#dead children's memorials in ancient times deeply fuck me up

[swallowtail-ageha]

Forever fucked up by the statue of nero's daughter claudia augusta who died at four months old that shows what she could have looked like if she had lived

[alirhi]

random snippet again

as promised, @feralgoblintea here's the (temporary) scene where the two sisters meet for the first time since one went missing as a child

note about the nickname: Rachel's middle name is Miranda; everyone has called her 'Andy' from that since she was a little kid. it's explained in her story, but not in this scene, so I just wanted to explain it here lol

"Your parents are very eager to know where you've been and what you've been going through all these years," the doctor told her, deep voice oddly gentle and soothing. Rachel smiled sadly; his voice reminded her of Amadeus. "Most of all, they want to know that you're alright."

She knew he thought she was crazy. Her parents definitely shared that opinion, which was why she was here to begin with. Still, she couldn't help asking, "And, in your professional opinion, am I?"

He caught her lightly mocking tone and snorted, leaning back in his chair to mirror her pose. "In my professional opinion," he shot back, though the sarcasm left his tone before he even finished his sentence, "you've been through Hell, Rachel. The trauma you've suffered is very, very real. If you're asking, do I believe in demons and portals and time travel, I'd have to say no. But that pain and fear came from somewhere... I'd like you to come back in for regular sessions, if you're up for it; see if we can cut through the fantasy, see past the demons and find the real monsters who hurt you."

"That's why I'm not coming back." She stood, shaking her head a little. "I'm not surprised you don't believe me - I probably wouldn't believe it, myself, if I hadn't lived it - but it's a bit frustrating. What I told you isn't metaphors or delusion. It all happened, and I'm not interested in having someone rip it all apart and try to make me doubt my own memory."

"They call that 'gaslighting' these days."

Startled, the blonde whirled around to face the source of the new voice; a woman she sort of vaguely recognized was standing in the doorway, hand on the knob, smiling at her. After a long moment, her brain helpfully edited the image before her to make it make sense; wild red hair to dirty blonde, violet eyes to mismatched green and blue, face younger and body smaller and more plump. "...Beck?!"

Rebecca's smile widened and she stepped forward with a nod. "Hey, Andy."

"Oh my god!" With a laugh and a delighted screech, she launched herself across the room and threw her arms around her little sister. "What are you doing here?"

Nearly squeezing the breath out of her, the younger woman murmured, "I heard you were back and had to see you. Stand your ground, Andy. Don't let them make you forget or doubt that it was all real. We know the truth." She released her, only to bring her hands up to grip the sides of her sister's head. "Magic is real."

Rachel froze, staring at Rebecca's mouth long after it closed and the two long, wicked fangs that had drawn her attention were hidden from view. "...What happened to you?"

"Not here. I'll tell you everything, but not here."

"Okay." Without so much as a backward glance at the shrink, she followed the redhead out of the office, past their fretting parents, and out into the bright sunny day that made Rebecca hiss.

She cringed and immediately donned a beat-to-hell baseball cap and a pair of dark sunglasses. "Fuck, I hate sunny days."

"You always did." Rachel couldn't help smiling faintly; so many years had passed, more than anyone in the world around them could ever understand, and yet so little about her baby sister had changed.

"Yeah, well... I've only gotten more sensitive to it."

Once they'd made it deep enough into the woods behind the Industrial Park that there was no risk of anyone overhearing, they stopped, and Rachel asked her point blank: "You're a vampire, aren't you?"

Rebecca laughed, gratefully leaning back into the shade of the nearest tree. "Only in our lives is that a casual conversation starter. And yes. Thankfully I'm old enough that daylight won't kill me. It's just unpleasant."

With her own accidental time travel in mind, the blonde asked, "How old are you?" Thirty-seven, she knew, in the eyes of the people around them; to them, Rachel herself had only just turned thirty-nine, and yet both sisters looked at each other with exhausted, haunted eyes millennia older than they could ever hope to make anyone else understand.

"As a vampire, or in general?" She smirked, shrugging off her own question before her sister could answer. "In general is harder to pin down, but I've been a vampire for about six thousand years, give or take a few."

Leaning against a tree roughly opposite Rebecca's, Rachel mirrored her smirk and crossed her arms over her chest. "I was Queen of an entire planet, and then POW and slave on a second, then a fugitive... I managed to send my older daughter home, before I got stuck on a third planet with my boys and little girl. It's been about ten thousand years."

"You have kids?" Rebecca grinned, once again showing those distractingly long fangs. "Me, too! I have two daughters, Madeline and Alice."

"Senna, Kieran, Caspian, and...Cassie," Rachel told her in answer to her unspoken question. She couldn't help blushing as she listed her children's names; she'd since learned what senna was, and hadn't actually given her younger two children names beginning with the same sound on purpose. It had just sort of worked out that way.

"Twins?"

She shook her head. "Caspian's my stepson, kinda, and Cassie was named after-"

Rebecca flinched, remembering. "After Cassie Wade, right? I was so focused on figuring out what happened to you, and then fighting to survive, I'd forgotten she went missing with you."

"She..." Clearing her throat, the blonde squared her shoulders and pulled her strong front around herself like a familiar safety blanket. "She saved our lives; she didn't make it. And, yeah. I named my youngest after her. Anyway, they're all grown, and Kieran..." Jaw clenching, she forcibly dismissed thoughts of her rapist and merely said, "He's my perfect warrior prince. Well, King now. I love them all, and desperately miss Senna, but Kieran, despite his more questionable choices, has a special place in my heart."

Rebecca took her sunglasses off and studied her for a moment before venturing, "Y'know... I literally eat rapists for breakfast."

That got a startled bark of laughter from her big sister, who shook her head. "Even if my boy hadn't already killed him, I doubt his gross, rancid blood would sit well with you. He wasn't human."

The redhead shrugged, smirking again. "Doesn't have to be. I've eaten Fae, elves, one vampire that pissed me off royally..."

"Not such a picky eater anymore, huh?" she teased, grinning. "Was it some badass revenge on your sire or something?"

Laughing, Rebecca shook her head. "Nope, no sire. I'm the OG vampire, babe. The first of the species. My younger daughter, Alice, is the first of the natural born vamps."

"So, wait... You could still get pregnant after you were turned? What?" Rachel frowned, beyond confused. "And how the fuck...?"

"I'm not dead," her little sister explained with another laugh. "Everything's slowed way the hell down, but hasn't stopped. I can't have kids with a human, or probably most Fae, but a certain trickster God..."

"...God?"

She grinned and nodded, though her haunting violet eyes looked sad. "Loki. He's Alice's dad."

"Huh. So the Gods are real." Rachel snorted. "Go figure. And my sister banged one."

"I loved him," the other woman whispered, staring at the ground. She opened her mouth as if to speak further, then seemed to reconsider and closed it again, clearing her throat.

To spare her from some clearly painful memories, whatever they were, Rachel asked, "What's a Fae?"

"Fairy," was the simple enough answer. "Fairies are real, too. Maddie - my oldest - is Fae."

Is she Loki's, too? She didn't dare ask - Loki was clearly a touchy subject - but she was dying to know.

As if she could read her mind, Rebecca, still avoiding her gaze, explained, "I was still mortal when I had her. Her father was Fae."

As the light breeze shifted the leaves above them, making the light dance across Rebecca's ghostly white skin, Rachel finally noticed the scars. At first, they'd looked like tribal tattoos, done puzzlingly in a silvery-white. When she realized they were actually a complex web of ancient scars, she also noticed they covered every inch of her sister's flesh that she could see around her shorts and tank top. Her face was the only place free of the oddly beautiful swirling lines, though she did spot a faint scar on her forehead, running from hairline to cheekbone and through the outer edge of her eyebrow.

"Is Madeline's father why you hunt rapists?" Is he the one who tore you apart?

"He didn't rape me... Technically. But yes, he's the one who scarred me." At her startled look, Rebecca smirked; it utterly failed to reach her eyes, but it was a start. "I can read your mind. I'm trying not to - I find it unspeakably rude and invasive - but when you're actively thinking about me, it tends to cut through my shields. The scars are from a spell he worked on me; blood magic. It's what made Maddie's conception possible, and chained me to him for years."

"Kieran's father was my greatest enemy; Crown Prince of the people who'd been attacking and slaughtering mine. King by the time I escaped." She didn't know what made her suddenly share this, but it felt like the thing to do. Her sister had told her something deeply personal and troubling; it seemed only right to meet candor with candor. Besides, Rachel and Rebecca had been two peas in a pod as children, as close as two sisters could possibly be. There was no amount of time that could strain their relationship. "I was captured in battle and kept as a slave for around a year and a half."

"How did the other three come about?" She smirked again, shoving her wild red hair back off her face impatiently. "Even when we were kids, I'd have bet just about anything that you're gayer than a rainbow, so how do you have so many kids?"

Rachel laughed, rolling her eyes. "Political marriage gave me Senna - born in a dungeon, thanks to me being pregnant during the battle and not knowing it yet. She was smuggled home to her father after she was born. I made a friend in that Hellhole, Emil, and he'd been raising Caspian; he's not his biological father, but that never mattered, just like it didn't matter to me that I didn't give birth to him. That boy's just as much my son as Kieran. We were supposed to go back to my home when we escaped, but something went screwy and we ended up on Achlys, instead, where I met my girlfriend and we all decided to just settle and raise the boys."

"So you cheated on your husband?" Rebecca's grin was teasing - and, thank god, reached her eyes at last! - but Rachel still threw an acorn at her when she said, "You whore!"

"I never saw him again! And he wouldn't have given a shit," she explained with a laugh. "I was, like, his third or fourth wife. And like I said, it was purely political; I was Queen, he was my advisor, he wanted power and I wanted an heir. Enter Senna, who boosted Raziel from random noble to father of the next Queen, and assured that there would be someone to take the reins if I died."

"So..." Her sister began ticking points off on her fingers as she spoke. "Shrewd political moves gave you Senna, you're co-parenting Caspian with a friend, we won't speak of Kieran's origins... How and why was Cassie a thing?"

Rachel shook her head, gaping at her. "A thing? That's nice, Beck. Real nice."

"Gods, you've missed so many cultural shifts, dude." Rebecca shook her head right back, trying not to laugh at her. "Just answer the question, old lady."

"Emil and I, and my girlfriend Trinity, all talked and decided to hell with conventionality; we all love each other, so we'll all be together. Em's my exception, I guess; the only man I've ever been attracted to even after seeing him naked. Our boys were grown, Senna was long gone, we'd made a whole new life for ourselves, so we decided to have another baby. Enter Cassie." Rachel sighed, staring off into space. "And now she's grown, Kieran's back in that awful place trying to turn it around, married to a great girl, Caspian's there with them to help..."

Though she had a feeling she knew the answer, the vampire asked softly, "And your lovers?"

"...Dead. Cassie - Cassie Wade, I mean - died in prison, Trin and Em were killed in the second war." A bitter smirk tugged at the corners of her lips. "Kieran and Cas are running a third."

"There's always another fucking war," Rebecca grumbled. "I've watched so many of them come and go, fought in two, myself... It never really ends."

[raffinit]

5 Mythology? For Sylvaina. The prophecy said, so Person A and Person B are to be hitched!

this one got away from me a little bit i apologise

@skwiyhedd​

The first time Jaina ever caught wind of the prophecy was as a child; barely into her tweens, poring over dusty tomes in the highest shelves of the library. Books that most had forgotten even existed except for the librarians who were about as old and dusty as the books themselves. Jaina rather enjoyed spending time in the library. If not for the quiet, yellowy warmth it gave her, then for the stories Old Ned would tell her.

“There was a prophecy,” he said one day, tome spread open in his lap. He pointed one weathered finger at an image Jaina could barely make out; carefully etched in inks over parchment, faded over time and wear. An outline of the sun and the moon, the land and the sea. A tree outlined in flames and a throne of ice. “Eons old; some say older than time itself. A warrior —” Old Ned pointed to another picture, a figure in black ink whose edges frayed with time into a deep maroon and purple. Its upturned face smudged with age as if black tears ran freely from it. “— destined for Death. But Risen again from his grave with vengeance in his heart to burn the living to ashes with him.”

“How cruel,” Jaina remembered saying. “How heartless.”

Old Ned smiled at her patiently and gestured to her chest. “It’s always a matter of heart, my girl. See here —” He led her eyes down to the picture directly across the one of the warrior; a frozen throne and the warrior standing before it, beside another figure, unidentifiable.

She peered at it curiously. “Who is that?”

“No one knows. The prophecy spoke of another; a master of the elements. Someone with a lion heart strong enough to tame the wild fire of the warrior. She gave her heart to him and they ruled the land together, in peace, for ages to come.”

“But —”

The sound of the library doors creaking open made them both look up abruptly.

“There you are,” Jaina’s mother huffed. “Come along for your lessons, dear. Leave poor Old Ned in peace.”

Old Ned chuckled, shutting the tome as he rose on slow, aching feet. “No harm done, m’lady. The young Lady Proudmoore is always welcome here.”

“I want to hear more about the prophecy,” she begged, but Old Ned had simply pet her hair and sent her away.

“Another time,” he promised her. “Another day.”

When she asked her mother of it, Katherine scoffed. “It’s nothing more than fairy tales, dear. Children’s stories. Let it out of your mind.”

Jaina frowned, but the thought was fleeting in her youth at the prospect of magic lessons.

--------

The next time she heard of the prophecy was in passing; a derogatory remark made during a lesson in Dalaran. Second-year students in a cluster in the back of the class. “Pah,” the ringleader said. “Prophecies are nothing more than fantasies. Fairy tales people tell themselves to make themselves feel important.”

Jaina rolled her eyes and continued reading. They were meant to transcribe the Old Language; not whinge about it. The syntax was convoluted, but its grammar was similar enough to her encounters with the Elven languages for her to piece it together. “The pronouns are all wrong,” she told the archmage. “This translation for the words aren’t gender-specific. Even modern Thalassian and Elvish use neutral pronouns.”

The archmage peered at the book over her shoulder. “So it would appear. Translations aren’t always meant to be taken literally, Lady Proudmoore. Especially of such ancient tongues. The point of the exercise is to extract meaning, not nitpick.”

There was a snicker from the back of the class, and Jaina gave them all a withering glare.

