#by not blindly committing himself to duty but rather

[elfyourmother]

All the Holy See exalted him Thordan VII, Refulgent Hoplon of the Fury. But before he was the Fury's, he was mine--my Marcellain. And I loved him more than aught under all heaven and earth save one--the babe with his eyes. But I do not Halone, no; twas cruel Man who took them both from me, not Her.

[ask-the-clergy-bc]

Hiya! So in your opinion what do you think it would take for the Papas and Cardinal Copia to open up and be vulnerable with a S/O? Would it need time and trust, maybe an event which caused them to have an epiphany, or maybe they get caught at a bad time and need some comfort? Thank you!

I accidentally made this into a giant character introspection, whooooooooooops! 

Ooooooooooooooooh boy, this is gonna be a long one so sit down! There’s no easy answer for me to give without a thesis sooooooooooooooooooooo-

Papa’s and Copia - What it Takes to have them be Truly Vulnerable with an S/O

Character flaw and reflection time! I will warn you these men are all far from perfect! 

There’s definitely a LOT of elements and circumstances for each of these Antipopes, so I will try my best to sum it up without letting it get too big! Trust will be the key word in opening them all up! 

A super short answer for this would be a small chart. From easiest to hardest to open up genuinely to an S/O (regardless of the situation), it would look something like this. 

Papa Nihil

Papa I

Cardinal Copia

Papa II

Papa III

Keeping this in mind is actually really important as a lot of it has to play into each personality and life experiences. Even then, this is a super tight race! They all don’t blindly trust and they all have a level of mystery they NEED to keep about them. So it’s a huge mix of their jobs as Papas and who they are deep down. 

There is a reason such things like Prime Movers exist/ Having courtesans and harem members rather than proper spouses. A Papa could easily be compromised by a spouse. With either a partner using them to manipulate the Church, or straight up betraying them. A Papa has to be alert, smart, and VERY VERY sure when choosing a lifelong mate. They have to be able to know without a doubt that they can count on their partner with their very lives and the lives of others. 

THEN there are so many personal factors and circumstances that come into play! It’s safe to say that all of them are emotionally guarded in some way, shape, or form. That comes with the territory of being a Hell Blooded man of power. You don’t know who REALLY loves you, who’s using you, or who wants something. On top of that, the emotional burdens of their work, their faith, personal fears, and the expectations put on them. 

It can be VERY hard to gauge what really clicks for each of them to trust someone. So, as asked, we will take a look into each of them! :)

Papa Nihil:

If you caught him in his younger years, he might have been more trusting with a serious partner. Not out of naivety or blind love, but out of arrogance. Arrogance that a partner could not hurt him even if they betrayed him. Nihil had an ego to him and felt on top of the world- being Papa and nothing to stop him. Not even a broken heart! To him, the worst thing that could happen with an S/O would be heartbreak, and he refused to believe that was anything that could break him! Well… it ended up happening with Sister Imperator. So after she left, he understood the consequences of his actions and what that would actually feel like. It’s not something he’s too keen to feel again. 

As he got older, he hardened. The only one who has really ever seen his softer, vulnerable side has been Imperator. She’s the only one he remotely trusts in the deepest sense, and even then- he has doubted her motives with the introduction of Copia! Nihil learned the hard way that putting your trust in the wrong people can have serious consequences to your life. 

That all being said, two things really work with getting Nihil to be open to you with his feelings. First would be his “test”- not something he purposely does to make his S/O jump through hoops, mind you. Consider it an observation period where he sees how serious a relationship can be with you. Nihil doesn’t mind flings, and as Grand Papa, has a willing harem at his disposal. The first months or years with a single partner is him learning about them. This goes from seeing how serious YOU are, your intentions and sincerity, how well you both click, and how close you end up being. That, and making sure you aren’t just using him. Granted, he doesn’t mind the occasional arm candy or someone who just wants to have fun. Those are just the partners he doesn’t put extra effort into when it comes to emotions or deeper mental intimacy.

The second is just plain old time. If you two become serious, and stick by each other through thick and thin- you will learn about him. Nihil will slowly disclose more and more to you. Don’t go crazy, because the Grand Papa is always watching for any hints of betrayal (nothing personal, it comes with the job.) So the more you are trustworthy, the more he shares. There will be a few tough subjects to crack with him, like his relationship with Imperator and his sons. But the more you mutually talk and grow together, the more things work out. I will warn you, no matter how much he trusts you he IS a stubborn old goat and some information HAS to be pried from him- simply because HE WILL NOT ADMIT ANYTHING TO HIMSELF SOMETIMES. 

Papa I:

Papa can be very open and trusting with a serious partner, that typically is not the problem. Granted, he’s very analytical so his own feelings are something he tries to approach logically. But that’s not the problem. The hurtle would just be you both getting to be a serious couple in the first place. As to him there is a vast difference between a sexual/romantic fling, casual companionship, and the workings of a true mate ship. The last of which is riddled with pitfalls due to his place as Papa and carrier of his bloodline. 

Papa tends to let his sense of duty rule over almost every aspect of his life. He is one of the ‘purest’ followers of Lucifer, and it shows in everything he does! Because of that, he has not typically sat down to consider companionship past his carnal needs and having someone to spend time with. Typically anything deeper would mean something equivalent to our idea of marriage- and with “marriage” to a Papa brings up the topic of possible heirs brought on by the Ministry. When a Papa is heavily involved with someone beyond their casual lovers, the idea of heirs is ALWAYS discussed. The Bloodline HAS to be continued. Depending on the sex of the partner, questions will be asked such as- can the partner become a prime mover? If possible are they SUITABLE? If they can’t have children will they interfere in possible heirs being made? In short, Papa equates “Serious” partners to this duty to sow the seeds of the bloodline’s future. 

That being said, Papa would actually prefer a partner he could be open with. The trick is that he has to snap himself out of thinking just for the family and ministry’s sake. Which is self admittedly a difficult feat for him, because he’s always in work and faith mode. That’s just who he is. The other just has to do with how he treats others. 

Typically Papa is much more interested in what you, his partner, is feeling. This comes with YEARS of thinking of everyone but himself. Papa has had to consider his flock, the will of the high clergy, the will of his father, the wants and needs of his brothers, and those he considers friends or in need of his guidance. Papa knows how to take care of himself, so HIS feelings are almost inconsequential. Papa much rather let you talk and share how you are than consider himself. It typically just takes a bit of asking and prodding on your part to get him to open up if you two have been close for a long time. Being honest and to the point also helps, as it gives him a moment to collect his thoughts and express himself thoroughly. 

Papa II:

Being emotionally vulnerable for Papa II is very difficult. Not because he CHOOSES to be a ‘wounded bitter old man.’ Even though he is very much that AND a known grouch and perfectionist; Papa just doesn’t know HOW to be. Papa does have emotions and he does feel them very deeply when he’s not trying to tough it out. But Papa has never been GOOD at expressing his feelings, even as a child. It’s not something he was in touch with, and not very comfortable for him to think about. Unlike III, Papa II just cannot seem to find it in himself to express his true feelings. Granted, he could put it into words as he is very eloquent. But… it’s difficult. 

On top of that, Papa has never been one to let his weaknesses appear. Emotions are often embraced by Lucifer, as expressing them. But to Papa, these are his weak points and he prides himself too much in keeping all his weaknesses guarded. Papa has crafted himself to cover his vulnerabilities in such a way that they play to his strengths! For his emotions and true feelings, he detaches from them; giving him the ability to lead with a critical and objective mind not bogged down by empathy. As a Papa, this makes him an excellent and analytical leader. As a lover, this often bites him in the ass- especially in pursuing any SERIOUS life time commitments. Something he wasn’t keen on doing in the first place. 

Papa is very aware of how ‘spouses’ work for the Bloodline. Bonding with a potential mate has always been in the interest of furthering the family, not personal fulfillment. He’s tried VERY hard to keep it that way. And like his father, he is painfully aware of those who would manipulate his feelings. And if we were being honest? The idea of genuinely falling in love scares the absolute shit out of Papa. The idea of being so vulnerable to a person who could crush your very soul, the soul of a demon blooded Antipope, is not something to take lightly! And it’s NOT like he has had any good role models to show how true love should operate… 

To win him over, it would be a good idea to show HIM your vulnerable side first. Kinda like when a cat shows you its belly as a sign of trust. LEt him see the ugly side of you, the insecure- but slowly. Don’t hit him all at once with everything. You have to let Papa come to you. It might take a lot of time this way, but it’s a start- there is a reason he feels more comfortable with submission. It makes him feel so much more secure. Also showing your dedication and love through action and not words will be HUGE! Showing him you can be trusted, that you have a good head on your shoulders, and that you have his best interests at heart. Alternatively, if something life altering should happen to him, you supporting him is the ultimate display of your dependability. If you try to force him at any point he will pull back out of reflex. It’s one of the few times he lets your roles be reversed. 

Papa III: 

Many would accuse his older brother, Emeritus the II, of being the hardest to make vulnerable- yet many are surprised that it is actually him! But Papa has spent years weaving a huge web around himself. Papa has so many masks and layers to him out of fear that sometimes even he doesn’t know what part of him is genuine or not. He learned from an early age that he was the most emotional, and most likely to get hurt. And let me tell you something, Emeritus the Third is NOT a man who likes the feeling of being hurt emotionally. It’s practically unbearable for him. He already deals with a lot of emotional burdens from feeling as though he were the ‘weak’ one of the Bloodline. Truth be told, he hasn’t had the best relationship with his father, either. 

What’s worse? As much as he likes to talk about himself, Papa does NOT like talking about his true issues and anxieties. Papa usually deflects in such subtle ways that those close to him THINK he is being vulnerable, when in truth he is being superficial. So when you hear him complain about how the Ministry treats him, or a minor insecurity brought on by an argument with his brother- you are only scratching the surface. And even if he loves you, Papa does not want you to see that ugly, miserable side of him. He doesn’t even want to acknowledge it himself. If he can barely stand these horrible sides to himself, how does he expect you to stay and accept him? 

For Papa III, the key factor would be time and patience. But this is further made difficult with his fleeting interests and inability to commit. The natural way to his vulnerable side is by never leaving his side, assuming he doesn’t forcibly push you away. For example, one of the few who know him deeply is Omega and his eldest brother, Papa I. That’s because they have been around his entire life. Either you would have to be the same, or be there in a huge moment of weakness to have him even remotely come clean. 

The best (or in his case, worse) would be you being there at his absolute lowest point. When he’s so far gone in his emotions that he can’t even muster up the energy to put on a show. When he can’t bring himself to be Papa, to be charming- hell even RUDE AND ANGRY. The best example would be like if you were around after he was stripped of the Ghost Project and made a fool out of publically. That was such a horrible time for him and everyone around him. But if you are there with unconditional love and he SEES that you love him through every facet of his identity, he will want to stick close and loyal to you. It will take MORE time, but little by little Papa ends up baring his soul to you. He’d be lying if he said he still wasn’t afraid to confide in you, least you up and leave...  

Cardinal Copia/Papa IV:

Copia has struggled with trust nearly his whole life, and ALL of his career in the High Ministry. If we are being honest, as welcoming and loving as the church is, the upper clergy is full of deceit and cutthroat tactics. It’s as competitive and dangerous as any monarchy or noble circles. That’s because within it there is a LOT more at stake. Ministry members have vanished or been found dead thanks to inner politics, and Copia has his share of close calls. He’s had to learn to trust no one but yourself, and never EVER let your guard down too much.

Unfortunately, this does bleed into his personal life. Copia has had his share of bed mates and even lovers that have stuck around longer than anticipated. But long term commitments have been very few and far between. And to be honest, he HAS been burned before. From those who sought to betray him to partners who just DIDN’T LIKE who he really was underneath. Copia has buried that hurt and tried to use it as a reminder of why he needs to keep himself until he makes it to the top. Then NO ONE could hurt him the way they could when he was a mere Ministry member.

Copia has always been really cautious around lovers to the point of paranoia. Where he adamantly refused to let himself be weak at any point! He is always good to them, but is just plain scared of letting his guard down. But the difference between Copia and the rest of the Papas is that Copia CRAVES intimate connection like you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes he desperately wants that stability and trust with another person without fear of repercussion. Copia often feels like he can never have it, and it’s one of the few things he wants almost as bad as the Papacy. But he’s never had time or a chance to- far too much to do and too much to risk!

One of the biggest ways Copia ends up calming down around you and actually opening up is if you have been there for the long run. Especially if you two were some type of couple or close BEFORE he was ever chosen for the Ghost project. Copia needs that undying support and consistency to really warm up to you. If you’ve unconditionally been there from the beginning and have not changed since his Papacy, Copia is nothing but loyal to you in return. Copia is a very good actor, but he will still be skittish and reluctant to talk too much. You just have to be patient with him as he gets comfortable. I promise, he wants nothing more than to trust you completely.

[kerra-and-company]

OC Question time if you would like one :D For whoever you'd like to chat about: What is one aspect of their current job/role that they did not anticipate when they first started? Do they resent that it has come up or do they just sort of roll with it? -uselessidiotsquad-

All righty, sounds good, let’s go! Thanks for the ask @uselessidiotsquad! :D

Random thing picker has chosen the following (very vague Icebrood spoilers in Lifa’s answer at the end):

Rel: He never anticipated the scale of what his job became. Healing, dealing with all sorts of patients, even fighting when necessary? Sure. Being a leader as well? Not really. But he makes it work, and though it’s never his favorite role to hold, he does a decent job.

Tanza: The way she’s looked at by people when they first learn and understand exactly what her “job” is (specifically the being-connected-to-the-mostly-dead-Owl-Spirit part). They knew they’d make a legend for themself, but not exactly this way, and they’re slightly uncomfortable with the way some people look to them for answers (and angry at the way some people call them a liar). But she deals with it; there’s no other “job” she’d rather have.

Kerra: That she’d grow into it as much as she has. She’s gone through so many steps with regards to being Commander. First, it was her duty and what she was meant to do. Then, it was an obligation she’d committed to and would return to for the sake of the world. And then somewhere along the line, it became...part of her, in a way, if that makes any sense at all. She’s at a point now where she would like to retire (or at least to spend more time with her family), but she is the Commander now. It’s a title and a role that she believes she fits, and even when she steps down, eventually, it’ll have shaped her in a way that only things you accept fully can do. I feel like this explanation is weird, but...yeah. From duty/destiny to obligation to job to mantle, or something like that.

Pliarr: That he’d be good at it. It sounds a bit silly in some ways--he’s a Whispers agent, who also happens to be a very powerful mesmer and spent a decent amount of his childhood learning what secrets to tell who and keeping his sister safe. It seems like it’d be the perfect job for him, skill-set-wise, and it is, but he was very scared of using his magic for a long time because he blames himself for what happened to his sister. But he finds that he’s a good agent both with and without mesmer magic, which surprises him and boosts his confidence.

Lifa: That it would be easy (at least at first). There’s a peculiar and disturbing sort of peace in blindly following, in believing so much in an ideology that you’ll do anything for it. So “easy” might not quite be the right word here, but for her, it gives her tunnel vision, and she welcomes it. She doesn’t have to focus on all of her very complicated feelings about the world and her former friends and her former partner, and she can instead just channel them into her magic and throw it wherever Bangar (and, eventually, Ryland) tells her to. (No, this is not even remotely healthy; yes, she does kill a lot of people because of this mentality; and, no, this does not end well.)

[alonely-dreamer]

The Valuable Sun | Chapter 13

Summary: The one where Russell Edgington comes in.

Pairing: Eric x OC

Warnings: 18+

A/N: Please, note that I am French so there might be some mistakes here and there.

PS: You can also support me on Patreon if you wish/can! Any support is highly appreciated! Chapter 14 is available there right now! Find me @ patreon.com/alonelydreamer

Words: 2737

Masterlist

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

The floor and the air were getting colder as the hours passed. Brooklynne could tell when it was daytime because the Magister, who wouldn’t stop torturing Pam, not even to rest, was starting to bleed from his eyes and his ears, even his nose. He once debated out loud if he should feed from Brooklynne, no doubt to scare both Pam and her, who was supposedly the vampire’s, though he did nothing of the sort. Tru Blood only. Some of his men brought a few bottles before they went back to sleep. When the first day was over and night had finally arrived, more men came by to bring more Tru Blood and see if their boss needed anything else. For some reason, he asked them to take Brooklynne to the bathroom and to get her something to eat, at least remembering humans had more vital needs than vampires.

“You have no right to keep a human here against her will,” Pam had said, which had awakened in him some sorts of sympathy towards the telepath.

From what Brooklynne understood, he was one loyal agent of the Authority and he would rather die than break any law, which is probably why he made sure Brooklynne wouldn’t be starving to death as he kept her near him, tied to the same pillar with those same cold metal chains and on that same dirty floor.

She carefully kept watch on her internal clock, waiting for Eric to come back before the two-day deadline. It was extremely hard to stay focused as Pam’s screams of pains were only getting louder. She was drowsing, sometimes falling asleep for a short time before being awakened by another of Pam’s screams.

But, eventually, she fell asleep, too exhausted to stay awake, her brain getting used to the environment and the incessant screams. This time, it wasn’t Pam who woke her up. It was a scream, a shout, but it wasn’t Pam’s.

“Enough!”

She woke up in a jump, her head hitting the pillar behind her.

“Eric,” she heard Pam breathe out, the relief obvious in her unusual tone.

Eric’s eyes quickly moved from his progeny to his human, though, like the other night, they didn’t linger.

“Mr. Northman,” the Magister sighed as he put down his torture instruments on the table where Pam was attached to with silver chains. “It’s only enough if Bill Compton is with you. Is he?”

“No, Magister,” he said, with a calm and assured tone that made both Pam and Brooke confused. That answer wasn’t what any of them were hoping for. “But the queen of Louisiana is.”

As he finished his sentence, a beautiful red head wearing a white elegant suit and white high heels walked down the stairs. She appeared behind the Viking with a disgusted look on her face as she looked around the basement.

Brooklynne looked up at the Magister who looked even more confused than she was.

“Our deal was…”

“I’ll confess that you were correct before in suspecting me. But everything I did was at her behest.”

The Magister frowned then stepped away from the table where Pam was shivering on.

“You realize, of course, you’re committing treason…” he said as he walked towards the two vampires, “throwing your queen under the bus as you are.”

Brooklynne’s heart tightened in her chest as she became not only nervous, but also scared, for her vampire. Treason sounded like something one would be put to death for.

“Oh, but she’s no longer my queen,” Eric replied. “My loyalty is to Mississippi now.”

“And Mississippi is proud to welcome Mr. Northman as her own,” a voice said from the top of the stairs.

The door slammed behind him, the sudden appearance startling Brooklynne. The vampire was elegant, wearing a dirty grey jacket above his clear blue shirt. He appeared short next to Eric though anyone would appear short next to him, but he also seemed shorter than the queen of Louisiana.

“Love the place, love your vibe,” he said as he walked pass Eric, “we must talk franchising later.”

The Magister laughed quietly as if anything in this situation was funny. “Russell Edgington.”

“You may call me King,” Russell said with a smile, a correction that didn’t please the Magister and that made it clear to both Brooklynne and Pam that a switch of power had just taken place.

“Is it true what Northman says?” the Magister asked Sophie-Anne.

With fear on her face, the queen took a deep breath before she nodded. “Yes, Magister,” she confessed.

“Then I’m afraid I’m gonna have to arrest you.”

The queen then didn’t look so sure. Not about herself as the fear had disappeared from her face, but about what the Magister had just told her. She turned her head to look at Russell who was smiling, somewhat amused by the situation.

“By the powers vested in me by the Authority…”

“The Authority?” Russell cut him off, laughing then at the look the Magister gave him. “Are you serious? Who are the Authority?” he asked, taking a step forward. The Magister watched him walk pass him as if he had just killed his progeny. “What gave them the authority?”

As Russell started to rant, Eric took the opportunity that the Magister was distracted to make his way towards his progeny. He discreetly looked down at Brooklynne, nodding as if to tell her that everything was going to be alright.

“You okay?” he asked Pam who nodded.

“Nothing!” Russell continued. “They took it, as I am taking it today. I no longer recognize the Authority.”

“You are aware…” the Magister started to say before he saw Eric trying to get Pam off the table, “she stays on the table!”

Eric obliged. But as Pam had reminded the Magister the day before, the Authority had no right to keep a human against her will, and neither did he. Eric quickly turned around to free Brooklynne from her chains.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, cupping her cheek in his hand.

She wanted to nod, to say yes, but no sound came out of her mouth. She didn’t even have the strength to lie. She put everything she had in trying to keep the tears from falling. As he helped her on her feet, the Magister continued his speech.

“You are aware that just saying that is a cardinal sin.”

Russell rolled his eyes. “I am aware of just what a tough little boat I’m putting you in and honestly, it is kind of fun,” he said as he took a step forward, coming inches from the Magister’s face.

He chuckled without humor. “You know I’m beholden by duty to convey your blasphemy to the…”

“To the Authority? Well, that won’t be happening. But enough about you,” Russell said as he took a step back and went to stand near the queen. “In exchange for the money she owes the IRS, Queen Sophie-Anne…” he paused to put a kiss on her shoulder. Brooklynne watched her try hard not to run away from her crazy future husband. “has kindly accepted my marriage proposal.”

“I had no choice,” the queen said with hidden disgust.

“Your Majesty…”

“Yes, my loyal subject?” Russell’s insult left the Magister speechless and the King of Mississippi took the opportunity to continue, “oh, we would be delighted if you would officiate the wedding for us.”

“I am forbidden to conduct any rights of alignment unless specifically author…”

“Unless specifically authorized to do so by the Authority. Yes, well, perhaps you have not quite grasped the subtext of our earlier exchange, but there’s a new fucking authority in town!” Russell shouted, making most of them jump but especially Brooklynne who squeezed Eric’s hand even harder as she got closer to him.

“I swear fealty now and always to the one true vampire authority in whose wisdom and justice…”

The Magister’s little tirade did nothing but annoy furthermore Russell and make him lose the little patience he had left. In less than half a second, faster than Brooklynne had ever witnessed, Pam was free of her chains and the Magister had taken her place on the table. Eric instantly made his way to her, not letting go of Brooklynne for one second.

“I’m fine,” she breathed out quickly, before either of them had the chance to ask.

The queen was getting more and more nervous, knowing that either way, she wouldn’t win. On the extremely little chance of Russell dying there and now she’d still be condemned to the true death for selling V. But if she did indeed marry him, which was the most likely scenario, she’d be married to a psychopath who was about to be on the Authority’s number one hit list. And so would she.

Russell picked up the Magister’s cane from the floor and started to admire the woodwork.

“You pathetic fool. Blindly doing the bidding of others just like humans. It’s vampires like you who’ve been holding the rest of us back for centuries,” he said before he took off the lid at the bottom of the cane, revealing a silver pointy end.

Brooklynne looked up at Eric and for once wished he could read her mind as she wondered why he would ever ally himself to a vampire like Russell Edgington. Putting her doubts aside, she decided to trust him for the time being, knowing, or hoping, he had a good explanation for this madness.

She winced and jumped as she watched Russell stab the Magister over and over again as he had done to Pam.

“You can dish it out but you sure can’t take it, can you, Magister?” Pam said.

“Let’s see how this plays out, Pam,” Eric replied. “We can always taunt later.”

“Can we hurry this along?” Sophie-Anne asked. “I’m getting cold feet.”

“Of course, my little pudding,” he told her. He took two steps towards the Magister then lifted the table so that he was facing the room. “This could be so much less painful if you just said the fucking words!”

“I am bound by duty to uphold the sacred laws of…”

The Magister was unable to finish his sentence as Russell swiftly placed the end of the cane on his heart. Another word, and he would be nothing more but a gross puddle of blood.

“Uh-uh-uh,” he smiled. “Your call.”

The Magister slowly raised his head, looked at both the King and the Queen, and, realizing there was no way out of this, gave up.

“I hereby pronounce you… husband and wife.”

Russell smiled before he removed the cane from the Magister’s chest. “Thank you.”

“Yes, thanks,” Sophie-Anne said with a fake smile. “I’m so happy I could bleed.”

“Congratulations, Your Majesties,” Eric told them.

“Yes, congrats,” Pam nodded with a smile Brooke had never seen from her.

Russell bowed before he stepped forwards, and as he got closer to her, Brooklynne got closer to Eric. They were about to leave when the Magister made the biggest and last mistake of his eternal life. He opened his mouth.

“You realize, of course, the authority will never recognize…”

“It’s own irrelevancy?” Russell cut him off again. “That’s where you and I differ, Magister. I truly believe they will, and soon. It’s time for you to outgrow your blind allegiance to the Authority and their rule of law. There is only one law! The law of nature. The survival of the fittest. And we need to take this world back from the humans and not placate them with billboards and PR campaigns while they destroy it! That is not authority. That is abdicating authority!”

“Your Majesty,” Eric stopped him, sensing Brooklynne’s fear rise up at the words of his new King. “Shall we?” he asked, stepping aside, freeing the access to the stairs.

Russell sighed. “We shall!”

He took one step, two steps, following his subjects and his new wife before, at the fourth step, he stopped, changing his mind.

“Actually, no,” he said, making his way back to the Magister. “Say hello to the true death.”

Eric quickly turned Brooklynne around and buried her face in his chest, putting both his hands behind her head to prevent her from seeing Russell cut the head of the Magister which went flying across the room and reached the floor in a splash that he unfortunately wasn’t able to shield his human from hearing.

