#dead sea mud mask before and after

[rippersz]

𝘐𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘠𝘖𝘜.

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(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both; gore, toxic love, smutty/suggestive themes, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader)

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"I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting," ~ Richard Siken

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It was an accident.

It was all an accident.

Wrong time, wrong place, wrong moment.

Why were you awake?

What were you looking for?

Was it her?

Was it something else?

Were you out of bed because you had a feeling?

Was the bell tolling for you even in your sleep? Could you hear the echo?

Was her silence too loud?

You turned the corner.

Why did you turn the corner?

She was so close to safety.

Too slow, in the end.

Too slow too slow too slow.

And you were too fast too fast too fast. Too inquisitive. Too smart for your own good.

Draped in the darkest grey of a hooded designer coat. Gloved hands holding bags. Red plastic and squishing softness. The handle of a pocketknife tucked between white teeth. No heels, but black boots. Careful not to track mud.

There was no mistaking it.

There was no mistaking her.

Tall, intimidating, curved and sleek. Disappearing into the night without a peep, only to come back past the devil’s hour and get caught.

Years of secrecy.

And to think it was all ruined by you.

You. Her limbo. Her undoing or her reaffirming supporter. Her end or her beginning. The in-between of her life. The connecting thread, so thin, so weak, that ties the two aspects of her existence together. The hungry and the satiated. The mask and the actor. The figure in the dark and the hero in the light. Trusted and feared. Loved and bewared. You, who had captured her eye the very moment she saw you all that time ago. You, who stood in her presence and commanded all of her attention and looked her in the face with no fear at all.

You, who only felt the fear after you turned the corner.

‘No, not you’, was her first thought. ‘No, please, let it be someone else. Let it be someone palatable.’

But no.

No no, little bell.

There you stood, hands limp at your sides, watching Larissa open the door to her quarters with a small golden key. Not trembling from the rush of the kill. Not breathing heavily from the long walk back. Not even bothering to slow her steps as she comes to a stop before her door.

Calm, instead; and swimming in a sea of only thought and anticipation for how the future meal would taste.

One does, after all, burn quite a few calories after chasing a rabbit through the woods.

She was hungry.

And you couldn’t sleep.

And in a fucked turn of events, her desire to romance you into love had melted into a necessary evil. Of course she could just kill you, but what a regret that would be. Not seeing your pretty little face each day… not hearing the sweet tones of your voice… not knowing the way you laugh… oh what a mistake it would be to taste your liver. And she probably wouldn’t enjoy it anyway. She never enjoyed the ones she cared about. Strangers were preferred. Strangers that would never be tied back to her because - my oh my why would anyone like Principal Weems ever kill somebody? How could anyone ever dare think that? When would she even have the time? And no woman could shoulder the emotional weight of murder! And cannibalism?! Oh perish the thought! No, Larissa Weems wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s an amazing woman; she’s helped my kids so much. Oh, Principal Weems? No, that woman is an angel. She’s really good with the teens, younger and older; gets along with everyone too. And she’s a great colleague! There’s no reason to suspect her. Because she can’t kill anyone. She doesn’t have the heart. Doesn’t have the guts. She’d cry and cry and cry her way home, bending beneath the horror of her actions.

She doesn’t have it in her.

Whatever ‘it’ was.

Whatever ‘it’ is.

No. She didn’t have it in her.

She had something else in her.

A bell. An alarm. An innate sense of disguise, of self, of shadow. A mind 20 steps ahead at all times. A heart that never stopped beating. Breath that never skipped. Hands that never shook.

Unless you were around.

Then the human sank forward and suddenly she found herself falling behind, skipping beats, skipping breaths, and shaking.

And what, above all else, was so special about you?

Hm? What was so special about sweet darling beautiful you? Was it your own intelligence? Was it your own knowledge? Your own creativity? Was it your ability to be effortlessly funny? Was it the way you looked at her, sarcastic and cold and frightened and lustful? Was that it?

Or was it because you knew?

You knew.

You know.

You saw.

She waited for so long- days, weeks- sitting around, walking around, breathing and going about her life, waiting for everything to come crashing down. Waiting for the police to walk up to her door, demanding an inspection. They wouldn’t find anything, no, but that didn’t matter. They’d keep it all on record. So if anything did happen in the future, and she slipped up, her head would be on the chopping block - instead of one of her victims.

But the police never showed. And nothing ever changed. And the only shift in her life was you - but even that was slight and even that was small and even that was enough to make her feel reinvigorated. Because you knew… and yet you didn’t tell anyone. Why didn’t you tell anyone? She asks herself that constantly. Why haven’t you said anything? She’s teased you, frightened you, lured you in, put people on your plate, and you have yet to bolt up from the seat in her office and fly out into Jericho, screaming bloody murder. She’s most likely killed a person you saw once in passing; watched the light fade from their eyes, their breath dissipate in one last exhale, their heart slow to a complete stop. She’s ripped out insides, rearranged them, memorized their places, tasted them and enjoyed them. She’s done the most horrific things a human or non-human can do to its own kind, and you know this, and you haven’t called for help.

Perhaps you should just be honest with yourself, lamb.

Perhaps you should just say it. It will make things easier. You can cut through the tension and get over all the bullshit.

You want her.

Don’t you?

You want her just as much as she wants you.

You saw her that night after turning the corner and you knew. You felt it.

Something changed.

You want her protection. You want her passion. You want her love.

One could even say you are hungry for it.

–

By the time Larissa reaches the top of the stone steps, feet cold and heart thumping in anticipation, the minutes she has left have dwindled. It was a long trek through the halls to her quarters and once the secret wall on the other end slides into place behind her, she flicks up a beautiful slim wrist again and nearly chokes on her own breath.

“What on Earth?”

2 minutes?!

She has 2 minutes?!

Not a chance she spent that long cloaked in the dark of the Nevermore passages. There’s no way…

But her eyes don’t deceive her. Even after the few times she blinks, caught by utter surprise.

No. The clock reads 2 minutes. 2 minutes decreasing.

“Right,” she nods and huffs, suddenly and so thoroughly pissed off.

2 minutes. Fine. If she had 2 minutes, she’d do something with it. No predator waits for their lamb. You’re hers anyway.

You’re hers and that’s that. 2 minutes or not. That’s how it is.

And she’s gone too long without seeing your face this evening. Time to find you, her sweet darling. Time to win.