“It’s wrong,” she said stoutly, looking the archmage in the eye. “The language is wrong. I can’t extract meaning if it’s telling me the wrong things.”

She earned two hours of detention with the archmage that day for her efforts. It was soon lost to the rest of her memories of Dalaran when the Scourge swept across the land.

-------

The last and most prominent time the prophecy came to light was late in the evening. When the day swept away into twilight and the stars scattered across the sky in a blanket murky light. It came at the hands of Thalyssra of all people — encased within a tome she had a distant memory of encountering.

“Forgive me for disturbing you so late in the evening,” Thalyssra murmured. There was a strange, pressing sense of urgency to her that prickled the nerves in Jaina’s spine. “But I had to show this to you.”

She brandished the tome, laying it open on Jaina’s desk until it came upon a page with two images. The warrior and the throne.

Thalyssra pointed at the figure beside the warrior, though her eyes were staring intently at Jaina. “That’s you.”

Jaina blinked. “What?”

“That’s you,” Thalyssra repeated, with rising excitement. “I remembered many years ago; centuries past when this prophecy was told. A warrior raised from the dead, vengeance in their heart — a master of the elements who could heal it —”

“That’s ridiculous,” she sputtered, reaching out to shut the tome. “Utter nonsense! Prophecies are just fairy tales, Thalyssra. Old wives’ tales.”

The night elf gestured towards portions of the book, flipping between pages eagerly. “Look, here — ‘arose in the sky, a flame so mighty; the roots of life burn’. That’s Teldrassil!” she exclaimed. “And here — ‘what melody rose from depths of black; the waters moved and the dead slept’. That’s you!”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” she insisted, yanking the book over to her and frantically skimming the page. “No, see — that bloody translation is wrong.”

“I think I’d know better than you would,” Thalyssra replied, not unkindly. “I checked and triple-checked. Even Liadrin agrees —”

Jaina shook her head incredulously. “Liadrin? What does Liadrin have to do with this?”

“She is closer to Sylvanas than either of us — I needed her assistance in speaking with the Banshee Queen —”

There was a knock at the door, quiet and discreet. Thalyssra’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that should be them.”

“Wh—” Jaina’s mind reeled. What did that even mean for them? Short of the thought being absolutely ridiculous, unfathomable, unprecedented — all those things — what the hell was she meant to do with the information? “Wait a minute, wait a damn minute —”

But Thalyssra would not. She moved to the door and pulled it open. Liadrin slipped in quickly, followed by a significantly less eager and wary Sylvanas Windrunner.

“Oh good,” Liadrin said, jerking her chin at the tome on the desk. “You’ve brought her up to speed. That’s half of the job done.”

Sylvanas eyed her warily from across the room, red eyes flicking to the tome and then back to her. “Proudmoore. I see they’ve roped you into this madness as well.”

“I’m honestly more surprised they roped you into it,” she replied, mostly without thought, because rational thought didn’t seem to go very far in that moment. “You seem to be the most sensible one here. What the fuck is happening right now?”

Liadrin answered for the Warchief, which in any other situation would have surprised Jaina. “We need you to get married. Yesterday would have been ideal, but we’ll take what we can get.”

Jaina stared in alarm. “Excuse me?”

“Married. Hitched. Espoused.” Liadrin waved a hand impatiently. “Whichever you prefer. The prophecy insists.”

“What bloody prophecy —”

“The prophecy of the warrior and the mage,” Sylvanas intoned quietly, looking equally at a loss. It was the most emotive Jaina had ever seen her. “The prophecy spoke of the End of Days; the rise of a dark power and a frozen throne. Everything that’s happened so far has come true. More or less. They seem to be convinced that if you and I...join...it would bring the prophecy to full circle.”

“And we all won’t die,” Liadrin added.

Jaina opened her mouth to protest, but no sound would come forth but for a strangled choke. She stared at Sylvanas for some sort of indication; to see the sneering smirk and cruel eyes or a deeply-rooted boredness. Something other than the grimness that set the Queen’s brow into a furrow and her lips into a thin line.

“Tides,” she gasped. “You actually believe them.”

“What choice do I have?” Sylvanas snapped, bridling with irritation. “I was coerced into coming here —”

“You knew exactly where we were going. I saw you quicken your step —”

“Regardless,” Sylvanas bit out, glaring at Liadrin. “We have nothing more to lose.” She looked at Jaina then, expectant and almost...unsure. “What say you, Lord Admiral? If we wed and it works, then that is all. If we do and it fails, it can be annulled. Simple as that.”

Thalyssra made a quiet little exclamation. “Oh, we must plan the wedding!”

“She hasn’t even said yes!” Liadrin gestured to Sylvanas. “Kneel, damn it. Do it properly.”

Jaina stared at them all, at Sylvanas, when the Warchief knelt upon a knee before her. A sudden rush of sensations made her sway in place.

“Don’t embarrass me, Proudmoore,” Sylvanas mumbled, glaring up at her. “I won’t debase myself further.”

“You need to ask her, you twit,” Liadrin scoffed, and Jaina marvelled at the absolute tolerance for the disrespect as Sylvanas gritted her teeth and growled in response.

“There’s no need,” Jaina blurted. “Don’t — it’s fine. I —” Tides below and Light above, what the hell was she even doing? 

“I accept.”

[laschatzi]

The Past And All Its Scars

A post 6x17 fix-it fic from me, because I think Killian was treated a bit poorly throughout season 6, and he deserved a little more than being forgiven.

title: The Past And All Its Scars

summary: After his return from Neverland, Killian finds that Emma has already packed away his belongings, and he’s upset. So much for always believing the best in him.

word count: ~7,4k

rating: G and A for... angst? The hell am I doing??

also on: ff.net and ao3

Despite them having been under a sleeping curse for weeks, the spontaneous celebration for the happy breaking of that curse with the participation of basically the whole town exhausts David and Snow. Taking turns in cuddling their baby son throughout the evening, they are heading home soon, making up for lost family and couple time.

Emma and Killian don't stay at Granny's much longer either; they, too, feel the need to retire to their private bubble of happiness, at least for a bit (because obviously, they will have to face an ominous final battle, whatever that means), after all the emotional turmoil of the past weeks and especially the past days' separation. Without needing to talk about it, Henry simply hugs them goodnight and says he'll be at Regina's for a few days, not before whispering to his soon-to-be stepfather, “I knew you'd be back.” A warm wave of happiness washes over him at that display of trust from the lad.

At home, Killian insists he needs a shower to scrub Neverland off of his skin, but Emma just changes into her pajama pants and is humming contentedly while she brushes her hair and ties it into a loose ponytail. With an incredulous smile on her face she looks at the ring on her left ring finger and touches the diamond almost reverently, admiring the way it catches the dim light of the bed stand lamps and turns it into something pure and blinding. Just like the love she feels in her heart and soul for that man in the bathroom she's so endlessly grateful for having back. Happy tears well up in her eyes, and she thinks how lucky she is that she managed to find him and bring him back with her again (for the umpteenth time, honestly, she's lost count), and that their reunion was perfect, that they did it the right way this time, without barriers and secrets.

She hears that the water in the bathroom is turned off and smiles in eager anticipation that he'll be with her soon, looking forward to snuggle up to him and feel him near after the last few horrible nights alone that almost cost her sanity. A shiver runs down her spine at the memory, and she lifts her shoulders in a gesture of self-protection without even noticing. Quickly, she walks over to the large bed and pulls back the comforter, ready to slip into the warmth.

The bathroom door opens, letting out a little cloud of scented steam, and Killian appears in the doorway, clad only in a fluffy white towel slung around his hips. Suddenly, the temperature in the bedroom rises a few degrees. His hair is still damp from the shower and wildly sticking out in every direction, like always looking black as a raven's wings when it's wet. He frowns in in confusion, and even if she's drop dead tired, she has to fight the urge to jump him. She licks her lips subconsciously.

“Emma, this is weird,” he says, “but I can't find my razor.”

That is weird indeed, because usually she's the one to misplace things, whereas Killian – no surprise there, to be honest – is the neat one whose stuff is always orderly. And really, how would he misplace such a huge thing like the impressive, ancient cut-throat razor he uses to keep his scruff trimmed and as irresistible as it is.

She shrugs at first. “I don't...” Suddenly, she falls silent when it hits her, a feeling of dread piercing her gut. Because she remembers now, all too vividly, why Killian's razor isn't in the place where it belongs and where it's always been since he moved in with her. He tilts his head, brow still furrowed, while he waits patiently for her to continue – because judging from her reaction, he can clearly see that something's off. “Uh... I think it's... it's in your chest,” she offers and licks her lips nervously.

Killian just raises one eyebrow. He's never been slow on the uptake, unless he's dealing with some weird 21st Century contraption. Right now, he understands right away what her stammered explanation means, especially in combination with that conscience-stricken look on her face, but he decides not to comment on it – yet. Glancing around he quickly scans the room before his eyes come to rest upon Emma's flaming face again. “And where might my chest be?” he asks in a controlled voice.

She squirms under his scrutiny and curls her toes in her fluffy socks, pressing them into the hardwood floor. “Uhm I think it's...” Subconsciously, the fingers of her right hand  start to twist the ring on her left, clutching it firmly between thumb and index finger. She draws a deep breath. “You see, I thought...” But her mind is blank, can't come up with an explanation or even an excuse for what she's done. “It's downstairs,” she finally admits in a small voice.

“Downstairs.” he echoes, his voice incredulous and grave.

She could slap herself for not thinking about moving his things back to their bedroom before, right after she'd learned that he hadn't left her and was doing everything he could to fight his way back to her. But ever since then things had gone all upside down with a new catastrophe nearly every hour, she had to worry about Gideon, about her parents and the evil Evil Queen, and with Killian being separated from her she nearly lost her mind, so she simply forgot about it. She had the shell phone, and that was enough. Now she deeply regrets it, but he'll surely understand, he always does. “Killian, you were gone,” she argues, “and I–”

Killian holds up his finger, and the words get stuck in her dry throat. “Wait. Just so I understand this.” He narrows his eyes, and her heart sinks when she feels the anger radiating off him. “I was gone for two days,” he growls in a rising voice, “and you stowed away my belongings and took them out like waste?“ The last word comes out as sharp as the missing razor blade, and Emma flinches at the sound of it.

Deathly, deafening silence descends heavily upon them, and while dread settles low in her belly, Emma searches her mind for words that make sense, but all she can do is go into defense; all her energy seems to have been drained from her, and it takes every little bit she has left to attempt to just keep breathing, somehow.

“It wasn't like that!” she finally claims tonelessly, frantically trying to scramble together her whirling thoughts. Her eyes, wide like tea cups, are fixed on him, desperately searching for a hint, a sign that he believes, that he understands her, like he always has – how many times has he told her that she's an open book to him, for fuck's sake? He will now, won't he? He needs to understand what she went through, that it was just a knee-jerk reaction, born from her stupid fear and the immense heartbreak...

“Two days, Emma!” he repeats and slowly shakes his head, clearly shocked. His voice is very quiet now, seemingly bare of any anger, and that really terrifies her. Like in slow motion, she sees his Adam's apple bob when he swallows before asking incredulously, "Am I really that easy to move on from?” The telltale muscle in his jaw clenches, a sure sign of his inner uproar.

“Easy?!” she gasps, feeling sucker-punched. That's what he thinks?! “It wasn't easy!” she protests and feels the tears sting in her eyes again, but they're not happy tears this time. “It nearly destroyed me!” she continues, her voice on the verge of breaking. “But I thought you'd left me, it was like a déjà-vû of–”

“Yes, I know, Emma,” Killian cuts her off almost briskly. “I know you've been abandoned way too often, and you lost everyone. I know.” Absentmindedly, he rubs his hand over his stump in a slow, circular motion, like he often does to smooth out the faint marks left by the leather sheath of the hook. “My own father sold me and Liam into servitude when we were children, so he could flee from justice for his misdeeds,” he recalls in a crisp voice, his gaze drifting into the void for a moment, before he focuses on her again. “My brother managed to save us from that hell only when we were grown men, and shortly after that, he died in my arms.” A faint tremble in his voice shows how painful the memory still is and always will be. “So did a woman I loved,” he continues, “and after that, for centuries I had no one to care if I lived or died. So yes, I bloody know what it means to be alone in this world.” With his last words, his voice rises, the anger back for a moment, before he exhales slowly, deliberately through his nose and swallows. “I just...” He snorts a sad little laugh and tilts his head. “I just hoped that I'd never have to feel like that again.”

His words cut her to the marrow, almost paralyze her – because, honestly, what can she say? With sheer willpower Emma keeps the tears from falling, not wanting him to think she uses them to mellow his anger or manipulate him into empathizing with her. So, they're choking her voice instead. “I'm so sorry, Killian,” she barely manages to get out, taking a tentative step in his direction and raising her hand as if she's about to reach out for him, “that's all I can say.” When he doesn't reply and doesn't make a move to step closer to her, she pulls her hand back and clutches the ring again between her fingers. “Do you... do you want me to give the ring back?” she asks tonelessly.

“What?!” he snaps and narrows his eyes in disbelief. “Hell, no, I don't want you to give the ring back!” He rakes his fingers through his still damp hair, disheveling it even more, the angry spikes mirroring his mood, clearly. “Remember, a few hours ago I promised you I'd always be by your side?” he reminds her, and stern, acid sarcasm seeps into his voice as he tilts his head to the right. “Well, surprise, the pirate meant what he said.” His words sting, as if he slapped her, and Emma has the impulse to fire back how unfair he's being, because he damn well knows she stopped treating him like an untrustworthy pirate a long eternity ago, and since then, she has never acted like... like... like she was seeing the worst in him. Her shoulders slump a little, and she averts her eyes when she realizes that she's done exactly that.

In a sudden move that makes her almost jump out of her skin, Killian snatches her hand with the ring and holds it up between them. “With this ring, with me offering it to you and you letting me put it on your finger, we made a commitment to each other,” he clarifies, “and for me it's worth as much as a marital vow itself. We can't renounce that every time things get a little rocky or don't go like we expect.” His voice has softened the tiniest bit now, and he lets go of her hand. “That's not how it works, Swan.” He sounds more disappointed and sad than angry now, and that's even worse – she can handle him being furious at her, but seeing him so raw and hurt and knowing she's responsible for it... that's almost more than she can handle. She's unable to reply and just looks at him in pain. He sighs and squares his shoulders. “If you excuse me, I'll just go and retrieve my things.”