 ***

 The ringing in her ears wasn’t going away. A thousand questions were popping up in her head as she was sitting on the couch in Eric’s office. Russell and Sophie-Anne had disappeared, and the king had ordered Eric to wait for them at Fangtasia, assuring him he’d be back before sunrise. Pam and Eric had been arguing ever since and Brooklynne was listening in silence as some of her questions were being answered.

“When I was human, I witnessed the murder of my entire family. My father, my mother… my baby sister… I’ve been looking for the man responsible ever since. When I was in Mississippi, I found my father’s crown in Russell’s office. In his… collection,” he explained slowly, quietly, while Pam was staring at him in silence, wondering why she was only hearing about this now. “I knew the werewolves had something to do with him. I just didn’t know… it was a vampire.”

“Over a hundred years I’ve been with you Eric, and you’ve never said…”

“It wasn’t your burden to bear.”

“But you didn’t have to bear it alone…”

“Pam,” he cut her off. “I have to do this. And I have to do it alone.”

“And how are you planning on killing a vampire that’s twice your age?” she shouted.

“I don’t know… and he’s three times my age.”

“Russell’s three thousand years old?” Brooklynne finally spoke up.

Eric’s eyes fell on her as if he was suddenly reminded that she was there, as if her silence had rendered her invisible.

“Yes. He’s the most powerful vampire in this side of the world. Maybe in all of the world.”

“But how…”

Brooklynne didn’t have the time to ask her question as Russell suddenly appeared in the office, her new wife behind him. The door met the shelves in a bang and a box of Tru Blood almost fell off of it.

“I’m sorry,” the vampire chuckled as if something was amusing, “about the mess I’ve made in your basement, I’ll send someone to clean it all. We don’t want the Authority to suspect anything, after all, do we?” he said with a smile.

“We appreciate that, thank you,” Eric said with the fakest smile Brooklynne had ever seen.

“Now,” Russell said as he turned around towards Brooklynne. The telepath looked at him with big eyes, wishing she could just teleport out of there. “You never mentioned you had a human,” he continued as he looked up to Eric.

“Nobody’s perfect,” Eric chuckled awkwardly.

“Indeed. You look quite attached to your little toy. Tell me, you’re planning on making her one of us soon, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan,” Eric nodded with another grin that creeped Brooke out.

“Splendid! It would be a waste to let this beautiful doll at the mercy of time and death, wouldn’t it, dear?” he asked his queen.

“Indeed it would,” she agreed, though not really because she did agree with him, but as to not contradict him. “We should leave now or we’ll meet the sun on our way home,” she said with a hidden grimace, as if she would rather meet the sun than follow him anywhere.

“You are right, pudding. Eric, you’re coming with us.”

There was a brief uncomfortable silence before Eric gave him another one of his fake smiles and nodded. “As you wish, Majesty.”

“Leave your little pet here, however. I have no time for humans.”

Russell gestured Sophie-Anne out of the office and Brooklynne stood up as Eric walked pass her. He stopped, took her face in his hands before he kissed her lips.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Stay with Pam. Don’t go home.”

“What? Why?”

“Don’t let her go home,” he ordered Pam who had no choice but to nod.

“Don’t die,” she ordered him in return.

He nodded too then looked back down at Brooklynne, stroke her cheeks with his thumbs before he kissed her again. She barely had time to kiss him back that he was already gone.

*********

Tags: @thepoet1975 @nerdysandwichqueen @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @raegan-hale @colie87 @heavenly1927​

[verminator-rex]

#squad + psyche for... EVERYONE!!

Alrighty, let’s get started!

#squad

Zorlon

Over the years, Zorlon as been a part of several squads. The first squad was back in his rebellious youth when he joined a ragtag group of Mages, all led by his older brother (who’s current whereabouts remain unknown). He and Z-Man were so close back then, and practically went against the world together. This was short lived, for not only did they get separated during a storm, but when they eventually reunited, brother dearest framed Zorlon for a crime he didn’t commit. After that, Zorlon developed a rather cynical outlook on others, questioning if he could ever trust anyone again. Needless to say, that all changed when he met Xalia (more on that later).

Later on, Zorlon, along with with young Malvaron & Tazma, joined the Astromancers. Back then, his squad was with his squad was with said pupils, since the other Astromancers didn’t necessarily see eye to eye with him. As his foster son, Malveron highly looks up to Zorlon, who saw great potential in the young man. Tazma, on the other hand, greatly resented him due to feeling he held her back with her power, which Zorlon decided was for her own good, since he sensed darkness from her almost from the start.

This brings us to present day where Zorlon’s a member of the core group of the Mysticons. Despite some bumps here and there, he turned out to be quite the father figure to them.

Creed, Charlie, Nixon, and Seragus

I decided to do these all together since they are the current squad here. Needless to say, Creed is the alpha here, secretly being the Kingpin of Drake City and all, whereas Charlie & Nixon are his muscle and body guards if need be, and Seragus is his Butler.

Charlie & Nixon are dogs under Creed’s thumb, doing absolutely anything he asks in order to please him, and doing so with very little conscience. That said, they tend to annoy Creed with their relatively low I.Q. If there’s anyone Creed values in his organization, it’s Seragus. This is because he’s pretty much the only individual that Creed can have intelligent conversations and meaningful with, given that Seragus is quite the Einstein himself. With the upmost loyalty, Seragus wants nothing more than to satisfy his master, especially if it means getting rid of some dead weight.

Xalia

Despite her benevolent nature, Xalia never really had much in the way of friends. This is mostly because of her nomadic lifestyle back in her teens, never really sticking to one place for very long, much less long enough to make any friends. Then, the Z-Man of her dreams came along. If ever there was any couple made for each other, it was these two. Despite the occasional disagreement, they deeply loved each other, which would grow even stronger when they had their first (and only) child together. Surely nothing could go wrong.................. right?

Elysia

Elysia typically hangs out with a group of snobby rich teen dwarves, to which she is kind of sort of the leader of. Well, perhaps “leader” isn’t necessarily the correct word, but when she talks, the rest of said group listens, be it because she’s rich or mean. Point is, they don’t really look to her for much else, much to her dismay.

Diablo

Diablo’s a diehard introvert. He could care less about being in the presence of company, and would much rather be alone than with a squad. Occasionally, he may get paired up with a partner, depending on what any given client needs. Since he doesn’t play well with others, this annoys him, though he’ll tolerate it for the sake of an easy pay. One time, he managed to get paired with Clawdette, whom he didn’t hesitate to abandon, seeing as “her feels interfered with her deals”.

Calvore

Being the ever so nihilistic God of The Dead, Calvore doesn’t really find much value much in the way of friendship, not even in his own domain, seeing his minions as nothing more as a means to an end.

Psyche

Zorlon

For the most part, Z-Man is stable in terms of mental stability. His biggest challenge, however, was regret. Following the death of Xalia and their baby, Zorlon had been in a long state of depression that seemed endless. Even after turning away from the possibility of suicide, his depression would continue on for a long while, as not a day went by when he didn’t think about the tragedy that befell him.

After taking in Malvaron & Tazma as his own, his depression lessened, since it meant he had a chance to start over and begin life anew in a way. However, a new enemy surfaced in his mind, and that was a mild form of PTSD. Basically, all it took was the very mention of the words “dad” or “father” to make him freeze and receive flashbacks, as said words only remind of him if that faithful day when he lost his baby daughter. Granted said PTSD was mild, and as such didn’t cripple him from performing his duties, but it was an enemy just the same.

As far as what his coping mechanisms are concerned, reading a good book definitely served as the perfect distraction, especially when when there’s peace and quiet.

Creed

Being such a big business titan, Creed is generally an egotistical individual, practically bloated with overconfident and self importance. Yet, confident as he is, he’s rather prone to paranoia. This is because he’s worked so hard to get where he is while working under the radar of local authorities & The Royal Family. If word got out by a reputable individual, he’d be ruined. The same can be said with the power he’s obtained over the years. He’s so use to being in control in his own right. Therefore, the thought of losing such power scares him to no end. The perfect distraction for such paranoia is counting all the coins that he pilfered from the less fortunate.

Elysia

Elysia tends to suffer anxiety, particularly when there’s someone else who rivals her ingenuity. After all, she only ever got into inventing to gain the love and attention she never quite received from her always busy parents, so the thought of losing all the praise that she worked so hard to gain would devastate her. On that note, that feeling of neglect and unloved has resulted in mild depression. Her time spent inventing things served her well to take her mind off things, and being surrounded by her so called “friends” makes her feel like somebody.

Xalia

For the most part, Xalia had pretty good headspace, so I don’t see her having truly suffered from any mental disorders or challenges. If any, it would be in her youth, where she felt rather timid, and was afraid to speak to any potential friends.

Diablo

To say that Diablo has a little problem with anger would be putting it mildly. Though he generally has a calm exterior, within lurks unbraided rage waiting to rip anyone near to shreds. It’s been a problem ever since his youth, where he was often persecuted for being a werewolf, just some “savage beast”. Nowadays he’s become better at keeping his rage under control, usually partaking in a good hunt to calm himself. Even in that rare event where he loses it, he’s more than glad to take his rage out on either his prey, or anyone who gets in his way.

Calvore

Ironically, Calvore seems to have a serious god complex, with inflated feelings that he alone is the ultimate power out there. A claim that ultimately proved false, since his brother Gygax banished him to Morton, The Netherworld.

Charlie & Nixon

To be simple and to the point, Charlie & Nixon don’t have much in terms of good head space, given that both are brutish dipsticks who blindly serve their boss, no matter how badly they’re treated.

Seragus

Seragus is rather prone to OCD, wanting every nook and cranny of his boss’s HQ to be absolutely perfect, even whenever it’s already presentable.

Thanks for the ask, @extremely-pearlmethirsty!!!

[thil4n]

I tried to stay as close as his character design from the manga but I still lack something (but I think this one is a bit better than my first tries).

I want to see him smile more in the manga 😭 he deserves so much to be happy and peaceful.

I have also drawn him as a boy, maybe I’ll show you later, he must have been such a cute boy when he was young 😍

Säm is my fav for so many reasons… he’s very brave and has high moral standards. He’s not the kind of man who lives seeking the recognition from others, he only seeks to achieve what is right, what he belives in, even though he will be badly looked at, as a traitor : we have a case of him looking pained when Zandeh says to Kubard that his father did not betrayed, Säm is a bit distraught because he knows to be in the same position as Kharlan now, and feels pain at the thought that he will be despised by comrades he hightly thinks of, like Kishward for example, but even though, he won’t give up, he chooses to carry the weight of this burden, even if it means he will be alone on his path. He might even feel it’s ok to be the one alongside the darker, shadier Hilmes (compared to Arlsan) because it also means that Kishward, Daryun and Narsus will be free to carry on on their bright and right path (bc if Hilmes is totally alone it would trigger more pity) : yes he is the man willing to do justice to Hilmes by serving him, thus, in a way, allowing others to serve Arslan (he doesn’t think at all that Daryun or Narsus are wrong serving Arslan, as he says, it wouldn’t be fair if either Hilmes or Arslan were to be alone on their path because he feels that both of them deserve to be recognised and fought for). He does say to Kubard that what matters most for now isn’t who will become shah but how to draw out the Lusitanians. I love that he isn’t one-sided or blinded, or purposely refuses to acknowledge the valour of the “other side”, he is very much alike to Kharlan on this point (when he dies :“good grief, what a prince…”), contrary to Hilmes or Zandeh. In this way he has a soft heart, big heart and an understanding character.

But he’s not at all a weakling, I love that he stands fiercely for his high moral values, like when he bites Kharlan’s head off when meeting him in the palace, uttering blunt words (“what nonsense, a dog talking of preserving a human status !”), he can be “fiery” showing true anger. Even then he’s never cruel, or never becomes blindly enrages, he is angered but will not fall into a stupid or pointless massacre, we see him keeping all of his senses, and not blinded by rage. I read again the first moments of him, when Ecbatana is under a siege, and slaves began to rebel. I love how he is composed and highly disapproves of Gharshap’s killing of gholam, but he does’t shout at him or anything : what I love is his true wiseness. He’s really wonderful throughout this chapter, with his battle against Kharlan at the end.

He is a very humble man, also, and I’m very touched by this. He’s always measured, and doesn’t think too highly of him, in fact he doesn’t think about him often, he’s totally the opposite of egoist or egocentric. He sees himself too much as expandable I guess…. He is not to type to boast, or to take pride (even if he has great skills for example, the victory at Zabul is thanks to his military skills and strategies), because he only feels that he fills his duties and nothing more.

He’s also not the kind of man mourning again and again over the past, even though he does feels conflicted, and I love the cases where we see him pondering over something. Yet he keeps himself in action, and is never paralysed by his interior conflicts : he does what has to be done without hesitation, but again he doesn’t overlook the complexity of the situation he takes part in (like when he says he respects thoses who acts in keeping with what they believe so he won’t make fun of the templars). What I mean is that to me, he’s one of the most, if not the most, “aware” character of this story, probably one of the most conflicted (because not one-sided) and the most aware of the complexity of all situations he faces (up until now he possesses more informations about Hilmes, Andragoras and Pars than anyone else, but kept it to himself, not out of manipulation, but out of wiseness and compassion), BUT he is not the sort of man to mourn forever, refusing commitment into action, and rather has the bravery to carry his burden alone and in silence, utterly conscious of the painfulness and the weight of his acts, nevertheless doing it without any trace of hesitation.

We never really see his thoughts : up until now, there are many cases where he is silent, and reflecting or thiking about something but we never have his thoughts written. He talks not so much about his feelings or thoughts (he talks a bit about his heart mostly to Kubard and a bit to Andragoras, but in general he’s quite reserved) , and his interior self is not reveled through words contrary to other characters, but through facial expressions, it is something that beautifully reflects his mature and complex self. I really love that in the manga, Arakawa takes the time to show us his feeling trough panels with only his face, even though he is a “minor character” (compared to Daryun or Narsus etc).

I loved when he was with Kubard because he smiled geniunely for the first time. He is so serious all the time, and when he’s with Kubard we see a bit of his more peaceful and kinder self, what probably he was like before war begun. So that’s why I wanted to draw something similar, a happy and peaceful Sam…

I’m so damn in love with this character 

Btw I bought and so read again book 10, and the duo and dynamic between Kubard and Merlain is so refreshing, they are both characters I really like. Merlain has a very cool character design ~

[thinkingaboutyoungroyals]

Who Waits For Love? (Chapter 2)

Summary: T.J. Kippen lost his chance to tell Cyrus Goodman how he felt when they were in the 8th grade. Now, they are in their junior year of high school and Cyrus is on his 3rd relationship. Is it time to give up… or continue to wait for love?

A/N: I’ve decided on a format for this story! It will have alternating point of views. So, in the first chapter, we saw T.J. In this chapter, we’ll see Cyrus. 

Please let me know if you’d like to be on the tag list!

Enjoy!

Cyrus hummed to himself as he happily explored the rack of flutes. They were so pretty and shiny and his fingers twitched to hold one, but he knew the Red Rooster was adamant about not touching the instruments unless you were planning on buying one. So, he simply admired, fondly recalling his first ex.

Tommy was in Marching Band back in Middle School and played the flute. In the brief time they dated, he taught Cyrus how to play “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. Cyrus could still remember how but he really wasn’t any good at it. Spencer was nice about his lack of musical talent though. Last he heard, his ex was still in Marching Band in private school and doing rather well.  

His second ex, Freddie, played drums but he never taught Cyrus. It was fine, though, Cyrus wasn’t really interested in learning it. Too loud for his sensitive ears. It was fun watching Freddie play with his band, though.

His current boyfriend, Lance, didn’t play any instruments but he was a jock. A lacrosse player. He was really good. Cyrus didn’t understand the game very much but he did his duty as the supportive boyfriend and went to all his games, complete with a large sign.

Cyrus continued to explore, wondering if he could sneak a short test run with one and not get caught.

Just then, a loud “smack”, a girl screaming, a “thud”, and a series of expletives from a voice he knew very well interrupted his musings.

Alarmed, he rushed out of the flute aisle, following the noise. At the counter, Bowie excused himself from his customers. With the man following behind him, Cyrus made his way to the back.

He skidded to a stop, eyes and mouth open wide at the sight in front of him.

“T.J.!”

He saw his friend freeze, his fists still grasping the front shirt of the guy under him. A guy they both knew well. 

Cyrus furrowed his brows. “Lance?”

His boyfriend was coughing and wriggling on the floor, sporting a bleeding lip. 

What the hell was going on?!

“What is going on here?!” Bowie growled as he moved forward and grabbed T.J. by the back of his hoodie and pulled him away from the lacrosse player.

T.J. looked, for lack of a better word, pissed. As soon as he was on his feet, he made to lunge at Lance again but Cyrus grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“T.J.! What is going on?! Why are you and Lance fighting?!”

His friend’s chest was heaving as he breathed in and out.

Cyrus felt torn. On the one hand, he wanted to scold T.J. for hitting his boyfriend and then go and comfort said boyfriend. But, on the other hand, he was worried that if he didn’t hold on to T.J., his friend would go berserk again and punch the living daylights out of Lance. And, plus, T.J. would never hit someone without a reason so something was definitely wrong.

“I’m going to repeat myself,” Bowie said, getting in between the two. “What is going on here?!”

“That asshole is cheating on Cyrus!” was T.J.’s bitter answer.

Those words stopped Cyrus cold. He dropped T.J.’s arm. “W-What?”

T.J. finally turned to him, his face softer now. “He’s cheating on you,” he repeated.

It felt like a hand enclosed itself around his heart… and was squeezing. Hard.

Cyrus couldn’t breathe all of a sudden.

His eyes went back to Lance, who had picked himself up from the floor with the help of a random girl… who, now that he thought about it, was probably not a random girl, at all.

In fact, Cyrus recognized her. She often came to Lacrosse games and sat directly behind him.

“L-Lance?”

His boyfriend opened his mouth to answer but couldn’t seem to find the words so he closed it again and looked away.

“T.J., I know you’re angry but I can’t tolerate violence in my store,” Bowie was saying but he sounded distant in Cyrus’ ears.

He was still staring at Lance.

“W-What is T.J. t-talking about?” he continued to prod, feeling his eyes sting.

Lance… his sweet and ever-affectionate Lance… finally looked up.

“Cyrus, please let me explain,” he said but stopped again, looking hesitant.

The girl beside him squeezed his arm and Cyrus zeroed in on her hands. He wanted to tear those ugly-manicured fingers off of his boyfriend’s arm. He wanted to scream and shout at her. He wanted to ask her why she would do this when he had never done anything awful to her.

He tore his gaze away from her to look at his cheating boyfriend.

Lance. How could he?! He trusted him with everything he was! For the past month and a half, Cyrus was a loyal and devoted boyfriend! And he dared to do this to him?! 

For the first time in his life, he wanted to commit an act of violence and punch Lance the same way T.J. did. 

Cyrus’ hands curled into fists at his side.

“Is it true?” he asked, surprised at how strong his voice was, considering that he was falling apart on the inside.

Again, Lance looked up. “I’m sorry,” was all he said.

That was all the confirmation Cyrus needed. His eyes threatened to spill tears but he forced them not to. He refused to look like the victim.

Instead, he raised his head high and swallowed the lump in his throat.

“We’re over.”

Lance’s eyes widened. “Cyrus, wait, let me explain-.”

But, Cyrus spun on his heels and ran out of the store, refusing to wait or hear an explanation.

He still couldn’t breathe and his legs felt weak but he pushed himself forward, blindly searching for the familiar gray sedan. He could fear footsteps behind him, chasing after him. But, he didn’t stop to wait. He didn’t want to wait.

Finally, he reached the car and tried to pull at the door handle of the passenger seat, but of course, it didn’t budge. It was locked and he didn’t have the keys.

“Cyrus.”

Taking a deep breath, he spun around in his heels.

T.J. was jogging towards him, frazzled.

Cyrus forced a smile on his face. “Let’s go home. It’s getting late and we have homework.” He looked at T.J.’s empty hands and frowned. “Where’s your record?”

T.J. furrowed his brows. “Uh, I told Bowie I’d pick it up tomorrow, instead.” He stepped forward. “Cyrus-.”

“Open the door, please. I want to go home.”

“Cy-.”

“T.J., please!”

He didn’t mean to raise his voice but it worked. T.J. unlocked the doors and Cyrus wasted no time sliding in and slamming it close. The noise made him wince, but otherwise, he kept his gaze out the window. He heard T.J. entering the driver’s side and shutting his own door. It took him a moment to start the car but stayed parked.

“Cyrus, if you want to talk-.”

“I don’t,” Cyrus bitterly replied. “Just… take me home. Please.”

It took another beat of just complete silence but, finally, T.J. put his car into gear.

The drive was quiet, the radio only a faint sound in their ears. T.J. didn’t dare to turn it up and Cyrus appreciated that. He needed to process what just happened. He pictured the scene from earlier over and over again, wondering if it was all just an awful dream that he was about to wake up from. His earlier fury had dissipated, leaving simple numbness and he didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

When the car stopped outside his mother’s house where he was staying for the next three month, Cyrus grabbed his bag from the backseat and turned to T.J. with a forced smile.

“Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow.”

“Cyrus-.”

He was out the door before his friend could finish whatever he wanted to say. But, Cyrus didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear anything. He was exhausted and just wanted to go to bed and sleep for a hundred years.

He ran up to his front door, jammed his key in, and entered. Thankfully, his mother and step-father weren’t home from work yet so he didn’t have to explain his sudden rush upstairs to his room.

Barging into his bedroom, he threw his bag to the side and jumped under the covers of his bed, pulling the sheets over his head. As soon as his head hit the pillow, the sobs came.

Painful. Wracking. And loud.

He hated the way he sounded. He despised how the tears just kept coming and wouldn’t stop. And the hand around his heart was squeezing even harder… tighter.

So deep he was in his grief that he didn’t notice the footsteps coming up the stairs, the sound of his door opening and closing, and more footsteps heading for him. Not until he felt the bed dip with a weight.

“Underdog?” called out the soft voice.

Cyrus sniffled as curled further into himself. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he croaked.

“That’s okay,” T.J. replied, moving a bit.

Cyrus felt his friend settle on the bed next to him, on top of the covers to give him his privacy.

His heart warmed in gratitude at the gesture.

“I’ll stay here with you, if that’s okay?” T.J. continued.

Cyrus hummed his consent.

Having T.J. there distracted his crying and for a moment, he felt calm, simply breathing deeply as he tried to compose himself. Then, his heart ached and the tears came again, spilling from his eyes like an open faucet. He felt so cold, lonely, and… unwanted.

Rolling around, he scooted close to the figure beside him, snuggling into T.J.’s side. He felt a hand place itself on his back, rubbing. It was warm, soothing, and gentle. It made his sobs soften into hiccups, even if the tears still flowed.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in that position but the exhaustion of the day’s events finally caught up to him and soon, he found his mind going blank as he lost consciousness.

……................

When Cyrus came to, he was alone in his bedroom.

“T.J.?” he called out but there was no answer.

Blinking wearily, he fumbled through his pockets for his phone. The device revealed that it was now 6:30pm so he had slept for two hours. He also had a text from T.J. and several texts and missed calls from Lance.

Cyrus deleted Lance’s messages without opening them and blocked his number. Then, he opened up T.J.’s text.

Best Basketball Guy In The World: Hey. I left when ur mom got home. I didn’t tell her what happened but I told her that ur not feeling well. Text me when u wake up? Wanna be sure ur ok. I’m here for u, Cy.

His lips quirked into a small smile as he typed his reply.

Just woke up. Thanks for today. I really appreciate it. Sorry I was a mess.

The reply was instant and he wondered if T.J. had been staring at his phone, just waiting for him to text. The image warmed his heart as he read the reply.

Best Basketball Guy In The World: You’re allowed to be and I’m here for you, ok? Get some rest. I’ll bring you muffins tomorrow. Luv u underdog.

Since they met in middle school, the blonde had always been there for him, being the hand that pushed him to go beyond his comfort zone as well as providing a crying shoulder when it was needed. He wouldn’t have made it through that entire ordeal at the Red Rooster without T.J. For sure, if he had been alone, he would have broken down on the sidewalk outside the store.

Cyrus smiled and texted back. Thank u. Luv u 2 basketball guy.

Sighing, Cyrus laid back down on his bed. It was almost dinner time but he didn’t feel hungry at all. He just wanted to go back to sleep and forget that today ever happened.

Gathering what little strength he had, he sat up again and grabbed his phone. This time, he opened up his group chat with Andi and Buffy.

Hey. You guys free to Facetime?

He anxiously watched the bubbles pop up until he received replies from both.

Andiman: Yeppp!

Slayer: Yep!

He tapped on the call button.

“Heeey,” Andi greeted.

“Hi, guys!” Buffy piped.

Cyrus forced a smile on his face. “Hi,” he said, softly.

Immediately, the girls frowned. Buffy brought her face closer to the screen, furrowing her brows.

“Cy? You okay?”

He swallowed and shook his head, feeling his chest aching as the tears threatened to spill from his eyes again.

“What happened?!” Andi screamed.

“Cyrus, you can tell us anything!” added Buffy.

That did it. Everything spilled. The tears. Lance’s betrayal. Cyrus’ broken heart.

By the time he was done, Andi’s nose was flaring and Buffy looked ready to kill.

“I never trusted him!” his athletic friend hissed. “He’s dead meat!”

That made Cyrus smile a little. “T.J. already punched him for me,” he said, rather proudly.

“Just one punch? Pfft.” Buffy rolled her eyes.

“Because I stopped him! He would have gotten into more trouble if he kept at it. And as much as I’m angry at Lance right now, I don’t want him to get hurt.” He paused and re-tracked. “At least, not too much.”  

The girls lightly laughed at his attempt to joke.