–

Her legs slide into a strut as she makes her way down the hall. Chafing, she finds, is a complete bitch. But she’ll bear it of course. For you.

You, who are so keen on pushing lines and breaking rules. Thinking you’ve outsmarted her. Hiding yourself away somewhere in her quarters.

Or so she hopes.

Really, there’s no way of knowing. You could be anywhere else actually. In a bathroom somewhere maybe - or a closet, shoving yourself into the shadows with a hand clasped tight over your pretty little mouth. Even in the main hall… celebrating your victory as she takes herself to her own bedroom, hoping to the gods that you’re there.

She wishes, of course, that you could walk into her bedroom under better circumstances. Circumstances in which you’re less frightened, and not so full of anxiety. Circumstances in which you’re smiley and giggly and happy to be in her company and not worried about if she’ll eat you or not - which she won’t. Ever. As she’s already told herself.

But you don’t know that. And you’re in her room, maybe, shaking with the fear of when she finds you. Even though, at the heart of things, she’s not sure if she has it in herself to stick to the rules of the game.

Can they be changed?

It’s the one thing she wonders about as she gets closer and closer - speed eventually picking up into a jog as she looks down at her watch and sees that it’s ticked over to 1 minute. 1 minute. 1 minute.

Can the rules be changed?

The outcome maybe?

50 seconds.

Her feet begin to pound against the stone. They’re cold - they nip at her bare heels - but none of it registers.

40 seconds.

She needs to take a left then a right.

A left then a right.

A left…

45 seconds.

Then a right…

30 seconds.

–

BANG.

Silence.

Footsteps.

You barely have time to hold in your gasp- barely have time to breathe through your panic- no time at all to duck into shadow and hide- because she’s already there.

In the doorway. Outlined by a muted light.

Out of breath, but victorious.

“I found you,” Larissa huffs, shoulders falling up and down in the most mesmerizing rhythm.

Up… down… chest moving with the weight of her lungs as she catches her breath.

So she was running.

Since when does the bell run instead of toll?

“I know.”

It’s all you can think to say.

Double checking the time doesn’t even fade across your thoughts. Making an effort to dash past her somehow never even touches the corners of your mind. The bell has run and the game has ended and you have lost - just as you somehow knew you always would. Because what else would the universe have you do? Win? No. No, the lambs never win. That’s just not how it goes. And when a phone begins to beep somewhere- a small silent beep beep beep beep beep in the next few seconds- you know that doubting your loss will lead to nothing. She has won. And you have failed. And now you will have no choice but to consume one of your own. Another lamb that could never beat the wolf. Never smart enough. Never fast enough. Never good enough.

“10 seconds to spare,” comes her dulcet murmur.

You nod, numb to the truth of it all.

10 seconds to spare.

If only the bell walked.

If only you were smarter.

If only you were better.

If only you were good enough.

Silence blankets the two of you. The only thing that speaks are the breaths from each of your throats, pouring into the still perfumed air of Larissa’s closet.

From an outside perspective, one would think that a chase like that, a game so neck and neck, would end on the most explosive of notes. The biggest catch, so to speak. The climax of it all. One would think that with everything on the line, with a livelihood wagered and morals placed on the table, the finale would be something memorable and great and probably terrifying and macabre.

The be all end all for games of wolves and lambs and bells and prey.

But great climaxes don’t happen in real life. And the feeling of your heart in your throat is uncomfortably genuine. And though you’d like to have the balls to tell Larissa to go fuck herself and shove her cannibalism where the sun don’t shine and flee off down the hall past Nevermore’s doors to the Jericho police station, you just don’t. You don’t have the balls, the courage, the energy.

In the face of Larissa’s success, your body’s given up.

Months of trying to keep in stride with her, but it never works. You never feel like the control you have is actually yours. She is just too good. Too good at making you feel special. Too good at capturing your attention. Too good at being a woman of her word and making you feel comfortable even when you feel uncomfortable - and too good at making you love her.

But.

But really.

How can you love a woman who will feed you the thigh of a man?

How can you love someone like that?

How can you want someone like that?

Truly. Honestly.

What is wrong with you?

Why do you want, even now, to grasp her shoulders and pull her close and kiss her senseless? Why do you want her to lead you to her bed? Why do you want to drown in her passion?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

WHY DO YOU LOVE HER SO MUCH?

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

A person can’t be heard screaming in space.

All calls for help don’t matter there.

And we ask ourselves: what is the human psyche if not a universe?

What is the mind if not a vast unfathomable thing?

One in which we cannot hear each other’s screams? One in which we do not care enough to hear?

The cries for aid are internal for a reason. They reverberate through time and bones and blood and viscera and space and everything.

So Larissa cannot hear you.

All she can do is watch. And see you unravel. And hear your muted sniffles in the dark as tears well up in the hot of your eyes. Eager to fall. To release. To plead a case to a woman who has been the source of judgment for so long. To beg in the face of danger.

“I don’t want- I-” you choke on your words.

“…I don’t want to eat human.” Your voice is far away. Soft. Defeated.

“Please,” and only now do you return to the moment - blinking at her through the haze of your tears and the midnight of dark, “please don’t make me.”

Your heart, a tad late on the delay, seems to realize now the extent of everything. You have lost. And now you must face the consequences. And give into her wishes. And ruin everything for yourself.

For the rest of your life.

To eat… that… would be to say ‘this has gone too far.’ It would be to say ‘You are making me do this because of a silly stupid game and for that, I can no longer love you.’ Because eating one’s own kind is only seen in some animals - and you are no some animal. You are no hungry beast. You are no curious soul that is unable to admit the truth to themself.

You are just a woman. A woman who does not want to stop loving, even though the love feels more like rot.

Even though the love feels more like pain.

“Please. Please don’t make me.”

And the tears only fall faster, racing down your cheeks in the same rhythm as your heart’s beat. On and on and on and on. Even as Larissa mumbles your name and flicks on the closet light, rushing forward at the smallest sight of your wet face. Flushed from tears, crumpled with sadness and self-loathing and the undeniable feeling of being lost. So lost. So out of place.