He turns around and leaves the bedroom while she's left standing in the middle of the room like someone who's utterly lost. He doesn't slam the door behind him, it's more of a quiet, determined click, and Emma finds that almost even more devastating. She resists the urge to run after him, to stop him, because, she tells herself, there's nothing to worry about. Oh, she knows she screwed up, badly, and she knows they'll need to work through this, really work through it, and not just ignore it. She knows she's hurt him and disappointed him, and he's angry, but he's not gonna leave her – he's not. He didn't ask the ring back, he sticks to his commitment. That's more, an evil little voice whispers in her head, than you were willing to do for him. No, he's not gonna leave. He's just going downstairs to look for his chest.

When Killian comes back, balancing his chest on his left forearm and steadying it with his hand, his spontaneous fury has boiled down again, but the anger and disappointment are bitterly simmering low in his stomach. His gaze falls upon Emma, she's sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to the door, and she doesn't turn around when he enters the room. But he can clearly see how her shoulders sag a little in relief, as if a heavy weight falls from her, and he knows: She's relieved that he's come back, that he hasn't left the house. It makes him even angrier that she still even contemplated this, and he has the momentary urge to lash out at her again with some sarcastic remark, but then he notices how fragile she looks, even if he can't see her face. Ruefully, he decides not to let his momentary ire get the better of him and make him say something he'd regret, and so he lets it pass and just quietly returns to the bathroom.

Meticulously, he trims his beard, and the controlled, practiced movements help him to put some order into his thoughts and, which is far more difficult, into his feelings. The routine calms him down and keeps his emotions from overwhelming him, even if that's hard.

That evening, when she walked in on him as he was trying to burn the dream catcher, and his dirty, despicable secret came out, he was far too overcome by his own guilt and self-loathe to feel anything else – but deep down, it kept nagging at him like a poisonous vermin: she had refused to hear him out, refused to even try to understand him, understand where he came from and why he'd wanted to erase his own memories. She'd accused him of not trusting her, of not trusting in them to overcome this together... when it had all been a problem of him not trusting himself, not trusting that he ever could be that man she deserved, because every time he thought that maybe, just maybe he was getting there, something happened to painfully remind him of the pure evil he was capable of, and it just killed him. Afraid that he would never be free of the man he'd been for a long time, he'd thought it was better to just erase the memories of him.

A bad decision, he knows that now, but in that moment, he just wanted to forget, he couldn't bear to destroy the happiness that was radiating off her ever since he'd put that ring on her finger. But Emma couldn't understand – and what was worse, she didn't even try to. She had once said to him she'd always choose to see the best in him, but in one of his darkest moments, when he'd have so desperately needed someone to tell him they believed in him, when he himself couldn't, she chose to see the worst. She chose to accuse him of not trusting her, chose to send him away. And when he didn't return to her when she'd expected him to, she chose to see the worst again, disappointingly ready to believe he'd abandoned her like everyone else had, and she simply erased every trace of him in her life, as if he'd never existed. Oh, he doesn't doubt that it pained her to pack away his belongings, but obviously she didn't even contemplate the possibility that something had to be wrong – the thought that he would rather die than willingly leave her, didn't even cross her mind.

And that bloody hurts like a bitch.

Killian almost cuts himself when he clenches his jaw involuntarily, and he quickly finishes the deed, as the exhaustion from his latest travel through various realms is starting to kick in. Thankfully, the physical debilitation helps to numb the emotional uproar, and finally he puts on a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt and opens the door again. Reluctantly, he admits to himself that he's been avoiding returning to the bedroom for as long as possible, since he wasn't ready to face Emma's presence yet – he isn't, actually. Isn't ready to hear more explanations from her – excuses, whispers a tiny voice in his head – nor see pain and tears of self-deprecation on her face. He doesn't want that for her, she's suffered enough, and he doesn't want her begging for his forgiveness either, because it's pointless – of course he's going to forgive her, but he isn't ready to soothe her pain just yet; it might be selfish of him, but he feels the need to indulge in licking his own wounds for a bit first.  

The bedroom is only dimly lit by the lamp on his bed stand; Emma's obviously left it on for him. She seems to be already asleep, or she pretends to be. Her back is turned on him, and she doesn't give any sign that she hears him walking through the room or feels the shifting of the mattress when he climbs in bed.

Killian looks at her back and sighs, on the verge of being overwhelmed by his feelings again. He's still hurt, of course, and yes, also angry – but his love for this woman, it's ingrained in the very core of his being, he loves her so much... and he understands. Yes, he understands what went on in her mind and in her heart in those moments. The walls she once had – he's brought them down, made them crumble to dust, but... he remembers what he himself told her once, that those wounds inflicted on people when they're young, they tend to linger. His own, bitter experience had spoken from him then – and he knows now they both have made the mistake to just pretend all their traumas never happened. Alas, ignoring them could not erase them, because they have left an entire map of scars and need mending and healing. And this is something they need to do individually, but also together.

She's rolled into a miserable ball almost at the edge of the mattress… as if she's deliberately putting distance between them, as if she's trying to give him space – or as if she's afraid he might shy back from her, show rejection. He sighs again and slides close to her, and after the tiniest hesitation he wraps his right arm around her from behind, spooning her like they do so often. He notices that she clutches her hand with the ring with her other hand, and his chest clenches painfully. He puts his hand on top of hers, his fingers cradling hers, and she seems to relax the slightest bit against his body, painfully sighing in her sleep, murmuring his name like a prayer.

He tries not to think about her lying alone in this bed, their bed, crying herself to sleep and thinking she might never see him again – for whatever reason. He's had enough pain for today, for both of them, and he murmurs “I love you” into her hair before the sheer exhaustion overtakes him and he falls asleep.

***

When Emma wakes up the next day, it's almost noon, and a cold hand grips her heart as she finds the bed beside her empty. Her eyes scan the room in alarm, and she immediately spots the folded note on her bedside table. I'm on my ship, it reads in Killian's old-fashioned, bold and elegant handwriting, I'll be back in a few hours.

She sighs and drops the note on the sheet, rubbing her hands over her face, covering her eyes as the full impact of what happened last night hits her. Without being aware of it, the fingers of her right hand find the diamond ring on her left and start to rub the golden band, its smooth texture soothing her aching troubled soul a little. She knows that it's time they really work through this – which they should have done way earlier, she knows that, too. All the things that have happened to them, that have been happening constantly since they became a couple – they have never dealt with any of it in a healthy way. Mostly because there was never time for that before the next disaster came along, and in the brief moments of peace it was just all too tempting to simply try to enjoy those occasions, live those moments. But all those terrible things – the loss of Killian's heart and almost death at the hand of Gold, Emma taking the darkness and then infecting Killian with it to save his life, the hurt they inflicted on each other while being possessed by it, Emma freaking having to kill him and then following him into the Underworld, losing him again and again, enduring separation after separation... these things actually happened, and both of them just ignored them, just carried on, carrying invisible burdens that would have broken and destroyed others a long time ago.

Over a very short frame of time, they both have kept secrets from each other, outright lied to each other, and she realizes now that this could only happen because they both have never really tried to actually deal with their traumatic experiences instead of just glossing them over. Emma didn't tell him about the shears of destiny, because she was so used to always having to deal with problems on her own.

And Killian's hiding of the truth... she understands now that his initial hesitation to tell her about his discovery of the murder of David's father right away had nothing to do with him not trusting her or not trusting in their love or being afraid of her family's reaction. No, it was all about him: he just had started to believe in and forgive himself, accepted that he'd left his nefarious past behind and become the man he'd always wanted to be. Learning what he'd done to David's father was like a flashing signal to him that he'd never be able to escape his past, that it would always be there and come back to haunt him.

He was trying to figure out how he'd be able to live with that memory and with himself, and in his very own knee-jerk reaction he'd come to the conclusion that he just couldn't bear to live with the knowledge of what he'd done, and so he tried to erase the memories of his ruthless act.

For the first time, Emma understands what her immediate reaction had really done to him: he'd never really felt worthy before anyway, that had always been his trauma – just like her fear of abandonment had been hers – and with her reaction, her sending him away when he'd needed her reassurance the most, she had confirmed what he thought he'd always known: that he just wasn't worthy.

And whereas in the most desperate times he'd assured her that he loved her, no matter what she'd done and that he'd never stop fighting for them, she'd sent him away to sort out his problems on his own and by himself. She'd promised him to always choose to see the best in him, and instead she'd jumped to believe the worst. Twice. First, when she'd accused him of not trusting in their love, and a second time when she was ready to believe he'd just packed up and left her. Like Killian Jones had ever left her since the day he'd admitted that he'd just needed reminding that he could care for someone else.

Words echo through the back of her head, spoken some time ago, spat almost... words full of malice, aimed to hurt, yet spoken by a beloved voice...

You're so afraid of losing the people that you love that you push them away...You don't need some villain swooping in to destroy your happiness, you do that quite well all on your own.

What he threw at her when he had given into the darkness she'd forced upon him was painfully true then and seems to be dangerously close to the truth even now. Those damn fears she thought she'd overcome, they raised their ugly head again when she least expected it, and now she wonders if she ever will be able to get the better of them.

Emma sighs and swings her legs out of bed, fighting the urge to go and find Killian, talk to him. She knows he needs a bit of time and space to process his own feelings, and his ship is the best place to soothe his soul, or so she hopes. She can't run after him now and maybe let him think she's doubting him again. And she isn't. He told her he'd be back soon, and he will be. Surprise, the pirate meant what he said. His sarcastic words from the previous evening weren't much less hurtful than those spoken by The Dark One Killian Jones, but they were not filled with much spite – this time, it was more pain and disappointment that rang in his words.

All she can do now, anyway, is fight the anxiety and wait. So, she forces herself to get up and go to the bathroom to take a shower, take care of herself, soothe her nerves with everyday routine. She gets a bit calmer as the hot water rains down on her. What does Killian always tell her, basically since she's met him? You can do this. She knows she can. She can work through this and work her way back to him. She knows he will not make it unnecessarily hard for her, because he loves her.

When she's ready and finally leaves their bedroom to face whatever the day (well, the rest of it) will bring, the warm scent of coffee fills her nose, and her heartbeat picks up a beat. She hurries down the stairs and slows down only when she's crossed the hall and has almost reached the kitchen door. Stopping for a second, she draws a deep breath before she enters.

Killian is standing at the kitchen counter and turns around when he hears her, a steaming mug in his hand. He doesn't smile, but the expression on his face is soft and open.

Without being aware of it, she raises her shoulders a little, a self-protective gesture, and smiles nervously, hopefully. “Hi,” she greets him tentatively.

“Hey,” he replies, and she's relieved to hear his voice isn't cold or curt, there's no distance in it, not even a trace of rejection. He puts the coffee mug on the table and gestures a vague invitation in her direction. “Here. I thought you could use it.”

“Thank you.” She steps nearer and takes the cup with the steaming beverage in her hands, but doesn't sit down.

“I went to see your father,” Killian explains and runs his hand through his hair. “Felt like I should... talk to him.”

“And?” she asks, not really anxious about his answer on that one. She knows that her father has made up his mind about the tragic events of the past.

He tilts his head. “You were right,” he just replies and averts his eyes for a moment.

Emma's heart grows heavy. “Killian, can we–“

“Care for a walk?” he interrupts almost brightly and raises his eyebrows in question.

“Uh... yeah, sure,” she answers, thrown off track a little and confused, because she didn't expect him to avoid a conversation; but then, maybe, he isn't trying to. A walk seems like a good occasion to talk, especially if they're heading to the docks, like she suspects they will be. The horizon, she thinks. Yes, that's a good idea. The fine skin around his eyes crinkles the tiniest bit in the hint of that special smile that's reserved only for her, and he tilts his head in an encouraging nod. Her heart is a little lighter, and coffee, still untouched, is forgotten immediately.

Quickly, she puts on her boots and deliberately leaves the red leather jacket in the closet, choosing  the soft, sandy brown one instead. It's the one she was wearing when she opened up to him about her feelings towards him for the first time, when she told him that she couldn't lose him, too.

After the first few steps, she tentatively laces her arm through his. He doesn't pull away, of course he doesn't, but nevertheless she breathes out a quiet sigh of relief when she feels the muscles of his forearm tense and trap her hand between his elbow and his ribs. Instinctively, she doesn't start a conversation but lets them adjust to just being close like that again. Some sort of tension is still unmistakably there, but she can almost physically sense it dissolve a little.

Just when she finally feels they've waited long enough, and thinks now the moment's right to start talking, she realizes where they've been heading: of all places, they have ended up at the cemetery. While she's still trying to process what's going on and to find a way to start, her eyes widen in dread: Killian has led their path to the very place where she once – not long ago – had to bury him. The stone with the inscription of his name has been removed, thankfully, but the sensation of standing here is still eerie, painful. Her mouth is dry all of a sudden, and she has to swallow before she is capable of getting out a single word.

“Killian, why are we here?” she asks tonelessly and pulls her hand away from his arm, instinctively rubbing her own arms with both hands to warm her for the chill that comes from her very marrow.

Killian steps in front of her, facing her and thankfully obstructing her view on his former grave. “Do you remember when I came back?” he returns the question instead of giving an answer.

Emma looks at him, bewildered. What kind of question is that even? How could she ever forget any of that ordeal? “Of course I remember,” she replies in a shaky voice, not knowing where he's aiming at.

“So you know that the ruler of all the Gods sent me back here, right?” he continues. “He told me he'd send me where I belonged.” He tilts his head, his eyes searching hers, his intense gaze capturing hers, burning right into her heart and down to the bottom of her soul. “But he didn't send me just anywhere in Storybrooke,” he points out and reaches for her hand, “he dropped me off right here in front of you, because that is exactly where I belong – not just here, but here with you.” The telltale muscle in his jaw twitches, and he raises his eyebrows, giving her an encouraging nod.

“I know that!” she exclaims and squeezes his fingers, so grateful for the long desired contact of skin on skin. “I know you'd never leave me,” she affirms, “I know it in my head, I know it in my heart – hell, I even know it in my guts!” The wind blows a strand of her hair into her eyes, and she furiously combs it away, wishing for nothing to break the eye contact with Killian, because she needs him to understand, even if it's so hard, barely possible for herself to understand. She starts to nervously shift her weight from one foot to the other. “But then... suddenly, out of the blue, there's this fear,” she shakes her head, her gaze wandering around, trying to find an explanation somewhere, where her mind can't, “and it feels like it's invading me, eating me up, like a fucking parasite...” her voice drifts off, and her panicked eyes fly back to his. “And there's nothing I can do about it!”