“You’re too kind sometimes, Cyrus,” Andi said with a sigh. “Do you want us to come over?”

“Yeah, we’ll bring ice cream and awful rom-coms.”

Cyrus chuckled. “Thanks, guys. But, it’s a school night.”

“Just ice cream then!” Buffy compromised.

Cyrus didn’t really think that he could stomach anything at that point but he did need hugs from his best friends. So, he nodded.

“Okay. I’ll let my parents know. Oh, god, my parents!” He bit his lip in worry. “Should I tell them what happened?”

“Do you want them to know?” Andi asked.

“I… I don’t know.”

Well, it wasn’t like his parents met Lance, yet. He had been planning on bringing him over at some point but the opportunity just never came. Now, he was glad that he never did.

Cyrus shrugged before sniffling. “I should get cleaned up before dinner. Come over in an hour? Bring homework.”

“We’ll be there!” Andi promised.

Giving them a smile, he waved good-bye and hung up. As soon as the screen was black, the smile disappeared. He deeply sighed again before pushing himself up to his feet and heading for the bathroom to clean up.

He was quiet during dinner. And he knew his parents noticed because they kept glancing at each other and him. Normally, he would tell them about his day and chatter on about school. It must be unusual to have him be so tight-lipped and poking at his food.

“Cyrus, honey,” his mom finally broke the silence. “Are you feeling sick? T.J. said you weren’t feeling good.”

He forced a smile and shook his head. “I’m fine, mom. You know, T.J. He worries.” He let out a soft chuckle. “Actually, Buffy and Andi are coming over later to work on some homework with me. Is that okay?”

Not out of the ordinary. His friends came over all the time to do homework and work on projects. So, his parents gave their approval.

They weren’t quite as inquisitive compared to when he was in middle school and he was kind of thankful for that. Something about letting him experience a full high school life without their interference, but they always made sure that he knew that he could talk to them if he needed to. 

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell them about the cheating, yet. His mother would surely call his father and he and Todd would probably act tough and say they would beat Lance up for his honor (though neither of them could really hurt a fly). Then, his mom and Sharon would probably not-so-subtly force him to talk about his feelings of betrayal and have him shoot darts at a picture of Lance.... or something along those lines.

Nope. He wasn’t prepared for that. Not yet, anyway. He just wanted to wallow and cry and maybe eat ice cream with the girls.

A little after dinner finished, the doorbell rang. Cyrus immediately ran to answer it.

Andi and Buffy, his best friends in the whole wide world, stood on his doorstep with their book bags and three pints of ice cream.

At the sight of them, his eyes watered and his lips wobbled. Wasting no time, the girls immediately moved forward to envelop him in warm and loving hugs. He pulled them close, allowing himself to cry again.

Lance may no longer want him but he knew that these two always would.

……...........

After a night of eating ice cream with his best friends, ranting about how awful boys were, and immersing themselves in homework, Cyrus thought he would feel better by morning.

But, the second he opened his eyes, the memories of the day before came crashing back all at once.

Cyrus felt like a giant was weight on top of him, refusing to let him move.

The pain of betrayal. The feeling of being unwanted. Being made to look like a fool.

How many people knew? If T.J. never found out, how much longer would it have gone?

He stared at the ceiling, silent tears leaving his eyes and he couldn’t even be bothered to wipe them away because they wouldn’t stop, anyway. He had lost count on how many times he had broken down crying.

“Cyrus, honey? It’s time to get up! You’re going to be late for school.”

Cyrus tried. He really did. But, he just couldn’t.

He heard the knob twist and the door opened. Footsteps came closer and his mother appeared in front of him, looking worried.

“Cyrus?”

“I… don’t want to go to school, mom,” he croaked.

“Honey, what happened?!” His mother settled on the bed next to him, panicked. “Why are you crying?! Is something hurting?! Do you feel sick?!”

She placed a hand on his forehead.

Yes. He felt sick. Heartsick.

“I don’t want to go to school today, mom,” he repeated, the tears coming even faster now. “Please don’t make me. I can’t… I can’t go to school today.”

“Cyrus, honey, what’s wrong? Tell me, please. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

For the first time since he was a little boy, Cyrus sought the warmth and comfort of his mother. He gingerly moved towards her so he could lay his head on her lap. He felt like he was small again and he had fallen and hurt his knee after his first attempt to ride a bike.

“Cyrus?” she called out, softly, as she ran her fingers through his hair.

He sniffled. “I got played, mom,” he finally answered. “Lance played with my heart. And I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, Cyrus.”

His mother wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.

And, Cyrus couldn’t do anything else but cry as he felt his heart breaking again.

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[tinytendril]

softens // a robbaery fanfic

a/n: finally did it, without a beta (yikes). some characters are alive when they shouldn’t be or alliances and characters are not aligned with the books’ story. so for the sake of being patrolled by GOT fans, just know I am desparate to make book facts bend to my ignorant imagination. but, hey, robb and margaery shouldn’t be alive, and yet here we are...with talisa and his mother dead (along with most of his family), others dead from the wars, queen danaerys as ruler of westeros, and himself along with other characters brought back to life.

summary // Robb returns to Winterfell in a time of peace after the war of seven kingdoms, after wights have laid waste to Westeros. With the Stark clan survived by only two, Robb must deal with his return to his noble duties with Sansa and Lady Margaery’s unexpected presence.

Robb Stark knows the belief in someone’s honor by their word is the gravest mistake to make. You need only to see the bloodshed and brokenness in his own family to see the price you pay for a sentiment as noble as trust in even the closest of your bannermen, and the ghosts that visit him in his dreams at the dead of the night dwell there to remind him.

No, instead, he believes in the grit he’s had to earn and the calluses he’s had to grow, and he believes to steel oneself to survive. So, when the war of the Seven Kingdoms is over, when he returns to his home after several years, he doesn’t understand how else to cope with the deafening quiet that seems to surround him and permeate the air until it seeps into his bones, more arresting than the cold winters of Winterfell.

Sansa is tormented too, and he is sure of this because they are thanking the gods that they have survived, but the relief is not stronger than the grief. And they cling on to each other at times, much like the moment they first reunited, shaking and numb. The pack of wolves has fallen to two.

Sansa tells him that there is three left.

He remembers returning home and embracing his sister in a colder home than he remembered, even as he sees the modest furnishings throughout the castle that his sister must have commissioned to imply signs of regaining their losses. He remembers peering over her shoulder when she had first made him realize the third person she regards as family.

Margaery Tyrell, he assumes of the young woman rising from the foot of Sansa’s makeshift throne, is regarding the siblings with a respectful distance. From letters of his correspondences in the South, and from what they have written about the feats and tribulations of Margaery’s brief reign in King’s Landing, he didn’t expect someone small and slight, and even reluctant.

‘Your grace,’ she addresses him as he finally approaches her, exchanging pleasantries. ‘I am here for your family if you require it, and if you both need me here.’

Margaery in her fine dress, with her soft features and the way she is not shying away from his deliberate hard gaze stokes a mixture and kindling of the most abhorrent to the warmest of feelings. For the latter, it startles him that anything so compelling still lay home inside him. She does not know him, and yet she smiles as if she’s expecting kindness back, and he glances over her shoulder to where she had seemed to take such close comfort at Sansa’s side of the throne. She’s warmed many throne seats for such a young woman.

‘You may take your leave when you send a raven to your father, informing him about your returning home.’ He says tersely, and he waits, maybe for her to falter or show indignation. He’s not sure what he wants to search for in her eyes, ones that still do not stray from his.

‘As your grace bids.’ She bows her head finally.

If there was something flickering across her eyes to give her away, something to show the spark or the fight that so many have told about her nature, she would have done so after she stalked past him. She only takes pause to bid Sansa a goodnight.

He realizes to release the tight clenching of his fists that came from his exchange with Margaery when Sansa comes to his side, long after Margaery leaves them in the hall. Sansa is quiet, possibly keeping her reservations about his reaction to the only friend she’s had for her lonely time here at bay for now. ‘Robb...you need to eat and rest, tomorrow will be for our conversations.’

-

He takes a few days to acquaint himself with the remaining and new servants in the castle. He seeks each hand at work within Winterfell’s walls to remind them of his watchful eye and for his peace of mind, something he would not have done before all the missteps he’s endured from the moment he inherited his father’s seat on the throne, until he spots her. Margaery is in the stables when dawn breaks, beating him to his exact task of scouting for information on all grounds areas. Except, she’s cheery and not exactly prying at his servants.

She doesn’t seem to be helping the men tend to the horses either. In fact, her pale blue gown, under her long thick coat, just skimming the mud under her feet is certainly not suited here. But, the men are laughing at something they’re conversing about even as he treads closer on the path toward them, and they continue to pay her their rapt attention. She glances at him briefly before she continues to hand the servants rye bread and cheese, seemingly allowing them a break from their early morning work.

‘Good morning, your grace.’ She greets him when he reaches them, and allows the stable hands to bid him a good morning as well.

‘Good morning, Lady Margaery,’ he greets her, but can’t help but shift uncomfortably as he’s acutely aware that she’s received the news of her remaining at Winterfell longer than he originally intended her to. She must be pondering what changed his mind, or how much of his sister’s words have swayed him.

Young Wolf. King in the North. King Who Lost the North. These words have influence as well. Words that have certainly given him nights of toiling in his sleep. Sansa reminds him that words and names mean nothing until you’re staring squarely in face of the name, looking to their eyes for what lays behind them. She also reminds him that they are in a time of peace now, and they are in the position to seek the comfort where it is provided, and accept it from those that prove themselves beyond the names and reputations they are given.

Margaery’s brown, doe-like eyes are golden as the sun washes over them. He’s not sure what he’s gathering from them at the moment, just that they are not helping him think of what to say. Though, Sansa must mean for him to consider her actions and see that her eyes do not shift too often or reveal any doubt of her sincerity, not observing her for the obvious reasons many of her former court in King’s Landing and her own people have regarded her as the Rose of Highgarden. It is an inevitable observation, one he’s made not for the first time since meeting her, and he does not intend to feign ignorance or blindness of himself. Yet, he shifts uncomfortably again, wondering if this helpless distraction shows.

‘I am…’ He chooses his words carefully. ‘I am, now more than ever, protective of our home.’

‘I would not expect anything less from your position.’

‘Does it worry you that many people in our kingdom may find your presence, considering your history with the Lannisters, troubling, if not suspicious?’

It was almost accusatory, and maybe a part of him meant it to be. It may be far from the what he’s heard in passing in the servants’ quarters, as they talk of her kindly and almost appear hopeful when they hear someone from court is visiting them, and he doesn’t miss the confusion upon his arrival instead. Though, if he were to admit it out loud, a stronger feeling overtakes the confusion when he remembers that he’s not been able to cope with the fact that she married the very boy, a sadist and a tyrant playing at the idea of king rather than committing to the meaning of its title from what he’s heard from Sansa, who had sentenced his father to his death. What does that speak of her family, herself, for aligning with them? He feels the questions brimming, burning at his tongue.

‘Women have a unique position in our world--’

‘You were forced?’ He knows that question begs her to explain her feelings toward this rather than receive a skeptical brow about their duties as trueborn sons and daughters of royalty.

‘As any son inherits the crown, any daughter is born into the expectation of being a dutiful wife, and believe in that purpose. Maybe I blindly believed in my duties for my house, my family, at that time. I’ve certainly dreamt of the idea of a crown atop of my head, as many girls do when we are young and ignorant.’

He wants to say that siding with the Lannisters, after their treachery, would not begin to describe an ignorant alignment.

She must see the way he’s determined to probe her, so she adds, ‘Though not so ignorant to see Joffrey for the monster he was or see my own family catching the Lannisters’ infectious ambition…’

And, after a long while of considering what her admission might mean and what intimacies she’s had to endure with Joffrey, he nods, ‘Sansa used to want that crown as well.’

‘I am saddened,’ she adds, and he watches as she takes hold of his arm. He can feel the squeeze she attempts through the layers of his thick long coat and furs. ‘For your father, your mother, and your siblings. I know--’  

Then, he steps away when she gestures for them to walk together. If he’d blink, he would have missed something unreadable, dashing over her sympathetic gaze, but he’s determined to simply offer a curt nod to bid her a farewell rather than analyse it further. ‘I must---I will see you later for dinner, Lady Margaery.’

-

The war of Seven Kingdoms did not leave a single kingdom untouched. He knows that they are the lucky ones, and how lucky having half of their kingdom in ruin from invaders and nearly over run from the Wights, he’s not sure. A venture into any part of their lands would give any foreigner pause to think of staying in Winterfell, and the commonfolk and their prolific, superstitious rock carvings of the Night King and his kin are an indication that a rebuilding to its former glory would take generations. Villages would have to carry on, with the rations and the lowered taxations to help them along. His worry extended to the families with small children, knowing there was little hope for all of them to survive.

Gods, he wondered, how could anyone cope with starting a new family in the gloom of this depression spread far and wide? What would his descendants have to look forward to if winters would be this bleak?

They are visiting commonfolk, delivering rations as Margaery insists it will help soothe and inspire the people’s thoughts of their returned king, when his own thoughts drift to where Sansa and Margaery see to a young mother with her baby who is wailing despite the mother’s attempts. Some farmers continue to thank him profusely, but he’s distracted when Sansa is offered the baby, appearing to try a soothing song and a rocking motion. Margaery tries too, and he finds himself straining, curious to hear her coo and giggle at the baby’s tiny hand clinging to her smallest finger.

If she catches him watching her, she does not seem to mind him. She only laughs on, and returns to entertaining the baby in Sansa’s arms.

-

‘I am sorry that you find it so difficult to have me in your home, your grace.’ Margaery seems to have materialized out of thin air to tell him, her tone is so surprisingly sharp considering the reserved statement that he abruptly stops at pushing through the door to his solar.

Robb, guarded, tries to lie, ‘I don’t know what would possess you to--’

‘You barely speak to me, let alone deign to look at me when I am in near you. Do not deny it.’

He opens his mouth to counter, to deny the conversation she certainly caught him having with his sister earlier in the morning, one of bitterness and cursing anyone associated with the vile Southroners, an obvious jab at the Lannisters and anyone who had links to their family. The talk of war and the language used with his bannermen during their battles still habitual on his tongue. But, he would be lying if he tried any other explanation for his opinions.

She does not falter for the second time that she stands her ground before him. He does not deny he is prolonging his thoughts because of this. Her eyes again, always so direct, slightly flutter before they close to him. Maybe she is reigning in other thoughts she’d like to say.

And when she does look up again, he recognizes that she is not casting him a doe-like gaze. There is certainty more than that, a steeliness that she could have only gained over years from more challenging obstacles than this awkward encounter, contradicting her youthful features.

She does not loosen her grip on the moment yet, her voice is sure when she starts again, ‘You have been gone from here for so long, fighting your family’s battles, rightly, but you might not realize that some may know your suffering all too well. Other families are also survived by their children, homeless or hollowed out by the ghosts of their dead mothers and fathers. I don’t mean to offend, but I realize now that you may not comprehend our shared loss.’ She says, matter-of-factly, though the sadness so clearly heard in her voice must mean she is drifting into her memories.

Regretfully, he’s only learnt of the extent of her family’s tragedies in the recent weeks of his return. He knew of Loras and her grandmother, but not her other brothers, and her mother too, who Sansa has mentioned died during the war. She, much like himself, had barely scraped through for her own survival against a plot against her life. Though having her here, flushed rosy and breathing harder from heatedly speaking on her family, shatters many of the words he thinks would be right to say at this time.

And sooner than he realizes, it is too late to apologize, as he starts and stops to feebly call her once she starts stalking away from his silence. It’s as if her intent is punctuated in every step she takes.

He doesn’t enter his solar yet, feeling all but eased before he intended to lay for bed, watching her round and disappear behind the corner of the long corridor. He grits his teeth as he feels the churning of words ruminating in his mind, maybe to call her with more conviction, or simply just to mutter pathetically to himself.

-

Sansa nudges him in the courtyard, where he was meant to be listening to her going over her marriage proposals they had planned for strengthening ties between the Northern houses. But, he realizes he hadn’t listened to a single string of complete thoughts for a long while now.

‘You know, you’ve not changed at all.’

He finally considers her fully for the first time since she brought him outside, and the upturn of her lips looks exasperated as well as amused. It confuses him. He’s sure she’s been treating him differently, because she’s commented on his habit to darkly shift his mood at times. He knows that his new stances on arranged marriages and political shrewdness have more than once surprised her. What could she possibly be seeing in him now that reminds her of how light and optimistic he once was when they were younger?

‘You are different in many ways now, brother. But, not so much in the important ways,’ she says, though he is still perplexed by this.

‘You are distracted because you are warming to Margaery’s presence. I see the way it troubles you to look at her the way you do. You cannot deny how her past betrays everything you believe in, and maybe the way you feel betrays the memories of your own past…’

He clenches his jaw at that.

She amends, ‘I only mean that you cannot stop yourself when father creeps into your heart and mind. She is outspoken, open to commonfolk as much as she is to any lords and ladies at court, and not at all like we were raised to be, but I think you are not blind in seeing the side of her that I have cherished in the time that I have been lonely in our own home. You respect her for this, you see that she has honour.’ She pauses to link her arms with him, walking slower as she wistfully reflects, ‘You have always been so much like father, you know. It’s a welcome feeling to know I haven’t lost him in a way.’

The only thing he can do is reach out and hold her hand from this admission, and it takes a long time before she continues on from her last observations about the temperaments she finds agreeable to the lords of House Umber and House Forrester.

-

Margaery sends ravens to her father as often as every week, or Sansa says she sees her traveling to the rookery this frequently. He wonders how understanding her father must be to let the only heir left to Highgarden’s throne to be away from home for months at a time. In fact, to his knowledge, she has been gone for one month since he met her, her third visit to their lands. Or, maybe, her father is writing her to come home. He wonders about asking her.

He thinks his sister has been right all along--the thought of Margaery has been consuming his thoughts more and more. More so since their last encounter, which has tainted every moment thereafter, leaving them without a single word passed between them at times, unless being cordial during dinners and in the presence of his sister.

What’s worse is the way his eyes are drawn to where she resides in the guest house, barely trying to convince himself that he’s merely peering over godswood without any inclining to think of her, and he wonders again. He wonders how someone who had gone through one and twenty years without indecision on speaking to any woman to troubling over the very thought of speaking to one particular woman. He thinks of Jon then, who would find this predicament irresistibly amusing and would certainly not be satisfied if there wasn’t at least a bit of suffering from this irony.

-

Talk of their lost family is usually kept to quiet corners of the castle, and when Robb sometimes walks with his sister in the godswood, he might reminisce about their father taking them here as children. He once quietly spoke of his late wife and their child, wondering if they would have been thrilled in the wood as they were as children themselves so many years ago.

He’s not sure Sansa is aware but, between their court duties and maintaining correspondences, he looks forward to their time together when he is able to talk without the formalities. Though it is his sister that tells him that he’s certainly more formal than he thinks he’s being, even with her. She says he’s lost his sense of humor completely since leaving.

So, he’s tickled by a thought so suddenly that it almost jolts him. Something like muscle memory tugs at his lips at the the thought of Arya. His mouth pulls taut to temper a smile as he reminds Sansa of the time she was chased around the castle grounds by her little sister with Old Nan’s makeshift knitting that resembled a rodent, and almost imitates her shrill cry when they are interrupted.

The part of the sept that seemed small and enclosed seemed to open and suddenly widen when Margaery came to them.

‘Sansa, your grace,’ Margaery, joins in, her smile seemingly perfunctory more than anything else. ‘I hope I wasn’t interrupting you.’

Robb straightens in his seat while Sansa proceeds to warmly greet her, leaving his side.

‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to interrupt. May I speak to you...alone?’ He asks, and Sansa almost mistakes this to mean for her, but then she looks to Margaery meaningfully.

His sister makes her way out, and he eyes the smile spreading across her lips as if she had some doing in this. He notes that he might think on another story to embarrass her with later.

‘Forgive me, my lady,’ he tells her when he finally watches his sister shrinking toward the castle, and she only slightly frowns at this apology. ‘I do owe you a chance to speak to me, from when you first kindly offered, if you were still inclined…’

Luckily, she takes the hand that he offers to bring her out of the sept. She releases from his grip just when he starts to wonder how her soft skin must feel in his rough, weathered hand.

The crumpling of the frost and dead leaves under their feet fills the silence that overtakes their walk in the beginning. Some stolen glances to her are for contemplating between what she must be thinking of this private audience and to absently watch her.

Then, he starts, ‘You know of the Red Wedding. Everyone has heard of my escape, and of my mother sacrificing herself so I could outwit the Lannisters at another turn. But, hardly anyone talks of what little triumphs there were afterward. I was happy with my wife, and I was still hopeful. But, warfare has hardened me, and even more so when she died giving birth to our first child. I was trying to cope even with this, but then our son died when he took illness soon after that. Gone before his first nameday.’

‘Your grace,’ she tries to rouse him, maybe because he grows quiet again. ‘I’m sorry, I knew some details of this tragedy, but not all.’

‘I have not been hopeful for a very long time, you see. And maybe that has changed my manner and my mood, and, unfortunately, how I treat those around me.’

She seems uncharacteristically quiet, and he can tell that not knowing what to say is something of a rarity for her from her visible unease, a growing crease between her brows.

So, he watches her carefully to continue. ‘I know you have lost too. I knew it scarcely before I had been judging you so harshly during your time here. But, I did know afterward, and I still remained cold toward you. I am sorry for this most of all.’

‘Loras and my grandmother, and even I knew the price we paid to play the games we had to to put me on the Iron Throne. I miss my family terribly, and mourn them everyday. I still want to avenge them, regardless of the fact that the wars had taken the lives of those that had wronged us before I could. But, I haven’t known tragedy as your late wife and son. I see now that I could never speak to your losses, your grace.’

A pause, a long one passes between them as he turns their direction to the Heart Tree, there he thinks of his father and then he thinks of his most privy thoughts he’s shared with her. It strikes him to realize that he’s shared enough sorrows enough times to want to remember them in a different light, and especially with someone who might know the pain of reliving them for the sake of weighing further on a heavy heart.

‘It’s Robb,’ he offers her, purposefully trying a small smile, and he finds relief to see her nod at this. ‘I think you can agree how exhausting it has been to keep regarding each other this way just to prove something to each other.’

A true smile from her, wide and almost bursting open to laugh, takes him over so wholly that he almost misses that they’ve stopped in their tracks with nothing to add to their conversation. This way, he can’t help but take her in without the conflicting thoughts he’s grown accustomed to use to distract himself with.

Snowflakes catch at her eyelashes, and he watches her trace her fingertips along the corners of her eyes, following them as they weave into the locks behind her ear. It’s when she curls her pink lips inward, then unfurls them forward to a lovelier shade deeper that he locks his gaze with hers.

‘Margaery,’ he says almost too faintly, as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

‘You presume to be so familiar, your grace.’

‘Robb,’ he insists through a surprising huff of amusement from her teasing.

‘Robb,’ she says as if testing it upon her lips, and there is something about the way she looks at him now that seems different from only moments ago. Maybe she is pondering that this, this lightness and ease akin to making amends with an old friend, has been long-awaited and only drawn out by his doing. Maybe she is as affected as he is by the weighty stillness between them now.

-

Margaery’s curated language, how she moves within court, with a precise economy to every encounter, and the way she sometimes smiles just so is not lost on him. As Sansa has brought up time and time again, possibly because his sister must think that he still harbours prejudice against Southroners, is something to appreciate and not to compare against their own family’s reserved nature.

Though he doesn’t judge her since he is learning that this is how she’s survived for so long. He knows that even a great beauty like hers would not suffice in outwitting her enemies or gaining allies. In fact, as he finds himself within her presence without their previous awkwardness, he grows increasingly curious to simply listen to her talk with the lords and ladies of court.

‘You often press your hand to your chest and lean in when you talk to the lords that you want to appear most intrigued by…’

‘Do you think less of me if I only appear interested in what the old lords think I want to hear about my duties as a princess of Highgarden, as if I’m not well aware of the fact that I’ve grown older and older from marrying age when I first left home?’

His cheeks are aflame, and he follows her in tandem to her steps away from the Great Keep. He watches the older men in question over his shoulder as they leave them in the hall, and when they are far enough he tries, ‘I only mean to make a simple observation.’

She ducks her head, and he lets out a relieved sigh to see her trying to hide her smirking lips when he catches up to her. He wonders if she finds it a sport to make him sweat for her sometimes.

The courtyard is lively during midday and Margaery greets a few passersby before she looks to him, finally replying, ‘You wear that older pin of your sigil. The direwolf’s sheen seems tarnished, but you do not replace it.’

They walk on, stopping only as they cross paths and find amusement in two young boys sparring with wooden swords.

‘It’s my father’s, he used to wear it.’ He palms it now where it is fastened just below the fur pelt on his shoulder.

‘We both keep to old habits or hold on to what makes us feel comfortable.’

‘Aye, and I only meant to say that you have more patience and shrewdness when you converse with the lords and ladies of our court than I do. I would not be so keen to keep them appeased if they were telling me what to do with my life.’

She only nods to this.

Though curiosity still nags him. ‘Have you been called by your father to return home yet?’

‘Almost every week he sends a raven.’

‘Are you planning on leaving soon?’ He wonders if she notices his curiosity piquing to wait on her answer.

‘I don’t think I am brave enough to go home just yet.’

He frowns when she does not elaborate, then grins in jest, ‘How mysterious.’