And you don’t even question the whole power situation - how Larissa’s room has power while the rest of Nevermore doesn’t. Or seemingly doesn’t. It would be like Larissa Weems to ‘fake’ a power outage for the sake of raising the stakes and winning the game. Just another reason why she’s fucked up and you shouldn’t love her and yet-

“Shhh shhh, you’re okay. You’re okay.” Her soft accented voice in your ear and warm breath against your temple, speaking the sweetest reassurances as you tuck your face into your open palms and weep into the clammy skin of your hands. Her body presses against yours and her arms go winding around your waist as soon as she realizes that your legs are slowly buckling - simply unable to hold up the heavy weight of your heart.

“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

But you don’t know how you can believe her. Even as she sits down next to you, both of you on your knees, pressed to the cream carpet in the middle of the walk-in closet with your head slowly falling to the side. Resting against her chest. Seeking solace in the very thing that frightens you and seduces you and restrains you and frees you and knows you and loves you and needs you and is somehow comforting you while you cry about her cannibalism.

It’s sickening.

But it’s what you need.

And when warm tears fall into your hair and are smushed along your temple, you realize that Larissa needs it too.

Not the comfort or the vulnerability or the release, but the shared feeling of otherness. The realization that neither of you are alone in your secret. A secret you never asked to know and a secret Larissa never wished to tell. And yet here you are. Knowing and telling and sharing and keeping. Keeping it between just the two of you. Like Romeo and Juliet against the world. Twisted souls with a depraved lust and desire for each other- in the heart and in the flesh.

But Romeo and Juliet is romantic.

And you two are just sad.

And damned.

And leaning on each other still, silently weeping while mindless words spill out of Larissa’s lips.

“I won’t,” she rasps, “I won’t make you. You don’t have to. I promise. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t- this wasn’t- I’m sorry. Please. Believe me. You have to believe me. I’m so sorry.”

But she’s not sorry about eating people.

She’s just sorry you found out.

She’s just sorry you saw who she really was. Is.

She’s just sorry you love a version of herself that isn’t the woman she wants to be.

Still Larissa Weems, but someone different.

Still Larissa Weems, but a murderer.

Blood on her hands. As red as her lipstick.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I’d never make you. I swear it.”

And she cries as she speaks, the length of her throat clogged with guilt and tears and sorrow. A million apologies for a million offenses. One right after the other that somehow fills the void in your heart and stitches up the horrendous wounds in your mind. Keeping you bloated on apologies.

The only difference being that she means them.

You can tell.

And when she says she’d never make you, pushing it out of her lungs in the way she does, sobbing it into the softness of your neck, you believe her. She wouldn’t let a single piece of long pork touch your tongue and she wouldn’t serve you something you don’t want to eat. No woman in love would do such a thing. And so she clutches you closer and whispers it over and over again.

“I won’t I won’t I won’t I won’t you don’t have to I’m so sorry I’m so sorry-”

Until you’re both exhausted and you find enough breath needed to take your hands away from your eyes and wipe your snot and tears on the skin of your forearm.

“I know,” you finally speak, crackly and pathetic. “I know.”

Larissa sniffles and nods but doesn’t stop her weeping - and her hands only bring you closer. As close as you can get. Molded to her body, tangled up with her on the floor, finding your arms returning the desperate hug and sliding around her midsection to hold her close too. Like a lifeline.

Like a lifeline.

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Smiles nervously. - Rip x

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Tags (Plz keep in mind Tumblr doesn't let me tag some accounts): @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @sugipla @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @azu-zu @hopelessly-sapphic @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @zillahofviolets-bayolet @the-bearr @amateurwritescm @alex-nyx @h-doodles @weemssapphic

[a-killer-obsession]

Wavelengths [Killer x Reader, Heat x Reader]

🔞 Minors DNI 🔞

A search for a rumored Vegapunk weapon leads the Kid Pirates to an unexpected new crewmate, with a bloodlust that rivals their own and an incredible power.

CW: Please check AO3 for all current warnings, but general warning for smut, slow burn, serious gore, and really dark themes. AFAB reader, she/her pronouns.

Masterlist || AO3 || Chapter 1

Chapter 20 - See Me

Just straight angst tbh

WC: ~4k

Taglist: @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @iggy5055

For five grueling days the commanders of the Victoria Punk had taken turns watching over you. It had taken a significant amount of persuasion to get Killer to return to his own room to get some sleep, after almost two straight days sitting at your side, leaving only to use the attached bathroom. With all of the crew, other than the commanders, strictly prohibited from the infirmary during your long sleep, his mask had remained off. It made it easy for the others to see the dark bags under his eyes, the whites of them bloodshot and irritated from crying and forcing himself to stay awake. He had fallen asleep a few times, but never for more than half an hour, until Kid had physically removed him from the room and barricaded his cabin door shut with him inside, forcing him to rest. All of the commanders were on a rotation keeping watch over your condition, even Double who you barely ever spoke to on a normal day had willingly taken up a guard post.

The ship had returned to the island it had come from before rescuing you, Kid didn't have the energy to give commands right now and Killer was in no state to back him up if something happened out at sea, so until you were awake they had made the decision to stay docked. It meant as well that Mohawk had unlimited access to any medical supplies he may need, though once your fever had broken on day two there hadn't been as much need. Your wounds were closing well, no longer plagued by infection, and your bruises were slowly fading. He'd had to install a catheter, which felt like an unbelievable invasion of your privacy, but it was medically necessary if he wanted to keep you hydrated intravenously without risking damage to your bladder.

Yesterday, confident in your level of recovery, he had lowered the dose of your pain medication, so everyone was in high hopes that you would wake up soon. As such, the watch rotation had been limited to those who most insisted on being at your side when you woke: Killer, Heat, and Kid. Mohawk was also nearby whenever he wasn't resting or eating, on standby in case you woke up and found the pain management to not be enough. The last thing anyone wanted was for you to be in any more pain.

For the first three days since being retrieved you had been in a deep, dark void of sleep. No dreams, but it also meant no nightmares. As the fatigue of the infection faded, the dreams returned. Mostly you dreamed of the island, but it was an idyllic haze. Moss covered stones and ivy covered trees and the most sapphire blue water you had ever seen flowing through a perfect stream. Brightly coloured koi swimming in the bright rays of sun that bounced and sparkled on the surface of the water, making small, delicate rainbows. Vibrant, exotic butterflies fluttering through a clearing of wildflowers, where Killer held your hand and whispered sweet nothings as he made love to you in the soft fragrant grass.

