," she responded, then added cautiously, "We're going to review the smith's work?"

Cullen let out a small breath and smiled at her in what looked like relief. He'd been nervous to ask her along? Curious. Was there more to this than just a visit to a blacksmith?

"Yes. Harritt thought it would be best to review both the candidates in their normal work environment before choosing one to join us here. I visited the other blacksmith while you were in the Exalted Plains."

She smiled again and nodded. He was still holding her hand, so she tightened her grip and stepped closer to him.

"Sounds like fun. So... where are we going, anyway?"

"Uh... it's down in southern Ferelden. In Honnleath."

She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips at him. "Hmmm... Isn't that where you're from?"

Cullen flushed again, but he didn't drop her hand or step away. "Yes. Originally. Though I doubt I know anyone from there anymore."

She just looked up at him for a moment before nodding. "I'll meet you at the gates tomorrow morning, then. How long will we be gone?"

He seemed to relax a little bit at her matter-of-fact question. "Less than a week. I've already made the necessary arrangements and cleared things with the other advisors."

Well, then. He'd already done the prep work. This was certainly more than a simple trip to visit a blacksmith. If he wanted to keep it casual, though, she wouldn't begrudge him.

"Well... I should let you get back to work."

He sighed and gave her a small smile as he pulled her against him. "Yes. I have much to do before tomorrow... but it seems I do have time for a quick break if you'd like."

"I'd always like, but I'm already late for our interlude with Josephine."

"Pity. You could simply skip it as I do."

She laughed at him and rose up on her toes to brush his lips. She tried to pull away, but his gloved hand reached up to cup her cheek and held her in place as he pressed a deeper kiss on her lips. Her arms slid around his neck...

At the sound of the door opening, they flew apart. Josephine's messenger curtsied to them both. "Commander, Inquisitor. Lady Montilyet requests your presence in her office for this week's interlude."

Cullen cleared his throat, his face red. "I'm afraid I don't have time for the interlude this week. Please give my apologies to Josephine for the inconvenience."

Evana fought off a grin and then stepped forward. She knew her face was also flushed - she could feel the warmth in her cheeks still - but she didn't want to keep Josie waiting any longer.

"I will walk with you if you are headed back."

The messenger nodded and opened the door for her. Evana threw a final glance back at Cullen, gratified to find him watching her leave. Closing his door behind her, she walked silently back to the great hall and through to Josie's office. Leliana already sat at the tea table and Josie raised an eyebrow at Evana as she walked over and took her normal seat at the table. The fourth chair remained empty, per usual.

"The Commander sends his apologies, my lady," Josie's messenger informed them. "In his words, he 'doesn't have time for the interlude this week.'"

Josie let out a little sigh. "Or any other week. Thank you. You may go Juliette."

The mood was a bit low at first, but soon the party turned jovial as the ambassador and spymaster traded stories of the latest news from Orlais. Near the end of their scheduled time together, Josie and Leliana began to argue over whether taupe was a spring color. As she had no opinion on the matter - nor any idea what taupe even looked like - Evana tuned out for a bit to think over her upcoming trip with Cullen.

They would be traveling on business, so they'd likely have a small retinue of soldiers tagging along, perhaps even some of his lieutenants. Creators, he wouldn't bring Rozellene along, would he? No, surely not. They'd spoken about her, and he seemed to understand the issue. Regardless, soldiers tagging along wouldn't be very romantic. Maybe she'd only imagined his nervousness? Maybe it really was just a business trip.

The stares and stifled giggles roused her from her thoughts. Evana rolled her eyes at them both.

"What?"

"Oh, we were just talking about how you seemed to be off in a little dream land. Something you care to share?"

She raised an eyebrow and gave them an unbelieving look. "Cullen told me he'd already talked with you both, so you are well aware that we'll be leaving together tomorrow."

Josie sighed. "It's quite a romantic gesture for someone like Cullen. I mean, it's still Inquisition business, but he could have done this alone as he did the first trip. I'm sure he's got something else planned."

Evana eyed Josie warily. "You think so?"

Leliana cut in. "If he doesn't, he is a fool."

Evana shrugged and took a sip of tea. "It doesn't matter. If he does, I'll be pleasantly surprised. If he doesn't, I won't be disappointed."

"Well, either way, we all know he worships the very ground you walk on." Josie paused to look as her, then continued carefully. "We were a little worried while you were away. He seemed... on edge whenever we spoke of you."

Evana shifted uncomfortably in her seat. This must be what Josie's look during her bath had been about. She didn't mind talking over some of her own thoughts and fears with the two women, but she hesitated to talk about Cullen. It was hard enough for him to speak with her of his insecurities. She knew he wouldn't want them repeated, no matter how good of friends they all were.

"We... struggled with a few things, but it's nothing to worry about. Nothing that would endanger our... relationship."

"That's good to hear. Especially now that we've seen our very first round of gossip that the Herald of Andraste is bedding her military Commander."

Evana could only stare at Leliana. "W-what?"

Josie cleared her throat, and Leliana actually flinched at what must have been a sharp kick from the ambassador under the table. "What Leliana means is that there are a few rumors coming out of Orlais that you and Cullen are... close."

Evana closed her eyes for a moment. The talk was inevitable, of course. She'd known it would surface eventually. No matter how hard they tried to keep things private, everyone in Skyhold already seemed to know.

"I knew this was coming. I guess I just hoped it wouldn't be this soon. What are they saying?"

Josie looked down. Leliana leaned forward, all the teasing gone and replaced by a serious look on her face.

"That it is a conflict of interest. That it weakens the Inquisition. Some will seek to exploit it if they can confirm it. However, you should know that Josie and I are already working on counter measures. It will not have any measurable effect on our influence across Ferelden or Orlais."

Evana's heart dropped to her knees, and a ball of roiling guilt took its place in her chest. She'd known people would be unhappy, but this... They were already attempting to delegitimize the Inquisition because of her relationship with Cullen? That chain of thought led her to another, more upsetting realization. Dread crept up to take its place alongside the guilt as she locked gazes with Leliana.

"What are they saying about Cullen? Are they disparaging him because of me?"

Leliana cleared her throat and glanced at Josie before continuing. "As the leader of the Inquisition-"

"And a knife-ear," Evana cut in bitterly. But Leliana didn't lose her stride.

"-most are directed at you, of course. However, we have received a few... hateful messages directed at Cullen. He's seen them and thinks as highly of them as the rest of us. I know it isn't pleasant to hear, but we thought you should know, in case..."

"In case you encountered something like this in your travels," Josephine finished.

Evana covered her face with her hands. They were saying awful things about him... for simply being with her. She should have known, anticipated this, but she'd foolishly hoped her status as the Inquisitor might spare him. Apparently not. Even her mark - supposedly granted from their own prophet - wouldn't save him from their hate and derision for being with a knife-eared rabbit. She was an elf, and a mage, and they would look down on him as long as he was with her. She stood suddenly.

"I... I'm very tired, and I need to go prepare for the journey tomorrow. Thank you for letting me know about... the messages. If you need me, I'll be in my quarters."

She refused to look at them as she left. She didn't think she could bear the pity in their eyes.

[vorthosthewillis]

Finn short story: Mask of Remembrance

So... I have to admit, when a simple question appeared, asking who wanted to punch Heliod in the face, I had no clue it would lead to being up at 12:45 at night uploading a short story of mine to Tumblr. See, my younger sister is going to school to be an art teacher, and as I was designing Finn,I asked her if she would be willing to draw him for me. She graciously agreed, so I sent her a simple character description, which included the following sentence: “ He wears a mask, possibly of Esper or Kaladesh origins “ When she got back to me a week later, she showed me the amazing picture on Finn’s bio page, which you can find here: https://vorthosthewillis.tumblr.com/post/161608252927/my-fanwalker-finn Several people asked me about the mask, and even demanded a backstory to it (I’m looking at you, @nantukohunk ). So, I started writing, and well... now we’re here. One thing of note: the Finn of this tale is different than the one in The-foxwolf’s saga, and that’s on purpose. After you read the bio and this, you’ll understand why. No more delays! Here we go!