‘I am due to think of my duties as the noblemen here are telling me. But, I am not sure I am ready to face another duty that my father would ask of me again, when I have done so with haste and without question before the wars. It is quite a different time now, and I am offered more time since my brothers are not--well, they aren’t with the living to collect me now anyway.’ She thinks before she adds, ‘I will go when I am ready, and fulfil whatever duties my family asks of me, which is exactly what I will say every time I am asked that same question at court.’

‘If I had your insight and your way with words sooner, I may have done better by my crown in the past. I hope you do stay, if only to keep teaching me in this way,’ he says thoughtfully.

Her smirk twists up again, and it inspires him to do the same. ‘Am I your tutor as well as your friend now, Robb?’

‘Friends learn a great many things from each other, do they not?’ he asks.

Something touches her about this, and he can tell that something is whirring, like her cogs turning. If he’s observed her enough by now, he’s sure whatever she’s about to say could only grow in wit in the wait.

Then, he is awarded by her slyly offering, ‘I have never had such friends that studied me so closely for their betterment. Is there anything else about my figure you’d like learning from?’

He’s sure he’s looking flustered again, tempted to reply, but he can only muster laughter instead.

-

Margaery and Sansa could be mistaken for sisters.

Only the briefest of glimpses at the two women together could tell how much they adored one another, sharing smiles and, from what he could hear in passing, turning the mundanity of their court life into the most lively of conversations. He’s sure that Sansa would have desperately wanted her as a sister in another life, and even Arya, who Sansa loved despite their drastically different sensibilities, would not fault her sister in wanting to share this special kind of kinship with someone who did not share their blood.

If he was being quite honest with himself, at times he’d feel out of place when they are together as the two women would seem to carry on as if he were not there at all. Only after a long while, both of them would feel pity on him by asking him to make his observations of their conversations, even if the connection to him would be tenuous at best. But, he would tell them, humorously, it would be best to remain silent so as to appear astute and attentive when bringing up said conversations when he might feel less apt in listening to them in the future. Sansa throws him a scandalized glare, while Margaery quells his sister’s annoyance with whispered words.

He is revisited by some spectres in his mind, a habit he’s lived with for longer than he’s been home. He’s sure that Margaery knows the power she holds with them. Though as much as he marvels at her effect, he can’t stop himself from thinking of what she could do if she were the type of person to wish ill will on them instead.

-

Margaery pales as if she’s seen a ghost in broad daylight.

Garlan Tyrell arrives at Winterfell, recovering from war wounds and crippled akin to his older late brother, Willas, and found out to be in hiding for as long as Robb had been away from home. As quickly as he brings an arresting surprise, he also brings an instantaneous surge of happiness to Margaery who thought him dead for so long.

She takes over the nursing duties of the servants when a phantom pain comes from his missing arm, and Robb knows her absence for times in the day he might find her is warranted for her keeping her long lost brother company instead. Sometimes, he follows her, paying respects to the Tyrell’s efforts in the war, and other times he cannot help in giving him a sympathetic look to his absent limb, a fate that could have very well befallen him during his numerous battles. Sometimes, Margaery asks for privacy between herself and her brother since these looks spur on more insecurity than gratitude.

Though, when Garlan finds him alone, he spurs on Robb’s deepest thoughts as well. Even a man, only briefly returning to his own home in Highgarden before visiting his sister, and freshly navigating the realities of a life away from war, makes his own astute observations of Robb.

‘My sister is becoming more Stark than Tyrell. She hated the cold as a child, but, here, she looks warm and naturally swathed in Northern garb like your own. I’ve not heard from her in many years, my lord, but I’m sure she’s even speaking with a different voice. Does this mean Margaery is actually bending to someone’s will, rather than the other way around?’

Robb can’t recall what he had said at this time, only that he couldn’t deny the swift way he dismissed this thought, feeling surprisingly warm from the older man’s scrutiny.

‘Nevermind,’ Garlan he had said, suddenly aloof about it all. ‘She will soon again be home and feel like her old self. But, I am indebted to your kindness and generosity in having her in your home.’

Garlan’s words follow him at a feast at request of Margaery to celebrate this visit, and he’s conscious of the way Garlan’s eyes could be following the way Margaery links their arms at times or the way she touches him for any number of reasons he considers harmless and of the nature of their close friendship. But, he is certainly conscious of how it all looks.

Every touch, she passes as gestures of familiarity. The way her voice is changed with him, the lovely lilt in her laughter that he’s convinced she does not share with anyone else, not even with his sister. He does not miss these signs, because he’s wary of how much he craves her to be affected by him, and he invites her closer still, paying no mind to the mummers that follow them within the castle walls.

When he openly eyes her seagrass green, sleeveless dress this night, following a plunging neckline he’s never seen her wear before, he is only redirected when she she repeats herself, amused, ‘I know this is not at all how women dress here, but Garlan’s return has inspired some sentimentality in me. It is very different than you are used to in the North, is it not?’

‘It is.’ He swallows thickly, and adds, ‘But it is not an unwelcome change here.’

She smiles shyly, which isn’t something he’s not seen her express often if at all before, and it does not help his cause in trying to soothe his craving of these subtle cracks in the usual way about her, especially when he knows that they are left alone, while the rest of the castle itself seems to quiet for them. By a nearby hearth they have retreated to after dinner, they can only hear the crackling of the kindling wood stoking in the fire and their own shifting where they sit side by side.

Then, the unusual silence, which has always been filled by stories of her day and his seeking of her opinions for matters at court, goads him on. ‘You must say what is preying on your mind, Margaery.’

‘If I do, I may regret it.’

‘How mysterious,’ he echoes words that he’s sure she will recall and find humorous.

Only, she does not ease yet, and her laughter does not come. He watches the familiar way her lips retreat from her biting them inward, then curl forward. But, it is her intent stare that finally gives her away, and he is aware of the closeness of their sitting together, knees brushing and fingers inching forward until he feels them lacing together. She curls her fingers with his, and he sighs at the contact he wasn’t sure she’d accept.

‘Robb,’ her tone sounds much like a plea.

The fire from the hearth is heating him in the layers he wishes to shed now, if only to ease the breaths he’s taking in shallowly when she stops at the small dip of distance between them.

Her hesitance is burning him until her eyes close to him. Finally, ‘Marge,’ he whispers before he presses a gentle kiss on her lips, cups her face in his hands, and pulls back on the chaste kiss to watch her reaction.

He is not simply affected by her, he is weak.

He knows this more as he takes in her eyes fluttering open, not expecting the glow of the fireside to make her look even more entrancing, as if he were conjuring up a dream of her instead.

‘Robb,’ her voice jerks him out as if he were breaking free of a fever dream, especially with the pained expression that twists her features now. She gently removes his hands from threading through her curls. ‘I cannot do this. Sansa has told me of your plans to marry another.’

His stomach plummets as harshly as a stone, and he will wonder later on if she had intended to kiss him at all. ‘We have only spoken to lords that have expressed interest in the usual business of strengthening ties with our Northern families. There is nothing agreed upon. I would have told you myself, but I didn’t find any reason to speak on matters that are not true...not in the way Sansa meant.’

She does not hide the frown knitting her brows closer together still. ‘I would be remiss in interfering--’

‘Or maybe it does not matter because you would leave for home without regret.’ Robb realizes that he doesn’t mean to cut in until it is too late, but Garlan’s words are finally deafening to his ears. ‘Were you going to wait until your brother announced that both of you were leaving or the day you intend to ride out to tell me?’

He’s sure the implications in all they are admitting now confirms that there has been a surfacing of things left unsaid between them, and the growing dread he had been abating for so long blooms, thinking of times he had squandered in favour of folding to longing and indecision in his own mind.

He has been longing for her, he admits inwardly, frustrated.

Her eyes narrow, indignant to ask, ‘Am I the only one to be expected to be truthful, your grace?’

His title sounds as though she means it to be bitter on her tongue, and though he fully intends to explain all of it to her, a servant diverts their attention.

‘Lady Margaery, your brother seeks you, his pain…’ The servant stands a great distance from them, possibly understanding to approach with caution.

Robb follows her to rise to their feet, and she simply regards him with a perceptible sadness.

‘I will go to him.’ She means to face the servant when she says this, but she’s still holding Robb’s gaze. Only breaking it when she shakes her head and moves to walk away, bidding him goodnight under her breath.

-

If there was ill will or a thorn in her side from their last encounter, he would not be able to suspect it, watching Margaery listen intently to the commonfolk take turns in voicing their concerns in the throne room. Her head is held high, and tilting to listen to each man and woman seeking alms. Even though she does not sit with Sansa and himself, at the top of the throne room, she does not stay hidden within the crowd of noble people, while some drift and appear less concerned than she.

They are credit to their upbringing, he supposes, because he easily finds himself steadfast in his role once again, regardless of his wandering thoughts. Looking to his side, a welcome pang spreads warmth through his chest to think of Sansa as well, as he is certain years of his absence and her willingness to carry on in Winterfell has made her softness melt when she deliberately willed it to. This time, and other times, he admonishes any thought he had of his sister being incapable of such a feat.  

Then there is his father’s and mother’s voices sometimes weaving in and out of his decisions on each request of alms or presentation of gifts to the crown, and he is certain he is seeing a slow building of trust in the weary of their kingdom with the passing of time through their current depression.

Though, without prompting, the tone shifts by someone appearing before the throne with significantly more desperation shivering through their body than the last.

‘My family’s farm is being ravaged by wildlings and their pagan ways, many of my animals slaughtered, your grace. I am at wit’s end. I cannot survive the winter if nothing is done, and I am not the only one in my village that is being affected.’ The man, ruddy in the face, wrings his hands nervously for Robb’s response.

A nobleman interjects before Robb replies, ‘Their season of worship will pass in the next few weeks. The king must focus on allocating royal funds where it is needed, like the curing of our sick that is seemingly growing from an outbreak, many children affected, even noble children.’

He looks to Sansa when a rabble of chatter erupts, some louder voices are thrown across the hall, and he mouths to his sister for different options to speak of.

‘Robb, Margaery and I have been speaking about these issues,’ Sansa says.

‘Oh? For how long?’ He simply replies. He is not surprised, they talk often. However, again, he admits to himself that he must not underestimate his sister’s competencies at court.

‘Since she arrived on her last visit.’

Sansa barely ruminates over an idea when she claps her hands for their attention, their guards roar for quiet for good measure. ‘My lords, ladies, respected subjects, we cannot tackle both grave concerns at once. We will see to both concerns if we have more than Stark subjects to support us. Luckily, I have on good authority that our allies at court will be generous in more ways than words for support.’ She looks to Margaery then, which causes a deep crimson to colour her friend’s cheeks.

Though, Margaery, far from a shrinking violet, steps forward to speak with determination, her blush slowly receding, ‘House Tyrell will do as much good as the Starks promise, Princess.’

‘We will discuss further, Lady Margaery, thank you,’ Robb adds, impulsively prolonging his attention on her, and he cannot help to add, ‘If you wish it.’

She nods, and he’s sure she challenges their eye contact as much as he does before they return to the next audience requested from the commonfolk.

-

He hears through a squire, at Garlan’s behest, that Margaery is in her chambers failing to attend to her own riding accident. If he were to voice it, he’d speak concerns over their supposed friendship which affords him little more than furious whisperings of her well-being through a number of other people, save herself. He knows that the night that they have not spoken of has affected him as much as Sansa says it does, but not in the way he speaks (because he has not spoken of their brief kiss or the returned coldness between them), though more so in his dark mood surfacing again.

And as a man possessed from this mood, he finds himself gruffly interrupting a servant that tells him that Margaery wishes to be alone, while he allows himself into her bed chambers before the servant can even attempt to apologize for overstepping him.

He means to speak plainly, firmly, but his gruffness falls flat from the way she toils at the nearby window for light, wrapping and unwrapping the bandages at her wrist, trying futilly to reassemble a splint.

‘Do not approach me, lest I wring these bloody bandages around your neck, Tildy.’ She whips around, surprised to see Robb instead, though the exasperation in her huffing breaths does not leave her.

‘Poor Tildy has already gotten a scolding from me, I wouldn’t want to give her any more abuse.’

‘I’m in no mood, Robb.’ She returns her attention to her wrist, not meeting his eyes. This does not completely allow him to forget the reasons he intended to seek her for words, but he softens.

‘Margaery,’ he tries gently, approaching her tentatively, hands outstretched. ‘Let me…’

She looks at him, then to her wrist, which he assumes is sprained from the accident that was described to him, and then back to him. A flash of defiance lights her eyes to see him still standing before her, persistent in the face of her irritation, but he sighs when she finally concedes to him.  

She winces instinctively, even when he has only guided her to her bed, and they sit side by side as he unfolds all of the cloths from her affected left side. He makes busy work, holding her in place, as he wraps her trembling wrist into a firm splint without the pain she had inflicted on herself earlier.

She mutters quietly on the fact that she might have done this herself if she were given more time, to which he only chuckles out, ‘I am well aware that you are more than capable in many things, but there is nothing wrong with seeking help when it is necessary.’

When he fastens the last cloth in place, his hands find excuse to test the firmness of his handy work, warm hands wrapping around her wrist. They stay there for some time.

‘You are very skillful,’ she observes even-toned, and slowly takes her wrist back.

‘My late wife--she taught me. Life on the battlefield was taxing on her body, so she’s needed it as well, and I’ve also helped some of my own bannermen myself,’ he explains. ‘The only difference now is that I’ve had less fight in those I’ve helped during the war.’

She almost yelps in laughter, and it bursts something gloomy that seemed to be encapsulating around them. Her hands move away from his to smother the boisterousness of her laughter, his own throat shaking in reaction to her, and he laughs for no other reason than hearing her infectious one.

Curious, he asks, ‘What?’

‘You, Robb, have the least amount of tact of any man I’ve ever met,’ her words mean more to tease than harm, and she smiles despite his continued confusion. If there was any tension left within her, he’s wondering if it only remains brittle, slowly shaking free from her.

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘You speak of past loves so easily when you are meant to make me feel...a certain way. Only you would get away with this carelessness, without reprimand,’ she says, mirth still glinting in her eyes. ‘Maybe it is because of your devastating blue eyes and the fact that you are relentlessly kind, and many a maid have not had the heart to tell you how hopeless you are.’

He tries to stifle his laughter this time, smiling guiltily. ‘Truthfully, I have only been caught stumbling on my words with you.’

Margaery appears to mull over this, then tries to smile prettily to tease him, “Have you been beguiled by my innocent charms?’

He cocks a brow at that, and he tries his hand at making her laugh again, ‘I am not one of the lords at court, nor would I mistake you for being innocent.’

Her laughter is softer now, and she eyes the birth between them, and it is maddening that they have returned to this silence, words sat between them, unspoken again. She must know...something about how she leans in close, large brown eyes looking up through her lashes, slowly showing expectancy, maybe imploring...

So, he starts, determined by her rising her gaze completely leveled on his now, ‘You can’t be blind to see how I feel, how I’ve tried to show you, do you know…’ he stops himself, and without hesitation, his fingers reach for the corners of her eyes to catch the brimming tears that threaten to fall. ‘But, Margaery, do you know?’

She takes his hand and brings them to her lap, leaning toward him. Something about the way he asks her makes her break, and she shakily nods, admitting, ‘Of course, of course, I know.’

This time, she shares a sharp intake of breath between their small distance before she surges forward to kiss him, hands encircling his neck, anchoring him to her. Her lips on his lips, surer this time, kiss him deeply.

This time, he can intimately inhale the scent of primrose he has come to know her sprinkling in her hair, and taste something faintly sweet on her tongue, like the sugary tarts she thinks she is sneakily stealing away before their proper dinners at night.

Her hands to his chest, signals for their need for air. Robb is the first to release a sigh, sated for now, ‘Margaery, I promise you, this is what I want. You, that is all.’

‘And I, you,’ she replies as his lips press against her knuckles, kissing at the dips and peaks.

‘I promise to tell you exactly of all the matters that mean something to us. I won’t leave anything--’

‘Wait, I must tell you something first.’

‘The gods must be testing me…’ he jests, but listens on, seriously.

‘I have not just been corresponding with my father as if I were journaling my everyday mundanities. He has been advising me of marriage proposals as well, a new lord every chance he finds possible, in fact. And he has insisted I stay here in Winterfell as of late...to be your wife.’

Robb nods, and thoughtfully offers, ‘I have often wondered why your father would allow you to be so far from home for so long.’ Then, with a smile playing on his lips, he adds, ‘I have thought of us this way, married, that is.’

Margaery does not stray from his grasp, but her head hangs low to explain Garlan’s presence. ‘Garlan is meant to persuade both us to do so, or take me home. I am supposed to help bolster Highgarden’s position in the Reach. I could do this because I am not concerned of being a pawn to help along the political machinations at home, and I would be comfortable, and find my own way of living on my own terms. I was groomed to be the perfect wife to any king, as you have heard the stories as well as anyone else. But, I have had time to think in dungeons at King’s Landing, scraped by where my wits narrowly saved me from fanatical faith militants, and barely escaped a sept where I was meant to die. I can’t...You have seen it in me as certain as day, a throne would be ill-suited for someone who has only seen it as a game or a curse.’

She continues to add, ‘Forgive me, Robb. I do care for you, but I don’t know how I feel about all of this.’

All of her misgivings, abrupt mood shifts or the quiet thoughts she’s not shared with him have not aligned with the strong will he’s come to know of her over time. Now, as she is finally vulnerable to him, he pieces these ideas together. As content and untroubled as her stay has been in Winterfell, she has been touched by fear. He knows this feeling all too well.

‘I have been wary of my crown for longer than I have worn it, and I could have forgotten my title, and renounced it all,’ he says. ‘But, Sansa is here. And, as I’ve learned, Winterfell is not a home without each other. I cannot forget my name, or what it means to my family, my people, and carry on. Still, I understand your fear as well. I wouldn’t force your hand, but I mean to make you see that our home could mean something to you if you stayed.’

Her habit of folding her lips between her teeth means she is thinking, and he is grateful for this at least.

He tries to help her along, ‘As for marrying into our family, it is clear that your influence on my sister and our people are not from my help. Marrying me would not change this. I have known of the kindness you have shown my sister when she was held captive by Joffrey. I have seen your kindness follow her here. Then there is your work in helping our commonfolk, it isn’t some ploy for them to fawn over you the way they did in King’s Landing. I am no fool, I understand the motives and drive you had in those days, yet you continue to help our people now, even when you are no more ambitious than I am for power and influence. If it were in Highgarden or any kingdom, you would be a queen with real purpose, no matter where you reign. You would be a force.’

‘Don’t let our Queen of Dragons hear you speaking of me that way.’ She does not smile too much from her jape, but her voice carries less and less of her anxious energy.

All the while he watches her frown slowly fading, calmness smoothing over the creases in her features from his words, so he continues, ‘And, still, I know both of us have sorely needed hope again, for a happier life than we have known. I know that life would only be afforded to me if I had you by my side. Margaery, I feel as though, no, I hope the same could be said for you...would you marry me?’

A nervous puff of laughter comes through her, finally, ‘You are not so hopeless after all, are you?’

‘Not entirely.’ He matches her warm smile, as if he settled the strongest of her qualms for now. At least, the way she brings him back toward her, kissing him soundly, tells him so.

‘It is a yes, we are to marry, surely--’ He tries to clarify, but she stops him with her feverish peppering of kisses, breathing quick gasps of yes, yes against his lips.

-

Another Tyrell comes to Winterfell. This one is much older than he expects, and from dismounting from the carriage, he is slightly relieved that he is no more imposing than the elderly maesters he’s grown accustomed to as a child--kindly-looking and eager to please all those around him. Mace Tyrell, in ostentatious golden and green robes, makes strides to see his children first, Margaery and Garlan.

His greeting to his daughter stands out as especially happy when she kisses her lord father on either side of the face, and he whispers something in her ear. Margaery whips her head to face Robb then, and there is something so captivating about the unabashed pride in her smile she gives him.

Robb decides that the rapidly thrumming beat of his heart and the words he’s contemplated in speaking about their marriage, which have changed twice or thrice over, are only tempered by her unwavering sureness of him.

-

Margaery finds him by his mother’s garden after a morning feast with the Tyrells, with a beaming smile and eyes dazzling in the midday sun. The cold winter air chills her breath, and he can tell that she is huffing out exhausted breaths from running through the castle grounds to meet him, dragging her billowing gown up from her hurrying steps. The sight of her exuberant happiness is enough to bring the same jittery energy in himself, and he has to steady himself from her swaying embrace.

‘How did that appear to you, because I cannot know how I seemed talking to your father,’’ he postpones greeting to ask her.

‘You were brilliant. What you have said to my father--’ She starts.

‘Nothing, my love.’ He tries modesty, but she is quick to poke his side.

She smiles knowingly to tell him, ‘They were practiced words to ask for my hand, but they were spoken from the heart, and that was clear to my family. That is why my father is even more pleased with our upcoming wedding.’

‘Will he be trying to dress up our halls with extensive roses and filigree to match his own wardrobe for the ceremony?’ He couldn’t resist to observe, as they walk through his mother’s flower beds, musing on how they would not in the least match the pomp and splendor of the her father’s robes and jewelry, and he dodges her lunging open hand.

‘My grandmother would have certainly adored you,’ she says, fighting a smile threatening to spread her lips as she wrenches out her attacking hand caught in his quick grip.

‘I am honoured,’ he says, and fondly watches her become distracted by white blooms nearby.

‘We must have these.’

‘Helleborus, my mother’s favourite.’  

‘Yes, I’d like these in my hair for the wedding day,’ she idly says as she plucks one flower through dogwood branches, shaking both free of snow.

Playfully, he snatches it from her, if only to keep rousing her fighting spirit again. Gods, she’s even more lovely whenever he kindles that bright, fiery look in her eyes.

‘You are especially giddy today as well.’

His hands move quickly, without her interruption, as he weaves the stem of the flower through her curls, wrapping it around her ear. ‘Aye, and curious as to what else you have planned to wear for our wedding day.’

Her eyes are slightly hooded at this, and he is certain they are both aware that they have consciously chosen the gardens to meet for its seclusion from intrusive eyes. ‘A dress you may admire,’ her voice is low in replying.

‘Only for a short while, until I can admire what lies beneath it,’ he rasps, tugging her closer so they are sharing heavier breaths. If he could convey how the simmering temptations that have passed between them since their confessions of their true feelings have been struggling to emerge, he’s sure he’s allowed it to be more and more palpable, and blatant now.

Margaery’s gaze is lit brighter now as if his double meanings urge her on, and she pushes him to the stone wall that completely obscures them from the castle, frosted climbing ivy do little to cushion the thud of the back of his head. And he’s sure the impact does not do anything to his concentration, but the way she grabs his hands to slip them underneath her plunging neckline surely does something to his vision so fixed on the milky skin threatening to spill completely out of her dress. He kneads the soft mounds of her breasts, the peaks of her nipples taut from his cold hands make his eyes half-lidded now too.

‘I’d rather you have me here than admire me later,’ she says boldly before she tiptoes to capture his lips.

With one hand grasping her warm breast still, as the other snakes around to cinch her waist forward so they are completely flush together, she gasps into his mouth at his tighter grip.

‘You would have me take you here, while everyone waits for us inside the castle, wondering where we are? If we are caught--’

His words catch in her mouth, hungrier for his kisses than his admissions. They move together, finally finding warmth from the chill that surrounds them, and her fingers tug at his own curls. And it’s no more pain than the way his hardening cock feels within his breeches, tightly restricted and needing her.

He could have her here.

‘My King!’ Someone bellows beyond the wall that they instantly shoot off of from this interruption.

They both right themselves before a guard finds them around the corner, panting as he jogs toward them. ‘My lord, word from the Wall. Your brother--’

‘What?’ Robb says automatically instead of who, for his brothers have all perished.

‘Lord Brandon.’ The guard appears to not believe his own admission any more than Robb does.

‘Explain yourself.’

‘A raven arrives telling you to aid him at the Wall.’

‘The ruins, you mean. Those have been abandoned, not a single soul has reported sightings of White Walkers, much less a human for that matter. How is this possible?’ Robb deliberates his own observations, and seeks Margaery’s gaze, as if she would provide some useful insight, even when he knows his mind has been made the instant his brother’s name had been uttered.

Margaery only takes a moment’s time to fix a serious look on him, that same steeliness he had seen once before that struck him so appears again. ‘This home is only a home with those that we love, you told me that. You must be careful, as I know you always are, and you must go because I know this will weigh on your heart until you know the truth. I cannot be the only one offered miracle of family returning from the dead, not when we intend to make our family grow larger and happier one day.’

He’s confidently admitted it to her father whilst asking for her hand, as he had done the same the night she accepted his proposal, but his admiration of her comes on even stronger now, bursting with the other competing feelings coursing through him, so the words come in a fierce whisper, ‘I love you.’ He brings her hands up gingerly to his lips, and kisses them.

‘And I love you.’

‘I will return.’ He senses that he must say this, if only to quell the start of the creasing of her brows, knowing this is as painful for her as it is for him.

‘You must, if you intend on marrying me.’ She smiles with eyes glazed.

-

His love, elegant and bold, holds herself in a way that unashamedly displays who she truly is. She will be a fine queen one day. Though, more importantly, only hours after his asking her father for her hand, she appears every bit of a faithful wife before uttering the words for the Old Gods to hear her--deeply concerned for him, but just as determined for him, without a thought to mask any of these emotions.

It is the way she holds herself now, knowing that he leaves for the Wall tomorrow, and how she insists that the turmoil in waiting and the Tyrell’s want for finery be damned so that they can marry in front of the Heart Tree like his ancestors at nightfall. She is a force that he cannot deny, and wholly agrees with her request.