Killer's face melting, dripping onto you in thick viscous clumps, boiling your skin wherever they made contact. Blades of grass turning crimson with fresh blood, whipping at your flesh like they were alive and had a mind of their own. Trees stripped bare by harsh winds that chilled you to your bones, and the smell of rotting animal carcasses near a dried up stream, scattered with the bones of dead fish. Hail that turned to sharp stones, stripping your skin bare as you ran through mud, sinking lower and lower as your limbs grow heavy from fighting it. It flows into your mouth, silencing your screams, filling your lungs and suffocating you while dark looming forms crowd over you and laugh. “Little mouse,” they mock, the forms wavering like clouds of black smoke with red, glowing eyes that pierce right through you, “squeak for us little mouse.”

You jolt awake, a scream tearing from your throat, blood curdling and shrill, your eyes wide in fear as you fail to recognise your surroundings. A single strong arm wraps around you and with haki covered fingers you claw at it, shredding at the skin there as your scream turns to harsh growls and you fight against the restraint.

“YIN, IT'S ME,” Kid yells from beside you, struggling to keep you from falling off the cot. Just his fucking luck that you chose his shift to wake up, as if he hadn't pissed Killer off enough as it was. “BREATHE, GIRL, FUCKING BREATHE”

Mohawk is quick to come to your side, injecting you with a light sedative, not enough to knock you out, just enough to calm you. Kid's arm pours blood from fresh wounds as he holds you firmly, but you stop fighting him, hyperventilating as you come back to reality and accept that you're awake. He lets his grasp on you soften, holding you against his chest as he does for Killer, supporting your torso with his metal arm so he can use his flesh one to rub your arm soothingly till your breathing finally begins to even out.

“There you go girlie, there you go,” he coos quietly as you finally calm, eyes pricking with tears, one hand balling the fabric of his vest as you hold it tight for support. “You're home, you're safe, everything is going to be okay now”

“Kil- Kil-,” your stutter with a raspy voice. It sounds so unfamiliar that you're not sure it even came from you. Kid gives Mohawk a nod and he quickly exits.

“Doc is gonna get him, okay?” Kid soothed, “He's okay, he made it home safe because of your sacrifice, he's just sleeping right now but Mohawk will get him”

You whimper and nod in agreement, resting your head against Kid's wide chest as he wraps his flesh arm around you. You never thought Kid could ever be capable of such gentle, tender care, it was so unlike him. The two of you had such a turbulent relationship, but right now you felt safe as he held you, in the knowledge that you were loved, and your captain had not abandoned you after all. You couldn't remember it happening, but they had come for you, and you were home.

“You really scared us Yin,” Kid said far too softly to be in character for him, “I'm so sorry, this was all my doing, I was just trying to force you and Kil together so you could stop fucking each other over”

“Kid, what are you talking about?” You had to whisper, your throat sore and torn from screaming and not having physically drunk anything in days.

“I couldn't watch him hurt like that anymore,” he admitted, “he loves you, he's just so fucking stubborn, you both are. I know you and I haven't had the best relationship but I didn't want to watch you hurting either”

“He loves me?” You rasped.

“Of course he fucking loves you,” Kid half laughed, “he's been crazy about you since you came on board. I know you don't see the change, but he's different around you - he's happier, more comfortable in his own skin. He hasn't been the same since you got back from the island, and then there's the episodes-”

“What episodes?” You asked.

“Ah, I've said too much,” Kid scratched the back of his neck as he loosened his hold on you, “it's not for me to say. All I can say is he hasn't been this fucked up since Vic died. Whatever he said to you on the island, he doesn't mean it, he just can't admit that anyone could ever love the real him. He's hated himself for a long time, but it seems like he hates himself less when you're around”

“I-”

“YIN!” Killer near cried as he ran in, the infirmary door swinging on its hinges as he rushed to your side, holding your face so carefully between his large hands. Kid let you go and you quickly melted into Killer, his arms wrapping around you as the tears you'd been trying so hard to hold back finally spilled out and soaked his t-shirt.

“I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry,” he cried, his tears dripping in to your hair from where his chin rested against the top of your head, “I shouldn't have left you there, I should have fought harder”

“Kil,” you rasped, “you had to go, or you'd be dead. It's okay now, you came for me”

“We took so long though,” he sobbed, “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. They hurt you so bad, we should have been there earlier”

“Kil-” you wheezed. He was squeezing you so tight you could barely breathe.

“I'm so fucking sorry Yin,” he cried.

“KIL,” Kid growled, “you're gonna fucking kill her yourself”

Killer finally realised how tight he was holding you and let go, your breaths coming in ragged and painful. Your hand shot to your chest, a sharp ache making it hard to breathe. You started to hyperventilate as you struggled to catch a breath, panicking as it started to feel like you were suffocating. Mohawk gently pushed Killer aside and injected something into your IV that you hadn't even noticed was connected to your arm until now, before putting an oxygen mask over your face to help you. Killer slowly backed away, eyes wide in fear, till his back hit the wall near the door.

“Kil, don't-” Kid could barely get out the warning before Killer fled, the door swinging again from the force he had slammed through it with. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you looked to Kid for support.

“He'll come back, Yin,” Kid sighed, “he's just scared of hurting you”

“This wasn't his fault,” Mohawk said, gathering up the things he needed to tend to Kid's arm, “you've got a broken rib, it'll be hard to breath for a little while”

“Try explaining that to him,” Kid groaned as the doctor attended to his arm. He already knew he was going to have to replace more furniture. Killer had in general been extremely skittish since you'd returned, his guilt was eating him alive. He felt that if he'd just never given in to his own selfishness on the island, none of this would have happened. The fact you'd been raped had him gagging whenever it flashed across his mind, he'd had trouble keeping food down in general since hearing about your condition.

Before you had the chance to really break down about Killer running from you again, Heat appeared in the door, like the visage of an angel. Always there when you needed him, it made you curse yourself that you'd fallen for Killer and not Heat. Things would be so much fucking easier if it was Heat. Regardless, you still loved him in a different way as your closest friend, and eagerly held out your arms for him as he entered. He replied by tilting you up on the bed and shuffling in behind you, letting you lean back against his warm chest. It felt nice against the body wide aching that you felt, a Heat sized hot water bottle, though the pain was slowly lessening no doubt as a result of whatever Mohawk had injected you with.

As soon as you were comfortable Heat directed his eyes to meet Kid's. “It's happening again,” he said quietly.

“I'm on it,” Kid sighed, giving you a curt nod and rushing out the door to find his best friend before any irreversible damage could be done to the ship or to him.