Killian nods and takes a step nearer, invading her personal space, and that old habit of his has the effect on her it's always had: it calms her down, immediately. “I know what you mean, love, believe me,” he replies in a controlled, calm tone. “I really started to feel like I was... on the right side,” he tells her, and she frowns in confusion. “Part of the heroes. But then...” he looks down on their joined hands and swallows. “I fell back into the darkness in a matter of moments.” Emma opens her mouth to protest, but he quickly cuts her off, “Yes, I know, in the end I was stronger, but only when it was almost too late.” She lets out a shaky, broken sigh when she remembers once more the moment of his sacrifice. He tilts his head in the direction of his former grave. “But apparently, it was enough to earn me a second chance, in spite of the life I'd led.” His shoulders sag a little, as if a huge weight is pressing on him, bringing him down. “And yet, when I learned what I'd done to your grandfather...” He lets his voice trail off and shakes his head.

She squeezes his hand even harder than before, ignoring the pain in her fingers when his rings press into her flesh. “You didn't know–“

“Emma,” he interrupts firmly, “I killed an innocent man without a second thought when I didn't have to, and I bloody well knew it.” She doesn't know what to say, because he's right, of course. She's seen it in the memories he tried to destroy, and what she saw was cold-blooded murder, nothing to justify that. “But you were right,” he goes on after a moment, “your father didn't even have to think twice before he forgave me. It's just that...” He looks down at their hands again and rubs his ringed thumb over her knuckles. “I'm not there yet,” he says finally and tilts his head in a shrug. “I can't forgive myself.” He draws a deep breath and looks up at her again, a sad smile tentatively lifting the corners of his beautiful, sorrowful mouth. “But I will, eventually. It just takes time.”

Emma feels hot, bitter tears sting in the corners of her eyes, and finally she speaks the words he needs to hear so badly, the words he needed to hear from her on that fateful evening. “Killian, you're not alone. I promise.”

He nods once, almost solemnly, and his eyes glitter for a second before he blinks his tears away. “I guess that's something we both still have to learn.”

She doesn't know what to say, so she just holds on to him, reaching out for his hook with her right hand. He smiles briefly when he notices and asks softly, “Do you want to go see your parents? Make up for lost time?”

“Not with them,” she replies immediately, “not today. I want to make up for lost time with you, and I'm not yet ready to share.”

That touches him, and secretly, he's glad about it. They do need a bit of time to themselves, and for once, today's the day when they just take that time, Black Fairy and Final Battle be damned. So, they walk around and spend some time at the docks, have a light super-late lunch or super-early dinner at Granny's and then walk home again through a for once quiet town. It's not that they talk much, but that's okay; their souls connect, and their hearts are opening up to each other. It's a start, one step at a time.

Afterwards, they get home to a quiet, empty house, and Emma feels a little guilty that she's relieved, but again, she's determined to take that time. Because she knows, sometimes a Savior needs to save themselves first.

When they get ready for bed, Killian takes off his hook and its brace and sets it aside to its usual place on the bedside table, and the familiar, domestic gesture finally makes Emma crumble. While she watches him, she realizes how close she was to losing him again, and how it was – at least partly – her fault that he was at the wrong place in the wrong time. Hadn't she sent him away, Gideon could never have arranged for him to be carried away to another realm.

Killian turns around when he hears her choked, shaky sigh, and he can see that she's fighting to hold back tears. The way she wrings her hands and chews furiously on her lower lip breaks his heart, because he knows exactly how she feels. Guilt and self-deprecation, two of his oldest friends, together with darkness his very own trio infernal of demons. There's not much he can do for her right now, though, he's aware of that. She needs to fight her way through it.

He takes a step in her direction. “Emma–”

“I'm so sorry I failed you,” she breathes.

He shakes his head. "You didn't fail me, love,” he contradicts firmly. “You tripped. Made a mistake. I made them, too.” He puts his hand on her shoulder in a reassuring touch, or so he hopes. “It's human.”

There's panic on her face. "But what if... if it happens again? If my fears get the better of me?” She shakes her head furiously. “I never should have doubted you, I know you'd never leave me. I know that. And yet, I–” She falls silent and combs both hands through her hair in a desperate attempt to calm her nerves and order her thoughts. “What does that say about me?” she asks in a pleading voice, “About us?”

“I'll tell you what all this says about us,” Killian replies resolutely. “That we're not perfect.” She snorts at that and averts her eyes. “That we were both wrong to think our wounds would just miraculously disappear when we found each other,” he continues and inclines his head a little so he can make direct eye contact. Her expression is tormented, but also hopeful, and she's listening to him like her life depends on it. “Your fear of abandonment doesn't just cease,” he tells her quietly, “and neither does my feeling of... worthlessness.” She flinches at that and reaches for his hand. Accepting her silent support, he squeezes her fingers and goes on, “No matter how many times I tell you that I'll always be by your side, or you assure me that I'm a hero.”

Emma feels tears well up in her eyes when she realizes that what he says is true: no matter how much love she will be regaled with from him, from her family and friends – the lost little girl from a long time ago is still living somewhere deep inside her soul, and she will always continue to, having that unquenchable need to be reassured of that love, again and again.

“Those wounds,” Killian says now, “they heal eventually.” He lifts his stump between them. “But the scars remain.” He lets go of her fingers and pensively runs his thumb across the scarred skin, and for a moment it's like he's more talking to himself. “And from time to time... they hurt.” The moment flies by, and he's back with her. He reaches for her hand again, brushing his lips over her knuckles with unspeakable tenderness. His voice has almost dropped to a whisper. “But when they're taken care of and tended to...” In an almost solemn gesture, he puts her hand on his wrist, and the comparison of his own, very physical wounds to those suffered by their tormented hearts and souls almost brings her to her knees. “In the course of time, they soften and become smooth,” he says and covers her hand with his, “and even though they'll always remain a part of you, they don't bother you anymore.”

Emma nods through her tears. “I love you, Killian, I really do,” she tells him in a thick voice, “So much.”

“I know,” he reassures and grasps her hand in his, “I know. And I, you.”

She sinks her gaze into his eyes and finds nothing but unabated love in those blue depths she wants to get lost in. He is her safe haven and her anchor, and she wants nothing more than to reassure him that she is also his. She wants nothing more than to learn how to be that for him and not falter, ever again. She exhales deeply, letting go of the tension.

“And what do we do now?” she asks.

Killian shrugs. “We forgive each other, and then we try to forgive ourselves,” he points out, and Emma nods slowly. That will for sure be the hardest part, for both of them. But she knows, if they have each other's back, together, they can face it. “We fight for each other,” he continues firmly, “take care of each other's scars.” He motions between them with his hand. “We're both not good at accepting help from others,” he admits, and she can't contradict – it would be a lie. “But maybe we should be more open to that, too,” he suggests. “Turn to our family in times of need instead of trying to deal with everything on our own. Talk to people.”

Emma frowns in question. “You mean, like Archie?”

He tilts his head. “I found my recent conversations with him surprisingly... helpful, and also encouraging.”

She nods in agreement. “Yeah, me too.”

He puts his index finger under her chin and lifts her face a little to him, searching her eyes. “We'll be alright, love,” he promises.

She presses her lips together, suddenly overwhelmed by her pent-up emotions, her voice broken as she all but sobs, “I lost you so many times...”

Killian pulls her into his arms, her heartache almost unbearable to him, and cradles her head in his hand in a soothing, protective touch. “I'm so sorry, Emma.”

She tries to melt into him, to shut out the pain, and buries her face in the crook of his neck. I'm not losing him, she tells herself firmly, not to death, not to the darkness, and surely not to my own demons. The thought helps, the determination feels good, reminds her of the things she's overcome to be with this man, her True Love. Slowly, her breathing calms down, and his scent engulfs her. She knows she's home. “Let me feel that you're here,” she murmurs, “that you're real.”

He tightens his embrace and swears to himself he won't let any ghosts of his past get between them ever again. And that includes that he'll start to take care of himself as much as of her. “I held you last night,” he tells her, regretting now that he let her fall asleep thinking he was deliberately distancing himself from her, even rejecting her.

“I know.” Emma leans back a bit in his arms so that she can look into his eyes. Even if hers are still glittering with the tears she's only partly shed, he can see that they are full of life. “Let's smooth our scars and make love until we fall asleep,” she demands fiercely.

He huffs a little. “Aye, well...” he raises his hand and smooths her hair behind her ear, letting his fingertips rest against her cheek. “There's just one problem.”

Too soon? She thinks, and a trace of disappointment touches her. It stings. Of course, he needs time. “What's that?” she asks, and try as she might, she can't keep the sorrow out of her voice.

But he smiles and tilts his head in a lovingly teasing apology. “That might take a while. I'm not sleepy at all.”

[libralita]

Title: Oathbringer

Author: Brandon Sanderson

Summary: Dalinar Kholin's Alethi armies won a fleeting victory at a terrible cost: The enemy Parshendi summoned the violent Everstorm, which now sweeps the world with destruction, and in its passing awakens the once peaceful and subservient parshmen to the horror of their millennia-long enslavement by humans. While on a desperate flight to warn his family of the threat, Kaladin Stormblessed must come to grips with the fact that the newly kindled anger of the parshmen may be wholly justified.

Nestled in the mountains high above the storms, in the tower city of Urithiru, Shallan Davar investigates the wonders of the ancient stronghold of the Knights Radiant and unearths dark secrets lurking in its depths. And Dalinar realizes that his holy mission to unite his homeland of Alethkar was too narrow in scope. Unless all the nations of Roshar can put aside Dalinar's blood-soaked past and stand together--and unless Dalinar himself can confront that past--even the restoration of the Knights Radiant will not prevent the end of civilization.

Rating: ★★★★★

Review:

This review will a be a bit different, I won’t have commentary for the first 33 chapters because I already made comments on them since late-August. Tor has been releasing 3 chapters of Oathbringer a day. So if you’d like to see what I thought about those then you can follow this link.  It’ll have all my reactions and my commentary.

Eventually I’ll be rereading this book, so that’ll be a more in-depth review, this is more of my first reaction.

“This is the middle book of the series. And as everyone knows, the heroes always lose in the middle book. It makes the series more tense.”—Page 215, Alcatraz: Knights of Crystallia

Y’know what I don’t regret? Staying up till 3 am listening to Oathbringer.

We started off this book with an interlude about an ardent reading smut. Okay then.

How could people forget to read their own language? Oh boy. Do not translate the Dawn Chant, I’ve read Alcatraz.

“Sequels always have to be bigger.”

Brandon Sanderson I will end you.

A particular patron wants the Dawn Chant to be translated? That can’t be good.

Oh, I’m so sure that Eshonai is dead. Unless the sister is going to be a main character.

Spren of remption?

Whoa! Jasnah is getting chapters! Also it’s weird that “Bridge 4” get chapters. It’s so awesome to hear from them but still a little weird.

JASNAH KHOLIN IF YOU DID NOT HUG YOUR MOTHER I WILL SLAP YOU!

Yes! We got to see Eyebrow Queen in vision! And she rounded up the town and turned them into an army Castlevania style!

Oh my god, I never realized how much of a cutie Sigzil was.

I’m glad that Dalinar didn’t kill a kid.

I assume that Rock’s chapter is the longest chapter because of his name.

Renarin being part of Bridge 4 gives me life. He’s going to hang out with Rlain!

ROCK’S FAMILY!

Ay, a Stoneward! So they can create handholds? Cool.

BRANDON SANDERSON LET ME SEE THAT JASNAH-NAVANI REUNION!

Oh shit! It’s the Honorblades!

Okay so Odium took the spren of the dead Parshendi and that’s how they created the Fused.

So the Voidbringers were only trapped when the Heralds were being horrifically tortured. My god, that’s horrible.

Talenel spent 4,500 years being tortured. That man is fucking beast.

Oh shit the Fused never die. Well, I guess that Eshonai is fine but SHIT! This is so bad.

Oh great so there’s some secret that’s going to make the Radiants abandon their oaths.

Um, what was that epigraph?

YOU LOST TALENEL?!

Hey, guys, maybe genocide isn’t the answer.

So, are no storms going through Kholinar?

Alright, let’s see if Kaladin and Jasnah can go an entire book without killing each other.

“If it’s not a lowly task, then perhaps you should have done it.” OH SNAP!

LET ME HEAR JASNAH AND RENARIN’S CONVERSATION!

“Perhaps act like an adult.” The sass in this book.

HELERAN WAS A SKYBREAKER?!

HOLY SHIT WE’RE GETTING INFORMATION ABOUT THE SONS OF HONOR!

Gavilar brought Amaram into the Sons of Honor.

Sons of Honor wanted to the return of the Desolations to get the Heralds to show themselves. It was restore the Knights Radiant and the classical strength of the Vorin church.

Wait, the Skybreakers? So either Mraize doesn’t know about The Diagram or he’s keeping that information to himself for the time being. The Diagram knows about him.

So Mraize probably doesn’t know about Lift helping Nale.

So technically the Skybreakers are another secret organization. I’ll have to update my chart.

This must be a letter to Hoid.

Teft? Are you okay?

It has finally arrived and that’s why you’ll suddenly see quotes with actual page references!

Shallan’s sketches are very concerning…

Wait! The letter is to Hoid! Now it’s time to reread the epigraphs because this reviews is already a cluster fuck.

“You think yourself so clever, but my eyes are not those of some petty noble, to be clouded by a false nose and some dirt on the cheeks.”—Page 361

Wait, noble? Is that a reference to Scadrial? Is this Demoux?

“No good can come of two Shards settling in one location. It was agreed that we would not interfere with one another, and it disappoints me that so few of the Shards have kept to this original agreement.”—Page 411

Could this be a letter from Preservation before everything went to hell?

Who’s Uli Da? THESE FREAKING EPIGRAPHS!

So Teft is a drug addict.

“Cephandrius, bearer of the First Gem, You must know better than to approach us by relying upon presumption of past relationships.”—Page 435

What?

Jezerezeh!

Wow, Gax knows a lot.