Mace Tyrell frets over the propriety for almost the entirety of the day until the very evening of the ceremony, over her not changing from her gown from the morning and even the mudd wicking across all their attire as they trek through the godswood. But, even his foolish fussing is silenced by the tight line of his daughter’s smile. Robb can tell, and maybe even Mace had stopped to notice, that she could not be happier to bind her hands with Robb’s and recite the sacred vows, but the tinge of bittersweetness chases after her voice if you truly listened.

But, it is mostly the way she holds herself after they make love with another smile that is spread tightly into a line, strained, though her embrace that is as languid as it is decisive in ending at the break of dawn that leaves him with the notion that she means to let him go. Then there are her gentle words of support that do not say all she wants to say, but he knows the quieter thoughts as well as the way her deep gaze that gives them away. They mingle with vows she promised to him…

Mother…

Find Bran, and do not be harmed…

Maiden…

Husband, I will miss you…

Crone…

Keep yourself and your spirits warm, the nights will be long…

Come home, she finally says in her farewell kiss.

-

Come home, he sometimes hears whispers at the seams of his unraveling dreams.

There is no reprieve during winter in the true North. He remembers the lessons and the adages of his house. Though, the winter at the Wall is a maelstrom of something from nightmares and his side aches again.

The nightmare is his new wounds, gashes above his ribs, sore and poorly patched up from what little supplies he had brought with him. It is time creeping slowly by in the darkness of a cave he is being held captive in by a makeshift cage of what appear to be animal carcasses, darkness giving little away of what day or days have passed. It is being alone, the whole of his company have been slashed to shreds or scattered across the ruins of the Wall from an attack from who...he's yet to know yet. He ruminates again. They are not White Walkers, he rationalizes that his mind has sometimes been touched by memories from the past, but his captors are certainly human, as he’s killed and watched some die already. They are not wildlings as he's come face to face in combat with his own share of them. No, they are something else. Thin, gaunt people that wish to emulate otherworldly creatures. They colour themselves in chalky white from head to toe, clothe themselves in white-speckled fur, and smear dark kohl around their eyes. They hold the look of a men and women that knew how to match their surroundings of this desolate land well enough to ambush them. Disturbingly, negotiating with his captors was futile considering they communicated with little more than gestures and indiscernible grunts. Even the circumstances of his capture did not bode well, as something of a ransom would have motivated some, they had no certain plans for him. But, their leader, or the biggest, burly-looking one that seemed to be directing the others, carries on without a passing look to him. As if this was normal, to keep hostages, by a pathetic hearth crackling with little heat, while all (Robb counts 15) of them sit in a circle passing around some sort of game they had flayed and barely roasted. He hears cooing and wailing of children in another chamber of the cave. This was, or appeared to Robb, was their norm--for however long normal it might have been for them. If he were to empathize, because the cooing of babies nearby are troubling him still, it occurred to Robb that this is how some have survived the White Walkers, and surely this is how some have survived Queen Daenarys' canvassing of those for or against her too. This is what some might think is the only choice once they disagreed with the new world. Find Bran, my love, her whispers righting him again.

Yet, Bran was nowhere to be seen. Who sent that raven? Is Bran indeed alive? And who will send a raven to Margaery and Sansa to let them know of what has happened?

Husband, I miss you... At night, he often dreams of a warm hearth, snowflakes on fallen leaves, then on eyelashes, and a cascade curls of chestnut brown that curtain his face in before he tastes sweetness on his lips. Sweet Margaery. He dreams of her soft sighs filling his ears with yearning. His name tumbling off her lips as if it were a plea in prayer, again and again, mingling with his calls for her. She peaks with him, flush against him, slick skin to skin. He dots kisses along the nape of her neck, dotting promises to wake her with a reprise in the morning. This night, however, she whispers his name again, with a tremble of fear for him, eyes wide, knowing of some sort of imminent danger.

His eyes blink slowly to the scene before him, lashes sticking from frost. He had not been roused from sleep, but stupor and malnourishment. He is humiliated, thinking he were reminiscing of his last moment of bliss, when he is in fact on his knees, and being sentenced to death by beheading. In the middle of the frozen earth at the mouth of their cave dwelling, he sits, wondering if this was certainly how he were to die. Alone. The blunt axe touching his neck for sure aim feels as though it will not do slow work to afford him a quick death.

Decisively he closes eyes to chase bliss again. But it’s Margaery’s voice at first that he hears, in fear once more. But, then it isn't.

‘Robb!’ Someone hisses him awake once more. There is another cloaked figure next to his executioner, weilding a slender, short blade. They crouch down, whisper near his ear, ‘When I say so, you grab the man’s sword.’

He shudders with what energy he has left to look up at the hooded man who spoke, and then he sees him through bleary, but shocked vision. 'Br-Bran!' He breathes, lowering his voice as he remembers himself, then gathers himself up in straighter in his kneeling position. 'Your legs!' Bran Stark, standing a little taller than he remembered, with a deeper voice, shoves Robb’s head back down, and stands abruptly. Luckily, no one seems to react to Robb’s outbursts.

A beat passes, and Robb has questions, his blood is inexplicably running warm for the warring hope and doubt in his mind over this reunion. Then, he feels something fall, then the splatter of warm liquid stream across his fingers. He hears his brother again, hollering, ‘TAKE IT!’

A sword by his hand, and then it is in his hand next. Bran helps him to his feet, and the breath in he takes is the first that feels like a cold blast of ice to his senses. First, he sees clearly, Bran rushing toward the men that flank them. Then, he slices through two that try to overtake him, his blade gutting one and the other hitting the ground from Bran slitting his throat, blood soaking through the snow and ice.

‘ROBB!’

He is spun around, the hilt of the sword in his weak grasp jolts him as Bran pushes it to his chest, and, in a moment, his senses catch up with him again. He rights his stance, and thrashes the sword toward the man attacking him. The two men he kills lay at his feet, and he recognizes them as the men that had fed him food and water just before the whites of their eyes still completely, along with the life behind them.

Four more attack and surround them and, even with the pain that urges him to topple over, he works through half of them, narrowly missing the largest of the lot driving a sword past him, nicking his left thigh. Bran cuts the massive brute and the rest of them down. With the last man Bran kills, he has a moment to fall to his knees to watch his brother. It is clearly him, his features familiar like his father’s, but with blood splattered across his cheeks and brows, there is something more eerie than his healed crippling.

‘Bran?' Robb starts again once they are surrounded by the queer silence of death, but Bran is already taking his arm to sling around his shoulder, helping him walk forward with more speed. 'More will come.' Is all Bran provides for explanation. What little light is kindling in the centre hearth of the cave he’d been held captive in, along with the torchlight in Bran’s hand, allows Robb to see the splattering of blood across the ground, and it trails to the large hole that he had assumed had been where his captors had all huddled and slept. There, he sees a large pool of blood, and a stream still crawling toward them. He thinks he sees parts, shadows of limbs strewn amongst the blood. Even the brood of younger ones...he wonders how he didn't hear their cries. He distinctly feels that odd feeling toward his brother again. He can't recall if his brother ever showed capability of aggression, let alone taking lives. Not only that, but his mind wanders back to the silence of the children of the wild tribe. 'Bran, how?' Robb asks urgently, limping to stand on his own now. 'Why are you here, why did you bring me here?' Before his eyes, he is speechless to a grotesque sight, and he unsheathes a makeshift scabbard he had hidden away in his sleeve in defence. Bran peels skin off his face, no, his face is peeled off to reveal not his brother, but another face of his kin. Then, along with this same motion, his body morphs completely into another smaller, slender form. He's learnt of an old magic that allows transformations as he's just witnessed. But, who’s to say this is really…

'A-Arya?' Robb stutters, and winces from pain as he tries to back away from her outstretched hand. His sister has grown into a young lady, not exactly a lady in the sense his mother envisioned her to be, but her features are longer, older and the hardened look in her steely gray eyes is the same impression he's always known of his traditionally un-ladylike sister. 'It is you, isn't it?' 'Yes,' she says simply, and she holds fast to him again, because he sways from the pain in his side. 'And sometimes no,' she adds, which only confirms his knowledge of the Faceless Men that he's learnt about as a child. They escape to another bleak cave, this one with a fire that Arya starts easily from the large satchel of items that seems endless. With medicines and cloths to patch his wounds. She even helps him wrap himself into a thin cloak taken from her bag for warmth and a softer surface than the slab of rock he'd been lying on for days. Lying on his side, he fights the urge to rest, wanting answers rather than the terse comments she had made throughout their journey away from the massacre. 'How long have you been here for?' He tries. With her back to him, warming her hands by her fire, she answers, 'I've counted twenty moons.' 'Arya,' he means to tell her kind words of their reunion and to thank her for saving him, but instead he presses further, 'why the children?' 'Bran was killed because of the savages.' He gulps, as if to swallow his sorrow, though he had mourned for Bran long before he had hoped for a miracle of his survival. So the defiance in her methods of helping him was not easily brought down his throat. He is, as ever, his mother's son, and probes his concerns for his younger sibling, 'Arya, the children and their mothers did not have to die.' She only stares back at him, not in the same way she had long ago, with warmth and pride, but with a blistering coldness in her eyes. She is calculating, not judging him. 'I had learned that Bran was killed by savages from this tribe, so I became them as I can gain your trust as becoming Bran, and I have returned their gesture in kind. I needed you to help me track down all of their kin, all of them are responsible if they had watched and aided in his capture and death.' Robb does not agree, but tries, 'Am I of any use to you now?'  He gestures to his affected side, wincing to shift again. He allows the silence to fill their shelter instead, as he waits to understand her plans, and maybe understand who his sister has become. 'I heard of your survival last new moon, and I have wondered if your skills of combat might help me track someone who I think knows of my skills, someone who may be trying to evade me, so I can finally catch up to the rest of those that had scattered once they learned of my tracking them. Two wargs are better than one. While we hunt, Sansa will be the Stark that stays in Winterfell. She has become deftly capable on the throne.' He does not question her knowing of Sansa or him. If she was capable of finding news of his whereabouts to send a raven to call for him, then she must be keeping up with information on all of them. It is scarily impressive. Though, he wonders of the strength of her powers or her need for him if he had never honed his skills as well as hers. 'There are two Starks at home now,' he corrects her. 'I have married, but you must know that already.'

'Yes, you're right, to that cunning Tyrell girl. She will be of great influence to your decisions. Now, you have two women to right you when you only see your enemies on the battlefield, and not the enemies at court.'

Though her words are not unkind, they still sound foreign on her tongue. He wishes to hear the mischief in her again, and her contagious laughter that always brought him to his own delight.  But, it sobers him to realize that she does not include herself at Winterfell. And he is acutely aware that her words sound as paranoid as he felt before he returned home. 'Ayra,' he tries, 'will you come home with me?' 'No,' she flatly replies. 'You have avenged Bran, and the war is over. I know how hard it is to accept when you have to return home from it, but life has moved on. Would he want this of us?' Her quiet glare is fixed on him again, and maybe her mouth starts to twitch to express anger. But, instead she sighs, 'You don't understand.' She isn't a girl anymore, no, nor a highborn lady of Winterfell. His sister, dressed in men's breeches and a hard leather jerkin over a wooly tunic, with her words curt as well as her movements, truly has become all she has aspired to as a child--strong and as sharp as the angles in her stance as any strategist he's met during the war.

So, he feels no regret in the urge to treat her as any of his equals.

'I don't understand the want to avenge our family, our father? I don't understand what it feels like to take a life in the heat of anger, or the temptation to inflict pain on someone, thinking it will lessen your own? I don't know what has happened to you, Arya, and I mean to learn of your time away from home, but I cannot see this life you are leading as a life worth following through.'

Arya finally sits at his side instead of towering over him. 'You remember the tribe that had ambushed your men? They have seen as I've seen, that you need to make your own justice, your own life, to keep your dignity in this world. They, although wilder than the wildlings we had known as children, are smart enough to know that a life truly free is one that doesn't pick a side in war or bend a knee to a woman who claims to be your queen because she believes she has dragon blood running through her veins.'

'And if picking a side and bending a knee means I can be at peace with my family, and offer my kingdom some semblance of the comforts and stability of a future for their children, what do you say to that?'

'It is a lie. We've been fed lies the moment we were born into our wealth and status.'

He shakes his head, 'You mean to never come home to me or Sansa, to our family?'

He would have missed it if he had blinked, but there is a perceptible softness in her expression before she affirms, 'This is my life, and my justice, Robb.'

For the first time, he wonders if she is sizing him up as well, because there is something passing over her gaze now. It is certainly not a look that had once always been gleaned from any of his younger siblings, admiring and aspiring of him. Now, he wonders how Arya lists the ways to find him inadequate.

No words pass between them in the dead of the night, and when he awakes the next day to confront her again, wishing to change her mind, he finds that he is alone.

It isn't until he stirs from sleep again that he sees his sister return with kindling wood for their dying fire. Her eyes are fixed in his direction, but they are completely blotted out by a familiar glowing white, as if the whites of her eyes had engulfed all its colour. She is within another animal, he realizes. Just as he had done with Grey Wind when he was alive.

Then, she is looking at him.

Wordlessly, she moves toward him to help him sit up, and gestures him to lift his arm up so that she can inspect and tend to his wounds.

'The stab to your side is superficial, you will heal. And you haven't broken into any fever dreams, so it appears you will survive the journey. You must have many lives to spare, brother.' He doesn't chuckle as he's sure she meant to make him do so, but he asks, 'Journey?'

‘The bannermen that have survived have been seen with horses near the west of the wall ruins. I am leading them to us now. You will be going home.'

When he says nothing, she adds, 'This is what you want, is it not? I can't have you in my way, or dragging me down if you catch illness.' Then, just now, he feels a pang of remembrance, because some of her old ways slip into what she means here. Long before, if she meant to get her way, she always japed about the other not having enough wit or strength to accomplish a feat against her. She tended to take advantage of Jon this way too.

Her words meant to be taken seriously, and he knew their separation would haunt him until he'd find her again, but he went with impulse to say, 'You wanted me here to stop you. You knew I'd come, even though you're more than capable of finishing your tasks on your own. You want to go home.'

'I needed skill and strength, and you have neither for me,' she says matter-of-factly. 'I was wrong to send for you.' This finally strikes through him, burning at tongue, 'Now you lie.' 'You think I sent you here for you only to be captured by inexperienced savage warriors? You think because I have my brother here to show me the err of my ways, I will change my mind? I'm not who you wish me to be, a lady of our proud house, that wish died with our mother.' 'She died wishing for our family to be saved, so that we could find hope and peace with all that was done to us,' he spits out his anger. 'You lie because you didn't expect me to be captured, but, more importantly, you didn't expect me to travel days and days to find you, only to defy you.'

'You disappoint me!' She yells over his own heated tone, and finally unleashes, 'Of all the people I wanted to be here, I wanted you, and for you to understand. I wished for mother to survive, and I wept to hear you had lived. But, when I heard that Walda Frey had only met his fate from a sacking during the war instead at your hands, I just wanted to know why.' Listening to her trying to control her breaths, uneven and shallow, allows time for him to gather himself.

'I had my dark hour. I had scarcely recovered after my wedding, sword in my hand before I knew what my plan were, and just out of my sick bed when I heard Walda Frey had died before I awoke from my own presumed death. If I had a chance,I would have killed him, and I would understand you. I would have killed Joffrey for father. Gods, I would have done that for any of you. Arya, I've learnt that all men receive their fate to answer for their crimes, and I will be sure of that as king, but I know now that justice will not always be found by my sword.’ 'You can if you have a strong enough will!' She says, her voice dark and low.

'I have a stronger will to carry on with not only evil men I have slain, but innocent ones that were only in the way. Or, the displaced children of my dead bannermen of our own villages. What of the enemies' children, are they to suffer as if they had a choice in the matter? Arya, don’t you see…’

She stares long enough until it is as she has had her fill of his persistent, pleading look. Then, it is clear in her ducking her exhausted expression that she, like he has, reached a point where there is no returning from or coming back to the matter. And if his sister is still herself in one respect, it is her stubbornness. He hears Jon, who always knew how to ply Arya from herself, and his thoughts hovering over them, pleading for Robb to be wary of his next words.

‘I am not someone you need to save,’ she says pointedly, and as if in finality.

‘No,’ he agrees, releasing an uneasy sigh. ‘The women in my life have been doing that for myself enough times for me to admit this.’

He sits up taller, and reaches into his pocket, the only item he had salvaged from the tribe’s looting of his things. If there was a flicker of recognition, he misses it when he carefully hands the direwolf pin to his sister. Thankfully, she opens her hand to receive it.

‘Father’s,’ she quietly observes, delicately turning it in her hand, as if in reverence.

‘Yours, too. As it was mine. As Winterfell is ours.’ This is the last thing Robb says, hoping it stays with her, even when he is long gone.

-

Margaery tends to smooth lazy circles round his back, her words a hazy garble that soothes him back to reality, especially when the jolting nightmares come.

‘Sweetling,’ she murmurs against the nape of his neck, molding her front to his back as he rocks back and forth in their bed. The warmth of her, the hearth nearby and the furs swathing them, making his vision clearer. ‘It was a dream,’ she continues to reassure him.

He turns to see the even warmer effect of her gaze. She is familiar to him now as any of his family had ever been, familiar in the most intimate of ways, and what is slowing the racing timpani in his chest is the familiar curve of her gentle smile. It is her fingers lacing with his to squeeze and release him as if in rhythm. It is the swell of her belly not quite as it was as new life has grown within her since two moons ago when they had found she was with child. It is the words, her words, tethering the madness that tries to brim up whenever his dreams trigger him to his weakest.

She always knows what to say. She squeezes the knots between his shoulder blades when her timbre is quiet again, and she tries to coax him to listen, ‘You are home in Winterfell. Eddard is well. I am well. We are at peace.’

He groans again, shaking the remnants of the atrocious images from his head, and reaches up to where her hands grip his shoulders from behind him. He brings one to his lips, kissing the inside of her palm, and gives her his thanks. ‘Eddard, he was in my dreams...I..I will see to him myself.’

‘My love, he is most likely sleeping, dawn has barely broken.’

‘Still,’ he presses another kiss against her wrist now. ‘The dreams take time to settle, even after I see that he is well.’

She tries to bring him back to bed, but, in the end, she dresses them both in plain garbs and furs and joins him to seek their first born’s solar.

‘Eddard…’ He says, his breath caught in his throat, which seems to be constricting from his heart leaping into it, throbbing there. Behind him he can feel Margaery uncomfortably shifting to possibly looking to corners and shadows of his room, and shaking along with him when she finally grasps his hand.

‘Eddard!’ He shouts from his son’s window next.

He can hear Margaery charging to first guardsmen available, commanding them in a strained voice.

Their son, only seven years now, he understands is much like Bran at his age--an explorer, a climber of near impossible heights for someone so small. He does not have to wrack his brains to deduce this, and charge faster than the guardsmen, passing them to reach the grounds below his solar.

There, panting, he whirls around as if he is not accustomed to the new sounds and setting of their own castle grounds. The morning mist and dim orange glow make him feel dizzy, as if he is still envisioning his dream before him. It’s this that panics him the most.

He envisions Eddard surrounded by two beasts, growling and foaming at the mouth at the sight of him, and it as if his nightmare overtakes him again. He even wonders if he hears the beasts howling in the distance.

‘Eddard! Eddard! Eddard!’ He hears Margaery’s shouts mingling with his own cries.

In the godswood, where he finally pinpoints the sound of something large growling at the wooded core.

‘Eddard!’ Robb calls again, desperation in his gasping cry.

‘Father!’ he finally hears Eddard call back, but only briefly questions how calm and even jovial his son sounds as his speeding steps take him into the cold brush of the first frost of Autumn.

‘Eddard…’ he sighs, the feeling returning in his feet, frozen in the wet, dampness of the frost under him. He had not properly worn enough layers to warm his feet, let alone his body.

In a clearing, past the Heart Tree, his son does not stand next any beasts. No, not angry beasts, but family. Nymeria nuzzles at his son, and lovingly licks at him, lapping up russet red curls and his son’s cheeks.

As Robb steps closer, hesitant at first, he sees someone appearing from behind the large wolf.

‘Arya,’ he calls as certain as his steps forward, and sees that his son motions him over.

Arya, looking as if he she were lacking something heady and stormy in her eyes he had seen her wear from before, gestures for him to come closer. He does not have to be told twice.

When he reaches them, his first instinct is to capture his son in his arms, still wary. But, Margaery catches up to interrupt his actions.

‘You gave us a fright, sweetling.’ Margaery’s outstretched arms prompt their son to happily distract himself to fling himself toward her, swaying Margaery’s already unsteady balance on her knees. She peppers kisses on Eddard’s head, whispering her thanks to the gods. Her only distraction comes to eye Arya for answers, appearing less surprised than her husband, and more frightened than him as well. And she only needed to spur Robb with a single look to probe his sister.

But, Nymeria. His son meeting Arya by the Heart Tree. And Arya wearing not only the tarnished sigil of their house, but a look fixed to him that he had not seen for several years, even past their last encounter. She looks to him, and it is with familiarity, but he is certain she looks to his son and exchanges a glint of mischief and conspiring. Gods, this is his sister, and a pang shoots through him as a vision of Arya and Bran, and even Rickon exchanging the same striking glances to each other passes before his mind’s eye.

‘Arya, is Eddard a…’

Arya nods knowingly, ‘He is talented as his father, warging with Nymeria before I had even reached the castle.’

Margaery rises and brings Eddard next to Robb, their hands clasped. ‘His dreams of late have not been dreams, have they?’

‘Dreaming of a being a wolf, traveling from the Wall ruins. Treading through blistering snow storms, and taking shelters in taverns. Yes?’ Arya offers.

Margaery nods, curious rather than wary now. Maybe she senses Robb’s continued calmness.

Robb, indeed calm, considers Arya’s minimal satchel of belongings. Decidedly, he moves to take his sister in his arms. ‘Are you home?’ It’s a question that states the obvious rather than question her, but it is one that he hopes Arya will answer by way of her telling him the truth of her travels and how she had found her way back to Winterfell.

Arya is squeezing him close too, and he does not comment on the way his neck feels suddenly damp from droplets of her likely tears. It only warms his chest to have her hold him, and hear her breathe, ‘I am tired. Very tired.’

Robb nods, as if in agreement, not concerned with how or why she would say so, and certainly not how Nymeria found her way home with her as well.

‘You can rest in the castle,’ Eddard pulls away from his mother and is almost missed for saying, the two siblings so consumed with each other, and starts pulling at Arya’s sleeve.

Brother and sister release each other to peer down at the youngest Stark to regard him. Margaery bites her lip, amused at her husband’s wide-eyed, watery gaze.

‘Won’t you come?’ Eddard persists, his blue eyes expectant and purely curious for a response.

Arya almost physically shakes herself, maybe for her nerves, and maybe because she can sense the intent way Robb looks at her. It is possible that Robb keeps staring at his sister, his son, and Margaery as if it were all still a dream. So, it seems Arya wants to prove that it is not, and she takes the outstretched hand of Eddard.

‘Will you bring me home?’ Arya asks quietly.

Eddard looks to his parents for approval, and, finally, Robb shakily nods, wiping his tears away. Margaery took hold of him then, his hand clasped with hers, and they follow their son and Arya on their way along the path back to the castle.

[illwynd]

I understand if you don't want to respond to this, but do you have any more thoughts on Thor in Ragnarok? I've seen you mention that you think Ragnarok does worse by him. I agree, but I can't really articulate why. Being a Thor fan first and foremost, I find myself rather alone. Most Thor fans seem to think Ragnarok fixed Thor. Saved him from being boring. This idea makes me sad, because all Ragnarok did, from my perspective, was make him funny. Being funny =/= interesting.

Oh boy nonny do I ever have more thoughts on that topic. I have so many.

First off, I should say that I think you’re not as alone as it seems. Most of the posts on tumblr have been positive because of a lot of us staying silent due to not wanting to harsh anyone’s squee. (If anyone reading this is still flying high on your TR buzz, stop reading now.) And most of the relatively smaller proportion of critical posts have, for whatever reason, come from people who are mainly Loki fans who don’t like how the movie treated him as a character. But among people I have talked to privately and from discussions I’ve seen in places that aren’t tumblr, there are plenty of Thor fans who don’t like what Ragnarok did to his character either. (Personally I really don’t understand how anyone could have been a Thor fan and thought he was boring and unfunny before Ragnarok, but different strokes I guess.)

And, like, I think there are two different conversations about this, and I want to keep them separate because I think that’s important to avoid having stupid arguments about it. One conversation is whether this was an enjoyable version of Thor. Obviously, this question is entirely subjective, and those who enjoyed it are likely to be willing to overlook much of the other question, and that’s completely reasonable. If you enjoy a thing, you don’t often feel a need to poke at it much, and I don’t think there’s any reason to try to argue with people’s aesthetics, so none of this is meant to say that people should not enjoy it. Y’all do you.

But for the conversation about the character’s arc across the movies and Ragnarok’s consistency with it (or, rather, lack thereof), the assertion that Ragnarok “fixed” Thor is one I really take issue with. Because the way I see it, it “fixed” strawman Thor and thereby ignored or destroyed the aspects of his character that were the really significant and meaningful things about him, IMO.