He was… alone.

    The first thing he noticed was it was cold. The furnace level was always hot, and over time Finn got used to it, but suddenly that familiar heat was missing and all Finn could feel was a biting cold wind. He opened up his eyes and found himself… actually, he had no idea where the hell he was. He was on some sort of mountain, covered in white, wet flakes of some sort. The longer he sat here, the colder it got, the living copper strands in his right arm causing that entire arm to go numb. Shelter. He needed shelter. Then he could figure out how he got from the furnace level to outside all by closing his eyes.

    After nearly ten minutes of walking, Finn found a small cave, where he collapsed and slept the rest of the day away. He awoke with a rumbling stomach, but a far greater issue forced it's way into his mind like some charging leveler. When the etched monstrosity ripped through the front lines of his scouting group, something snapped inside, and for the first time ever, Finn accepted defeat. He closed his eyes, despaired, and found himself on a cold mountain. The issue was simple: he got here once, if he get back and then bring others with him, then maybe they could escape. The furnace level was lost, pure and simple, but maybe not everyone in it. This could work.

    It took nearly thirty tries, but it finally worked. Finn was in the furnace level, not too far from where he left. He moved quickly and quietly. It was only.. a day, maybe, since he was last here but there was evidence of significant activity recently. Dread gnawing on him, Finn slipped past one of the smaller Phyrexians with a simple illusion and a little bit of strategic planning,  and within a couple more minutes made it to the base.

    Well, what remained of it.

    “No, no, no…” the words slipped out of his mouth, uncontrollable as he raced between tents, desperate to find someone, anyone alive. The tents were ripped, torn down, or just gone. No one was left, alive or dead. Finn’s legs gave out as the despair came back, an elephant on his chest. They were lost, like his friend Saria the auriok was lost, like his mentor Whittlin the vedalkin was lost. Tears dried as the pain turned hot, hotter than the furnaces. His fingers brushed against something, and he looked down to see five small darksteel amulets laying on the ground. He grabbed one and stared. These… These belonged to Purto, the moriok kid. He played a little game of flip rocks with them. The pain inside Finn turned molten. He scooped up the amulets and this time, left the furnace level without having to close his eyes.

~*~

    Kaladesh, this place was called. Finn thought perhaps it needed to be called land of the hopelessly optimistic. He wasn’t going to stay long; another planeswalker, as he was now apparently called, told him of the place and how to get there. It was strange to see humans, or anyone really, as a fleshling, but the human woman with the fire red hair seemed friendly enough… though there was something about her he couldn't put his finger on. In exchange for a small favor at some point in the future (which was shifty, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers) she gave him instructions to several worlds, and even jumped with him here to make sure he understood. Her name was… Ithora? Surprising he couldn't exactly remember, he was usually good at that. Could that burning molten core that had been his heart be the reason? He didn’t have time to deal with that. No, he was going to be in and out.

    This world, according to Ithora, supposedly had a special, unique metal. The metal here was supposedly affected by aether, a sort of liquid magic, and though Finn wasn’t sure how it affected the metal, he knew enough to know that it must have some special property to it, even if it was hidden.

    Finn moved through the community quickly,  heading towards what looked like a weapon smith of some sort.  As he got closer though, he realized with surprise that the little humans manning the smithy (dwarves, he thought they were called?) were not making weapons, but… tubes? They must be making the pipes that the liquid magic flowed through. Metal was metal though, he reasoned. This would do.

    Someone earlier already questioned Finn’s green skin and living copper (the person called it an “amazing implant idea”) so now that he knew where he would go, he found a good place to hide and wait for night. The person earlier, who actually looked like an elf but without the green skin, caused a spike of anger in Finn that took a minute to squash, so he decided it wasn’t worth it to try and bargain for the metal and have to interact with more people who could comment on his weirdness. If the last few months on Mirrodin taught him anything, it was that he had to do what was needed to survive.

    As he waited in the small alleyway for nightfall, Finn questioned his mission once again. Why did he need the metal? The urge to gather metal, not just any metal but only the best from any world he could find, didn't make any rational sense because he couldn't think of an end goal. He pulled out one of Purto’s amulets, staring hard at it. If the eventual goal was to make a weapon, well… Finn wasn’t a physical fighter, not that he really wanted to be one, nor did he know anyone to give it to. Everyone was gone.  Even if he was to use the metals to build something, you couldn't break down darksteel. Remold it, sure, but not break it down, and these five tiny amulets weren't exactly enough to make anything bigger than maybe a tiny knife. The lack of an end goal bugged Finn, but perhaps this had to do with coming to terms with Mirrodin’s fall. He put away the amulet, and turned his mind to other thoughts.

    That night, as he walked through the metal stores in the back of the weapon smith, a fear overtook him. None of this metal felt right. That sounded strange to say, and it was; this entire breaking and entering thing wasn’t his best moral decision. Perhaps for that reason, he couldn’t bring himself to grab any of the metal. He continued through the room, sighed in defeat,  and turned to leave when something in the corner caught his eye. A small lump of a dull gold, almost brown metal in the corner twinkled in the moonlight from a nearby window. It… it somehow reminded him of a time on the razor fields, early on in the war against the phyrexians. He was hurt and running, when a group of auriok and vulshok surrounded him. That was the start of the alliance between that topside resistance group and the furnace level group, and where Finn met Saria, an ally he wished he had time to make a friend. Finn picked up the small lump and put it in a pocket. This would do.

~*~

     The first world Finn ever walked to, known to its few residents affectionately as Stawthese, vanished as Finn walked to a world known to many as Ravnica. The giant city world appeared, and even though Finn was warned of it, he couldn’t stop gaping for a second. He instantly missed Stawthese and its lack of big cities, but hey, at least he got this sweet coat to remember it by.

    There were so many people here, it amazed Finn. Also slightly unnerved him, not because it was people but because it was people who could call him out, try to force themselves into his life. A thought like that wouldn't have bothered Finn before he first walked, but that Finn had allies, had friends… had a world. Despite people being all around him, Finn felt utterly alone, and a growing part of him felt more and more comfortable with that fact.

    It took a while, but Finn now had enough metal to do… whatever drove him here to Ravnica. Each metal, each world, reminded him of home in some small but meaningful way, which was the only method to stop the ever growing molten core from overtaking him. It was rather insidious; as he gave in and become more angry, rash, isolated, he began to become more and more comfortable with it. It didn’t bother him as much anymore, though a small voice inside was scared shitless of his growingly dangerous emotions.

    Finn wandered randomly through the streets, keeping his head down. It was easier to hide here with so many different species, but Finn was already used to hiding his skin with his clothes and now this coat. It was easier this way. The area he was in reminded him a little of Kaladesh, with fancy blue and red tubes and gadgets all around. He passed a few goblin children running down a backstreet and smiled despite himself. He knew a few goblins back on Mirrodin but none of them well, and beside, not anymore. People pissed him off, but at least kids seemed to still be ok.