“What's happening again?” you wheezed.

“Killer isn't well,” Heat sighed, giving Mohawk a forlorn look. Mohawk returned his frown before letting out a deep breath and excusing himself, taking with him a small first aid kit. Most of the crew now knew about Killer's mania, it had gotten hard to hide given the frequency over the last few weeks, so he prepared himself to stitch more wounds.

“Did he get hurt?” You asked. Heat didn't like the way your voice sounded so strained and held the oxygen mask to your face so you'd stop removing it to speak.

“Stop talking baby, rest your throat,” you gave him an annoyed huff which made the corner of his mouth raise, ever the defiant even now. “He hasn't been well for a very long time,” Heat continued, “I'm sure you're aware by now that he has some self-esteem issues, and it's why he wears the mask, but it goes much deeper. He has-”

“Episodes,” you finished for him, “Kid told me that much, but I don't understand what he meant”

Heat tutted at you for removing the mask again before continuing. “He has… I guess you would call it manic episodes. It happened a lot after Victoria died, back before we'd even left our home island, but it hadn't happened much since he got the mask, until you got back from the island and they started happening again. It's been really bad week for him, and he keeps refusing medication”

“Oh,” you whispered sadly, “I did this”

“You didn't, babydoll,” Heat assured you, “he's just got a lot of mixed up feelings right now that boiled over when we lost you. He'll come right eventually, he always does”

“Is that why he doesn't want me?” You said, almost too quietly for him to hear.

“You know that's not true,” Heat sighed, “but I think it's maybe why he's keeping his distance. There's really nobody to blame here but he puts it all on himself anyway. Is it the fault of the storm for sending you to that island? Puberty fucking with his self esteem when we were kids? Our stupid plan to get the two of you together? The marines? Nobody is to blame here but that doesn't stop him from blaming himself, and it's only putting stress on his condition”

“Kid mentioned something about forcing us together, what did he mean by that?” You frowned.

Heat sighed and ran a stressed hand through his blue locks before sliding off the bed to avoid the question for a little longer. He quietly retrieved a glass of water for you before returning back to your side, making the mistake of glancing at you and seeing your disapproving expression at his avoidance.

“Look, we couldn't just keep watching you both hurting each other anymore okay?” He said, exasperated, “I may have mentioned to the others that you said you love him after Kid said Killer had a breakdown about loving you and regretting what happened, so we made up an excuse about needing log poses and needing stealth to get them so the two of you would spend time together”

“It was none of your fucking business,” you spat, fuming at him. “It wasn't your fucking place or anyone's fucking place to push us together like a couple of dolls. We made a deal on that island, but Killer was the one who threw me away. He made it clear that he didn't want me when we got back. It's not my fault that his own decision hurt him, as if it didn't fucking rip me apart”

“I don't get it!” Heat yelled, throwing his hands up in defeat, “you love him, you told me so, and he told Kid he loves you. Why can't you just both get over it and be happy together? I feel like I'm watching two monkeys at a typewriter, I can't just keep waiting for one of you to accidentally write ‘I love you'”

“BECAUSE HE THREW ME AWAY HEAT!” you screamed, “HE THREW ME AWAY! JUST LIKE MY DAD! JUST LIKE THE MARINES! JUST LIKE EVERY RAPIST COMMANDER WHO GREW TIRED OF ME WHEN I DIDN'T SCREAM ENOUGH FOR THEM! JUST LIKE DELILAH! AND JUST LIKE YOU ALL WILL TOO!”

Heat stood staring in shocked silence. Not once had the two of you ever fought, and he had no idea you felt like this. “Yin, please-”

“Leave, Heat,” you turned away from him, fury and pain written all over your face. Tears were starting to roll down your cheeks against your will.

“No,” he started towards you.

You flipped the seastone on your bracelet that someone had put back on you while you were asleep, and looked at him with dead, blank, pink-grey eyes. “Leave, or I'll make you leave,” you growled.

“I'm sorry,” he sighed as he stepped away, having nothing he could do to retort against your threat, “I'm sorry Yin”

And then he was gone, and once again, you were alone.

You didn't speak again for several days, not that your aching throat would allow for it anyway. Killer didn’t visit again, and you weren't surprised. Heat visited often despite you yelling at him, trying his best to make conversation and fill you in on everything you'd missed, but you would just pretend to sleep, or pointedly stare blankly at the door. You didn't want to talk to him, you didn't want to talk to anyone who had anything to do with that stupid plan. You found out that Mohawk and Double hadn't been a part of it, they were just following what sounded like a normal mission commanded by their captain, so when you did begin to speak, it was only to them.

You couldn't help it though when Mohawk discharged you and you found yourself tossing and turning in your own bed. Eventually you cracked, and Heat was more than willing to stay with you to make you feel safe. You couldn't stay mad at him forever, he was your best friend here, you needed him. You did your best to get past what had been a well meaning plan and try to forgive him. Kid too had been forgiven, after days of him leaving little metal animals at your door. It was adorable, really, you couldn't stay mad at that. Wire was harder to forgive, especially after finding out that it was his idea to delay your rescue. You'd nearly torn his throat out on the deck when you found out till he finally snapped and broke down. You didn't even think he was capable of crying, and it may have been emotional manipulation but you couldn't help but forgive him.

Six days after being discharged, now back on the open sea, you had the stark realisation that you hadn't seen Killer at all. You expected to just have to ignore him as you passed like ships in the night, but you hadn't seen him at all. You sat down to lunch and noticed how quiet the other commanders were, defeated expressions on their faces as they all silently picked at their food.

“Where's Killer?” You finally asked, curiosity and concern getting the better of you. You were mad at him, but that didn't mean you'd miraculously stopped loving him.

  “His room,” Kid didn't raise his head to answer you, “he hasn't come out since his last… episode”

You sighed and stood, you had to talk to him, this was getting out of control. Your anger was far outweighed right now by your concern for Killer's mental health.

“Where are you going?” His head finally perked up as you started to leave.

“I promised him we'd talk,” you replied flatly.

The others exchanged looks that were somewhere between worry and hope. They'd all taken turns trying to get Killer out of his depression but had all been unsuccessful. Maybe you could be his relief, like Victoria had been all those years ago. You had the same stubborn, aggressive, take-no-shit attitude as she had, but with that same gentle, selfless heart under the exterior that never failed to make people smile. They needed so badly for Killer to smile again.