Like, OK, if you believe the main problem was that Thor was underpowered in the previous movies and Ragnarok showed a more physically powerful Thor who no longer even needs Mjolnir to make lightning? Well, sure, I guess. Those were indeed some visually stunning scenes. But seeing Mjolnir as a silly tool that Thor needed to grow beyond? Nah, that is a complete misunderstanding of the point of the hammer and of, well, the entirety of Thor’s character arc. “The power was in him all along, he just needed to believe in himself!” is the tired and simplistic YA character arc Ragnarok gave us for him, and it is completely out of place for a character who had spent the last four movies growing from an arrogant prince who didn’t think things through and assumed himself to be in the right, into someone who is very aware of his own power and careful of the ways it can be misused because he has come to understand how badly he can fuck up without intending it. Someone who has grown up from blindly idolizing his king and father to understanding the wrongs Asgard has committed (Bor’s slaughter of the Dark Elves, Odin’s war against the Frost Giants) and how those wrongs are still having consequences in the present day, and having to grapple with whether he wants any part of that and how he can fulfill his duties without perpetuating those wrongs. Someone who has dealt with his values coming into conflict with each other, and has had to navigate those dilemmas without a rulebook (that is why “worthy” is not ever defined: the point of the hammer is that it is a symbol of facing difficult ethical questions---like whether to turn your back on your kinsman who has done terrible things, pitting your love and loyalty against your duty as a leader---and having to find your own answers, knowing that you could get it wrong). Someone who is careful in how he relates to others because he found out that his beloved brother had gone around the bend without him even being aware there was a problem, and who cares deeply about his relationships with others and is committed to doing right in them. 

The Thor of Ragnarok seems little aware of his own values of honesty, forthrightness, fairness, and compassion that marked him in all prior iterations of canon; he is instead insincere and manipulates his potential friends and allies rather than trying to honestly convince them to help him, and he makes virtually no attempt to talk Hela down, choosing to insult her instead, despite knowing that she has real grievances. Where Thor 1 and TDW showed us a Thor who could explain advanced astrophysics with a few sketches, with the emotional and interpersonal intelligence to make friends when set down on Earth with nothing and to get people to follow him into danger because they like him and want to help, Ragnarok Thor shows no such skill.

And the greatest show of Thor’s “cleverness” in Ragnarok… OK, we all recall the scene in Avengers 1 where Loki uses the illusion appearing to break out of the glass cage to get Thor to dive headlong into it, right? And how Loki taunts him with “Are you ever not going to fall for that?” The point of that scene was not that Loki was correct and Thor was dumb to believe it. The point of it was that Loki was being a schmuck and Thor should be able to trust him. Ragnarok, however, seems to be saying the height of cleverness is for Thor to see through Loki’s tricks and get him back for them. Folks, we’re not supposed to buy Loki’s bullshit, OK? Loki is not correct that the most deceptive = the smartest. And Thor appearing to believe it… does not constitute positive character growth for someone who was already well beyond that in a much better direction.

So yeah, the way I see it is that Ragnarok was completely out of place for Thor’s character arc, and it ignored all of the things I found interesting and important about the character, instead replacing him with someone I don’t much like.

I hope this maybe articulates some of the same issues you have with it, and I really hope it helps you to feel less alone, nonny. There are Thor fans who feel Ragnarok did not do right by him. We’re here. And if you want to talk about it more, please don’t hesitate to message me!

[atopearth]

Samurai Love Ballad Party Part 1 - Akechi Mitsuhide and Oda Nobunaga Routes

I took the plunge and decided to start this game too lolol. Someone told me Nobunaga is great so I’m hyped, but since we’re going in order as usual, it’s Mitsuhide first~

Heroine seems pretty cool and nice, very self-sacrificing and family-oriented. Being a poison taster is such a terrible job though.. Inuchiyo is so cool and a great guy too! Please protect mee! Lady Oichi seems really wonderful, it’s great that the heroine has a girl friend~ she got so quickly upgraded to teaching Oichi how to bake foods like Castella rather than poison taster, too bad it doesn’t sound like the best job either since if it’s unfitting for Nobunaga’s tastes, she’ll still be screwed lol. Mitsuhide and Nobunaga are very different after all, with the former being merciful and the latter being more ruthless? Nobunaga will not hesitate to rid of any obstacle in his path whereas Mitsuhide has that consideration he possesses for all people. Technically, they’re both good ways of ruling depending on the era and what people need. Since realistically, it would be hard for Mitsuhide’s ideals to survive if he’s not strong enough or tricked etc but Nobunaga’s way of doing things could also lead to extreme fear and rebellion even if that’s what wars demand in leaders. Too bad that the only ones who can truly understand them will be the ones beside them. Nobunaga understands Mitsuhide’s thoughts and seems to agree to a certain extent but he also thinks that what he does is necessary, since loyalty to your leader is so important. Mitsuhide understands Nobunaga’s kindness and his lack of mercy towards others as well, considering that Nobunaga even remembers what Mitsuhide’s favourite food is. Which is why they work together I guess! They may be different but their ultimate ideals remain the same.

I’m sad that Oichi is leaving already, I really liked her. She’s such a cool girl. She understands her situation well. Although she can’t marry for love, she is aware that she is blessed with a great life of luxury that others would beg to have. She’s quite optimistic and kind. I didn’t naively think like the heroine did that Mitsuhide would fight for her return to her home after her job beside Oichi had been done after she left, since it’s practically been decided that once you’re here, you’re probably slaving away here forever, but I did kinda hope that Mitsuhide would help her like Inuchiyo did. But I guess Mitsuhide is kind but also fair. It was nice of him to help out in the kitchen as a pretense so he could thank the heroine for her work in being an emotional support for Oichi and making these desserts etc, it’s what she chose to do but seeing Mitsuhide thank her made it rather sweet.

I really like the existence of Francisco and Luis, it shows the existence of foreign trade to the background story of the era they’re in and also presents cultural differences and an opportunity for the heroine to shine. They’re such nice characters too! Mitsuhide was so cute when he honestly said he wanted to keep the heroine closer to him and that her helping him out every day really makes him happy. Him being so straightforward makes me happy too!😊😊 Lord Katsuie is such an emotionally tender guy to tear up to the heroine’s reason for coming to the castle, he’s such a softie.

Oh no, to think that Oichi’s husband betrayed Nobunaga at a critical bout in the war, instead of being able to lay siege to a key castle, they had to escape before they were wiped instead! That’s pretty bad. It’s kind of inevitable for Nobunaga to have to destroy the Azai (her husband’s clan) considering the betrayal but he can’t kill his sister too! Can’t he just like hopefully grab her back?😢 I know it’s wishful since it’ll be hard in the mess and it’ll be likely for her to be caught up in the battle but.. aiyaa… On the other hand, Mitsuhide really is a gentle samurai isn’t he? He’s considerate but also loyal to Nobunaga and his duty to bringing the best results he can with these wars. The heroine isn’t one to like war and all this bloodshed but really, when Mitsuhide comes into it, she understands it better, since if someone gentle like him is wrapped up in it, it’s definitely not because he thinks war is fun. Omggg when he held her hand though, I totally swooned, and then when she slipped and he caught her in his arms and wouldn’t let go. I know it’s so cliche but it works because I love it lmao. I’m glad Ieyasu has had ninja spies with Oichi ever since she got married since Nobunaga really does care for her. I thought he would since he seemed to really like her and just giving her away to some random wouldn’t be nice but then I thought that’s just how it is I guess. I’m glad that isn’t just how it is!!

The best thing about Mitsuhide is that he helps the heroine in realistically possible ways rather than giving her false hope. He’s nice in a realistic way! I think I can really sympathise with Oichi though, she’s come to understand her husband’s thoughts and feelings and actually really likes him, so how could she possibly just abandon him to his fate now of being killed by her brother by himself? They’re husband and wife after all. But, since he’s a traitor…. Nobunaga should knock her out and take her home, although I guess she’ll probably hate him for doing that, but in the end, hating him is better than her dying I guess.. The heroine is right though, Mitsuhide! What is the point of having your dreams if you lose your heart to achieve them? There’s simply no meaning anymore to it! Following for a reason and following blindly is very different and the latter should never be done. You should never lose yourself!

It’s so corny when the guy saves the heroine in the nick of time but it was so sweet to see Mitsuhide do it! Especially since he has such a noble way of living and wanting to protect all innocent people. His heart is too pure for this era.. But he’s also what the people need as well.. if it wasn’t for him, Nagamasa and those innocent monks could really well have died.. Alongside the heroine… I mean, it’s true that sometimes innocent people will die unintentionally and maybe it can’t be helped, but when it can be helped, then there shouldn’t be such unnecessary shedding of blood. So many people die everyday already, there doesn’t need to be any more.

Seeing things and answering in favour of Nobunaga really let’s you see his gentle side. Especially when the heroine is too scared to run and she tells him that and he’s like why would he kill her when he still wants to eat the Castella she makes hahaha. Nobunaga has a brother called Nobuoki? Ooh~ lmao at Oichi ruining every food she touches hahahaha. Nobuoki sounds very kind, maybe it’s because he’s not a part of the war that he can be so nice and gentle. It’s a different kind of nice from Nobunaga’s and them. Never thought Nobunaga would be incapable of holding his liquor though, that’s surprising! It’s really very sweet to see how doting Nobunaga is towards Oichi and Nobuoki and how much they care for him as well.

Nobunaga really has no poise and tact to all this. He cares for the heroine but doesn’t show it properly, making her think he just wants her physically lol. I liked the nice little detour to Seto village to see what Nobunaga is working hard for, besides the wars he must engage in to achieve his dream. He definitely rushed into asking her to be his concubine and trying to get her into his bed way too fast so you can’t blame her utter rejection lol. But I can’t help but be touched by the kimono gifts he sends and the jar of candy he got for her. That really got to my heart too since it’s something so important to him.

It’s so nice to see him figure out a way to win the battle with so few casualties after being inspired by Hideyoshi, Katsuie convincing the heroine that Nobunaga isn’t too bad haha. The sweetest thing though was when she said they could hold hands and he respected her wishes and did just that. As a man that can probably get most women to listen to him, he listening to her was very comforting, since it shows his high regard for her. It’s nice to see Oichi tell the heroine of her husband’s betrayal to Nobunaga. But yeah lol I was wondering why the heroine didn’t just give the message through the ninja guy but went with him instead, she really cares about Nobunaga too much that she’s not thinking properly huh? Loll. I kinda teared when he had nightmares of his brother and now Nagamasa betraying him. He’s been hurt quite a bit.. But it was so nice and peaceful to see the heroine spend time with her family again, with Nobunaga there too haha!

I’m so devastated that Nobuoki is dead. He was never a guy suited for war but he wanted to help Nobunaga and I’m sure he must have tried his best to defend the castle until the end… But it’s just too saddening… Especially for Nobunaga to swallow. He’s lost one of his most trustworthy brothers and his sister is stuck with a traitor that he doesn’t know if is treating her well or not. The war isn’t going well on all sides and he has so many enemies that want his head.

So, with the death of Nobuoki and with the heroine’s love towards Mitsuhide pushing him, Nobunaga set fire to mount Hiei killing the innocent monks that were in his path… It’ll be sad if Nagamasa dies by Nobunaga’s hands as well. They used to be good friends too! His elder brother tried to assassinate him, his younger brother died as a part of his ambition, Nagamasa betrayed him… Sigh. So in the end, even Nagamasa ended up committing suicide, with honour though so at least that’s reassuring. But it must have been tough for Oichi to see that… I feel so sorry for Nobunaga though, the burden on his shoulders is too much… When he does his best to protect his people by being ruthless to others, his people see him as cruel but when he tries to resolve things through surrender, he is lied to and ambushed by them causing his men to die. Nobunaga’s decisions make a really big impact on the people following him, so the fact that his initial decision to be ruthless would have been correct must devastate him so much… He’ll just think that this is the result of being soft… and then make himself even more ruthless from now on… But I’m glad the heroine persevered and got to his heart because he’s so worth it! He’s a great guy~ Also, when he took her back to his room and was like watch your step blah blah, I was like omggg he’s so much nicer to her these days, it’s crazy. That kompeito kiss was great lolol. Guess that kiss was literally sweet hahaha.

Overall, I have to admit that Nobunaga’s route was a real rollercoaster but a great one where even at the low points, I still loved it because it really questioned my decisions as well. Nobunaga’s life is one wrought with difficult decisions and seeing that beside him as the heroine was really engaging and saddening. It was easy to see that the love and support she gave him through making sweets and being beside him was irreplaceable and heartwarming to him. Nobunaga was a hard nut to crack but he’s such a sweet nut that most will appreciate. Whereas, I think Mitsuhide’s route was nice too because it gave insight on his perspective and what he regards to be the most important beliefs to follow, showing how he might have chose to betray Nobunaga in the future. I’d say that I liked Nobunaga’s route more though, just because it made me think quite a bit and it was emotional.

[swfanficbyjz]

SW AU - Slave Bonds - Ch. 6

< - Previous Chapter

"You must be exhausted. Let's get some quarters set up for you," he said after realizing they'd been meditating together well into the night. 

"By the looks of this place, I think my ship would be more comfortable. Thank you for the offer, but I’d rather sleep there." She stood up, stretching out the kinks in her muscles from sitting in the same position for so long. “There’s an extra bunk if you’d like.”

"That sounds nice. Probably better than these lousy rocks," he muttered as he followed her back to the hanger.

"The Jedi can afford fancy ships like this, but not mattresses?" she joked, pointing him the way to the bottom bunk.

"They believe in living life, simply. The force provides. Yada yada." He threw up his arms and rolled his eyes. 

"You'd think they'd take better care of their soldiers if they want them to fight well." She smirked and climbed over him to get to the top bunk after shedding her belt and boots.

"That would be nice," he yawned. She stared at the ceiling for awhile. She was tired, but still buzzing from everything that had happened since she'd decided to trust her instincts and head into the factory. His shallow breaths gave way to deeper ones with an occasional snore and she smiled to herself. His presence was still comforting. After so many strange nights throughout her life, she felt safe again. She'd longed for the day she could see him again, and even though nothing had gone as she'd thought it would, the fact that she had found him was enough now. She wished there was something she could do, to let him know. Words were hardly satisfying.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, curious about this force stuff he'd told her about. He'd said, that with a little training, she could sense with intention. She groped the air around her with her feelings, opening herself to the force like he'd demonstrated. 

As though she'd put goggles on, the ship around her came to life. A hidden world, just beneath the surface; a sense of harmony between both the living and the man-made. Natural and unnatural. As she reached out further, she felt people moving around, attending to their duties. She could feel the pressure of the hull as it blurred all sense of time and space. 

She explored this new sensation for awhile, feeling her way through the ship and then she brought it back to her immediate vicinity. His heartbeat seemed to thrum the very air around it, strong and sure. It was as real in her senses as if she had her head to his chest. She felt him breathe the same way, as it stirred the air and the force around it. She could feel the unconscious expressions of pain; every hiccup as if it were her own. And then she became aware of something more than the way his body functioned. She closed down her feelings and sat up. Maybe there was something she could do for him.

She knelt near the head of his bunk, "Ahsoka, what are you doing?" he asked jumping back in surprise. She leaned her elbows on the bed and looked at him intensely.

"You seem lonely, master. Is there anything I can do?" she whispered, tipping her head to the side.

"Uh, no. I'm fine, Snips." He blushed and looked down.

"Are you sure? I know a lot of ways to please a man," she breathed, straightening so she could show off a bit. 

"I told you, I don't want you doing that anymore," He shook his head disapprovingly. She brushed it off. This was what she knew how to do. It wasn’t her favorite thing, but if it made him feel better, she’d do it. She’d felt plenty of tension in him. What harm would come from a little stress relief and exercise? Besides, she wanted it with him. She’d only tolerated the others because she had to.

"You wouldn't have to pay." She scooted closer and he backed up.

"I don't care about the money, only what it does to you." He bonked his head on the beam of the top bunk and she sat back on her heels as he rubbed it.

"There's someone else, isn't there?" she felt stupid. Of course there was. She might be young, but she was well aware of what she had to offer. And if he didn’t want it, he had a reason waiting for him at home.

"What? No. It's not that." She raised a brow. He’d said that too quickly. In fact, he sounded nervous that she’d mentioned it.

"What then?" she persisted but kept her distance this time.

"Jedi aren't supposed to have attachments. No long-term relationships." The Jedi. It always came back to them. A lousy excuse, in her opinion.

"They can't get married? Or have families? What about friendships?"

"I don't know. The point is, you're never supposed to put one person over the lives of many. They believe attachments distract you from doing what you need to do. You can't be more devoted to someone than you are the order." He crossed his arms in front of himself, leaning back into the wall of the ship. She watched him heave a sigh as though he forgot she was watching. This topic bothered him, and it wasn’t because of what she was proposing. She hadn’t asked for a commitment. She was offering one night. No attachment involved. 

"They're not going to like me then. The last ten years of my life have been devoted to finding you. I don't plan on letting you go now.” She climbed all the way onto the bed, crawling towards him. “I promise I'll take good care of you," she whispered, setting her hand on his knee and inching her way to his face. She reached up and brushed her fingers through his hair. He looked at her, his eyes a little wider than normal. She gave him a teasing smile and bit her bottom lip. She slid her hand up his thigh. There was heat there, and hunger in his eyes. He hadn’t pushed her away, but he also hadn’t given in yet. She traced her fingers closer and then brought her hand up to his chest, reaching to pull his robes apart.

“I'm married!" he said suddenly, as her hand found the bare skin of his chest. He brought his to cover his mouth and looked at her in fear. 

"But I thought you just said?" She’d frozen for a moment.

"Yeah, and I also said they don't let older kids or adults into the order," he scooted away from her and her hand fell to her side.

"They let you get married?"

"They don't know."

"Oh. Well, no one has to know about us either. I know all about being discreet." She recovered herself and started reaching for him again.

"Jedi can sense things."

"They can't sense your secret marriage, so what makes you think they'll sense this?"

"Please, Ahsoka. Stop,” he breathed, looking away. “I like you, but..."

She dropped her hands and climbed off the bed. Crossing her arms in front of her, she couldn’t hide the hurt. Naturally the one person she wanted, didn’t want her. "Well... if you ever change your mind. I'm free for you." She leapt back into the top bunk and rolled so she was facing the wall. Her cheeks burned. She’d completely misread the signs, it didn’t get more stupid than that. She chewed on her lip wondering if he’d change his mind about training her, now that she’d made it clear what she wanted from him. She’d stay if he wanted her to. But she’d never try to touch him again. "She must really be something for you to risk everything for her."

"She is." She squeezed her eyes shut. Yeah, something way better than me. 

"Tell me about her," she stared blankly at the wall. Why did she want to know? Why did it even matter? It wouldn’t distract her from the fact that he’d rejected her. 

She adored him when they’d been kids. Her four, looking up to him, a nine-year-old. He was good at everything; building things, repairing stuff, podracing, protecting people. Whenever she could get away from Sebulba, she’d shadowed him everywhere. He’d never seemed to mind. In many ways, he’d been like a big brother to her. Even with friends his own age, he’d never pushed her aside. Though many details of that age had faded, the one thing that never had was how protective he’d been of her. She closed her eyes, remembering his anger that day, when he’d seen the fresh stream of bruises that checkered her arms. She remembered the look he’d gotten in his eyes. And she remembered, whenever she was scared, or lonely, or hurting, that he had been her sanctuary.

Over the years, that had translated to a sense of going home. And she supposed, that meant she believed they’d always be together. The idea of finding him had always been followed by a sense of permanence. And as she’d grown in her own sexuality through the choices she’d made, she’d figured when she did, it would just turn into that too. It had made sense in her brain anyways. Life was more complicated.

 ---

What was that noise? She sat up quickly, forgetting she was in the top bunk this time and barely missed the pipe that jutted from the ceiling. The bottom bunk was empty when she peered over the edge. It was coming from nearby, but she didn't think it was the normal commotion of people coming to work in the hanger. 

She followed the sound outside and around the hull of her ship until she found a pair of legs sticking out from under it. He reached blindly out, feeling for a part that was out of reach and she kicked it towards his hand. She cringed feeling guilty when he banged his head in surprise. "Good morning, Snips." He rolled out from under the ship, rubbing his head. This was the second time in a few hours he'd banged his head because of her. She'd have to be more careful. Though she had no idea why he was so on edge about her presence. Then again... 

"What are you doing to my ship?" She crossed her arms and hiked a brow. 

"Well I noticed that your fuel intake valve was broken so I thought I'd fix it for you, and then I saw that the air compressor was gummed up, so I started cleaning that out. And then..."

"Alright alright. I get it. My ship is in bad shape." She waggled her finger at him. "Don't you know it's not nice to insult someone's ride?"

"I wasn't insulting it," he stood up, and ran a gloved hand across the hull, lovingly? "It's a nice ship. It needs a little tune-up, but otherwise, it's in good shape." She looked between him and the ship, half tempted to ask him if he loved the ship more than her. But then she bit her lip, remembering their exchange the night before and decided it was better not to open that crate of feelings again. "I had them fill up your fuel tank too. And I checked all the fluid levels."

"Are you trying to tell me I should go?"

His hand dropped to his side and he turned to her, eyes widened in surprise. "No, not at all. I just thought..." he looked down at the floor. "Working on things helps me think. And well..."

"I'm sorry about last night," she said quietly. "I thought maybe I could help you... de-stress, I guess. Don't worry, I won't do it again."

"Ahsoka," he breathed, reaching like he was going to touch her and changed his mind. "How many times have you done it?"

"More than I care to admit." She shook her head.

"Did it ever mean anything to you?" 

"No. It was just a way to make money. Make someone happy, get paid, move on."

"When two people love each other, sex can be a part of it, yes. But there's more to it than just pleasures of the flesh. There's an intimacy and connection that happens too. I guess what I'm trying to say, is that if we were to do it, which we can't because I'm..."

"Married." She finished for him. "Yeah, I know."

"I'd want it to mean something to you. Because it would to me." He gave her a piercing look and she stared at him in confusion for a moment. 

She chewed her lip. "In my experience, sex was never about love. I'm not sure I even know what love is. People talk about it all the time. Sing about it, do crazy things for it. But... what does it even mean? To love?"

"I'm not sure I can answer that for you. I think it's something you have to figure out for yourself. But I think it's about caring for people, protecting them, helping them. Not looking out for only yourself." He paced thoughtfully and she watched him. 

"You loved me," she said and he stopped and looked up at her. "When I had nothing, when I was all alone, you looked out for me. You protected me. Whenever I was afraid, I ran to you. And then you helped me escape, even when you couldn't help yourself. Everything I did after that was to survive and to come back for you. Because... I loved you too. All these years, I saw it as going home." She felt a tear escape the corner of her eye and she blinked it away. "I thought... when I found you, we'd always be together. But I was too late. It took too long." She turned and ran back inside the ship, slumping down into the pilot seat. 

"Love is home," he whispered as though he’d never thought about it that way. He sat down in the copilot seat next to her. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned away. He didn't speak again for a long time. And neither did she. What could she say?

"General Skywalker." A voice came through a communicator clipped to his wrist.

"Yes, captain?" he answered, pushing a button. 

"The council wishes to speak with you, sir."

"I'll be right there." He clicked off the button and sat back against the seat, sighing. 

She glanced over at him and saw him reach forward and pick something up off the dashboard. When he held it up, he was holding the charm he'd given her all those years ago. 

"I still want to train you, but if you don't want to stay, I understand." He turned it over in his hand, playing with it absentmindedly. "I'm sorry I can't give you what you were hoping for." He placed it in her palm and left the ship. 

She stared at it for a long time, working through everything he'd said. Could you love someone even if you're not together romantically? It must be possible, right? Parents love their children. At least... she thought they did. She couldn't remember her own parents, but she remembered the way Shmi had been with him. And he'd loved her too. Did friendships count as love? She could see his clear affection for Captain Rex, and the other people aboard the ship. But if love was about protecting people, and helping them... why didn't the Jedi allow it? Isn't protecting and helping exactly what the Jedi are supposed to do?

And if she were to leave, right now, where would she go? What would she do? Finding him had been the only thing she'd strived for. And she finally had. So now what? Stay and fight in a war she cared little about or go and do what exactly? Make money? For what? All paths in her life had led to him. Leaving wasn't really an option. 

Could she handle being around him all the time knowing he was in love with someone else? She was on her way to the command deck before she could change her mind. It didn't matter if she could handle it or not. She wasn't leaving. She'd have to figure out the rest later. He may not love her the way she wanted, but he had loved her. Even now he was still offering to care for her and help her, at the cost of getting in trouble, no less! The least she could do is return that favor, by watching over him. By standing by his side. 

His smile when she entered the room was enough. Rex tipped his head to acknowledge her presence. "I can do it, masters," he said, glancing back up at the holopeople. "My padawan and I are on our way." 

"Wait... what?" One of them said. 

He clicked off the transmission and looked over at her. "First mission together. You ready, Snips?"

"Right beside you, Skyguy." She crossed her arms, standing taller and trying to look more confident than she felt.

"Uh sir? Did you just hang up on the Jedi council?" Rex asked in surprise.

"Yeah, I did." Anakin moved towards where she stood. "If they call back, tell them I'm busy." 

"If you say so, sir." Rex replied hesitantly. 

Next Chapter ->

[deuildenoms]

Right the first time - an open letter

To be fair, even as it is addressed to you, this open letter is not for you, simply because I have all the reasons to believe further communication with you would be utterly futile.

 Let's begin this properly by saying I always admired you a lot; you were to me one of the most erudite people I knew. Unbeatable when it came to political and societal analysis, straight as an arrow when it came to your values. We are both artists. One painting of yours hangs on my wall still, several of mine used to sit in your flat - pardon me for assuming they are long gone. Pardon me as well for the length of this letter, as some things must be expressed in ways I cannot shrink.

 I used to joke about how you were the pillar of my social life. You were as extroverted as I am introverted, and were the crossroad between me and many people. I indeed met the man who abused me through you.