    Finn found himself following the children down the path, and before he knew it was lost in the dark alleyways. He turned around, intent on finding his way out and finding a place to sleep. A noise behind him was the only warning, but it was the only warning he needed. As a small fireball flew at his backside, he waved a hand, concentrated, and the fireball flew over his head instead of into his shoulder. He spun around in time to see two goblin mages, eyes intent on fighting. “Listen, I’m sorry, but maybe you should put up a sign if this is private territory,” he said with a smirk, and one of the goblins flashed lightning at him. Another whisper, and the spell missed. He scanned their minds, and created a quick plan. “You’re not gonna be able to target me with your fancy spells,  so let me go or help me,” he exclaimed. “Help you?” one of the goblins asked, while the other looked at the first and nudged him. “Yah,” Finn began,”I need a metalsmith. Someone who can work quiet, and willing to let me infuse spells into the metal as he or she works. I’m willing to pay, and pay well. Got it memorized?” The words surprised him as much of the goblins, but as he said it, a ghost of an idea appeared in the back of his mind.

    It took many more negotiations, and people pissed on both sides, but Finn finally got what he wanted. The mob the goblins were a part of had a metalsmith who worked jobs on the side,  as long as they were lucrative, and Finn already… acquired some fancy looking gadgets earlier that the goblin’s metalsmith took as payment. He outlined the idea to her slowly and carefully, drawing it on a piece of paper for her. He then swore her to secrecy before revealing the various metals, and their properties.

    The metal of Kaladesh, the dull gold that looked brown, touched by liquid magic.

    The metal of the region Esper from Alara, grey like quicksilver, known as etherium to Esper’s inhabitants and used to replace body parts.

    The metal of Stawthese, stark white, naturally frozen in its tall, snow-covered mountains and permanently cold because of it.

    The metal of a dark, dying world Finn never did learn the name of, dull grey, almost lifeless itself, that seemed to suck in magic like a sponge.

    And five small darksteel amulets, once owned by a dead kid.

~*~

    The goblin metalsmith began work on the project two days later.  Early that day she closed the shop, ushering Finn in via a small backdoor, and once more Finn and the goblin talked over the plan.  Then she began by placing the metals in the fires and Finn focused in on himself, gathering mana from the land around in preparation.  This part of his magic, taught to him by his mother, was seemingly unaffected by his molten core. If anything, it seemed more at peace with the pain than anything else… small favors indeed.

    When the metals were hot enough, and Finn was holding as much magic as he could, the goblin metalsmith began. The metal molded, remolded, fused together, all piece by small piece. Finn began his part slowly, channeling simple hexproof spells into the metal. He could feel the magic leaking off of himself though… he needed to go harder and faster.

    He needed to pour himself into that metal.

    Finn stopped thinking of the Ravnica, of Stawthese, of the building he was in and even the goblin on the other side of the room. It was him and the metal, and he thought of Mirrodin. His early years, his training on the Quicksilver sea,  the fight against the phyrexians. As the magic flowed, he thought of Saria, of Thrun, of Whittlin, of all the people he met and watched fall. Of little Purto, the moriok with the lopsided smile and little amulets he used for his game. The pain he felt flowed into the metal, and the despair and rage. The molten core that was his heart burned stronger and faster, like one of the moons on his dead world. It hurt, knowing it was gone, knowing he was the only one left. It hurt so much, and the worse part was he couldn’t do a single thing about it. Mirrodin was dead, everyone was dead, and weren’t coming back. Nothing could bring any of it back… NOTHING.

      He was alone.

      But he could remember them.

~*~

     The mask laid on a table beside Finn, and he could feel the magic of it. It made sense, it was purely his magic, but still it surprised him.  The goblin metalsmith had let him sleep in her back room for the night, but he couldn't sleep after that. He thought about running right then,  taking this mask and trying to wipe the mind of the goblin... but mind magic, other than simple illusions and mind-reading, wasn’t really his thing, and she deserved better than that.

    The entire experience was eye-opening, in a way. He was still mad, the molten pain still there, there was no denying it. But despite that, it didn’t hurt anymore. It was a part of him, like his skin and copper. It was who he had become. He would leave Ravinca, head back to Stawthese or some other backwater plane, and live alone. His rage wouldn’t have to hurt anyone else.

    Finn lifted up the mask slowly, looking at it. There were no eye or mouth holes, but with his magic that wouldn't be a problem. The metals fused nicely together, but kept their distinctive colors, creating an intricate and almost delicate design, with the five small pieces of darksteel on the edges of the mask. It felt cool, a product of the Stawthese metal no doubt, but honestly Finn didn’t mind that. He put it on slowly, using small straps on the back and his blue headwrap to keep it in place. It felt like it had always been a part of him.

    Finn, the Mirrin freedom fighter was dead. But this new Finn, this planeswalker and his mask wouldn't forget him or any of the others. That, he promised. @baldore-of-the-boros @foilmountain @actualborossoldier  @gigaguessmtg @flamefox13  Let me know your thoughts and critques!

[endoftheline72]

Untouchable Ch 1 - Repost for Tumblr.

She couldn’t decide whether it hurt more to breathe or to think.

Caitriona tried to take a deep breath and instantly answered her own question as a searing pain shot through her abdomen. She blinked and tried to focus. White. All white. Cold and, her brow wrinkled, a strange smell. Slowly her eyes began to focus, though the throbbing in her head didn’t make it any easier. She was still in the car. Some good news at least. The windscreen was entirely covered with snow. The airbag had deployed and the engine was off. Perhaps deciding in anger to drive from Seattle to New York, instead of flying with everyone else wasn’t her best idea. Her left leg was throbbing. Caitriona tried moving it but stopped instantly as a stab of pain raced from foot to knee, white hot in its intensity.

She let out a stifled scream, trying desperately to breathe, waiting for the pain to subside. Clearly moving was not an option. Gingerly she reached for the door, sucking in pained breaths as her sore body protested. The door was jammed shut. Terrific. She undid the seat belt and carefully leaned over. Her handbag was laying in the passenger  foot well, momentum having flung it there when she’d misjudged the corner and side slipped into a drift. Christ, it was cold.Fingers could just reach the edge of the long strap that had tangled itself around the handbrake. Tugging at it, she finally maneuvered the bag within reach. She scrummaged through the oversize bag, hunting for her phone. “Shit.” She held it up. Of course, no friggin service. She tried the key. The engine so dead it didn’t even pretend to roll over. “Well if this fucking day can get any worse, I’ll be surprised.” She closed her eyes, leaning against the headrest. What a hideous mess. She’d smiled through that damned convention despite the utter feelings of betrayal that were assaulting her from every possible side.

Him.

Her.

Both of them.

All of them.

No one was escaping without being hurt this time. Not Tony. Not Sam and most definitely, not her. It had started with her walking in on Tony with not one, but two press whores, one male and one female, in the shower of her hotel room and had ended with Sam telling her he loved her and kissing her in his hotel room. It was bad enough, she had to suffer through a very public event afterwards, seeing fans, smiling, being around both of them.  She’d barely managed. Camera’s she knew. Being on display she knew. So, she shut down, hit the automatic pilot button she’d developed in her modelling days and just gotten the job done. Getting on a plane with both of them, in a somewhat private setting was absolutely out of the question for her. She needed space. Time to think. Time to figure out what the fuck to do now. How the hell to get out of the mess she’d landed in.

Her head, like the rest of her body, was aching wickedly. Part hangover and part accident she figured, shivering as the cold began to seep into the air around her. She tried to move her leg again. Eyes clamped shut, immediately regretting the decision as agony ripped through her. She decided to focus on her breathing, willing the pain to stop. Moving was clearly not an option. Suddenly the car seemed to lurch, a sinister cracking heard through the snow caked windscreen. Caitriona was forced to grip the wheel and brace herself as her body fell forward. The nose of the car sloping down.