“‘Yeah,’ a voice piped up. ‘You’re old.’”—Page 439

LIFT! Even the Stormfather is like “how the fuck did this girl get here?”

Pale white eyes?

“‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘He’s got too nice a butt.’”—Page 440

OH MY GOD!

Oh…oh god, Moash’s chapter has the Bridge 4 patch ripped off. Good.

Well, there goes Graves. Sucks.

Oh god, are they going to recruit Moash?

“‘Brightlord?’ Janala asked. ‘Are you perhaps secretly an artifabrian? Studying engineering by night, reading the women’s script?’ Several of the others chuckled. Renarin blushed deeply, lowering his eyes farther.”—Page 455

BITCH!

“Renarin nodded, then looked up at her. ‘Thank you.’ ‘For?’ ‘Defending my honor. When Adolin does that, someone usually gets stabbed. Your way was pleasanter.’”—Page 456

While this is a funny line LOOK! FRIENDSHIP!

“Renarin shrugged. ‘I’ve found the best way to avoid doing what Jasnah says is to not be around when she’s looking for someone to give orders to.’”—Page 457

Renarin, sweetie, I love you but telling Shallan to avoid her problems IS REALLY BAD ADVICE!

I really like Lyn and Skar’s relationship.

Oh, the cardforms that Kal saved are now slaves. Man, Kal is going to hate himself for that.

ADOLIN IS BORN! Oh god this is so sweet….

“‘It’s your daughter,’ Dalinar guessed. ‘Her lunacy.’”—Page 493

What’s with this?

“‘And the things you did in conquering Alethkar?’ Kadash said. ‘No divine mandate, Dalinar. Everyone accepts what you did because your victories were proof of the Almighty’s favor. Without him…then what are you?’”—Page 502

A warlord.

Tests?

Finally! Shallan and Elhokar interactions!

“The boys were by Evi’s wagons. Little Adolin was terrorizing one of the chulls, perched atop its shell and swinging a wooden sword about, showing off for several of the guards—who dutifully complimented his moves. He’d somehow assembled ‘armor’ from strings and bits of broken rockbud shell.”—Page 516

My heart.

“Friend, You letter is most intriguing, even revelatory.”—Page 520

Is this a response from Hoid?

Jasnah can read lips, Jesus Christ.

“I would have thought, before attaining my current station, that a deity could not be surprised. Obviously, this is not true. I can be surprised. I can perhaps even be naïve, I think.”—page 529

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! IT’S HARMONY/SAZED AHHHHH!

Moash, you’re going to have to be Kaladin.

“‘You need nothing but what we give you,’ the Fused said. ‘But your desire is to be granted.’”—Page 532

Grammar nazi.

“No. Not you. It’s not your fault.”—Page 534

Is this one of the Unmade or Odium?

Rlain perspective!

Lift doesn’t trust Dalinar?

“The man was old, with a wide furrowed face and bone-white hair that swept back from his head as if blown by wind. Thick mustaches with a hint of black in them blended into a short white beard. He seemed to be Shin, judging by his skin and eyes, and he wore a golden crown in his powdery hair.”—Page 547

What the…? ODIUM!

PUNCH HIM THE FACE!

“Tight-butt” I love this book.

NOPE NOPE NOPE THE HOLY SHIT NOPE CREMLING WOMAN!

“I won’t make policy decisions, and I’ll avoid ordering the murder of any further groups of melodic children. Fine? All right? Now leave me alone. You’re stinking up the place with an air of contented idiocy.”—Taravangian, Page 570

Good?

Oh good they’re not going to assassinate Dalinar.

Alright, so The Diagram wants to figure out a way to keep Odium from destroying everything. Good luck with that.

A paternal voice? Oh no…Why is Brandon determined to make me fear kind, elderly male voices? He did this with Ruin in Well of Ascension.

Oh, so the thing that Renarin found were like diary entries. Huh.

Kaladin has lands. Weird.

Send Renarin to help these people.

…What did Sadeas do?

“‘More scowls, then?’ She sighed. ‘More scowls.’ He grinned.”—Page 592

They’re so cute.

“Unite us. Please.”—Page 596

What?

Dalinar is putting the temple back together…odd.

“For a moment Dalinar felt he could almost understand what they were saying. As if a part of him were stretching to bond to man.”—Page 598

It’s like the Southern arm band things.

Aw, Adolin is scared.

“No sure if it’s dignified.”—Page 610

At least it’s not a fork.

Your…tailor….

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?

“Yes, she thought, taking another Memory of Elhokar. Yes, you are king. And you can live up to your father’s legacy.”—Page 625

Yay!

“And beyond that, deep within the mirror, something turned���”—Page 634

Wasn’t that what Elhokar was seeing?

“It clicked. ‘Stormfather!’ Yes?”—Page 638

These two are great.

“‘When…when were you thinking of information me of this?’ When you asked. When else would I speak of it? ‘When you thought of it!’ Dalinar said. ‘You know things that are important, Stormfather!’”—Page 638

That sass.

“Yours is the power of Connection, of joining men and worlds, minds and souls.”—Page 639

Interesting.

An essay.

Lift has eaten the Blackthorn’s lunch.

Dalinar…smells like the Nightwatcher?

Elhokar has been drawing.

Gavinor, that’s Elhokar’s son’s name and probably a future character…if he hasn’t died.

“‘It’s a good plan, Elhokar,’ Adolin said. ‘Nice work.’ A simple compliment probably should not have made a king beam like it did. Elhokar even drew a glory—”—Page 667

I believe in you, Elhokar! He just wants approval! I’m honestly so worried for this boy.

Wit! Thank god! Story time!

“‘Yes,’ he said. Then he added, ‘I miss my flute.’ ‘Your what?’ He hopped up and began gathering his things. Shallan slipped forward and glanced inside his pack, catching sight of a small jar, sealed at the top. It was mostly black, but the side pointed toward her was instead white.”—Page 676

First of all, dammit Kal, why did you have to lose Wit’s flute? Second, WHAT IS THAT?!

Chull eggs?

“‘Heavens no,’ Wit said. ‘I’m not stupid enough to get mixed up in religion again. The last seven times I tried it were all disasters. I believe there’s at least one god still worshipping me by accident.’”—Pages 678-679

Who?

Everyone thinks Wit is a Herald.

“‘Maybe I’m one of those punchy guys.’ Adolin stopped in place and grinned at Kaladin. ‘Did you just say ‘punchy guys’?’ ‘You know, ardents who train to fight unarmed.’ ‘Hand to hand?’ ‘Hand to hand.’ ‘Right,’ Adolin said. ‘Or ‘punchy guys,’ as everyone calls them.’ Kaladin met his eyes, then found himself grinning back. ‘It’s the academic term.’ ‘Sure. Like swordy fellows. Or spearfish chaps.’”—Page 690

I love these two.

Who. Is. The Sibling. Christ, we’re never going to find out, are we?

Azure is a woman. She’s either a Radiant or Herald.

Sadeas was always a traitorous bastard.

Shallan wants to take someone’s place? Weeeeeird.

*sighs and adds Cult of Moments to the list of secret organizations*

Maybe Azure is using regrowth?

“What is that design on your skirt? It…seems familiar to me.”—Elhokar, Page 734

Yes! WAIT! GO BACK GO BACK! TALK ABOUT PATTERN!

‘Is that what I look like?’ he whispered. ‘Yes.’ It’s what you could, at least. ‘May I…may I have it?’ She lacquered the page, then handed it to him. ‘Thank you.’ Storms. He almost seemed to be in tears!”—Page 735

Yes! Elhokar development!

“Sadeas was not a trait.”—Page 738

First time for everything, I suppose.

“Dalinar nodded slowly. ‘They must bleed,’ he whispered. ‘I want them to suffer for this. Men, women, children. They must know the punishment for broken oaths. Immediately.’”—Page 741

Oh shit.

Oh god, oh no Evi…Renarin and Adolin don’t know.

Aw, Adolin paid for Shallan carving into the table.

“Just another spren, Shallan/Veil/Radiant thought. That’s what I am. Emotion made carnal.”—Page 761

Much concern.

Vathah is a Lightweaver squire? Weird.

Shallan is making all these men cry.

“But Veil is a false face, a part of her said. You could always abandon her. She strangled that part of her, smothered it deep. Veil was too real, too vital, to abandon. Shallan would be easier.”—Page 764

VERY CONCERNED.

Is that Ardant from that one epigraph (I know so specific).

Oh great now there’s Kishi.

“Chasing you? Kaladin cocked his head.”—Page 771

Huh?

Who’s Melishi?

“Since the first day, you storming woman. Hate…hate you…Others too. We all…hate you…”—Page 782

I’m sure this’ll be fine for Shallan’s psyche.

“We are uncertain the effect this will have on the parsh. At the very least, it should deny them forms of power. Melishi is confident, but Nae-daugther-Kuzodo warns of unintended side effects.”—Page 784

This is what happened to the Parshmen.

Metal.

“She sniffed, looking away. ‘I have to become Veil to escape the memories, but I don’t have the experience that she pretends to have. I haven’t lived life.’ ‘No,’ Wit said softly. ‘You’ve lived a harsher one, haven’t you?’ ‘Yet still, somehow, a naïve one.’”—Page 789

I feel yah.

“I half, the child ignores her parents, wanders out into the woods, and gets eaten. In the other half she discovers great wonders. There aren’t many stories about the kids who say, ‘Yes, I shall not go into the forest. I’m glad my parents explained that is where the monsters live.’”—Wit, Page 790

Alcatraz, is that you?

“Blasphemy! Art is not art if it has a function.”—Wit, Page 791

So Wit subscribes to Kantz’s idea.

“A sense pulsed through her from it, memories and pain. And…and something smothering them… Forgiveness. For herself.”—Page 793

Cry count: 2

“He checked the glyphward Shallan had made him at his request—determination—wrapped around his forearm.”—Page 796

You are filled with determination.

We could really use a Rioter.

“‘Weeks?’ Sidin said. ‘Surely it’s only been a few days, Brightlord.’ He scratched at a beard that seemed to argue with that sentiment. ‘We’ve only eaten…what, three times since being thrown in here?’”—Page 805

Is time moving differently in Kholinar?

This…seems too easy.

I’m so terrified to find Elhokar’s wife and child.

Are the Unmade all parts of the human body? Like that Edgedancer-Holy-Fuck-No-Cremling-Dude?

OH THANK GOD THE KIDDO IS SAFE!

“‘Stop!’ he finally bellowed. ‘Stop it! Stop killing each other!’ Nearby, Sah rammed Beard through with a spear. ‘STOP! PLEASE!’”—Page 818

Cry count: 3

NO! MOASH! NO! HE WAS GOING TO BE A GOOD KING! HE WAS TRYING! OH GOD MOASH!

Cry count: I AM A MESS!

“But you’re a good king, Taravangian. You didn’t murder your way to your throne.”—Page 825

Hahahaha.

OH FUCK THEY’RE IN SHADESMAR!

“Mraize did like his clothing to look sharp.”—Page 836

Ah, yes, the perspective of Mraize’s laundry woman. An obvious perspective.

So Adolin, Shallan, Kaladin, Dalinar, Navani, Szeth, Taravangian AND Venli get perspectives.

“‘That’s not a standard-issue uniform, soldier,’ Dalinar said to him. ‘I know!’ Adolin said. ‘I had it specially tailored!’ Storms… His son was becoming a fop.”—Page 851

Aw.

“‘Which one got to you, little child?’ Ahu asked. ‘The Black Fisher? The Spawning Mother, the Faceless? Moelach is close. I can hear his wheezing, his scratching, his scraping at time like a rat breaking through walls.’”—Page 853

I’m sure he’s not actually crazy.

Wait wait wait so that thing is Adolin’s spren. Huh.

WAIT WAIT AZURE HER HAIR IS CHANGING COLORS! VIENNA! AHHH! Wait her sword…is it another like Nightblood? Welp let’s go back to Radiant HQ so Vivenna and Vasher can chill.

“Szeth-son-son… Szeth-son… Szeth, Truthles… Szeth. Just Szeth.”—Page 864

A thus a meme died that day. Moment of silent for a dead meme.

“You should draw me, Szeth! I would love to see the lake. Vasher says there are magic fish here.”—Page 865

Vasher!

I forgot how great Nightblood is, now I want to reread Warbreaker.

Nazh is a lot sassier in this book.

Dalinar can’t remember how old Renarin is.

“A small bottle. ‘I…’ Renarin swallowed. ‘I got you one, with the spheres the king gave me. Because you always go through what you buy so quickly.’”—Page 890

Pain.

“Renarin stepped in and hugged him. Dalinar flinched, bracing as if for a punch. The boy clung to him, not letting go.’—Page 890

Cry count: END ME!

Navani possess a modicum of social skills, guess she’s not a Knight.

“‘You Cryptics mimic…weird stuff?’ ‘The fundamental underlying mathematics by which natural phenomena occur. Mmm. Truths that explain the fabric of existence.’ ‘Yeah. Weird stuf.’”—Page 909

I love Pattern and Syl.

I guess living in his tailor’s house really made Adolin’s…um, true passion for fashion come out.

“‘How? Impossible. Unless…you’re Invested. What Heightening are you?’ He squinted at Kaladin. ‘No. Something else. Merciful Domi…A Surgebinder? It has begun again?”—Riino, Page 913

Okay, so he’s from Sel.

“As he was sipping the water, Syl walked over—her skin, her hair, and dress still colored like those of a human. She stopped next to him, placed her hands on her hips, and went into full pout. ‘What?’ Kaladin asked. ‘They won’t let me ride one of the flying spren.’ ‘Smart.’ ‘Insufferable.’”—Page 928

Syl, don’t ride the spren.

Oh great now Dalinar has been excommunicated from the church.

“A little of both. I discovered when I was younger that being too open with strangers…went poorly for me.”—Page 945

Just…just a little….

“‘It’s a unique piece, human,’ she said. ‘From the far-off Court of Gods, a painting intended only for divinity to see. It is exceptionally rare that one escapes being burned at the court, and makes its way onto market.’”—Page 956

Wow there’s a lot of references to Warbreaker.

Nohadon?

“Lectured by my own daughter again.”—Page 975

Poor Navani.

I SWEAR TO GOD RENARIN BETTER JUST BE A RADIANT.