 I don't want to go into the details here. I couldn't even tell I was being abused - not the first time, not the following times, not actually until you picked up the phone that fateful day months later, and dragged me out of the pit of denial I was in, when suddenly I could no longer turn away from the fact something was wrong in my life.

 I was thankful, at first.

 So there goes, on one side: him, twenty-six, his boyfriend, twenty-seven, you, twenty-nine. On the other side, me, twenty-two, my two long-term romantic partners, both of them twenty-three, with who I am exclusive. We all started hanging out together like we all belonged in the same world, linked by the many values and hobbies we had in common and by what I thought were our mental conditions, as well. They were familiar with my anxiety medication. We all referred to ourselves as neuroatypical, you had ADHD, his boyfriend is autistic, and he is neurodivergent for sure. Formerly hypersexual.

 You introduced me to them, but I had no idea they were non-monogamous, or even that you and his boyfriend were fucking on the regular. That I learned when he came to me and told me he liked me.

 You didn't believe me when I kept saying on the phone, I didn't know they were poly, like it was impossible for me not to know-

 I turned him down at first. But something greater awoke in me as he touched an ancient wound that had only begun to heal and suddenly nothing was more important than to keep the man who had shown interest in me. To hell with my own will and interests, and I understood that only later. He therefore had to be my boyfriend, although platonic, since neither of my partners would allow something sexual, and neither did I want it- to hell with my own will.

 So, we met with my partners around a table one night. We defined boundaries together, to seal this new, atypical relationship. It was healthy, it had to be. As clouded as I already felt, it could only be something healthy; as used as I was to atypical relationships, as confident as I was.

 The first thing he expressed was that he regretted we weren't allowed to kiss, as for himself it didn't have to mean something sexual.

It didn't keep him from kissing me. Or dry-humping me. Or push my boundaries and making a game out of it. I pushed him away at first. Before the white noise set. Before -

-to hell with my own will-

And then it was white noise, that culminated into horrid acts I can't think about without feeling like throwing up. Simple facts am sure of: I did not want it at first. He did not attract me in the slightest. I had no intention of cheating on my partners by experimenting anything with someone else.

Then here comes the inevitable dissection of why I committed the acts I did with him. I learned many words in therapy that I keep denying as they are utterly absurd and as much as they apply to many victims of rape and sexual assault, I know they couldn't possibly apply to me, couldn't they.  

 Under the influence.

Lack of informed consent.

My therapist used the word remote-controlled.

 I'd rather the story be one of adultery caused by passion, getting carried away, being unable to resist. Though as much as I try to convince myself, there is always something tarnishing the picture; starting with the simple fact I did not want it at first. That I said no several times. Until I couldn't, he would lead and I would follow, he would tell me it was okay and I would blindly nod, hiding it from my family and the world and myself because your brain finds extraordinary ways to cope and tell you it's justified, it's the right thing, it happens for a reason.

To hell with my own will, he had interest in my body, I needed to be a body at his disposal and I committed to be just that.

When he stepped out of line, at first, I was the one to comfort him and tell him it was okay. He was formerly hypersexual; it was normal and realistic he didn't know how to restrain himself with a girl he was not allowed to fuck.

He was neurodivergent to a much higher degree than me. I was the one with a fancy degree, a higher degree of normalcy even, and a much lesser mental condition. I was the strong one and most responsible. He was just an intense dog, his words.

It was my job to keep him on a leash and my fault if I failed at doing so.

 He would either tell me it was okay because in his terms it was a cuddle. Or, sometimes, that it was indeed an honest mistake, but it was okay to make mistakes, especially in an intimate setting, and he wouldn't tell anybody, it was not to be known.

Sometimes he told me I couldn't keep my pheromones in check.

 I told you the first time he trampled boundaries and kissed me. You said he'd better be careful, as it was not acceptable; yet you understood him, being impulsive yourself.

 But now, in hindsight: no matter what I did, who I was even, there was someone on the other side with his fangs out, ready to feast. I didn't mean for this letter to be about my own psyche or the reasons that pushed me to react a certain way faced with this. That is my psychiatrist's job. I was under the influence of someone who very visibly took advantage of me.

 -with whom you sided-

 I had the gut feeling something was wrong between us. From a friend of yours -not even your own mouth- I finally got word that you were taking your distances with me, because I quote, had apparently said something diminishing our friendship a lot in your eyes. What the hell.

So then, here comes that fateful phone call and here comes the seek for answers.

Turns out I had apparently told his boyfriend you were just a drawing buddy who I wasn't feeling this close to, which deeply hurt you. I apologized profusely for this is not what I had meant at any point. I believe I told him I wanted to maintain a certain level of privacy, which I still believe I'm entitled to, and I didn't want my friends, no matter who they are, to know every detail of my private romantic life, at any point. Of course, this is what I meant, but then, it turns out there's what the boyfriend understood and faithfully repeated to you.

 The boyfriend also told you something else, though, didn't he. He told you that, in our relationship, with him, between his spouse and myself, everything was going perfectly fine to the point where we had sex.

 You had heard, from my mouth, previously, in front of my partners, that we hadn't had sex. So, knowing everyone in the equations including my partners, you decided to step away, because you deduced that I didn't share the same moral values as you did; the principle of radical honesty, which makes this whole relationship anarchy thing possible in the first place.

 Radical honesty: everyone tells everyone else everything right the first time.

 Surely, I didn't respect those principles; tell this to the two friends I came to be familiar with in therapy: denial and repression.

My version was that we hadn't had sex because I couldn't accept the truth, for the sake of my partners, yes, but especially for myself.

Avoid digging too deep into this, because you'll find your lack of informed consent among all the other ugly things you convinced yourself were righteous and safe. Your brain finds a way.

He said it was either just a cuddle, or an honest mistake. If it was a mistake, his mistake, it was not to matter, and it was not to be known.

 And yet, as I found out through you, he didn't exactly make the same speech to his boyfriend. We had stepped the relationship up, he told his boyfriend as a duty to make sure he was alright with it… and he was clear then, everything on my side was up to me.

 No matter what I felt or had discussed with my partners, it was up to me. Too bad if I couldn't do it.

As you condescendingly explained me, you were all neuroatypical, telling each other everything right, the first time, no barrier possible per your psyche. You gave me an ultimatum in all but name; so, I told my partners the very evening. It is actually when the truth, in the form of words, poured out of my mouth, that I saw it for what it was for the first time. Also, my loved ones telling me I had been abused.

 So, I thanked you, profusely, for bringing me out of denial. I cut ties with him. Actually, everything I thought I felt for him evaporated in an instant. A finger snap, and I felt like waking up. I was left with shame, incomprehension and rage.

 I couldn't keep one of my partners from sending him a rage-fuelled message that sent his boyfriend whining in my DMs about how he couldn't handle this pain, that we both had made mistakes but he shouldn't have to endure all this hate. Was I responsible for the way my partner expressed his own devastation? I was not, but I am, to this day, proud he did it this way.

 Then, I started telling you I had figured out something else, that I believed my consent was not respected, that it was more serious than a matter of adultery, that it was sexual assault.

And it was the last I ever heard of you.

You ghosted me, unfollowed me; gone. You were gone. Not gone from their life, though. As I later guessed, it was not about you getting away from a spicy situation because you knew everyone involved, this time.

The message was clear: you cut ties with me and didn't want to hear from me again, you sided with them.

The delivery was rather petty: no words needed because I didn't deserve to be talked to no more. I'm familiar with the technique, sadly, although I have to admit I didn't expect to see it coming from you, aka the most virulent advocate of radical honesty.

 Shouldn't I have known that you wouldn't exactly apply the same rules to everyone in your vicinity? Why did you ghost me and refused to listen, even?

 It is the main reason why I'm making it clear that not only I'm not expecting an answer from you, I'm pretty sure I never want any. Because, any further discussion on the reasons you left will boil down to my consent being questioned and I undoubtedly cannot accept this.

What could you believe other than I'm dishonest, lying, cheating scum who cried wolf when the tables turned-

That's fine by me, but have you ever wondered what it says about you rather than me?

 A woman comes to tell you she had doubts about her consent after erratic behaviour for months. How do you decide which party is worth listening to or not?

Is it, simply and crudely, pardon my French, because you happen to be fucking his boyfriend and not me? Is it because you identify with their mental behaviour rather than mine?

Because you understand them better?

 Then, of course, the truth lies in front of me now. Being an erudite activist the likes of you doesn't keep you from binding your values to fit your interests, as it has stopped no one ever in history. Being neurodivergent doesn't keep you from being a rapist. A damaged person with a fucked up past and skewed vision of sex, maybe, but a rapist no less.

An autistic female friend had come to tell me about the red flags she perceived about him during this period, how I should be wary about neurodivergent men making less efforts and using their condition as an immunity token. I couldn't hear her words, at the time.

Later, another friend confessed he had a crush on his boyfriend that vanished when he noticed certain patterns of bad faith and gaslighting. The ugly truth my naive self didn't understand slowly revealed nonetheless.

 I can't say I understand them fully, but I understand myself, now, at least. I'll repeat it once more:

I was deceived, abused, put under the influence, in denial, and I couldn't say anything and I couldn't tell.

 As I came to understand, the key lies within me. I am the only one who can make sense out of the situation and come to the conclusion that it was indeed rape. Whether you like it or not; you are not inside my head, and you are no one to draw conclusions.

Neither are they, neither are any of you. Neither do you share my pain and suffering today. And that’s okay. I’m healing, as shitty as it is. My partners are with me. My social life will not be the same, my sex life will not be the same, but we go forward, even if it means walking on spikes for a while.

 I believe I am done here, with my story. There’s not much I expect from you, as I told you. I can no longer trust you nor can I respect you. You now belong in my eyes to this sad category of woke men who turn a blind eye when the abusers turn out to be their buddies.

There is just one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you:

 If radical honesty means telling everything right the first time, what do you make of those who can't tell everything right the first time?

 What do you know of those who can't tell they're being abused, who don't have your wit yet, or your experience, or your maturity, or who don't happen to have a PhD in manipulation? Who can't think or process things the exact same way you do? Who, let's dare to say it, aren't neurodivergent enough, aren't damaged enough, to be the victims in the story according to you?

 If you ever come up with something to say one day that doesn’t involve questioning my consent or siding with my abuser, there is a chance my door will still be open.

 There is a chance you won’t be just another sad example; otherwise, too bad.

 It’s time for me to heal.

[skydancer610-blog]

EARTH ONE CALLING: DISSECTING THE PARALLEL UNIVERSE OF TRUMP’S GOP

Dear GOP:

• You can no longer lecture us about divisiveness, or lambaste the Democrats foR “playing politics” when your warped media ecosystem has disseminated the very GOP talking points that have routinely tarred and feathered anyone left of Karl Rove on the daily for the past three decades.

• You can no longer drone on about why we should not prosecute your dearly departed Fuhrer "For the good of the country" when your elected representatives are focused only on their own narrow self-preservation and fund-raising. Let’s face it: you don’t give a shit about this country. If you did, you would have stood up to a president who has been actively destroying it for five years.

• You can no longer posture about unity or bipartisanship, especially when Trump’s GOP just spent four years exhibiting telltale fascist tendencies in the dogged pursuit of one-party rule, all the while waging a holy war on the main institutions entrusted with discovery and discernment of truth: the media, the judiciary, science, and education.

• You can no longer plead for civility on the part of Democrats when your representatives and media have spent decades shouting down anyone who isn’t on their side (here's looking at you Jim Jordan). And you especially can no longer lecture us about civility in the aftermath of your own supporters openly advocating-and then enacting-Civil War in the failed 1/6 fascist coup designed to keep your exalted Dear Loser as President.

• You can no longer shout from the top your soap boxes about leftist extremists, radicals, socialism, or communism when your party has veered so far to the right over the last three decades that it now teeters on the edge of a nihilist rightward cliff, about to plunge into full-on fascism.

• You can no longer lecture us about the dangers of violent Antifa and BLM protesters, especially given that a) over 95% of BLM protests were peaceful, b) so-called ”lone wolf” assailants have committed horrific acts of violence (i.e. racially motivated mass shootings) in the name of Donald Trump, and especially c) thousands of Trump supporters committed an act of mob violence on 1/6 so heinous that it has traumatized an entire nation and many of its duly elected Congressional representatives, Be there Republican or Democrat.

• You can no longer claim to be the party of "Law and order.” Don't even try it. Not when the leader of your party is a career criminal who spent the entirety of his presidency rigging the legal system to avoid consequences for his neverending litany of crimes, including Bank and tax fraud, conspiring with Russia to get elected, conspiring to withhold much-needed aid from Ukraine unless their president would ”dome a favor though,” committing election fraud in a call with the Georgia secretary of state, and especially for knowingly inciting the violent insurrection that resulted in over 140 law enforcement officers injured and three dead. Add to this Bill Barr’s politicization of the judiciary, the systematic rigging of our legal system at every level, and the countless Trump administration officials who were caught red-handed violating Federal laws and ethical standards, we need to call the GOP what it is: a lawless party led by angry White men to whom the laws of the land do not apply, and whose nakedly partisan judicial Philosophy has become “the law is whatever I say it is.”

• You certainly can no longer continue to demonize the mainstream media, facts and evidence-based reporting as "fake news", particularly since you have created a parallel media universe whose very existence demands that the brains of your legions of supporters must remain steeped in a toxic cesspool of mendacious venom in which warped talking-head drivel has wholly supplanted the reporting of actual news.

• You can no longer continue to channel Reagan’s dictum about how “government I s the problem,” especially since it has become glaringly obvious that most Republican politicians have no interest in governing to begin with, save for overfunding our military and police, under my name a woman’s right to choose, and squandering precious time and resources on such pressing matters as trans bathroom access and an umpteenth hearing on Benghazi. Once elected, GOP legislators routinely produces budgets that starve government agencies of funding, effectively reducing them to the status of a broke and emaciated pauper begging for spare change. These agencies are offered up as sacrifices to the God of lower taxes. Your anti-government rhetoric has thus morphed into a self-filling prophecy: you spout tired talking points that demonize government, then you get elected and cripple government, only to proclaim "look ma, government doesn’t work anymore". Aside from culture wars, your “Governing” it is not limited to gerrymandering, voter suppression, raising funds to get re-elected, and lining the pockets of your rich cronies. As our country rots away and the public good deteriorates, it is not a stretch to suggest that YOU have become the problem.

• You definitely can no longer claim the mantle of pro-life, not when you denounce science, support the death penalty, oppose access to healthcare, restrict funding for social services, and rationalize away the murder of Black Americans by an increasingly militarized police force. Truth be told, yours is a party that has become decidedly anti-life during the pandemic, first by downplaying the severity of COVID, then refusing to wear masks in the face of a deadly pandemic that has now killed roughly 1 in 700 Americans. Add to this a presidential administration that knowingly lied to the public about the risk posed by the coronavirus, and then systematically failed to address it. President Trump opted instead to corrupt the CDC and wage a public relations campaign rather than performing the necessary governmental function of tackling this deadly disease.

• You can no longer position yourself as the party of ”faith” and family values when you openly show hostility toward non-Christian religious and spiritual orientations, demonize entire races of putative “children of God,” or oppose expanding access to healthcare for families across the nation. Whatever God you are serving, it is certainly want for compassion. Additionally, your politicians and conservative media ritually engage in bad faith arguments in lieu of addressing to the many problems that plague our nation.

• You can no longer drone on about patriotism, or label some Americans as patriotic and others as unpatriotic when you have blindly supported and enabled a President who openly conspired with Russia to get elected, and who unflinchingly professed blind loyalty to the leader of the most hostile foreign power facing the US today. When confronted with credible evidence that the Russian autocrat put bounties on the heads of American soldiers in Afghanistan, Trump even refused to hold Putin accountable. Seriously. And of course you can no longer call yourself patriotic when you fan the flames of the Great Lie of a stolen election that gave rise to the seditious assault on the Capitol on 1/6. Then 86% of the GOP Senate Caucus voted to acquit Trump on charges that he incited the insurrection. Let's face it: you only hide behind the flag when it provides you political cover.

• Most importantly, you can NEVER lecture Democrats and their supporters about accountability, or responsibility, or pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps, or traffic in tired caricatures of crime-plagued inner cities and welfare moms. Why? Because the deficit always increases during Republican presidential administrations. Because Congress passed a tax act that will cost American taxpayers $1.5 trillion over the next decade. Because the GOP has shifted from being a party that believes in small government to a party that has ceased even trying to govern. Because the Republican Congressional Caucus fecklessly supported an administration that did virtually nothing about the pandemic, except to claim it was just another hoax, or to state that “one day it will just go away,” or to host super-spreader events in Tulsa and on the White House lawn. How many lives could have been saved by a serious and coordinated federal government response? No GOP, you are neither responsible nor accountable to anyone except the interests of yourselves, the wealthy, and corporate donors you serve.

But nowhere has Republican irresponsibility been more clearly on display then the 1/6 attack on the US Capitol, where the whole world saw a violent mob of conspiracy-driven Trump supporters wage a vicious terrorist assault on the most sacred hall of American democracy and civil parliamentary debate. It is clear that these insurrectionists were spurred on by the spread of the Great Lie that somehow a legitimately conducted election—one that was unsuccessfully challenged in 61 US court cases—had been stolen from their Dear Leader. The Great Lie was supported by the majority of the Republican House Caucus, a dozen US Senators, and a parallel media universe that has become as unhinged as the power-mad President Trump himself—who was visibly pleased as he watched the unrest unfold on live TV. But as the world watched in horror, the whole web of lies undergirding Trumpism was exposed, unraveled, and irrevocably shattered for all to see.

And yet, in the face of overwhelming evidence that Trump’s violent rhetoric led directly routinely insurrection, when the GOP finally had a chance to hold Trump accountable for his actions, 43 out of 50 Republican US senators punted. They abdicated their Constitutional duty to hold the President accountable for the most reprehensible violation of our democracy in our nation’s history. Although Minority leader Mitch McConnell was deeply troubled, and felt that Trump was directly responsible for the insurrection, he characteristically seized upon the wiggle room afforded by a technicality in order to weasel out of performing his Constitutional duty to prevent Trump from ever holding public office again. Like a grocery clerk telling a customer that quote that is not my department,” McConnell—who tried to thread the needle between retaining hi-dollar donors and appeasing Trump’s base—reasoned that the US criminal justice system that Trump just spent four years attacking and corrupting was the more appropriate forum in which to address the former President’s crimes. One can only hope. Finally, even though they amplified the lie that the November election was somehow stolen from the ex-president, it is safe to say that Josh Hawley, Ted Cruz, Fox News, Alex Jones and their ilk will never assume an iota of accountability or culpability for the nearly diabolical consequences of their words and actions.

• But the lack of Republican responsibility and accountability is most clearly embodied by President King Baby himself. True to form, despite issuing a vitriolic speech that explicitly and repeatedly called for the mob to “fight” for him, Trump claimed no responsibility for inciting the directly consequential insurrection for which he was impeached a second time. Predictably, Trump wrung his hands of this. Moreover, to hear him tell it, it is safe to s ay that Trump has never done anything wrong and never feels the need to atone for anything. Predictably, like many rich and powerful White American men—over the course of his life the silver spoon-fed Trump has seldom had to face the consequences of his actions.

• No GOP, you can no longer do any of these things anywhere that serious people frequent and the pursuit of truth is held to be sacrosanct. You’re probably just have been revoked. 1/6 and its aftermath shall go down in American history the pivotal moment in which your entire parallel universe of bullshit was finally exposed, and where the web of lies upon which it has been built was irretrievably refuted. It is now time to hold you accountable for your systematic, longstanding, and wholesale war on facts, truth, reason, rational discourse, and even reality itself. So no more false equivalencies, whataboutism, both-sides-ism, performative outrage, disingenuous spin, or just plain bald-faced outright lies. This is not simply a matter of opinion. The lies that you have perpetrated and propagated have had deadly consequences, be they for victims of hate crimes, the many people of color murdered by police forces, or the countless additional deaths due to coronavirus misinformation, or the death of three Capital police officers.

• But the GOP will continue to do all of these things and more because their very existence depends on it. Additionally, Fox News, OAN, Newsmax have way too much invested in their viewers for that to ever happen. The disinfo-meter must be cranked up to eleven, because the conservative media ecosystem has reached a point of no return. To call bullshit on their game now would me more than assuming responsibility: it would mean that the whole web of lies upon which the identities and worldviews of those who inhabit the parallel universe of conservative media would have to be debunked. The mass cult of Trumpism-which extends far beyond QAnon-would have to be painstakingly deprogrammed and deradicalized. The fascist White supremacist elements of Red America—including those in our government, military, and law enforcement—would somehow have to come back from the nether reaches of 8chan and Parler to the ostensibly objective, fact-based reality inhabited by the sane. A massive media literacy campaign and cultural inoculation against demonstrable bullshit would be needed, maybe even a wholesale cultural the programming would become necessary. In the meantime, the only way to combat the parallel universe of Trump’s GOP is by holding people accountable in the pursuit of truth and justice—by shedding light upon lies, crimes, misdeeds, and the pathological creation and dissemination of a hostile alternate reality that continues to threaten to tear our country apart.

[thegreatnyehehe]

A Winter Veil Carol: Part 5

And with the unfestive fiend’s descent into hell, we can assume that this fiend has finally received his long-awaited comeuppance! One of those open-ended endings, I suppose? Surely, it is a true cautionary tale for those whom are wicked and miserly! Sad, of course, but a wonderful lesson! Well, that’s the end, of it, then. Hope you enjoyed it, children!

...

Oh? Oh!

Hoho! Looks like the last few pages were stuck together! Perhaps this The Great Nyehehe fellow may be redeemed after all! Let’s take one last peek into  Chrrgglls Drrrkggnss’s “A Winter Veil Carol!” Hope you enjoy it, children!

The flames of the deepest pits of the fire region of the elemental plane consumed The Great Nyehehe, burning every fleck of flesh upon him to ash, reducing his bones  to brittle. A horrible, raging fire took him, and the old fool had perished from the universe forever. The inferno was the final end for the legendary fable of the madman, The Great Nyehehe.

And then he woke up.

“Bah!!” 

The Great Nyehehe jumped up with a start, terrified but immensely relieved that he was, in fact, not dead, but back in his own ‘Evil Lair’, relatively safe and sound. “Oh, by the Light!!” he cheered to himself, uncharacteristically religiously.

“The spirits!! They were true, and they were real!! Oh, Maldy!! Oh, spirits!! Nyehehe!!” yelled The Great Nyehehe ecstatically. He was alive after all!

But then, a thought came to him, and he popped out from behind his dirty nook in the Cathedral Square of which he resided in, peering around. His eyes found a hulking, shambling abomination standing beside a lone Death Knight, whom was very distracted checking his mail eagerly for a Winter Veil party invitation. Nyeh called out to it, “You there!! Boy!!”

“Wot, me?” moaned the undead golem of flesh and formerly living souls as he stomped closer, having failed to realize he had just been mistaken for an average human child.

“Nyes!! You!! What day is it, good child?” Nyeh yelled out to it.

“Why, eet’s Weenter Veil!” blubbered out the abomination, having no real sense of time or appropriate knowledge of something as complex as a calendar, but it recognized all the pretty lights and Winter Veil trees well enough.

"How incredibly dastardly!! Er... How nice!! The Great Nyehehe hasn’t missed Winter Veil!! The spirits did it all in one night!! Nyes, they can do anything they please!! Nyehehe!!” cackled Nyeh as he pranced around gleefully.

“Mmmhmmm...” mumbled the abomination dumbly, its sight steering elsewhere out of slight boredom and a very low attention span.

“Oh!! Nyes!! Do you know the Cratchcrank household of 12710 Swindle Street on the isle of Kezan?” 

The abomination took its attention back to Nyeh, “Nope.”  

“Perfect!! Go there, and fetch some medicine for Tiny Tib!!” Nyeh exclaimed, far too consumed by joy, rather than by fire as he had believed not two minutes ago, to realize what the abomination had answered with.

“What medicine?” wondered the brely sentient wall of flesh.

“All of it!! Obviously!! Now, off with you to Tiny Tib to deliver the medicine!!” demanded Nyeh before bursting into another joyous jig, “And take The Great Nyehehe’s spare sack from last year’s evil scheme of stealing Winter Veil!! The Great Nyehehe shan’t be committing any further wicked acts such as that anymore, so it shan’t be of any use to him!!”

‘D’okay!” the abomination burped as it ran off to blindly follow the old madman’s order, stumbling and bumbling on the way with Nyeh’s empty red sack in one of his stubby hands.

 Having finished checking his mail, as well as sorrowfully accepting the fact that he’d likely never get that invite to the big upcoming Winter Veil party due to his current condition as a corpse, the abomination’s Death Knight master had been looking around for his near-mindless servant. When the abomination had totally ignored his order, “Stop!”, the Death Knight had began to run off behind him, in a futile attempt to catch it. Despite its immense size, the abomination sure was swift!

“Light guide you, small child!! And merry WInter Veil!!” called out Nyeh after them. “Now, to make things right with all those The Great Nyehehe had wronged!!” he vowed to himself as he donned his old Father Winter’s hat he had stitched together the previous year.

And then, The Great Nyehehe began his not-crooked crusade for redemption. He put his very soul into each festive song he sang with the Winter Veil carolers he had intimidated away just yesterday, though admittedly he was comparatively very dissonant with the rest of the group, his singing voice was admittedly quite wretched. 

Furthermore, he gave plenty of gold to charity,...

He gifted toys and presents to orphans...

He gave a present even to the officers of the Stormwind City Guard, of whom they had both shared a rather heated past. Truly, he had changed for the better.