A cold burning made itself known around her feet, slowly working its way up her calf. Her heartbeat jumped at the sight. Water. Ice cold, frigid, deadly water. Now the panic began to set in. The water rising quickly, already half way up her shin. She shouldered the door again. It refused to move, even a little. She reached down, frantically searching, probing, trying to move the seat. If she could just slide it back, maybe she could get her leg out somehow. Bracing her good leg and taking a deep breath, she pushed, straining, willing the seat to move. She slumped forward after a few moments, panting in exertion.

The water began to lap the bend in her knee, her teeth already chattering. Her hands white, the blood being shunted inwards, her body’s natural response to the impending hypothermia. She tucked her damp hands underneath her armpits, trying to warm them, yelping when cold skin met warm, frantically trying to think what to do next. Another cracking sound heralded a change in angle, as the car slid further into the water. She was trapped. She tried the seat again with pressing urgency as the water crept higher, her thigh becoming wet with the icy water seeping into the car’s interior. Her heart was fairly pounding in her chest, panic rising just a steadily as the water. In desperation she shoved at the door, yelling, pushing, straining as the water continued to rise. Without warning tears began to course down her cheeks as the reality of the deadly situation began to set in.

Was this how she was going to die? Out here in the middle of nowhere? Alone? Drowned in icy water? By the time the water was lapping at her stomach, the cold and sheer panic had consumed her. Insidious frigidity was seeping into her mind, numbing it, enticing her to shut down, to calm, to relax. So much so, that the sound of the back window shattering and a cold blast of artic wind rushing through the cabin, barely even registered.

A deep male voice sounded beside her ear, “Can you hear me?” It said. Almost in slow motion she turned her head. Deep blue eyes, framed by a handsome face looked intently at her, “Can you tell me your name?”

“Caitriona.”

He smiled, neat white teeth and a gentle expression greeted her, “Alright, Caitriona. I’m Johnathon.” He glanced down at the water now half way up her chest then back to her face, “We need to get you out of here.”

“My leg..” She stuttered, her teeth chattering so badly it was difficult to form words.

“I know.” He said calmly, eyes locking with hers, “I’m going to move the back of the seat and then we are going to slide you out of here. Okay?” He began to shift, her hand gripped his arm, pulling him back. She tried to speak but the words were caught in her throat, hypothermia ceasing muscles and thoughts. His larger warm hand covered hers, “It’s alright. I won’t leave you. I’ll be right here. I just need to move this seat Caitriona.” He nodded at her and slid around. He knew he had minutes only to get this woman out of this car before it slipped the rest of the way into the lake, taking them both with it. He gripped the seat low down, his arms strongly objecting to being submerged in freezing water. Fingers searched until he found the weak joint in the seat mechanism. He’d seen it a hundred times in the road accidents he’d attended. Most seats failed at a particular point in many of the head-on collisions he’d been called to when he’d worked in rescue. He knew the weakness usually lay in the teeth mechanism that connected the seats together. If he could manage to move either one of them, changing the seat angle, that should be enough to try and slide the woman out. Bracing his feet against the base and gripping as low down as he could, almost putting his head under the water, he levered his body against the seat, muscles strained, his back arched as he pulled, shaking the chair back and forth, not stopping at her cries of shock and surprise. He couldn’t, there wasn’t time. It was now or never. He took a deep breath, the water covering his head as he knelt on the floor of the car and levered with all the force he could muster, straining the very fibre of every muscle group he had until, almost through sheer force of will the chair mechanism split. It didn’t sheer off completely but it moved. He hoped it was enough as he broke the surface, sucking in deep breath and shoving the back of the chair down. He reached over the back of the seat and grabbed her under the shoulders and tugged her backward. She screamed, but thankfully, her body came free and in a matter of seconds he had an arm around her waist and was dragging her across the back seat, bodily hauling her out the back window.

The wind hit her like a twenty-tonne truck, taking what little breath she had, icy fingers seeming to the seek out the very last vestige of anything that remotely resembled warm anywhere in her entire body. They both landed with a sodden thud on the iced surface of the lake. She’d have screamed if she’d had the breath for it, as it was she barely had time to think before she found herself being dragged across the ice. “Off the ice to the car.” He shouted over the wind and driving snow as they finally reached the shoreline.

Caitriona was really shaking now, uncontrollable and savage, her limbs ached, her head felt distant and light. She suddenly felt tired, so very tired. Arms slipped under her legs, a wave of confused dizziness washing over her as he hoisted her up, cradling her against him as he slogged through the knee-deep snow, face into the biting wind. Get her to the car. Get her warm. His mind was already working on what he needed to do next. He felt her relaxing, felt the grip of hyperthermia lulling her to sleep, to shut down, “Hey!” He yelled, jostling her, her head snapping back and heavy eyes opening, “Keep your eyes open Caitriona.”

“So tired..”

“Stay awake.” He urged as he struggled up the last drift, back to the road and thankfully a warm truck. Johnathon set her down, wedging her between his body and the car, taking her weight as he quickly opened the door. “Almost there now.” He spread a blanket across the seat then lifted her in as best he could. She screamed as her ankle twisted, pain chasing the sleep temporarily from her system. He wrapped her tightly in the blanket and shut the door. The truck was warm, having been left running, the heated seats and the warm interior air chased the chill from the air and she slumped back into the softness of it. Her head rolled back and she was vaguely aware that they were moving. She tried to focus, but her eyes refused to foloow any instruction her brain was giving, blurring and urging her to close them. Warm air was blowing in her face in stark contradiction to the cold she felt deep in her body. Dark brows knit in confusion, but try as she might, her mind refused clear. She just wanted to sleep.

“Hey,” A hand on her shoulder roused her, “Tell me your name again.” He needed to keep her talking, once she was in the cabin and warm, he’d let her sleep, but until then, “Come on.” He shook her harder, hard enough to cause her lidded eyes to open and shoot him an outrageous glare, “What’s your name?”

The eyes blinked slowly then cleared, “Caitriona.” Her voice wavered slightly, her teeth still chattering, her body still shaking with deadly hypothermic cold, “Caitriona Balfe.”

Johnathon’s focus turned back to the road, dodging drifts, straining to see in the growing dark and driving storm. The weather was worsening by the minute, with snow and wind this hard, there was no way the road would still be open. Returning to the cabin was the only real option. In any case, town was a four hour trip on a good weather day and there was no way that this woman, whoever she was, would make it that far, even with the gentle warmth of the car’s interior and shelter of a wrapped blanket. “Alright Caitriona, tell me about your family.” He flicked a glance at her, at least her eyes were still open.

Dark brows knit in confusion, “What?” Her fingers and toes were beginning to burn as they slowly warmed.

“Your family.” His voice was deep, soft and steady, “Tell me about them.” Keeping her talking would keep her conscious. Apart from the cold, her foot was clearly hurt badly. He wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t broken, but the woman had been in a car wreck and he was concerned there could be other injuries not visibly obvious. He prompted and prodded, getting her to relate the names of her mother, father and siblings, what she did for a living, where she’d been driving to. Her answers had been clear and articulate, if not punctuated by spasms of uncontrollable shivering and more than a good amount of exasperation aimed solely had him, particularly when he’d asked about a husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, partner and children. Then the answers had been coloured with varying degrees of anger, frustration, sadness and a distinct hint of none of your business.

She was an actress who had been travelling from Seattle to New York for work, her parents and family were in Ireland, she had no children and her boyfriend was in New York, though something about the way she reacted to that didn’t quite sit right. He suspected there was more to that story but wasn’t really in the mood nor the situation to care extensively about it.

“Where are we going?” She asked, breaking through his introspection as she exhaled deeply trying to stifle the shaking.