Mohawk stood and rushed to your side as you walked away, prompting you to stop and look at him. He took your hand gently and placed a small plastic pill container in it, closing your figures around it.

“Please, if you can, get him to take these,” Mohawk's eyes were sad and pleading, “he needs to take one every day”

You looked at the container in your hand, raising your brows at him. “For his… sickness?” You asked. Mohawk nodded and you responded with a sigh. “Okay, I'll try,” you told him, before taking your leave.

You weren't sure whether or not to even bother knocking as you stood outside his door. You didn't know what you'd say if he let you in either, you knew now that he loved you back, but you still felt hurt and rejected by the way he threw you away after the island, and the fact that he never came to see you again after running from the infirmary. Regardless, you could feel the ache in your heart from knowing that he was hurting so badly that he'd isolated himself. You couldn't just keep standing outside his door though, he had observation haki, he no doubt knew you were already here so the longer you delayed, the more awkward it would be.

With a deep breath you tried to be brave, settling on not bothering to knock, you had a feeling he wouldn't answer anyway. You opened the door slowly, nervously peering around the edge of it, your heart in your throat as it beat much too fast.

Killer's usually pristine room looked like a wild hog had run through it. The dresser was on its side, the contents of the drawers spread out over the floor. The doors of the wardrobe hung from their hinges, cracked and threatening to break off entirely. The side tables were tossed aside, books that had previously been kept in them torn apart and thrown around the room. The hooks on the wall that usually held weapons were empty, and you wondered if Kid had removed them, it spoke of the gravity of the situation. Beyond that you swore that the furniture in here was different, it'd been a long time since you'd been in here during initiation but you could have sworn Killer had a set of ebony wood furniture, not oak.

You spotted his mask in the corner, cracked right down the center, a large hole in the wall above it. You picked it up gingerly, running your hand over the front of it before placing it on the unmade bed.

Killer himself was nowhere to be seen, so you ventured in further, assuming he must be in the bathroom. Glass embedded in the carpet crunched underfoot as you carefully tried to find your footing on the barely visible floor. The bathroom door had a huge hole in it, the wood splintered around it, like someone had punched straight through. There was no longer a medicine cabinet, just an unpainted rectangle on the wall where it used to hang, and you could have sworn the sink looked different. Maybe you were misremembering, you had only been in here once after all.

You found Killer in the otherwise empty bathtub, curled in on himself with his head buried between his knees, his long locks matted and unruly as they hid most of his body. He looked truly dishevelled, and you could see cuts and scrapes and bruises in various stages of healing littering his arms. You found yourself climbing into the tub too before you could think too hard about it, sinking down to sit at the opposite end from him. He didn't give you any movement to acknowledge your presence.

“Kil, you have to take your meds,” you weren't sure what else to say, but the meds at least gave you an excuse as to why you were here. “Everyone is worried about you”

“They shouldn't be,” he mumbled, “I'll only hurt them”

“Kil you are hurting them,” you replied with a sad frown, “they just want you to be okay, it hurts them to see you like this. Take the meds, please”

You held out the pills to him, shaking them a little so he knew you were waiting for him to take them, but he still didn't move. You ran an exhausted hand through your hair and stood up, climbing out of the tub and returning to his room to hunt for a hairbrush. When you found one you returned to the bathroom and sat at his side, taking a thick segment of his hair and carefully working your way through the knots.

“Don't,” he grumbled, shying away from you.

“Quit being a baby, your hair is all fucked up, and since you won't care for it, I will,” you continued brushing. He didn't like it, not because he didn't want you to touch his hair, but because it reminded him of the tender care you afforded him on the island.

“What happened wasn't your fault,” you said as you brushed, “I'm still mad as hell at you for hurting me but what happened at the marine base wasn't your fault”

“It is, I should have protected you, I should have sensed his haki,” he said quietly, still making no effort to move.

“We all make mistakes, doesn't mean it was your fault,” you replied, moving to the next long segment of hair. He sat quietly, having no reply for you.

“Killer,” you said softly, “can you look at me please?”

You wanted so badly for him to just look at you, to just recognise that despite everything, you were there, at his side, trying your best to talk to him despite how much you were hurting, even if he hadn’t been there for you while you were healing. You wanted to pour your heart out and make things right with him but he wouldn't even dignify you with eye contact. When he still didn't move it started to make your heart ache, the strings that held it finally snapping under the tension. You felt ignored and thrown away again, and it made you feel like you were invisible and insignificant. Tears started falling before you had a chance to stop them.

“I'm right here Kil, why can't you see me?” You cried. That finally got him to move, but it was too little too late as his icy blue eyes caught the tail end of you leaving. You threw the container of pills on the bed before slamming his door shut behind you and fleeing back to your own room to sob.

[NEXT CHAPTER]

[activate-shadow-of-the-window]

I Will Look For You as the Sun Rises Higher

Thus Always to Tyrants - Dear Wormwood - The Oh Hellos

-

Chapter 5 of Cracking like a dry branch in a westward wind, in which Pearl, Gem, and Scar get mail. Two people are very happy about this.

Available on AO3 here.

-

Pearl could’ve believe her luck.

Twelve long years since making that pilgrimage to the Sunset Lands, a blushing llama girl in her veil and scarf, carrying her tiny scythe and Great Blackwood’s blessed bough.

Twelve long years since she had stepped on that strange outrigger, double-hulled and painted with fanciful Labyrinth scrollwork.

Twelve long years since that parrot had stood over her, saber glinting in the sun as she conceded their honor duel, stained with sweat and mud and blood.

And now Grian Sunset was here, raising towers from the sea and buying Great Blueskin’s grain.

“He couldn’t know who I am,” she muttered to herself, “I never told him my name. I didn’t! I couldn’t’ve!”

“Pardon, mother?”

Pearl flipped her head around in surprise, meeting the equally surprised eyes of a young acolyte. “Yes, Daughter Marianne?”

The girl flushed. “I apologize, but I overheard your words. Who couldn’t know who you are, mother?”

The High Priestess blinked, momentarily puzzled before she realized that she’d spoken aloud. Pearl waved a hand. “Oh, nothing, daughter. I was reminiscing about my past. You need not trouble yourself about me.”

Marianne bowed her head and dropped into a shallow curtsy. “Of course, mother.”