“Then, when he returned to Kholinar, he controlled his drinking. And he’d never again yelled at his sons, as he at poor Renarin during that day on the way back from the Shattered Plains.”—Page 978

DALINAR KHOLIN!

“‘May I see?’ Ialai asked. ‘No,’ Jasnah replied.”—Page 995

This made me laugh.

A mistspren, huh?

So Vivenna is hunting Nightblood.

“‘All memories are bad,’ she said immediately, then looked away, blushing.”—Page 1012

This is bad.

“‘I…’ He pulled her tight again as the ship rocked. ‘Shallan, I killed Sadeas.’”—Page 1013

Damn!

“Like the quintessential bully, the Stormfather didn’t know how to face someone stronger than himself.”—Page 1022

Hahahaha.

“She was using the old rhythms. She’d never been able to do that when Odium’s attention had been on her.”—Page 1024

She is a lot like Marsh.

“Through his bond, Dalinar sensed weeping. The Stormfather had kept Odium back, but storms, he had paid a price. The most powerful spren on Roshar—embodiment of the tempest that shaped all life—was crying like a child, whispering that Odium was too strong.”—Page 1029

Oh, Stormy…what if ALL the Spren helped?

“‘Because,’ Renarin said. He didn’t say anything more.”—Page 1038

Helpful, Renarin.

“You could call me Vargo, if you wish,”—Taravangian, Page 1039

How about bastard? Though this may getting confusing see how that���s also Amaram’s nickname.

Who…is saying “Unite them”? Please just be Cultivation.

Fuck an Everstorm.

More? Great?

Humans…are Voidbringers.

NONONONONONONONO!

Finally, Tarah!

What world did the Radiants destroy?

I just realized that it’s ironic that Nale wears black and white. Symbolic if his view on the world. Black and white.

“Rysn was bored.”—Page 1059

Lucky girl.

Aw, she can’t walk.

HELL YEAH PALONA GETS A POV!

“What boon drives you, Son of Honor? Son of Odium?”—Page 1077

Good question.

Cultivation!

“SOMEONE BEYOND YOUR AUTHORITY TO QUESTION.”—Page 1078

Snap.

“A spren rose from his back, bright red, shimmering like the heat of a mirage. A crystalline structure, like a snowflake, though it dripped light upward toward the ceiling.”—Page 1085

SAVE RENARIN!

“‘Vengeance?’ the sailor said, looking to his fellows for support. ‘We’re glad to be free. But…I mean…some of them treated us pretty nice. Can’t we just go settle somewhere, and leave the Thaylens alone?’”—Page 1087

I like these guys.

Odium is making himself look like a Parshman.

“Urithiru was under attack.”—Page 1089

Huh so this is like Knights of Crystallia. Also SHIT!

Chapter 115: We are so fucked.

“Ten thousand Alethi in green uniforms gripped their weapons, their eyes glowing a deep, dangerous red.”—Page 1092

Oh god.

“Renarin Kholin was a liar.”—Page 1098

No, please, no.

“The Alethi have turned against the Thaylens, and now seek to conquer them! They’ve been allied with the parshmen all along. Your Grace, by feeling, we have narrowly avoided a trap!”—Page 1103

SHIT!

YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!

Amaram has been possessed, too.

“‘So…’ a sudden voice said from his right. ‘What’s the plan?’”—Page 1108

Thank the Almighty for Lift.

“Doesn’t like…Dalinar blinked. What kind of world did he live in where swords didn’t like hurting people?”—Page 1109

A strange one.

Aw! The Deadeye is protecting Adolin!

Szeth, are you going to follow Dalinar? HE IS!

“‘Take a deep breath, my friend,’ Odium whispered. ‘I’m afraid that this will hurt.’”—Page 1122

Dalinar…Dalinar is the champion. FIGHT IT DALINAR!

“He closed his eyes, breathing out, listening to a sudden stillness. And within it a simple, quiet voice. A woman’ voice, so familiar to him. I forgive you.”—Page 1136

Ahhhhhh!

I’m kind of amused that Dalinar like “well, I guess Szeth is a Skybreaker.”

“‘Greaaaaaaaaat,’ Lift said. That’s greaaaaaaaat,”—Pages 1147-1148

Nightblood and Lift should be friends.

Adolin’s sword’s name is Maya.

Timbre captured the voidspren. Timbre is truly the best.

So is Venli actually going to be the main character in the next book?

“Then why do you still hurt?”—Page 1176

Yeah!

He’s capturing the Thrill into the ruby.

And Amaram is dead.

“Dalinar met his eyes. ‘I want you to teach me how to read.’”—Page 1193

The times are a changin’.

“That’s worrisome, Shallan.”—Page 1200

Adolin just summed up a large chunk of this book.

THANK GOD THE LOVE TRIANGLE IS DEAD! I’m perfectly fine with Shallan and Adolin.

Taravangian…is being truthful…

“The final death of Jezrien. Yaezir. Jezerezeh’Elin, king of Heralds.”—Page 1206

Moash…killed him. Oh god.

Brandon you can’t tell me that Jezrien is dead and then make me smile with a Lopen section.

DREHY AND SKAR ARE THERE!

ELHOKAR’S SON!

“Little man. Why did you write to us? Why did you have your Surgebinder unlock the Oathgate, and allow our armies to attack Urithiru?”—Page 1214

Dick!

The Diagram is now working with Odium.

Jasnah is the new monarch.

WELL FUCK NOW MOASH HAS THE WINDRUNNER HONORBLADE! Or Vyre.

Huh, I didn’t know that Brandon could write a wedding scene without someone nearly bleeding out.

SHALLAN’S BROTHERS!

“The most important words a man cay say are, ‘I will do better.’”—Page 1227

Favorite quote.

“‘Life before death, little one,’ Wit whispered.”—Page 1233

Holy fuck.

[thephantomcasebook]

It was the last thing that he ever expected to see coming into the room. I mean, sure, if he thought about it, there was a high possibility that it probably was going to happen. Now that Samwell Tarly thought about it, really thought about it, there was a high likelihood that it happened before, with the twins. But he never saw it happen before. Maybe it was, because, Jon knew that he’d say something at the Small Council meeting about it. He would be the stammering, hem-hawing, Grand Maester that was moving his head back and forth, tracing lines on the table. He’d never look them in the eye, but he would mention his ‘discomfort’ in the idea, the implications that could arise from what he saw. Her bright eyes would turn to Jon’s dark ones and they’d both roll their eyes at him from their seats side by side at the council table. Jon would appreciate it, the caution, it meant that he cared. But, her, the silver haired queen, she never did.

No one told Daenerys Targaryen how to raise her children, especially when it came to ‘her’ baby.

But no one could really blame Sam, he was sure of it, when he came in to see the view. The moonlight shined off her pale shimmering skin as she stood on the balcony of their chambers. The beautiful Queen was completely naked, her silver tresses were free and fluttering in the artificial breeze. In her arms a small babe with thick toughs of his father’s black curls, and her bright eyes whimpered tiredly. Out of all of them, he was the one that looked most like her. Dany rocked the baby back and forth in her strong arms. There was the look of an ever present storm in her eyes, an elemental nature to her stalwart figure of naked beauty in the moonlight. She barely looked human at the best of times. But in the night, as the world slept, she was the most human girl that Sam ever saw.

All she had to do was look to the canopied bed behind her, and she allowed her weakness known. Within the covers was Jon, shirtless, his murderous scars on full display. But they seemed less grim, he seemed less grim in the company crowded around him. A small girl with silver hair like her mother and just as beautiful already, Gilly told him that she thought that the princess might be the most beautiful woman in the world one day. She was the jewel in Dany and Jon’s crown, and she knew it too. The girl was her mother’s daughter. She had the same killer instinct for the things she wanted and to protect the things she loved with fire and blood … or at least at Grey Worm’s agreements to her requests. She picked up everything Dany ever did, and tried to emulate it, including being the love of her father’s life. The girl was as closely guarded and loved as a precious treasure when she was snuggled up to her papa. Meanwhile, her twin brother was on the other side.

For a moment it seemed as if Jon Snow had an arm around a boy that was a smaller copy of himself. He worshiped the ground his father walked on, hoping to be as great a swordsman someday, like him. It was a feat that his father told him that he hoped he’d never have to measure in his lifetime. Jon Snow had killed many men and many creatures, dead and full of ice, and he wanted nothing more than a bookish young man with his blood and his mother’s brains. But the boy still dreamed, even going so far as to rub brazier ash on his cheeks and chin so he might as least pretend he had a beard like Jon.

Dany stared at her family for a long moment, her eyes lightened in pain. Her heart filled to the brim, to a point of deep pain from every drop of love that was pumped through her veins. So many long nights being watched by a cruel brother while she bathed herself, afraid of the world that she was told wanted to destroy her. She had made herself strong. She had turned a frightened girl, raped nightly by a savage husband, into the most famous conqueror the world ever saw. But not in a million years, in a thousand lifetimes of torment, did she ever think that she’d be here, in this room, filled with love. It frightened her, in the moonlight she look down at the small newborn in her arms and even he frightened her.

Never had Daenerys Targaryen had so much to lose than she did tonight.

But her fear was interrupted and Sam’s was heightened at the warm breeze that bathed baby and mother. The reptilian snout, large and scaly slowly pushed onto the balcony. Its massive shadow engulfed the room, darkening it. Drogon’s cavernous maw and iron jaws were the size of the entire balcony entrance. The Maester felt his bowels turn to water as the large dragon squeezed his head inside the room just far enough for his snout to be inches from the cueing baby cuddled to his mother’s bare breasts. Eyes nearly bulged from Sam’s sockets when the baby wibbled and reached a tiny hand out and blindly placed it on the nostril hazing with heat. At any minute the Grand Maester thought that he’d see a full grown dragon snatch the baby from his mother’s breast and into its flaming maw.  

But Drogon made no such movements to the small human that his mother presented to him. The tip of the dragon snout snorted and nipped at the black haired beauty’s cheek, taking sniffs of the baby’s Valyrian hide. There was a sudden low growl that made Sam think of a hound about to lash out. But instead it nipped the baby’s scalp again with a strange paternal protectiveness. Dany smiled gently petting her mount’s snout. Then, with a sudden explosion of movement, the dragon called to the night and with a large gust that lashed loose items in the room, he took off, skimming the inky waters of Blackwater Bay and into the dark horizon.

The Queen watched Drogon for a long moment, before she leaned down and kissed her baby, placing her forehead against his as she swayed with him to the rhythm of the lapping ocean below her balcony.

“You didn’t actually expect me to feed him to Drogon, did you Grand Maester …?” Her voice was commanding, powerful, and deeply entrenched in a no-nonsense attitude toward the bookish young man.

“No, no, no, your grace.” Sam stammered shaking his head while he held his hands out defensively.

The queen nodded. “Good ...” She turned to the baby. The maester watched matching eyes meet in the moonlight and the baby reach up, his fingers tracing her lips and nose. He wasn’t sure what he had just witnessed, if it was something that the ancient Valyrians did. But it seemed that he had just witnessed Dany imprint, bound herself, supernaturally, to the baby in a way Sam had never seen a mother do before.  

“Cause this one is mine.”

16 years later

The Red Keep shook, waking the Grand Maester with a startle. His mind went to dark places, dark memories of Wildings, Wrights, and a king of the night. A loud blast of noise roared into the darkness that made the fat man wheeze in fear of all the dark things he thought they had gotten rid of. His first instinct was to turn to the spot next to him and reach out. His large hand touched the naked hip of the pretty mature woman next to him. But he was cut off when he opened his mouth.

“It’s just Drogon, Sam …” Gilly sighed sleepily. She sounded annoyed with the dragon and with Sam’s startled reaction. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t take his hand and place it against her heart. He felt it beating in her chest, synching it to his. Then with calming breaths, he laid his head against her bare chest, her arms embracing him lovingly.

He shut his eyes, his body tensing for the second roar to come.

ROOORCCH …

Suddenly the dragon’s mighty roar was halted when the clang of a half full chamber pot struck the dragon in the side of the head. It immediately snapped around a screeched at the aggressor that challenged the majesty.

“Yeah, that’s right, asshole, I threw it!”

SCHRREEE!

“Fuck off! I swear to the gods, old and new, if you don’t pipe down I’m gonna make boots out of your whore gullet! Now knock it the fuck off, I’m trying to sleep!”

NNURRFF!

“Say it again, asshole, go on! Go on, do it again, I dare you!”

NNNN …

“If I have to get up, you’re not going to ever again!”

For a while Sam and Gilly listened to a salty teenage boy cuss out an equally salty old dragon. The shouting and screeching snaps continued for a few more moments till they heard the great gusts of flapping wings being chased with accusations of the great terror of their time being an ungrateful and rude cocksucker.

“You know, Gilly …”

“Hmm?”

“There was a time I thought that his mother was going to feed him to that dragon …”

“Mmm … can’t tell who misplayed that hand.”

[forcedapotheosis-blog]

Solstice Ch. II

Whaddup fellas, I’ve been writing a bit and think I can release this stuff without hating myself too much. I really hate tagging it, though. Gloomy Days is probably coming soon, we’ll see about that. No warnings for this chapter, just have fun.

Chapter II

It took them a while to finally reach the Vinsmoke’s ancestral estate as the storm was still growing stronger, howling in the night like a savage wolf. But alas, he didn’t mind. Being able to spend time alone with a woman like her was a blessing, even though she had to concentrate on the sole purpose of not killing them. The streets were in a terrible condition and it had seemed to become worse as soon as the car had left the dim light of the station. The heavy rain hammered onto the car in a staccato that would put a machine gun to shame and even the winds tried their best to lead the vehicle astray. But again, the Goddess managed to surprise him. She was calm, collected, focused and even if the end of the world was approaching, she wouldn’t lose the way nor the control of the car. A damn fine driver, to put it shortly. Other than that, he wasn’t able to learn a lot more about her. Nami was approachable and friendly, no questions asked, but he had the feeling that she willingly held back some informations about her background.

“So, you’ve been working as his secretary for .. how long, now?”, he tried to restart the conversation, having to speak a little louder than usual as the roaring engine of the car fought a losing battle against the terrible storm.