“Cabin. Not far now.” He pointed through the windscreen at a dark blurry shape not too far down the track or road or whatever it was that he was following. She squinted her eyes, she wasn’t even sure there was a road, though she could see the structure he was pointing to, “A place to get out this storm.”

She nodded, suddenly aware of the situation. Having deliberately taken the backroads to give herself more time to think, she now realised the price of that decision. She was in the middle of nowhere, and worse no one knew she was here. When she failed to arrive, yes, someone would raise the alarm, but she wasn’t due in New York until late tomorrow night and it was a long time between now and then. A long time for, she glanced at the man beside her, a long time for anything to happen to her.

He looked like a decent type of a guy, but isn’t that what they say about all serial killer types, they look like your normal everyday nice guy, except they kill people for kicks. Scenes from the movie Misery flashed through her mind and she fumbled in the damp shirt pocket. Shit, her mind cursed as her fingers closed around her phone, instantly feeling the icy wetness covering it. Hands trembling she pressed the button. Nothing. No light. No power. Nothing.

“No signal up here anyway.” Her head snapped to one side to find the most ocean blue eyes she’d ever seen watching her quietly, “but if you want to try, you can use mine if you know the numbers you need."

She accepted the phone, glanced at the screen then handed it back. No service. “There no landline? At this cabin? Either?”

“No phone, but this storm will blow itself out in a day or so and then its only 4 hours or so to town.” The car stopped moving, the headlights illuminating a bigger cabin than she’d been expecting, “Wait here in the warm. I’ll unlock and then come and get you.” He opened the door and several snowflakes blew in with the icy wind.

She watched as he leapt up the half a dozen or so in no more than two strides, disappearing from her view behind a solid wooden door. She glanced down at the keys, hanging in the ignition, the engine purring softly in the background. If she wanted to, escape would be easy right now. Apart from the fact that she didn’t really know exactly where she was, where the road was, where the town was and couldn’t reliably see more than two feet in front of her. Serial killer or not, she wasn’t going anywhere without his help. Another wracking series of shakes rattled through her bones, the phone slipped from her fingers, landing with a thud on the floor at her feet. She bent to retrieve it and immediately regretted it. She let out a strangled yelp and sat back. Definitely not going anywhere without his help.

The help returned presently, toting a second blanket. The door opened and a snow dusted blond head leaned over her, wrapping a second blanket around her shoulders, “Hold on to me.” She look a breath, steeling herself against the pain as strong arms slid under her knees and she was lifted from the car. She wrapped an arm around his neck, feeling the instant solidness of him, holding herself steady as he crossed the threshold, kicking the door shut and setting her gently down on the edge of the large bed. He knelt down at her feet, nodding towards her boots, “I’m going to try and get these off,” Blue eyes looked up at her, “It might hurt, but we need to get you warm and see what we’re dealing with here.” She nodded mutely and curled her fingers into the softness of the covers. He unzipped the side of her leather boot on the good ankle and slipped it off without a single sound.

The second boot was not as simple. “Almost there.” He murmured in sympathy, having heard the stifled gasps, yelps and at least one bitten off scream. She’d decided half way through the procedure to try and focus on something, anything other than the sharp stabs of pain running up her leg. He had strong shoulders, she observed, muscles clearly defined beneath the shirt, flexing and relaxing as he moved. His hands were large and warm, gentle in their strength as one gripped her calf. Gentle yet steady and sure. There was no hesitation or nervous shake in the grip, in his actions. He pulled the boot free. This time she did scream, white hot agony raced up her leg and fingers involuntarily gripped the covers, knuckles white with tension. The ankle had swollen to well over twice its size, her foot puffed and slightly red. The ankle joint itself had already started to turn shades of purple. It could well be broken, but with no real way to tell, at least not yet, all he could do was wrap it, keep it still until he could get her to town.

“Is it broken?” Her voice wavered and he looked up to see tears escaping the corners of her eyes.

“I’m not sure Caitriona.” He shot her an apologetic look, knowing how much these type of injuries could hurt, “What I am sure off,” He stood, “is that you need to get warm. Start by getting out of those wet clothes.” He untucked one edge of the blanket, “Can you do that by yourself?”

“Yes.” She nodded, not at all sure she could, but unwilling to strip off in front of a potential serial killer if she could help it. But he was right, while the uncontrollable shaking had eased, the occasional bone rattling shake still shivered through her body without warning.

“I’m going to go and get you something dry to put on.” He reached up and pulled a curtain from its ties near the head of the bed, “Try not to put any pressure on that ankle.” He flicked the curtain around the bed, leaving her sitting there, listening to his footstep recede.

With a great deal of awkward maneuvering, trying not to bend or topple over, her fingers white and stiff, she finally managed to wiggle out the jeans and underwear, covering herself with a blanket. She was starting on the sodden shirt buttons when she heard his footsteps followed by a grunt and a noise which she imagined was him depositing heavy bags onto the floor. Her assumption was further reinforced when she heard the unzipping of one of the cases. She had her shirt undone when his voice startled her. A long arm poked its way through the curtain, “Try these.” The hand tossed the clothing onto the head of the bed, then disappeared.

She smiled to herself, doubting that a serial killer would bother trying to avoid copping a glance at a semi naked woman. She looked down at bra clad chest and shrugged, especially since half the world had seen her naked on television. She reached over and inspected the pile of clothing. A large navy blue sweatshirt, that she was sure she could fit four of herself inside, and a pair of long grey sweatpants. Not a fashion statement to be sure, but they were dry and, she thumbed the soft fleecy material, should be warm enough. She flicked the long legs of the pants out and gingerly slipped them over her own legs, lifting her backside to pull them up, tying the drawstring in a bow before slipping the sweat shirt over her head, settling the soft folds around her. She sighed softly, it was utter bliss to be dry. She took a small breath, the clothes smelled clean and fresh and held with them the slight scent of men’s aftershave. She decided she liked it and took a deeper breath. A move she rapidly rethought as a sharp pain reasserted itself, stabbing her left side. She let out a yelp and closed her eyes.

“Everything okay?” a deep voice sounded from beyond the curtain. Blond brows knit a moment, then he shrugged, a decision made, he poked his head through the curtain. She was sitting very still, her hands clenched in the blanket. He moved to her side, concerned there had been greater injury than he first thought. Tossing three elastic bandages on the bed, he touched her shoulder, “Where is the pain Caitriona?” There was a gentleness to his voice, tinged with more than a hint of urgency.

She finally swallowed and opened her eyes, looking up into similar ocean blue ones. “My side.” Her voice wavered.

He crouched down, “Can you lift this shirt a little?” he asked quietly looking up with one brow raised in question. Sniffling back traitorous tears that threatened to fall, she nodded slowly, then gripping the bottom of the shirt lifted the edge, high enough for uncover her ribs, stopping just short of the underside of her breasts. His fingers were warm and gentle as they carefully probed her stomach and ribs. “Sorry,” He said, when he touched a particularly tender spot, “I don’t think there’s any real damage or breaks, but you’re going to be bruised and sore for a few days.” He reached for one of the bandages, “This will help, but it’s going to hurt for a bit.” He unfurled an arm’s length of bandage and knelt in front of her, “Put your hands on my shoulders,” He looked up and shot her an apologetic smile, “Squeeze as hard as you need to and try and keep breathing.”

His shoulders were broad, strong muscles sloping down from his neck. She gripped them hard as the bandage was applied, tighter than she was expecting. “Breathe Caitriona.” His movements were precise, quick and sure and Caitriona realised that he’d done this before. “All done.” He said softly, sliding the hem of the sweat shirt down but remaining kneeling and still, “Just breathe.” She focussed on the simple instruction a few moments until her grip relaxed with the gradually easing pain, “Better?” His voice was gentle, deep in its timbre and seemed to match those deep blue eyes perfectly.