And to further support his redemption, The Great Nyehehe had turned to religion, becoming a devout and faithful believer in the Light! No longer did he claim to be superior to the Light, nor any deity, or truly to be better than anyone else. He was fully forgiven of his sins by Brother Arthur, whom had taken over Bishop Farthing’s duties after the good bishop had mysteriously disappeared during his inconspicuous trip to the Tirisfal Glades.

The Great Nyehehe had vowed to redeem himself, and he was better than his word. He had seen the error of his ways. He became a generous, humble, kindly, and loving man for the rest of his days. He became as good a friend. as good a priest, and as good a man as the good old city of Stormwind ever had!

And it was always said of him that The Great Nyehehe knew how to keep Winter Veil spirit well and alive throughout the whole year! 

...

Or... that WOULD have been what they had said, had the following event not occurred, which it unfortunately and undoubtedly did. 

“Nai-hee-hee!” cheered the Draenei sincerely, “It is so good to see that you have turned over a new leaf! I am so proud of you,  Nai-hee-hee!” The Draenei then made a tragic mistake, and gave Nyeh a congratulatory slap on the back. 

Though the Draenei had considered it to have been a rather light and playful gesture, The Great Nyehehe reacted comparatively dramatically and fell right over. Whether it was due to the Draenei indeliberately using a surplus amount of strength he was unaware he had, The Great Nyehehe’s ironic and immense frailty despite his earlier view of himself as an unstoppable deity, or a mixture of both, the slap left The Great Nyehehe tumbling down the stairs and his head colliding harshly with the hard, white pavement of the Cathedral.

When he had came to, it had seemed that the ensuing concussion had left The Great Nyehehe feeling nauseous, discombobulated, and, once again, seeing things.Most importantly, it had left him with a vastly different view of the world: the exact same one he had not just yesterday, on The Great Nyehehe had seen the error of his ways! Again!

Raving and rambling, Nyeh had thought aloud to himself “The proper way of celebrating Winter Veil isn’t being kind or generous or festive, obviously!! It is to be even more villainous and wicked to combat the season’s tidings of goodwill with evil schemes, dastardly deeds, and acts of hate!! Oh, how wrong The Great Nyehehe was to ever think that being a goody two-shoes would ever aid him in the slightest!! Drat those spirits!! Drat them all!!”

And The Great Nyehehe went against his earlier word, and went to make wrong again all the wrongs he had literally just righted. 

He stole from charity...

He had took back the toys and presentshe had given to orphans...

He had even forcibly taken back the present he had propounded to the officers of the Stormwind City Guard, of whom they shared a now even more heated and less friendly relationship than before...

And to further renounce his redemption, he cursed the Light, dratted the church, and imprecated all forms of goodness, heroism, and love on Azeroth and within the universe. “Curse you, you lousy Light and your clueless clergy and cretinous crusaders!! Bah!!” Nyeh swore at the Church building itself with a hateful shake of his fist.

There was one, almost heroic deed that The Great Nyehehe could not make wrong again, however, was when he had ordered a Death Knight’s abomination servant to deliver medicine to Tiny Tib of the Cratchcrank household at 12710 Swindle Street on the isle of Kezan, The abomination had no idea what medicine it was the sickly goblin child had needed, so the hellish simpleton had ransacked the homes, laboratories, and bathrooms of various alchemists, apothecaries, priests, and engineers, leaving dozens of years of work between them all down the drain. Luckily, he had unwittingly found an antidote after storming through the hut of a Gurubashi Witchdoctor who never quite got over the death of Soulflayer Hakkar. Still, his presence was not immediately met with welcome by the Cratchcrank family.

“Stay behind me, kids!” directed Ms. Cratchcrank, all three of them, as well as her husband Bozo, immediately following suit fretfully.

“Mama, I’m scared!” peeped one of Bozo’s daughters, the other screeching in agreement.

“G-Get ‘em, dear!’ whimpered Bozo.

“Stop” uselessly demanded the Death Knight to his abomination, having been running just behind after his near-mindless servant in atttempt to catch it, the wall of flesh being just out of reach each time. As mentioned earlier, despite its immense size, the abomination sure was swift!

“Shush, honey! Now, you monstrous brute, what are you doing knocking down OUR door on Winter Veil of all-” scolded Ms. Cratchcrank as though she was nagging a boy that had been playing too carelessly around her garden rather than a half-sentient wall of flesh and souls, before she was interrupted. 

“Medicine for Tiny Tib.” the abomination burped, indifferent to the family’s fear.

Popping out from behind his mother and willing to try and anything, Tiny Tib, WHO DID NOT DIE, piped up “Oh? Why didn’t you just say so, then?” Tiny Tib chugged down the antidote after the abomination had handed it to him. He then did a wonderful little diddy of a dance with his now working legs cheerily to celebrate, his parents and sisters awestruck. 

Tiny Tib was now perfectly healthy, and the very next week Bozo was promoted from a mid-level accountant to mid-high level accountant, which despite being only a single level above mid-level accountant paid far more handsomely. The Cratchcranks lived happily forever after, never even knowing the name of The Great Nyehehe.

“Drat, drat, and double drat!!” the old fool roared into the air, his stolen goods hoarded in his Evil Lair, “The Great Nyehehe drats all those spirits a nyehehillion times over!! How dare they try to trick The Great Nyehehe into becoming a goodie two-shoes!! And now he can’t even intercept that blasted child from delivering that moronic medicine!! Curses!!”

Far above Nyeh’s head, upon the yellow-tinted roofs of the Cathedral District, the spirits looked down upon their wayward student whom had refused their teaching so strongly with great disappointment.

“Well, the testing session for Operation didn’t seem to work. If we can’t even persuade our one, some foolish old madman to become good, how could we ever trick the faction leaders into trying to call for peace with the Legion?” sighed the first spirit.

“Guess we’ll have teh call off the real thing. Why even botheh tryin’ et on Sylvanas er Anduin at this point.” muttered the second spirit bitterly.

“In that case, can we take off these stupid disguises? These weights are killin’ my shoulders!” complained Maldy, rattling his chains.

The third spirit nodded in agreement.

“Ach, fine. Don’t matter much now anyhow.”

*POOF!*

“Ah, we feel so much better now that we don’t have to look like some prude elf!”  admitted the succubus as her illusion faded.

“Well, now tha’ tha’s all done, yeh guys wanna go terrorize some Orphans?” suggested the hulking felguard to his fel fellows, failing to realize he was still speaking in the Dwarvish accent of his illusion.

“Ah, wait, guys, one more thing...” interjected the Imp, whom had not a moment ago been the nonliving phantom of the former Tradeprince Maldy.

“Merry Winter Veil, everyone!!”

“...”

“What was that fer?” thought the second spirit aloud.

“I... I have no idea... I just had the urge to say that... as though that was the only way this all could end...” shuddered the Imp.

~The End.~

I’m utterly amazed, children. What a book! That was, undoubtedly...

The worst book I have ever read! Ugh... remind me to re-gift this for next Winter Veil, children. I probably should have just read ‘T’was the Night before Winter Veil’, anyway... Anyone care for some hot cocoa?

[secretshinigami]

After the Warehouse

Author: KawaiiPsycho101 For: SlytherinPirate Pairings/Characters: No pairings; Japanese Task Force and SPK. Rating/Warnings: Rated T for character death and brief violence. Prompt: To prevent spoilers, I’ve listed the prompt at the end of the story. Author’s Notes: Spoilers for the end of the series. I’d also like to sincerely apologize for the rushed nature of this story. I had put this off until the last minute, and I’m afraid it shows. I will take better care in the future to plan my schedule accordingly should I do something like this again. Still, I hope you all enjoy.

It was over.

After six long years, Kira’s reign had finally come to an end, although there were only eight people in the world who knew this for a fact. They were gathered in a warehouse near Daikoku Wharf known as the Yellow Box. Their names were Touta Matsuda, Kanzo Mogi, Shuichi Aizawa, Hideki Ide, Hal Bullook, Stephen Loud, Anthony Carter, and Nate River (although he preferred to be called ‘Near’). The bodies of the serial killer known as Kira, Light Yagami, and his loyal follower, Teru Mikami, had just been taken away by the paramedics. A pile of gasoline-soaked notebooks lay at the group’s feet. Near lit a match and threw it on the pile. It went up instantly. They all watched the fire burn and listened to the flames crackle in silence.

Once the notebooks were nothing put a pile of ashes, a tall broad American man put out the blaze with an extinguisher.

“So,” Aizawa said, “That’s it, then.”

“Yes,” Near nodded, “It’s over.”

“What are we going to tell their families?”

Matsuda visibly stiffened.

“I’ll leave that up to you, just as long as it’s not the truth; the events of today must never leave this room, no matter what.”

“He’s right,” Ide muttered, “Even if we did tell, no one would ever believe us.”

“True.” Near gathered his finger-puppets and stood up. “We’ll contact you if we ever need your assistance again. Goodbye.”

And with that, everyone parted ways.

**************************************** 

“Well, that’s the last of it.”

Stephen sealed the last of the boxes containing all the information the SPK had gathered during their side of the Kira investigation. Near had asked him and Hal to clear out the headquarters and their computers while he and Commander Carter went back to the United States. They were probably just now reaching the airport.

“Finally,” his companion sighed, exhausted. “I’ll take these boxes and you can take those. We should be able to do it in one trip.”

“Right.”

Together, they made their way to the elevator, arms loaded with boxes and suitcases. As the doors closed behind them and the small shuttle began its descent from the twenty-seventh floor of the hotel, Hal turned to her colleague.

“Stephen?”

“Hmm?”

“I was wondering-”

SNAP!

She never got to finish her sentence.

The elevator plunged down the shaft, reaching speeds that made the passengers of the inside of the chamber experience what almost felt like weightlessness. The two dropped what they were holding and held onto the railing tightly. As the ground floor neared, Stephen reached out and grabbed Hal, pulling her towards him. He wrapped his arms around her, hoping that maybe she would survive if he absorbed most of the impact for her.

In the end, it didn’t matter.

It would take the authorities a few days to identify the remains, and they would later deem the accident the result of a one-a-million malfunction.

************************************** 

While Hal Bullook and Stephen Loud were on their way to the elevator, Hideki Ide was unlocking the front door of his house. He and Mogi had just finished clearing out the Japanese Task Force’s own headquarters for the Kira investigation while Matsuda and Aizawa went to break the news of Light’s death to his mother and younger sister, along with his fiancé and former second Kira, Misa Amane. They had all decided to tell them that Light had been killed by Kira, while Mikami’s few friends and friendly would be told that he had committed suicide after suffering a nervous breakdown. It wasn’t very far from the truth.

Ide had admired the way Matsuda had volunteered to be the one to inform them of Light’s demise. He had reasoned that since he was already a well-liked acquaintance of the family, it only seemed natural that he be the one to tell them, even though it was clear to everyone that it was the last thing on Earth he wanted to do. Aizawa had probably sensed this as well, for he quickly volunteered to go as well.

Bzzzt-bzzzt.

Ide was knocked out of his thoughts by the vibrations of his cell phone in his front pocket, which he quickly answered.

“Hello?”

“Ide? It’s Fukawa,” Akira Fukawa was the current chief of the National Police Agency. “There’s been an accident at the Plaza Hotel. Apparently one of the elevators malfunctioned and fell over twenty stories. At least two people are dead. I want you to go over there and check it out. I know you’re off duty, but you’re the closet one to the Plaza right now.”

Ide wanted to tell the Chief to find someone else to do it, that he’d had his fair share of death for one day, but since he couldn’t, all he did was sigh and say that he’d be there as soon as he could. As he headed back to his car, he noticed two small boys playing a game of soccer in the front yard of the house across the street from his. One of them kicked the ball too hard, sending it into the street. The other one ran blindly after it, unaware of the truck speeding down the road.

Before he knew it, he was sprinting towards the child. The last thing he saw before the truck struck him was the boy’s body being hurled back onto his lawn from the force of Ide’s push.

******************************************** 

Kanzo Mogi chucked back his fifth shot of scotch with a grimace. He was sitting in his second-floor bedroom, trying to get the image of a bleeding and screaming Light Yagami out of his head. So far, it seemed that it would take all the alcohol on the planet just to dim the picture a little. He decided that maybe a bath would calm his nerves a little.

As he was undressing, he heard his phone ringing in the other room.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself before going to answer it. He looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Matsuda. “What is it, Matsuda?”

“Mogi, there’s been an accident! Ide’s in the hospital!”

“What?!”

“He got hit by a car saving a little kid. We were just leaving Light’s house when we heard. We probably won’t get to the hospital for another fifteen minutes.”

“I’m closer. I’ll meet you there.”

“Right, thanks.”

Mogi quickly redressed and ran down the stairs.

It can be argued that what happened next could have been avoided had he not been drinking, but considering the rush he was in, it probably would have happened anyway, stone-cold-sober or not.

In his hurry, Mogi tripped and toppled down the stairs, splitting his head open on the bannister. Somewhere during the tumble, there was a snap! and when his body came to a rest at the bottom of the staircase, his neck was bent at an unnatural angle as a pool of blood formed around him.

************************************************

“He said he’d meet us there.”

“Great.”

Touta Matsuda and Shuichi Aizawa didn’t say a word as they drove towards the hospital, instead opting to listen to the radio. According to the weather forecast, there was a nasty storm heading their way, which they both thought was rather fitting; for this had to be, without a doubt, the worst day of their lives.

As they crossed the last intersection to the hospital, the space right in front of them was struck by lightning. Temporarily stunned and blinded by the bright flash of light, Aizawa swerved into a nearby gas station parking lot, hitting one of the fuel stations and knocking one of the nozzles out of its slot, which began to pump out gasoline. After they took a moment to recover, Matsuda breathed a sigh of relief at having come out of the little misadventure unscathed, and thanked God that lightning never struck twice.

********************************** 

KRRRACCK-BOOOM!

Near, who until a second ago had his face pressed against the passenger-side window of the plane, jumped back in shock and bumped into Anthony Carter. Up until now, he enjoyed looking out the window during take-offs and landings, watching the ground and buildings grow smaller or bigger as the plane flew higher or lower. This time had been no exception. But the sudden lightning strike was a bit off-putting.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Yes,” the boy quickly recovered, “Just surprised is all.”

He looked out the window again, watching the city of Tokyo disappear from his sight.

Then there was a second lightning-strike, and for a brief second, Near could’ve sworn he saw an explosion out of the corner of his eye. Due to the distance, it appeared to be very tiny, which in reality meant that it had been quite large where it happened. He blinked, and he was suddenly too high up to tell if he had seen anything to begin with.

A few hours later, Near noticed a tension in the air.

Something was wrong.

The way the stewardesses and crew nervously scuttled about told him so.

There was a muffled boom! from outside the plane, followed by another, and another. Red lights and alarms started to go off as the oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling.

Nate River paid no attention to the chaos unfolding around him, for he knew at that precise moment he was going to die. He didn’t know if there was anything after death, and he sincerely doubted there was.

But still, he thought for the last time, it would be nice to see Mello again.

Prompt: Everything is the same, but everyone dies at the end.

[vitaevandal]

Illuminated

Genre: Fan Fiction (Divergent) Pairing: Eric x OFC Warnings: Adult themes Rating: Mature Disclaimer: This a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line.

A/N: This is based on a request I received from @murmelinchen on my old blog @feminamortem that I can’t repost since I deleted it like a douche. The prompt was a one-shot of Eric and reader/OFC going on a moonlit walk. Here you go.

(I also apologize for not remembering who asked to be tagged in this besides @thihaf. Don’t let me do anything stupid like delete a blog again.)

Eric blindly paced back and forth through his living room, his fingers alternating between pinching the bridge of his nose and raking his usually impeccably styled hair into manic spikes. The relentless buzzing of the usual gathering of Dauntless in the Pit was pummeling his ears like a bass drum, making it impossible to think, so he’d fled to his apartment to clear his head, where the oppressive silence seemed to convolute his thoughts even further.

Typically on Thursdays she’d meet him at his apartment after her shift at one of Dauntless’s many tattoo parlors for their semi-weekly fuck; they were in mutual agreement that neither was looking for anything resembling a relationship, and the arrangement was uncomplicated and comfortable. They rarely wavered from this routine, and if one or the other couldn’t make it, they’d gotten to the point in their ‘liaison’ where they would at least do the other the courtesy of letting them know. So when she hadn’t shown up at the usual designated time without so much as a text, he knew something was amiss and headed straight for the parlor. Lucas, the one who handled piercings, was there alone, breaking down her station. His visage turned into one of dread as Eric, visibly upset, demanded, “Where is she?”

Lucas shrugged his shoulders, continuing when Eric’s glare intensified, “I really don’t know. She seemed kind of off all night, like real agitated, and when I asked her what was wrong she said she wasn’t feeling well. So I said I’d clean up here when we were done and as soon as she finished up her last client about an hour ago she practically bolted out of here. Maybe try the infirmary?”

Eric was surprised to find his annoyance had become tinged with worry. As he made the trek towards the infirmary, he became even more unsettled by the foreignness of such a feeling as concern for another person’s well-being. As he neared the hallway leading to the clinic he caught the sound of two voices speaking in hushed but frantic tones, one of which he recognized as hers, holding a conversation that was most likely not intended to be overheard. He halted abruptly before he rounded the corner and held back out of sight, holding his breath and listening intently.

“How could I have been so stupid?” She spoke lowly, but the alarm and anger in her voice was still evident. “Thinking it’s nothing but a touch of the flu. This honestly never even crossed my mind, not once. I thought we were being careful, I really did. But obviously not enough!” Eric chanced a peek around the corner and saw her slumped against the wall, one hand clutching a small paper bag, the other pressed against her forehead, before retreating back into the shadows. “I can’t even process this, Gina. What in the fuck am I going to do? Do I even tell him? How do you tell Eric of all people something like this?”

He heard the other girl exhale loudly and pause before replying, “Don’t panic. It won’t do you any good, what’s done is done. And maybe you don’t have to tell him, at least not yet.”

“Are you kidding me? This isn’t exactly something I’ll be able to hide! He’s going to find out eventually. And no matter how this plays out, he should know, he needs to take responsibility! I...Gina,” she whispered, as her voice began to break, “my entire life has literally just been ruined. This changes everything.”

Eric felt paralyzed as he attempted to digest this exchange. He was overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of suffocation, of being trapped inside a bubble where the oxygen was growing short in supply and his surroundings were muted and distorted. His brain moved in hitches and spurts as he pieced their mutterings together.

“...a touch of the flu…thought we were being careful…what’s done is done…has to take responsibility…”

She was pregnant. And it was his.

A cold sweat sprang up through his pores as this fact clicked into place, and Eric went into panic mode. He had to get out of there. He needed time to think before she confronted him, and he was in no way fit to feign ignorance for her.

So here he was, making a blind trek through the landscape of his apartment, replaying the illicit dialogue over and over in his mind, attempting to catalogue his many reactions. Eric did hail from Erudite, and his position as a leader was not entirely ill-gotten; so despite a rather conflagrant temper, the union of his natural intelligence and militaristic conditioning had produced an ability to maintain logic, composure, and clarity in the most disastrous situations. Without actual conscious, choreographed thought, his brain began to disentangle the threads of the situation with the detached yet swiftly calculating adroitness of a born strategist. He’d knocked her up. While he could cling desperately to the hope that it wasn’t his, he had little reason to doubt that it was, so he wasted no time in entertaining that romantic notion and instead simply accepted it as an unassailable fact. One that needed immediate damage control, the top priority of which was unquestionably self-preservation.

While they had never discussed such a hypothetical, he believed he knew her well enough by now to confidently predict that she would not have an abortion, and besides, he operated by the creed of, “Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.” His first concern: how would the berth of fatherhood affect his leadership position? There were no rules in place regarding marital or dependent status, so there was no immediate threat to his career per se, but the burden that having a family would place on his time would undoubtedly skyrocket his already considerable stress level. Eric prided himself on prevailing over adversity, so while this was not exactly a challenge he would have sought out, he had no fear of this thwarting his ambitions. But on the personal level? A family would end life as he knew it. He’d never had to be accountable to anyone, never been in a committed relationship so never had any qualms about sleeping around. Never anyone besides Number One to look out for, never anyone for Eric to take care of besides Eric. A family would mean a practical and emotional onus unprecedented for him, and the question wasn’t whether he could be ready for such a thing, because there was no question about it - this was happening, he had to be. The question was just how miserable the rest of his entire fucking life was going to be. And that’s when it hit him.

Or rather, didn’t hit him, because the waves of anger and petulance and despair he expected to flood him never came. There was no outrage over the end of his old life. There was apprehension, there was fear, but could that really just be how his ingrained personality was translating...excitement? Optimism? At what he realized he was beginning to see as the onset of his new life?

True to his nature, resoluteness took hold quickly as he vowed to, at the very least, give this whole thing a shot. He was, after all, brave; he was Dauntless.

***

“Take a walk with me.”

“A walk? Where?” A bemused expression crossed her features before turning to one of trepidation.

“Navy Pier. For once it’s not hot as fuck in August, I think we should get out.” Eric looked at her almost beseechingly, which only made her warier. While his proposition was, as always, a command rather than a request, the uncertain and hopeful expression that accompanied it was altogether alien for him.

She paused briefly as she considered the opportunity this might afford her. He seemed to be in a pleasant mood, which could lend her an advantage in this situation. This nighttime excursion out of the compound also lent them the privacy she hoped for when she broke the news. She quickly changed her countenance to one of eagerness.

“Alright. Ready whenever you are.”

It was a rare evening on which Eric was not burdened with any extraneous leadership duties, so they set off immediately without him having to clear his schedule with any of his fellow leaders or his own assistant. They exited the compound unbothered through the seldom-used maintenance doors at the east end, leading to a path too narrow to accommodate vehicles, therefore of little use to anyone coming or going from the premises, Dauntless or otherwise.

Eric was right; the typical late summer humidity was absent from the night air, and a gentle breeze whispered against their skin like silk. Eric felt his conviction oddly fortified by the balmy weather as they started side by side down the pathway, a restive electricity seeming to pass between them. The moon was full that evening, a coin of iridescent silver that illuminated the unobstructed trail before them but whose light stopped short at the trees on either side of them, creating an atmosphere that was intimate rather than grim. The walk to the pier was short, but he didn’t want to wait until they reached their destination to broach the subject of their relationship; he would be fooling himself if he said he was entirely undaunted by the prospect of voicing and therefore solidifying his new receptiveness to the idea of commitment, but knew that every second he waited was cowardice on his part. He cast a sidelong glance at her and took a deep breath.

“Look, I know we’ve called what’s between us casual these past few months, but I think we’ve lied to ourselves long enough, don’t you?”

She turned to him with a look of genuine shock over what he assumed was his defiance of her assumption that she was a temporary toy to him.

“What are you saying, Eric?”

He tentatively took her hand in his, his gaze on her this time remaining steady. “I’m saying, we both know there’s something more there. Something worth pursuing. I’m saying I want us to be exclusive. I want there to be a future for us.”

Now she seemed positively aghast. A silence hung between them as they reached the ferris wheel, and he pulled her toward the steel supports that formed a rudimentary ladder along its sides. The moonlight glinted softly off of the metal, but their surroundings were mostly dark, throwing the nearby lights of Erudite into a relief that looked almost like stars, blazing brightly before they extinguished for all time. “Come to the top with me. The view will be worth it.”

He didn’t see the whirlwind of emotions that flitted across her face as he guided her to begin the climb before him, too intent on ensuring he was prepared to catch her if she slipped. They reached the top car without incident and she was again caught off-guard by his tenderness as he delicately gripped her waist when she swung first one leg and then the other into the gently swaying car. As she sat down and waited for him to join her she shook her head almost imperceptibly, attempting to clear away the momentary fog that this new Eric was perpetuating. She silently pledged to remain unflinching in her confrontation.

Instead of sitting beside her he slid sideways to the edge of the car and remained standing, looking out contemplatively at the ruins of Chicago. Bathed in the incandescent lunar glow, its eeriness, in that moment, transformed into a melancholy beauty.

“I heard you talking to Gina after you left the infirmary. I know you’re pregnant,” he whispered. “I have a responsibility now, to you and our baby. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I can promise that I’ll try. I think you want this as - “

She cut him short as she shrieked, “You what?”, causing him to start and turn to face her. Her features were twisted with what could only be described as unadulterated rage. “You brought me here to tell me that you accept that you fucked up by knocking me up, that you’ve resigned yourself to being a ‘family man,’ like you’re doing me some kind of fucking favor by staying with me? You ruined my life, Eric! No man will ever touch me again thanks to you. You don’t have a fucking clue what you did to me, do you? DO YOU?”

It happened so quickly, he didn’t even have time to scream. Her arms pistoned out and connected with his chest, and as he toppled over the edge of the swinging car, he could just make out the last words anyone would ever speak to him before he struck the pavement some 200 feet below.

“You gave me herpes, you asshole!”

***

She was numb as she clambered down the rungs of the ferris wheel, only sentient enough to wonder if her volatile emotional state that persisted throughout the day had just caused her to hallucinate what she’d just done. She then caught sight of Eric’s inert form, his limbs bent at impossible angles, a growing pool of blood matting his flawless hair. She drifted over to it, noting his grotesquely misshapen skull, but nonetheless crouched next to him and searched for a pulse. Feeling only stillness beneath her own clammy fingertips, she breathed a sigh of relief and her lips curved into a grim smile. It stayed upon her face until she reached the maintenance door they had exited from earlier unnoticed.

Those damn factionless, she would utter later that night to Gina as the whole of Dauntless raised their glasses in tribute to their fallen leader. Eric should’ve known it wasn’t safe to go wandering out into the city alone at night. Arrogant bastard.