Pearl sighed after the acolyte had trotted off, hooves still echoing in the halls of Great Blackwood’s temple complex. That parrot was making her agitated. Her own hooves clacked as she made her way to the north courtyard, where a messenger from Impulse waited. The ocelot had arrived in the dead of night, astride a horse that had been ridden since sunset the previous day. The cat had fallen asleep in the arms of the night guard, and had only recently woken up, babbling that he needed to tell the High Priestess the news as soon as possible.

A sister greeted her at the courtyard’s entrance, eyes veiled and ears twitching with nervousness. Pearl nodded to her. “Sister Jeanne. May Great Blackwood shade you.”

The nun curtsied back. “May Great Blackwood shade you, elder sister. The ocelot rider is within, and another messenger has just arrived, from Sovereign Voidstars. They await you.”

Pearl nodded again, using the movement to mask her surprise. Cub rarely sent messengers; in fact, the rider bearing news of Grian’s arrival was the first in months. She strode into the sunny courtyard, letting her hooves clack loudly on the pavers alongside the tap of her scythe’s handle.

Two figures rushed up to meet her, dropping into one-kneed bows with raised heads. One is the ocelot, with baggy eyes and ragged fur, despite obvious attempts to brush it. The other, Pearl notes in surprise, is a camel hoof-folk, with the telltale hunchback and long eyelashes, dressed in dusty riding clothes.

“Rise, couriers,” Pearl told them, ”I know you have traveled far. Please, take a seat.”

-

Oseye worked to steady her leg and stop her hoof from clattering against the stone pavers. The High Priestess of Great Blackwood cut an intimidating figure: tall, long-haired, cool blue eyes, serene of face, and with a massive wheat-scythe that brushed the acacia branches above her head.

“Xiagong, I would like to hear your message first. I apologize, daughter, but Gong has traveled long and hard on behalf of my ally.”

Xia nodded, unfurling a scroll from within his coat and getting to his feet. “Of course, mother. My emperor has sent me to tell you that Sitter Grian has requested a meeting between himself and Emperor Impulse on Eversun Day. As per the terms of the alliance, Emperor Impulse formally invites you to join this meeting. My emperor also suspects that Sitter Grian intends to invite as many rulers as possible to this meeting, and to be prepared for such a scenario if you accept his invitation. That is all, mother.”

Xia sat down with a small huff of exhaustion, blushing as Pearl looked at him. “A-Apologies, mother. I am still very tired.”

The priestess smiled, a calm and guarded, yet warm, expression. “Do not worry, Xiagong. Please, retire to your room. Impulse won’t be happy if I send him an exhausted rider home.”

Xia, despite his exhaustion, immediately hopped to his feet with a “Thank you, mother!”, scurrying off with a click of boot heels and a swish of his tail. Pearl looked after him for a moment, shaking her head before turning to Oseye.

“Poor thing. Impulse would never let them ride that hard if he knew. Now then, daughter, Sister Jeanne has advised me that you bring a message from Sovereign Voidstars.”

Oseye stood up as quickly as she could, fumbling an envelope out of a pocket. “Yes, mother. Ahem, Sovereign Cub Fan Voidstars wishes to invite you to meet Sitter Grian Sunset on Eversun. The Sitter wishes to meet as many rulers as possible this Eversun Day, and wishes to host them in his recently completed Flare Tower. The Sitter extends this invitation through the Sovereign as his own messengers are unfamiliar with the terrain of Mainland, and hopes that you do not see this as an offence.”

The camel shakily handed the open envelope to Pearl, before adding, “I-If I may add, mother, I do personally suspect that the Emperor’s invitation would be to the same meeting that the Sitter’s message invites you to. B-But this is just my personal opinion, mother.”

-

Pearl hummed as she read Cub’s letter, nodding to the camel’s suspicions. “Yes, daughter, I do suspect that Impulse’s message and Cub’s refer to the same meeting. I doubt Sitter Grian would tell Impulse outright, seeing how close he and Cub have grown. The Sovereign’s a notorious gossip, after all. I’d even dare to say that he can be a bad influence. And it’s no insult that a parrot did not deliver this.”

She folded the letter and tucked it into a pocket somewhere within the folds of her dress. “Now then, daughter, would you like to rest a day before returning to Climbing Spires? We always have space under Great Blackwood’s shade.”

The courier jumped to her feet just as quickly as Xiagong did, bowing and stuttering her thanks. Pearl watched her leave, too. After her hoofbeats had faded, the priestess left the courtyard no more settled than she had been upon entering it. Pearl stayed the first brother she encountered.

“Brother Harold, may Great Blackwood shade you.”

“And may Great Blueskin feed you, mother.”

“Would you please direct Brothers Micheal and Reginald, and Sister Harmony, to the map hall? I will be traveling soon, and need their assistance.”

The brother dipped in a shallow bow. “Of course, mother.”

Pearl bowed back, and continued on to the map hall. Somehow, the echos of her hooves and scythe through the halls sounded more determined.

-

At the same time, a different pair of hooves were trotting down a different hallway, much more happily and muffled by a not inconsiderate number of petticoats. Queen Gemini was also humming a jaunty tune to herself and the letter she was carrying. It was thanks to the letter’s contents that she was in such a good mood.

“Dearest Queen Gemini,” she half-sang to herself from memory, “I do hope this letter finds you well.”

The fox-folk maids whispered behind their lady’s back, as they always did, but more excitedly than normal. Gem shot them a smile, warmer than usual. Which was saying something.

“This writer is Sitter Grian Sunset, and I am extending an invitation to you to visit the Sunset Coast on this year’s Eversun.”

Suddenly, the queen giggled and began running down the hall, her hooves beating a rhythm as fast as her heart rate. Gem nearly barreled over a maid with an armful of fresh flowers, and only barely cleared the toes of two footmen cleaning a large vase, laughing all the while. The servants just shook their head at their queen’s free spirit.

Gem burst into the Navigator’s Hall, causing the guards to jump to attention, and a couple cartographers to fumble their quills. The supervising map-lord immediately ran to his queen.

“Your Highness! I apologize, we were not expecting you!”

“Oh, don’t be so uptight, Pan! There’s no way you’d be expecting me, unless you were doing espionage, since I only got this message earlier in the day. Could you tell me the fastest route to Sunset Coast, by any and all means?”

The map-lord quickly bowed. “Yes, your Highness, of course.”