“A little.” She was suddenly very aware of the warmth of the muscled flesh of his shoulders beneath her palms and immediately dropped her hands into her lap.

“Well,” He said standing up, “Sorry to be the bearer of more bad news, but we need to get you in bed.” He stopped a moment and flashed her a smile, “ Not what it sounds like but you know what I meant?”

She couldn’t help but smile, “I know what you meant.” She conceded and held out her hand, “Can you help me up first, I need to…” She hesitated then flicked a glance towards the bathroom.

“Oh right.” A slight flush of red coloured his neck, “Put your arms around my neck.” He bent over and waited until she was ready, then carefully lifted her behind the knees, carrying her to the bathroom and setting her down on the floor, letting her lean against the towel rail, “Let me know when you’re ready okay?” He slipped outside, closing the door behind him. He moved the fireplace and started to stack the kindling and logs, striking a single match, gently coaxing the flames into life. Next he moved to bed and flicked the covers down. He was about to set the pot on the stove, when he heard the bathroom door open.

It took a lot less time that he’d thought to get her settled. She’d endured the painful wrapping of her ankle bravely, and was now reclining, wrapped in several blankets, a warm mug of chicken soup in her hand, foot carefully elevated on a pillow, back propped against the headboard, listening to soft sound of the water running in the shower.

In the confusion of it all, Caitriona had completely forgotten that he’d been submerged in that cold water as well. He emerged a few minutes later, dressed in similar clothing to what she now was. They fitted his muscular form far better than hers. She studied him quietly over the rim of the mug. Tall. He was tall, taller than she was. Square shoulders, her eyes drifted down, strong back, narrow hips, long legs, all in all the perfect picture of a very attractive man. Not to mention, those eyes.

The object of her musings glanced her way. They were blue, deep blue like crystal water of a tropical ocean, darker than her own. “Pain easing off a bit?” He asked as he bent to feed another log into the gently crackling fire.

“Yes, some,” She responded as he straightened and walked towards the large bed she was comfortably ensconced in. Johnathon picked up a large grey blanket from long couch and with an efficient motion, flicked it open, letting it settle down over her body, carefully holding one corner and laying it ever so gently over her ankle, “Enough to be bearable at least.”

He seemed to consider this a moment, then moved to the stack of bags. He opened a smaller one, studied a small box a moment then walked to the kitchen area. The entire cabin was one large room consisting of a largish kitchen and dining area, a comfortable lounge and two easy chairs in front of a large open stone backed fireplace and a large raised platform that contain the massive bed she was resting in. He swung around, a long glass of water in his hand and return to the bedside. “Try this.” He offered her two oblong shaped capsules, “They aren’t very strong but will help some.” In truth, he wanted to give her something far stronger, but the only medication that would have the strength he needed would also have the unwanted side effect of making the taker excessively drowsy, something he was trying to avoid. The shivering had stopped and Johnathon was reasonably happy that she was warming slowly, gradually coming back to a normal thermic range. Still, he’d keep her awake for another few hours, then assess the situation again. “Thank you,” She said, swapping the cup of hot soup for the glass and pills, “I’ll take anything that might help at this point.” She swallowed the medication and took a long drink of water, handing back the empty glass and accepting the mug, “Thank you for the soup as well.” She took another mouthful, “It’s really good. Where did you get it from? All the way out here? I mean, the nearest town is …?”

“In good weather? 4 hours away,” He finished for her.

“Right, so you keep a stock here just for rescuing stranded drivers?”

Johnathon chuckled softly, a small smile crinkling the sides of his handsome mouth, “No. I made a pot full when I first got here.” He nodded towards the cup, “That is the last of it though.”

“What about you?” She glanced at the cup, suddenly feeling guilty at taking food from his mouth.

He shrugged, “She’ll be right. I’ll knock something up from the staples I always leave here.”

Caitriona’s brow knit and she cocked her head to one side, “Where are you from Johnathon?” He had an accent, similar strength to her own, but very different in both tone and lilt. It was easy to listen to and seemed to suit him perfectly. It was also different to anyone she’d ever met or heard, but she decided she liked it.

He smiled that smile again and Caitriona found herself smiling back, “Well,” He stood and walked toward a large wooden cupboard, “Definitely not from Ireland.” His deep voice held a cheeky note as he spoke over his shoulder, blue eyes meeting hers in silent accusation. He opened one door and standing on tiptoes, reached up and hoisted down yet another blanket.

“No. Not from Ireland, I know what that accent sounds like.” She met his gaze, raising her own cheeky eyebrow over the rim of the cup, “So?”

“Australia.” He said, leaning over her and putting the blanket over her shoulders.

“You’re a long way from home then?”

“A bit.” He straightened and moved to the window, leaning on strong arms and surveying the blizzard outside. “I could say the same about you Caitriona. There is a few thousand miles between Ireland and the US.” Johnathon turned, crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the sill.

She lifted her eyes to his, “Can I assume that ‘a bit’ means you don’t live here?” She glanced around the cabin. It was clear he didn’t and that had her wondering why he was here. It was also clear that he’d deflected her question.

“No.” His blond head shook, “Just a bit of a getaway that I visit now and again. I was on my way back to civilisation when I happened upon your car tracks.”

“Lucky for me,” She answered, swirling the last of the soup around the cup, “If you hadn’t come along, I’d be at the bottom of that lake with the car.”

He pushed off the sill and held out a hand, gesturing for the now empty cup, “As soon as the storm lets up, we’ll have to let your family know that you’re not in that car before they raise an alert and send someone out looking for you.”

She handed the cup over, “My phone was soaked, but it didn’t have a signal anyway. Does yours have service?”

"Nope, not in here anyway.” Johnathon wandered to the kitchen and started filling a stainless-steel kettle, “It does if I stand on the top of the hill out there,” He pointed at the window, currently completely white, snow flurries and wind occasionally rattling the panes.

“You can’t go out there.” She stated practically.

He smiled and took down two cups from their hooks, setting them on the counter, “Not at the moment, no.” Caitriona watched as he bent and fossicked around in the cupboard under the bench, “But I will when it’s not so hectic.” A large container and a spoon was dropped on the counter, “So if you can remember the numbers of your boyfriend and family, you can write a few texts and they will send the second I do manage to get service out there.” He spooned two large heaps of light brown powder into each cup, then added boiling water. He stirred each cup vigorously, then walked to the bedside and lowered one cup, one brow raised in silent question. The rich scent of chocolate wafted up into her senses as she gratefully accepted the cup, sniffing appreciatively at its contents. Johnathon dug into his back pocket and handed her his phone, “Texts will send quicker with less signal than trying to make a call, but if you’d rather, I can try and call it in to the local police and have them contact whoever you want.”

“I know the numbers I think,” She took a sip of the hot liquid, deliciously sweet and thick, “Texts will be fine.” More than fine, she had no real desire to actually verbally speak to Tony again yet, nor Sam, nor production. She’d send a text to them and to her family so if Johnathon, she turned her head and looked at him. He was sitting quietly in a chair, cup in one hand, a laptop propped on his knee. If he turned out to be the crazy serial killer type, they would at least know where she was and she guessed, he was right. The last thing she wanted was to worry her family and cause someone to have to be out in all this searching for her. She started with a text to each of her sisters, stopping periodically to drink the hot chocolate. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” She queried, “I should tell them when to expect me.” She indicated the phone.

He paused, looking at the storm, clearly considering before answering, “I’ll have another look in the morning, but storms like this tend to blow themselves out in a day or two.”

“So,” She calculated, “Thursday sometime?”