“Around a year now, it’s kinda difficult to find a job with my rather peculiar background.”, she replied, still having her eyes focused on the road .. or whatever she could identify as a road in that play of black and brown that unfolded before their eyes. “Peculiar background? Would you elaborate?”, that sounded rather mysterious but, at least in his eyes, turned out like a load of false decisions when she started her studies. “Anthropology and German as a second language. I mean, I could probably start as a teacher, but I majored in anthropology for a reason, you know?”, now, that explained a little more. Anthropology .. interesting field, I guess, something along the lines of studying human culture and development or so. And not really what I’d have expected from a secretary at all.

“I guess so. Admittedly, I don’t know a hell of a lot about anthropology, but I can see where you’re coming from, at least I assume I can.”, he ignited another cigarette and turned to the side to take a look out of the window. Nothing of note had changed, black in brown with a little wrath of the gods on top. He sure was happy about not having to find a hotel for the night, especially not when forced to travel on foot. For all throughout his life, he had been living in cities, some big, some small, but they always had the flair, they radiated the liveliness of a place inhabited by people.

It was nothing like this.

This whole area seemed just so abandoned, he couldn’t even make out any houses in the nearest vicinity. And if there were some, he was sure that the inhabitants would be as if taken out of the books he sometimes read. Clichéd to no end, mindlessly staring down foreigners and holding back a dark secret. He didn’t consume loads of works belonging to the horror genre, but he was sure that the people here – if there were any – would live up to nearly every trope used.

“We’re close. Are you excited to see your family again?”, her clean voice disturbed the image of degenerated country folks cannibalising each other while sacrificing virgins to dark gods that was forming in his mind. Thankfully. How can she know? My sense of orientation isn't that bad, but in the middle of the damn night, every bit of black and brown looks like the same bit of black and brown two kilometres ago!, he certainly was in awe of her and, even though he knew next to nothing about her, had no problems in trusting her judgement. “Want me to be honest? I’d rather sleep under a bridge than under the same roof as my .. relatives.”, maybe he overstepped his bounds a bit as Nami was employed by one of his brothers, might even be somewhat loyal to him, but he didn’t want to lie to her. And if everything went down as abysmal as he expected, the illusion of a happily reunited family would shatter quickly enough. “Any particular reason for that?”, the estate was finally in sight. The lights on the ground floor of that decade old beast of a house were lit, not caring that normal people used to sleep at this time. Maybe they were actually waiting for their arrival.

“Well, I certainly didn’t have the best possible childhood. And I'd lie if I said that my dear siblings didn't play a huge part in that.”, that was about as far as he wanted to go. It wouldn’t serve any purpose to tell her about the things his father used to do and to say to ensure that his children would grow up the way he intended. And that wasn’t even mentioning the fact about his strange obsession for ancient books and even older languages. Judge Vinsmoke, and that was the only positive thing Sanji could think of, had been a very sophisticated man, well versed in foreign languages and even dead languages (that sounded more like a drunk trying to talk in ancient Greek after he had been hit on the head with a club). For whatever reason.

“I was young when I left my family.”, to that, she just nodded, deciding that it would be better not to dig deeper until he opened up himself. “I deeply respect you for coming here, though. It’s better to give this whole reunion a shot than to live with yourself when the opportunity to do so no longer exists.”, she said, finally starting to park the car. There were three other cars that Sanji could identify through rain and darkness, large, state of the art. It seemed like his siblings had been pretty successful in whatever they did with their lives. He also noted that the cars marked a stark contrast between the modern world and the old ancestral mansion that had been in the possession of his family for much longer than he lived.

So many years have passed and still .. around these halls, I don’t feel well. Just looking at them summons shades of the past, of mother not being able to sleep in here, looking as pale as a ghost. The walls used to sound so .. hollow, as if something was living within them. Faint voices whispering in your ears. I’m not a child anymore, but it still chills me to the bone.

“Are you ready to go, Sanji?”, her clear voice effortlessly broke through his sombre thinking and he couldn’t help but to smile. Maybe people and old stories didn’t lie when they spoke of a light in the darkness that was able to burn the shadows away?

“As ready as I can be, I guess. Please, Miss Nami ..”, his arms slid out of his jacket and he held it towards her. “It’s raining cats and dogs and I wouldn’t want for you to catch a cold.”, to that, she answered with a smile and slung it around her shoulders. The car’s engine finally grew silent and for a moment, he felt lost. Caught in the heavy rain, the hurricane winds trying to yank around the car, the starless sky and a beacon of light, sitting right next to him. But before he could lose himself in that thought, she broke the silence once again, handing over the silvery case in which he stored his cigarettes.

“Pretty sure you’re going to smoke before we get inside, hm?”, she was right, of course. Even though somewhere in his subconscious he had garnered some hope of leaning in on her to get his cigarettes. Opening the case, the subtle smell of dried tobacco hit his nose and put his nerves at ease. I could still flee. Just run into the dark of night and never look back. How ‘bout that?, he knew that he wouldn’t do it, but assuring himself that he could was nearly as important as actually doing it. Without a second thought, he put another cigarette between his lips and exchanged glances with Nami. “Think I’m as ready as I could be. I just .. well, thank you for picking me up. It’s been a very pleasant experience.”, sure, there was the chance that she would consider his words as weird, but not knowing what was to come made him speak out anyway.

Nami answered with a smile and gently put her hand on his shoulder. Even though the touch was as soft as a butterfly landing on him, it nonetheless sent a shiver through his body. By all means, electrifying. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I was you. I’m sure it’s not going to be as bad as you think it will, remember that all of you are adults now. Times change and people tend to do the same.”, and again, she was right. And his conscious mind didn’t have any problem to believe her, but the underlying feelings and memories were still there. She’s got a point. It’s been nearly fifteen years since I have last seen them. Things might have changed for the better. It’s very unlikely that these days will go down as badly as my mind is trying to tell me they will., in hindsight, both of them had a point. Things wouldn’t be as bad as he imagined.

Also, things just might be a little better now, as he was still feeling her touch on his shoulder. He enjoyed it so much, actually, and got soaked in by it that the unlit cigarette nearly fell from his mouth. But nature seemed to have a way to interrupt humans whenever the opportunity arose. Even through the hammering rain, through the loudness of raging winds, both of them startled when a loud thump destroyed the precious moment.

They quickly found the offender, but that didn’t help the startling effects of the sudden noise. Or the effect that the disturber had.

Fuck you, bird.

Indeed, it was a bird. A rather large one at that. From what Sanji could see through the pale light that reached it, coming from the inside of the car, it must have been a crow. Or a raven. Not that he knew nor cared about any difference between these two. What he cared more about was that Nami’s hand had left his shoulder, which now felt empty and cold. But the longer he looked at it, the more creepy it became. Its black feathers seemed untouched by the rain and, besides the noisy landing, the animal seemed unshaken by the winds. Silently staring at the both of them through black eyes. So .. when’s the ‘Nevermore’ coming?, he had never been a huge fan of Edgar Allan Poe, but seeing the bird brought back memories long buried of him reading ‘The Raven’. To his delight, Nami broke the silence with the exact same thought. “Sanji, are you, perchance, looking for a lost Lenore?”, she chuckled and it was as contagious as it could get, driving away the shadows, even momentarily the ones he kept to himself.

“Nevermore.”, he said, himself smiling by now. “He’s a tough one, though. Flying through this storm should earn him some respect.”, still, the bird was just standing on the car’s bonnet, silently watching them. Maybe out of slight curiosity, or .. was it judging them? Yeah, it sure is. Well done, Prince Sanji of Dumbass Kingdom. That bird is absolutely judging people.

But as abruptly as it came, the bird left them. With one powerful stroke of his wings, the raven (or crow?) effortlessly soared into the air, seemingly untouched by the heavy rain or the wind's violent play.

“That .. was strange.”, Nami leaned forward, trying to follow the bird’s path, but within a split second it had vanished into the black night. “Did you notice something odd about it?”, she asked, sinking back into the chair and turning her face towards him. “Odd? You mean, besides the fact that it stared at us for no reason?”, he looked at her in perplexity. “Yeah, besides that. The poor thing was crippled, it had three legs.”, his eyes widened at that. Three legs? He didn’t pay too much attention to other parts than the bird’s creepy black eyes. But that was something that you didn’t get to see every day. “Seemed to be holding up well enough, if you ask me. Maybe he’s more resilient thanks to being different?”, actually, the bird was holding up even better than he was giving it credit. Not only had it seemed utterly unfazed and unflinching when it came to wind and rain, it even made its final ascent and good-bye looking perfectly natural, as if it was effortlessly riding on the wind, bending nature to fit its needs.

“Well .. what I wanted to say before that unnecessary interruption: I think that your siblings are already waiting for us. So, one last cigarette and then we head in?”, again, she was right. Confronting them was inevitable by now, might as well get it over with. Sanji nodded in agreement, unbuckled and finally stepped out in the cold and rain. Surprisingly enough, it felt good. After the time he had spent with Nami by his side, his body was in dire need of cooling down. And the weather did provide that, a little too much, actually. Stepping out of the car didn’t really feel like stepping into the rain, but more like taking a shower with all your clothes on. Not a very pleasant feeling, but it did help him in getting his head clear. He didn’t need to hurry, too, since by the time they would reach the door, he’d be wet to his bones anyway, so he took his time walking over to her side and falling into his usual manners. He opened the door and held out his right hand towards her. Nami accepted it and readily let him help her to get out of the car, his fine jacket hanging loosely on her shoulders. Contrary to his shirt, it might hold the water back for a few minutes before it was soaked. He shut the door and both of them began walking towards the dimly lit entrance, a wide door made from heavy and expensive wood. It even had an old-fashioned knocker, too. A sinister little thing, the head of a dog, mouth wide open with fangs that seemed just a little too long and pointy to be on the realistic side of things. In its mouth, it held a thick ring made of rusty iron. Whoever designed this house read too many horror books. Fortunately for the both of them, though, he also seemed to have had some kind of sense regarding practicality. The house’s roof extended a meter or so, so that one might find shelter from the rain when standing next to the door.

The moment of truth had finally arrived and Sanji felt a strange tingling in his stomach. Even though it’s been so long, the bad memories still haunted him from time to time. And there were some wounds that were just too deep and too stubborn to heal. He was pleased to see that the cigarette between his lips still was mostly dry, ready to be ignited. Just a few minutes more .. a little time to enjoy next to the goddess.

But hope was the first step on the road to disappointment.

The moment he lifted his lighter to ignite the cigarette, a loud screeching put rain and storm to shame. The heavy door was being opened and the old, rusty hinges ached under the sudden pressure. It sounded like the metal was being torn apart, and when it ceased, a shadowy figure finally strode into his line of sight. Confronted with that rather small, undefined frame, he felt like Igor had just opened the doors to Dracula’s castle for him. Only that this Igor didn’t have a hunchback. And wasn’t even male to begin with.

“Our guest of honour has finally arrived, I see..”, the voice was definitely female, not as clean or high as Nami’s, but more of the smoky, seductive kind that had appealed to him for most of his teen and adult life. But not this time, for reason that should become obvious in a few seconds. Even though he couldn’t remember all of it, the familiarity of her voice was what made the tingling in his stomach grow wild. All the time, he had prepared to meet them on his own terms, when he was ready to do it. This situation just stomped on his plan and he felt his confidence crumbling in the face of unexpected events. What came next, somehow, made it even worse. “Nami, dear, Ichiji is waiting for you in the kitchen. I think he’s got a surprise waiting for you.”, maybe it was true or maybe it was just a polite way of telling her to go so that his sister, Reiju, might have a minute alone with him. It didn’t matter, the thought of being without Nami distressed him. For a second, he hoped that the secretary would decline, saying that his damned brother could wait a few minutes more, but she was far too polite for that.

“I’ll go see him, maybe it’s important. Sanji, I’ll put your jacket up for drying, is that alright?”, he nodded, forcing himself to smile confidently, even though he didn’t feel like it. A moment later, she was gone and silence fell upon him and his sister. There was so much to say, but he couldn’t decide on what was important and what not.

“It’s .. good to see you, Reiju. You’ve grown up.”, that wasn’t exactly creative or heart-warming, but as neutral a thing as he had to say. And there it was again, a strange feeling of impending doom. He wasn’t usually like this, but since her letter had reached him, it had become increasingly easy to follow dark and gloomy thoughts. “I didn’t believe that you’d really come, Sanji. It’s been so long.”, she said, wearing a strange smile that didn’t extend to her eyes. Somehow, it felt like she was wearing a mask, trying to conceal her true feelings about all of this. “Can’t believe it myself, to be perfectly honest.”, he took a deep draw from his cigarette and exhaled through mouth and nose, not being able to decide if this was good or bad. In fact, he wasn’t even able to look at her for an extended period of time. All the bad memories that haunted him became just so lively again. “We’re all adults now, right ..? It’s not going to be like it used to be.”, to that, she gently shook her head, her pink hair being a rather odd and colourful contrast to the surrounding darkness. “We’ve all become bigger, Sanji. But looking at you, at least trying to conquer your past and make peace with it, I feel that you are one of the rare people who actually grew up.”, that was cryptic and not encouraging at all. Did she want to say that his brothers didn’t change over the past fifteen years?

She sighed silently, taking something that looked like a slighty bigger, black cigarette out of her pocket. “Would you mind me borrowing your lighter?”, he didn’t answer and just handed it over. If she had been any other woman, he’d have given her light, of course. But she was his sister and could surely do it on her own. For the moment, he averted his gaze from her and stared into the black sky. Still, there wasn’t even the slightest sign of star- or moonlight, the thick black clouds all but painted the heavens. Again, he inhaled the smoke deeply and felt his nerves easing when it hit his lungs and the nicotine did its magic. Next to him, he heard her lighting the flame, accompanied by the characteristic swoosh of gas leaving the lighter.

Indeed, he was so distracted by the ominous black sky that for the first few moments, he didn’t even realise that Reiju had grabbed his hand. And then, the stinging, sharp pain arrived.

He let out a deep grunt, instinctively trying to draw back his left arm, but the Vinsmokes were more than met the eye, and it showed again. Reiju had a small frame and the perfect figure for a woman, no hulking muscles, just pure elegance, but she hid steel underneath that. Her grab on his arm was close to a vice, nearly inescapable with only the strength of his own arm to rely on. The crying pain dragged on for a second or two, before she finally let go of him. He backed up a metre or so into the rain, grabbing his forearm. “Have you lost your damn mind?!”, he shouted at her. Under different circumstances, his voice might have reached the people inside the mansion, too, but the storm all but drowned it out. By now he could see that she was holding the small, black thing that had looked like a cigarette in her right hand.