“Start with that and if it changes,” He put the laptop on the table and stood, stretching slightly, “We’ll try and get the message through. Okay?” She nodded her agreeance, watching as he crossed to the kitchen and started digging around for more supplies she assumed. She flicked the screen of his phone, noting its plain background. No pictures of family or, she glanced over to see him put two pots on the stove, no significant other. Caitriona idly pondered that for a few moments, narrowing her gaze to his hand. No ring, and no marks where one should have been. Not that that was any indication, her mind warned. Many men didn’t wear rings and marriage wasn’t the only indicator of relationship status. She looked at her own hand, conspicuously devoid of any such adornment. That had never meant that she hadn’t been attached to someone. She shook her head, clearing the uncomfortable memories and set back to her task. Next came her mother and father, clear messages, short and sweet, similarly with production and her agents, all business and professional and then a simple, “Don’t worry. I’m fine,” to Sam and Tony alike. She pressed send for each of the messages, automatically queuing them. A long list of messages displayed on screen. A history of his texts. She couldn’t help herself, she ran a finger over the few messages he had stored there.

Most were to someone called Jackson Porter, various others to several police inspectors, detectives and, her eyebrow rose a little, special agents, FBI, CIA and MI6. Who was this man, James Bond? Should she be concerned? She flicked a nervous glance at her rescuer. It occurred to her that he hadn’t volunteered any information about himself, but had gotten her to spill details about her family, her job, her travel plans. The key question now became was this by design or by coincidence? Only one way to find out. “Johnathon?” Clear blue eyes looked up from packet he was currently studying, “What about your family? Won’t they be expecting you home? You said you were on your way when you found me.”

He leaned on the counter, “No one is expecting me anywhere, not now.” He shrugged, mentally wiping the reasons for that away, “I was on my way to New York to consult on a case there, so I’ll let them know I’ll be a few days late.”

“Consult on a case?”

‘That’s right.” He opened the packet and tipped it into one of the pots, “I consult with a few different law agencies occasionally to help them solve cases.”

That seemed to fit what she’d snooped up. “So you’re a detective, special agent or something?” She asked, finishing the cup of hot chocolate

He opened the freezer and pulled out several frozen items, “Something like that.” He smiled and began dumping the items into the pots, already gently starting to the steam.

“My father is, or was a police inspector in Ireland, he’s semi-retired now.” Caitriona offered, “actually,” She thought on that, “They only call him in now when they need him. But then again that could be their way of easing him out the door, he’s 65 now, should have probably retired years ago if you ask Mum. ”

Johnathon stirred one of the pots and added more water, putting the lid on and turning back to her, “Did your father specialise in any one area?”

“No. He was the inspector of a small village station.” She reached over and put the cup on the bedside table before leaning back against the headboard and readjusting the blanket around her shoulders, “What about you? Do you have a particular type of case you consult on?”

“Varies.” He answered honestly, “Missing people, serials, homicides, vice occasionally, cold cases generally.”

“What case am I keeping you from now? The one in New York I mean?” Caitriona asked as he poured what she though was rice into the second pot.

“You’re not keeping me from anything major,” He said with a gentle smile and wandered over to the chair and picked up the laptop, “It’s all right here.” A long finger tapped the screen, “A thirty year old cold case, a missing teenager.” He set the machine down on the coffee table and wandered to the bed, “Disappeared from a roadside outside of Vancouver, his mother lives in New York now,” Johnathon held out a hand, “Better que up a text to them.” She obligingly handed over the phone. He tapped out a few messages, pressed send and then dropped the phone onto the bedside table closest to her. “In case you need to send other messages,” He clarified in answer to her questioning look. Caitriona smiled at him, realising that he could have taken the phone, erased the messages and no one would be any the wiser. Instead he had allowed her to snoop and provided her with a convenient way to check her messages were still queued. That is not to say that he couldn’t delete them at the first opportunity when she wasn’t around, her untrusting mind sounded. Caitriona grimaced as a lingering cold shiver worked its way through her recovering body. “Still cold?” He asked, a concerned look flashed her way.

“No. I don’t know where that came from,” She tightened the blanket around her shoulders.

“Shock.” He commented, rising and putting another log in the crackling fire, “It’ll take a little while for your body to work through that,” He straightened, “But in the meantime, plenty of blankets and no sleeping for a while okay?”

“Alright.” She agreed amiably. A small silence fell between them, Caitriona leaned back against the headboard, watching as Johnathon moved quietly around the cabin, stacking bags into the corner, stirring the pots on the stove, stoking the fire, checking the windows, moving things from freezer to fridge, finally settling with long glass filled with ice and ginger ale, which had also been offered to her, minus the ice. He dropped into a large lounge chair, feet crossed at the ankles, laptop resting on his thighs. The dim white screen lit his face, clicking here and there, sipping on the drink. He was naturally quiet, Caitriona mused, comfortable with silence, not seeking to fill it with small talk or white noise, just content to let it be. She watched his blond brows draw together, squinting and leaning forward to study something on the screen. Whatever it was, he evidently found it disagreeable, shaking his head and with a click of finality, he leaned back. If he was a serial killer, he was the most attractive one she’d ever seen, in both looks and nature. She considered the phone, sitting on the table. Should she check? Did she need to? Probably not, but, she sighed softly, she’d trusted Tony and look where that had landed her.

She reached over and collected the device, flicking through the start screen. All the messages were still there, queued and waiting to be sent, along with the three more recent ones of Johnathon’s. She glanced between him and the phone. She normally wasn’t one to snoop, but this was far from normal circumstances. Mentally shrugging she flicked a fingertip over the messages. The first was to an Australian police detective telling them that Johnathon had would look into some case. The second was in reply to a real estate agent, the message having been sent almost a week ago, she looked over at her cabin mate who was still reading quietly. Why, she wondered, had it taken him over a week to reply, particularly when the reply consisted of exactly four words – no, sell it all. The last message was to Jackson Porter, telling him to make a start without him and to notify the local police that he’d found a woman named Caitriona Balfe in a car wreck. She took comfort in that message, confirming her thoughts that this man was indeed not a serial killer. They tended to not want to inform law enforcement of their plans. The serial killer in question had wandered over to the kitchen. A delicious smell, meaty, rich and strangely comforting, wafted from the pot he was stirring. Johnathon rapped the spoon on the side of the pot then turned and placed something Caitriona couldn’t quiet see into the oven beneath the cooktop. A particularly vicious gust of wind rattled the windows closest to her, the small flicks of snow and sleet hitting the glass with a muted tinging sound. Far from easing, the storm seemed to be increasing. Caitriona returned the phone to its resting place, “Do you think it’ll get much worse?”

“Tough to tell,” Johnathon commented, watching the trees outside bend and flex in the windy onslaught, “Certainly isn’t pleasant out there for sure.” He glanced at her, a worried expression washing over her attractive face, “Not to worry though, this cabin has been through worse storms with no worries at all.” The laptop chimed, drawing both their attention. Johnathon walked over and inspected the screen. It was low on power and he wandered over to the bed’s opposite side, dropped the machine onto the surface of the bed, then knelt, plugging in the charger into the wall socket. He stood for a moment, clearly thinking, then began pulling over a chair. He sat down, long legs rather uncomfortably tucked under the chair and pulled the laptop onto his thighs, concentrating on the documents on the screen. She smiled at his chivalrous antics.

The resident serial killer didn’t want to sit on the bed beside her while his laptop charged. She took the opportunity to quietly study him. Blond hair, combed neatly back, longer at the front, shorter at the back, following the contours of his skull. A small furrow in his brow as he concentrated, blue eyes, bright with a thoughtful intelligence, the light of the cabin casting a slight shadow on the high cheekbones and straight line of his nose, the grooves of the philtrum leading to his upper lip, the bottom fuller in the centre than the top. A large hand lifted, long fingers idly scratched his chin, the dark blond stubble rasping softly in the still air. The fingers folded into a fist that tucked against his cheek, leaning on it as he continued to read. She followed the lines of his neck, his adams apple, bobbing as he swallowed, neck muscles strong and defined, sloping down to his shoulders. He was certainly extremely attractive, she reflected, swallowing and laying a hand on her stomach, a warm feeling tingling just below the surface of her skin. He ruggedly handsome in a totally different way to the carefully sculptured, trimmed and manicured look that frequently surrounded her. She almost laughed out loud as her mind compared the look of her rescuer to man she currently assigned in her mind as her significant other. Tony, with skin whiter than her own, dark hair always looking unruly, left far too long, smaller in frame and height.

Though, her mind added, she strongly doubted that Tony would ever have been seemingly content wearing trace pants and sweatshirt in anyone’s company, even a stranger. No, he would have worn a designer shirt and pressed pants, a precise example of a urban business man with an ex model come actress as a significant other. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, she guessed. It was almost a prerequisite he dress that way given her profession. In fact, it had come in handy more than once since Outlander had started to gain traction. There had been plenty of press the flesh and “networking” dinners, lunches and cocktail parties to attend along with an assortment of press junkets and TV talkshow appearances. She’d been glad of a friendly face and Tony had fitted in well with the meet and greet crowd. He had proven to be an excellent plus one, seemingly happy to spend hours small talking with complete strangers. While she made connections with directors, network heads and other actors, he connected with people who were cashed up and always looking to invest in someone or something.

Not a bad situation for a man trying to start a bar and club franchise in greater London. She thought on that for a moment. Was that all their relationship was? No, surely, it had to be more than that. Afterall, Tony was a friend, a good one. He never argued about her decisions. They liked similar things and while the sex, what little of it there had been, hadn’t been earth shattering, it hadn’t been completely disastrous either. They weren’t highly affectionate, but that suited her. She lived in her apartment, he lived in his. The romantic side of her brain told her it wasn’t an ideal situation or the fairy-tale that everyone hopes for. Though, her mind warned, any situation would have been better than LA. That cruel deception had almost broken her and she was determined to never go there again.

Ever.

That is precisely why the shower scene she’d walked into in Seattle had triggered a response. Caitriona closed her eyes and leaned her head against the headboard. She’d run. Run because she’d been afraid. Terrified. Not of a relationship ending. Terrified that she fallen into the same trap and had allowed someone else to deceived her so very badly again. Despite all her safe guards, all her promises to herself, all the rules she now followed, was it happening again? Everyone knew that lightening never struck twice.

No, the common thread was her.

Was she partly to blame for the whole mess she found herself in? Her occupation, her choices, her rules, her past? Was he only that way because of her? In a relationship that really wasn’t a relationship and more of an agreement between friends of mutual advantage? She sighed out loud as that realisation set in.

The answers were all yes and the thought of that suddenly made her feel cold, a reflective shiver passing through her.

Cold and very, very alone.

“Caitriona?” His deep voice sounded like warm liquid honey, trickling down her spine and into her hearing, not altogether unpleasant.

Blue eyes opened to regard him, “It’s alright Johnathon. Not asleep. Just thinking.” Should he ask? Not really his business, but, he could see that shadow. The shadow of sadness lurking back there in the clear pools of blue.

Not his business he reminded himself then leaned forward and lifted the laptop on the bed, “Just a few more hours then you can sleep a bit.” He stood and walked over to the oven, pulling the large glass open. The warm smell of freshly baked bread wafted out, and Johnathon placed a small loaf on a wooden cutting board. He turned then and pulled out two bowls, spooning steaming rice into one of the bowls, then covering it with a delicious smelling thick beef. Not bad for a freezer meal and ready to cook bread, he mused, infinitely glad that he’d cooked double earlier in the week and left half in the freezer. He looked up at her, “Would you like some?”

“No thankyou. I don’t eat red meat or gluten. ”

“Don’t or can’t?” He queried, cutting two thick slices of the bread and sitting them on the edge of the bowl.

“Don’t.” She watched as he walked back to the bed, sat down quietly and began eating with definite intent.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” He commented around a mouthful of food, a half grin of his face, “Sure I can’t tempt you?” He offered her the bowl, one eyebrow raised.

“No thanks,” She smiled softly at him, privately thinking that the meal did indeed smell and look delicious, “Besides, I just finished soup and hot chocolate. I’m full.”

“Is your appetite down or that’s about normal?” He balanced the bowl on his knees then attacked its contents with enthusiasm, running the crust of the bread around the bowl sopping up the last of the stew.

“About normal after a day like today.”

He nodded then stood, refilled the bowl, “It has been a bit of day,” Caitriona watched with muted amazement as he polished off the second bowl and started on the third as he leaned on the counter, “Could have been worse though.” He emptied the bowl and started decanting the leftovers into containers.

She thought about that while she watched him tidying up. What would her family have done? What would Tony had done? Would they have even missed her? Would she ever have been found? The not knowing would have driver her father insane. Her family would have mourned her, of that she was certain. Tony? She honestly didn’t know. He would have publicly made all the moves , but privately, she didn’t know how he’d really feel. Move on to better things most likely. She could have laid there in the bottom of that lake for years. An icy death, alone. Lost even in death to her family.

“How close Johnathon?” She asked quietly. He looked over at her, one eyebrow raised in question, soapy suds dripping down his forearms, hitting the dishwater in large drops. “At the lake. How close was it? How much time did I have if you didn’t happen by?”

“As long as you needed I reckon.” He said cryptically then turned back to the sink and finished off the pot setting it dry.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen a lot of close calls. I worked in emergency rescue for a bit,” He commented wiping his hands on a tea towel then coming to resume his seat beside the bed, “ You’d be surprised what strength people find when they are fighting to live.” Blue eyes focused on hers, “And you were fighting. That’s all that matters really.”

“Sounds to me like you’re down playing the role you had in all this,” She held his gaze, half intrigued by his personality and half wanting to just keep him talking to hear his voice, “We both know that door wasn’t opening anytime soon and without you, I couldn’t have gotten the seat belt off. So, how long did I have really?”

“Not long.” The deep voice was soft and gentle and matched the steady gaze, “Five minutes maybe.”

“Five minutes.” She blinked and swallowed, dropping her gaze as the thought of how close she’d really come to dying hit her. Five minutes and she’d have been no more. Her eyes closed, a lone tear escaping from beneath long lashes and trickled down her cheek. Five minutes, not time enough for a coffee. A warm hand curled around her wrist, “Hey, it doesn’t matter if it was five minutes or five hundred minutes.” the strong fingers tightened, “Car is at the bottom of the lake, you’re not.”

She opened her eyes to study his, “Thanks to you.” She said quietly.

He leaned back and shrugged, “Thanks to poorly designed seats and an application of suitable force.”

“Suitable force originating from?” She challenged gently.

“From a simple physical lever system.”

She laughed softly, “A lever system? Called Johnathon?”

He flashed her a lopsided grin, the corner of his mouth making a small dimple in his cheek, “Called it doesn’t matter because it all worked out.”

“That must be awkward to write when you’re filling out forms.”

He smiled broadly at that, finding the intelligent humour behind it intriguing, “Only when I have to fill them out in triplicate.”

Caitriona laughed and conceded defeat. He wasn’t going to accept what she understood all too well he had done.

Johnathon Chase had just saved her life.

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AO3 http://archiveofourown.org/works/10919163/chapters/24283398