Sanji breathed heavily, still trying to cope with the pain she had inflicted on him while his own resilience tried to match it. What the ..?!, he forced his right hand to let go of his forearm to see the damage she had done. And by what means.

“Have you lost your mind, Reiju?!”, he shouted again, even though a little less furious, now that he had seen the damage. It sure hurt like hell, but the pain was worse than what actually had happened. She had branded him, the damn mad woman. He wasn’t able to clearly make out what it was, but at least it wasn’t too big and wouldn’t cripple his arm or his precious hands, even though the pain was still radiating all over the left side of his body. It was a small thing, relatively fine and shaped, covering a room on his skin as wide as the tip of his thumb.

“You can thank me later, brother. Just keep it covered up with your sleeve.”, obviously, she didn’t even think about answering any questions about it. The fine hairs on his arm had been burned away and, again looking at the shape of the branding, he could finally make out what it was. It looked like a strange type of a very branch, nothing too complicated. Three arms on its left side, two on the right. “If that’s some kind of a shitty freaking joke, Reiju, I’m going to leave right here and now!”, he wanted answers and he wanted the pain to go away (actually, it did cease a little since his fury towards her numbed it).

“Maybe you sh-“, she began only to be interrupted by another, eerily similar to Sanji's own, deep voice. “Sanji, don’t you want to give your little brother a hug? It’s been a long time.”, another shade appeared from inside the house, stepping next to his sister. It was kind of astounding to see that so little had changed about him. Unconsciously, Sanji rolled down the sleeve of his shirt to cover up the branding Reiju had given him. As uncomfortable as a soaked shirt was, the coolness of it was quite adapt at easing the pain of said sign. He hasn’t changed at all. Not his eyes, his hairstyle or his posture. Just the clothes are a little more extravagant. Indeed, the green-haired, muscular man was the exact, though grown up, mirror image of the Yonji he remembered .. not so fondly, to put it mildly. And even though his words were probably intended to at least sound amicable, he didn’t even try to conceal the disdain in his voice when he addressed Sanji. And where Reiju at least tried to put on a friendly, welcoming smile, his brother was just staring at him with a brick for a face, no emotional value to find therein. His slicked back hair only underlined that Yonji was the archetype of a spoiled brat with too easy a childhood. Sanji’s hands, again unconsciously, formed fists.

“You’ll catch a cold if you stay in the rain. Come in, everybody pretends that they want to meet you.”, he stepped aside, doing a mockingly welcoming gesture to invite him into the house, while Reiju kept shrouding herself in silence. What was it that she wanted to say? Sanji had travelled so far. Now he had to go through with it, setting himself in motion, leaving the storm behind himself and, after so many years, stepped into the ancestral estate of his family again.

And just before Reiju closed the heavy door, he heard it again.

Another caw coming from somewhere within this blackest night, a lonely voice raised in defiance of storm and rain and darkness.

[dontfollowinmyfootsteps-really]

There’s a thousand places, (to match the thousand pieces of my broken heart) where I want to start this writing, but I’m so fucking mad, and sad, so so sad, that THESE THINGS about which I must write (or be crippled by the confusion, and pain) are things at all, that words come to me in rushes, and I think them, and write them, hate them, then delete them. And I have emotions colliding against each other with such ferocity I’ve felt literally for the first time in my life, over the last few days, that I might pass out. If this is where I am at, I can’t begin to imagine where must be those whose pain is mine only by association, admiration, and friendship. By history. By love. This writing which had started out about 2 heartaches, I am refining, which is not to say making shorter, to be about just 1.

I want to be very clear about something; I am gutted by Chester’s death, and it is a HUGE  loss for everyone who knew him, loved him, and loved his music. And this time “one of us” for me, for my huge extended Arizona family of ridiculously talented creative feelers, really was ONE OF US. But I do not seek to appropriate the pain of those who REALLY lost him. The one who lost her husband, the children who lost their father. The parents who lost their son. The friends since youth, business partners, and band mates. To them I send endless amounts of love, because if my pain is at 11, theirs must be at 11,000,000.

Chester and I were not BFF’s. We were more like super casual F’s, (friends, just in case that might read other than intended) who were part of a brilliant, ridiculously talented, absolutely insane in the best, and worst ways, group of people in the music scene in Tempe, (really metro-Phoenix) AZ, at the same time. “Tempe Jangle Pop” was big then, with bands like The Gin Blossoms and The Refreshments making names for themselves on the national stage. But also, The Meat Puppets and their punk/country thing, and Jimmy Eat World, were (and are in the case of Jimmy’s band) kinda big time too. DJ Z-Trip, The Phunk Junkeez, Dead Hot Workshop…these are just some of the bands/artists who “made it” to varying degrees, from that time, and place, and only representative of a small percentage of the talent that existed then, in the Valley of the Sun.

By now the world knows that Chester in the mid to late 90’s, was the vocalist for the band Grey Daze, with his Club Tattoo business partner, Sean Dowdell on drums. I, when we first met, was working as an independent Booking Agent/Band Manager, and then later as the Local Marketing Representative for a record label group. Having also been a singer, and writer,  most of what we shared was the arsty fartsy creative thing. I was later to find out we also shared being molested at age 7, and drug addiction.

Its not very often I know the exact date I first met someone, but thanks to how we met, and the internet, I know the first time I met Chester was September 10th, 1994. I think he was 18, but maybe 17. I was the Booking Agent for, “Tripping With Grace” and Grey Daze was the support act for them that night. It was my first show with Tripping With Grace, and my first show in the Phoenix scene. Literally in the hundreds is the number of shows I’ve been to in my life, so thousands is the number of bands that I’ve seen, and I will NEVER forget that night. Not because he became CHESTER BENNINGTON of LINKIN PARK, but because “who the f is the skinny kid with the braids and the HUGE voice, radiating raw passion, and energy as he sings?!” Truly he was riveting to watch, to listen to, even then. That voice. THAT voice. And him, on stage, so young, unpolished, not yet having perfected the front man thing, but riveting none the less.

Forever in my mind I see his stance, singing, bent at the waist, leaning forward, which anyone whose had any vocal lessons knows is the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do when singing. Cupping the mic in his hands, which anyone who has done any singing into a mic know is the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do. Unless you’re Chester Bennington.

This is DAYS worth of writing, attempts at writing, and so little said. Because I stop to cry, and remember, and wonder, and to FEEL my sadness and my anger.  I find myself unable to read most of what is written in the last week about him, except the memories written by my friends, his friends, our friends, and the tributes paid to him by fans. These precious memories we carry of this man who touched so many. Not just with his music, but with his genuine kindness, and humility. I’d say I’ve strolled down memory’s lane, but it has been more like a sunshine filled day – running through broken glass. Looks shimmery and pretty in the light, but hurts like a bitch.

I wrote a blog a few weeks ago, after Chris Cornell committed suicide titled “Who Cares if One More Light Goes Out? In A Sky of a Million Stars… I do.” Taken from the Linkin Park song which Chester, with great emotion, sang the day after Chris’s passing. This particular blog is about how us ridiculously talented creative feelers are sort of fucked up in our own ways. But how some of us, inexplicably, make our way around, or through, our fucked-upness, to the other side. The side where we’re still fucked up, but we’re not actively, or passively, trying to off ourselves because of it. And I wrote of  3 (anonymous)  people whose lives to greater or lesser degrees I have been privileged to be a part of. These 3 people who have had certain situations and circumstances  sadly similar to each other, and mine, and each rose to such amazing heights, in spite of bullshit, and pain, and for a couple of them, (and me) in spite of stupid choices. And Chester was one of those of whom I was speaking. The one of whom I wrote “Rise doesn’t begin to describe this story’s (not yet finished) end.” Because he had “made it.” Until he didn’t.

The last time I had a real conversation with Chester before he became CHESTER BENNINGTON OF LINKIN PARK, has always been for reasons I could never quite understand, indelibly etched on my brain. 4 years had past since the first meeting. I’d been to who knows how many Grey Daze shows, gotten my first tattoo by a Club Tattoo artist at an event called “Club Sex” which was basically live music and tattoos happening all under one roof, on my birthday (known to some as Valentine’s Day), and had seen him out and about every now and again because; music scene.  Now working for Never Records Group, I had one of our bands playing a show at Gibson’s in Tempe.

At one point in the evening I was outside the venue, and Chester came walking up. We hugged, exchanged hellos, and “what are you doing here” sort of questions. And then we talked about real life, and heartache. His heartache. And I see him now, just like I do every time I’ve thought of this the last 20 years, I see him, leaning up against the wall, hands pushed in his pockets, back curved, leaning forward, head down, one knee bent, and one foot on the wall behind him. When he’d look up, the emotion, the hurt around what he was sharing with me, was written all over his face, and reflected in his eyes. His life, and hurt at that moment in it is not my story to tell the world, and is ancient history now. What I can say is that he told me of new opportunities, and changes he was going to be making because he had to make them. I don’t recall what I said, but I’m sure I offered some words in which I’d hoped he’d find comfort, and hugs, and wishes that all would turn out for the best. Then we went inside, him to enjoy a show, and me to work my show.

Within a year or so of that is when he started to become CHESTER BENNINGTON OF LINKIN PARK. Every time I’ve thought of that conversation over the years, I’ve thought about how desperately sad he was. How he had no idea that the choices, and changes he felt he had to make, were going to lead him to heights none of the rest of us ridiculously talented creative feelers in Tempe, Arizona, could in our wildest dreams imagine achieving. I know by his own admission that even in his happy moments, he was prone to self sabotage, but I’d like to believe that there were at least some periods of time where he was able to ride the wave of happiness.

Grey Daze was set to do a reunion show in Tempe on September 23rd this year, and I was flying home for it. Having only seen Chester a couple of times since 1998, and always in some sort of mob fest meet and greet situation, I’ve never had the chance to remind him of that day, and how sad he was, and how far he’d made it. Not just in music, but in life, with the work he did with MusiCares, and in love with Talinda, with his kids, with Club Tattoo. I wanted to tell him how much hope he’d always given me, and how privileged I’d always felt that he, the human being Chester, not the eventually famous guy, had shared something so deeply personal, and allowed me to hold that space for him. And like so many others around the world I wanted to thank him for music, and lyrics, that brought me a measure of comfort in so many moments in time when nothing else could. Even if it was just because his was a voice from home, and a challenge to “scream” with! In this last week I have mourned the loss of that opportunity to say those words, which I do know he is aware of anyway.

This really has been a tough one that has brought back around my lifelong deep think about why so many of us ridiculously talented creative feelers go so low, even when soaring so high. I have grieved for him, for the pain he must have felt. I have cried copious amounts of tears. And screamed. And sang, And danced, And walked. And run. I have asked WHY god bless it WHY? I’ve sent waves of love, and peace, and healing, to the hearts that need it most, so that I could at least do something. I’ve been moved by the tributes to him from ALL OVER THE WORLD! Over and over reading words, or watching videos in which someone is talking about how they owe their life to Chester, and Linkin Park. I have had coworkers, and friends tell me that they directly credit Chester with getting them through some of the worst times of their lives.

Tonight, the day after the memorial for Chester, I have found myself in the place I feel I have to be, and that feels right, with all of this. I, as usual, have no answers, but, what is a possible truth that resonates for me, even while knowing it doesn’t comfort those he left behind, is that his work here was done. He has touched thousands upon thousands of lives with his music, and with his heart. He has been a voice to give courage to those struggling with depression, and addiction. He has literally saved lives because of those things. And now, he has “leveled up.” With his passing people from all over the world are coming together to celebrate him, to mourn the loss of him, and to comfort one another.  Funds are being donated in his name, which will help a someone in need someday. People who may not have reached out for help, are doing so. Suicide prevention information is being spread across social media at a rate I’m certain is much higher than usual. Chester’s friends in music are openly speaking of his passing, and urging anyone who needs help to seek it, and to reach out to each other for support, and friendship.

For me the loss of Chester has brought about the renewed desire to have the conversation about how the paradigm of the tortured/suffering/starving artist is played out. How there must be a way to create, and be happy, all at once. Not always of course. Not fake “church lady” happy. But that we don’t need to be unhappy because its what we’re “supposed” to be. We don’t have to self sabotage when we do find ourselves happy. We must tell the ridiculously talented creative feelers that it is OK to be those things when they are tiny humans! Nurture that. Give them the opportunity to explore that. Don’t bullshit them about it either. It’s not pretty, and it sure as hell isn’t always fun. But don’t tell them they have to be a Dr,/lawyer/scientist whatever. Teach them the value of taking care of reality, while pursuing their dreams!

I get that I’m not solving the problems with this very 101 “choose happy” sort of thing. See above and “I don’t have any answers.” But I am willing to shine a light, to be a light, to give a hug, or be the ear or shoulder that is needed. There can’t be anything more important to do in this life than that, right? If I never remembered another time when I made a difference in a persons life, I will always know that even for just a minute, I helped a sad someone feel, if not better, heard.

The last thing I want, need, to say, is Thank You to that skinny kid, with the braids, and the HUGE voice. Thank you for crossing paths with me in this reality. Thank you for the music that was the sound track for so many moments large, and small in my life, and not just sad moments, at all!! So many happy memories of you, with Grey Daze, and Linkin Park. Thank you for writing lyrics that I understand at a soul level. Thank you for your courage in being forthcoming about your abuse, your addiction, and your depression because it helped me when I was in my deepest, most dark place, where I didn’t care if I woke up the next day, feel quite so crazy, knowing it was just me who’d ever gone there.. Most importantly, thank you for giving me your trust, and the opportunity to be whatever you needed at that time, all those years ago. I will not say goodbye to you, I will simply say see you later, for whenever later may be, and I love you.

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Photos not mine but were found via Google search.

                                                    -I was privileged enough to be working in the (son of a bitching, eat souls for breakfast, and puppies for lunch, but has always been my love) music industry in the mid to late 90’s in metro-Phoenix, where Chester was in a band called Grey Daze.

  For Chester, For Me, For You There's a thousand places, (to match the thousand pieces of my broken heart) where I want to start this writing, but I'm so fucking mad, and sad, so so sad, that THESE THINGS about which I must write (or be crippled by the confusion, and pain) are things at all, that words come to me in rushes, and I think them, and write them, hate them, then delete them.