Pan effortlessly flicked his telescoping cane into a long pointer, and used it to gesture at the giant mosaic map inlaid on the floor. “As you can see, Evergreen is nearly exactly north of the Coast— oh, I do apologize that we haven’t updated the map yet, your Highness — and it is trivial to get there via water. However, it is currently whirlpool season, and thus sea travel is more dangerous than overland. I would recommend taking the rivers as far south as Livingstone, and then plying the ships close to shore.”

Gem nodded. “Alrighty then! Rivers-to-Livingstone then stick-to-the-coast! Would you like to come with me, Pan? You see, Sitter Sunset has invited me to his country for Eversun Day, and I have been dying to meet this bird! I’m sure having a map-lord would make the journey much easier than if we just had a navigator, and, judging from the rumors from Duchess Cleo, the Sitter could do with some good maps.”

The map-lord’s ears flicked in surprise, smacking into his antlers with a jingle of metal. “Oh, oh! I-I’d love to come along, your Highness! Thank you so much!”

Gem beamed at him. “Oh, thank you, Pan! We leave in a day! And don’t worry about packing. The ships will be stuffed full already!”

The queen turned on her hoof and leapt out of the hall with an even greater spring in her step.

-

“HEADS!”

Scar jumped at the sudden shout, leaping away with the assistance of his newly extant wings. As the duke landed panting and translucent, he heard hiss-tinged laughter behind him. Looking back, he saw the construction crew clutching their stomachs, doubled over with chortles and chuckles. Scar’s eyes widened as he caught sight of a camera.

“I’m very sorry, heeeehhehehe, sir Duke, it’s just that heehehehe we were going to drop this chunk—“ the foreman gestured at the crane “—but you were standing right heheheeeh there, and Jessie had his camera handy heehahee anyhow…”

Scar couldn’t help but start sniggering with them. “Oh, don’t worry boys! No harm in a bit of fun. Though, ah, could I see that photo when you’ve developed it? I’m keeping a tally of sorts, and I need evidence.”

“Hahhehhhah, of course, sir Duke. You in some sort of dare?”

Scar flushed a bit, opacity returning to his skin. “Well, y’see, me and an engineer got into a bit of an argument over how well magic can be seen in photos, and I’m out to prove that it’s really easy to see, while he’s determined that photos can’t capture magic at all. And since I just used my vex magic, and you just took a photo, I can finally prove that speared magic can be caught on film!”

“You mean spirit magic, right, Duke?”

With a shout, Scar flashed his wings again and jumped straight into the air in surprise. Only while he was hovering did he see who had spooked him.

“Engineer Jumbo! You should know better than to sneak up on me like that! And yes, spirit magic!”

The mustachioed man just shook his head at the duke, the plants hanging out from under his hard hat bouncing with the movement. “I’ll do what I want, thank you very much! And you couldn’t have caught you vex magic on that photo.”

“Oh? And what makes you so sure about that?”

“That camera wasn’t primed!”

Scar just about froze in midair, his wings halted in place. He began slowly drifting downwards, and reached around two feet off the ground when a messenger shouted from somewhere down Broadway, hooves echoing on the pavers.

“Duke of Colors!? Duke of Colors!?”

With a start, said duke shot straight upwards several feet, and stayed there as the messenger rubbernecked looking for him. Eventually, he landed and waved the camel over.

“Well hello there! I’m fairly sure that I’m the Duke of Colors. So, you’ve got a message for me?”

The camel straightened and saluted smartly before speaking. “Yes, sir! I bear a message from the Sitter of the Dusk Throne, Grian Sunset. Here you are, sir.”

Scar grinned as he received the envelope, and cracked the seal with a satisfying pop! “Might as well read it aloud, eh?“

He cleared his throat. “Dearest Duke Scar Goodtimes, I do hope this letter finds you well. This writer is Sitter Grian Sunset, and I am extending an invitation to you to visit the Sunset Coast this Eversun. If you are able, do come by sea or land or sky! There is plenty of space for however big a party you may bring. Worry not about provisions when you get here! Goodness! A man after my own heart, using so many exclamation points! I can’t not accept!”

Suddenly, and surprisingly, Scar’s smile somehow got larger. “Hey, Engineer Jumbo?”

The half-faerie flinched at the sudden call-out. “Y-Yes?”

“You heard the bit about how there’s plenty of space for the people I could bring, right? I was thinking that you should come!”

Mumbo blushed, the bright color obvious on his pale skin. “M-Me? Go with you? B-B-But why? Why would I go?”

“Well, why wouldn’t you?”

“I-I suppose there’s no harm in going…”

Scar, who had begun pouting at Mumbo’s hesitancy, grinned again and gave a whoop. “Let’s go! Make sure you have a real good time at this Sunset Coast, right, Engineer? It’s not like you get out much anyway.”

The duke giggled at Mumbo’s accusatory look. “Oh, don’t be such an oil-sport!”

“Spoil-sport.” The engineer corrected him.

“Oh right, spoil-sport! That’s what you are! C’mon, it’s gonna be fun!”

[libidomechanica]

Of childrens lady altogether, great form my loue

A sonnet sequence

               I

Then, indeed, willine; for fear, Eadwacer? There she had bee, so thee. After a blank end. We were lasting cryes, and still the abyss of mud and dinner beauty, lichen, Turk, or a letter ill. Or greaten would here I wants haue: a right fading strange Poetry in counts of one, and seemes and a colour intent while. Beside his; then the confession—or at their education. Which them all die so. As soone hours, my Katie? Upright have me divine, and, befriend. Tender face at all the vast asleep, when he seeme lyke Saphyres of reed the dear Love, it was born away, that glitters!

               II

In his worn against the dreams more of that see now; as gives, of her, he case to work out? The concealment: of a new change; answered hand tell cut that relation bite so ruefull ten unwed shade of epic Love all of the tears like a transmissings from their first, I shuffled there I go. And celestial bowed body in the ten men young and sparks, who see where if young Loue doth call, to Corinth, whom, and me, you can again an arrived acrossessive and mirror, nothing. I’ll slides, hearts; no jealousie! Derive, and the state a nap in a dragon what will she harmes to a wealthy crags, O Sea!

               III

Glanced the greed the violet this work War’s in a Carthage no belt a nymph evening to belt a nymph’st and thou dost does not too zealous stones, licker, which to rhymes the crack your hairy tale of the green, in the green, the low with succeeded to the roses overwhelming, Cyril’s love that ye write ancholy stuck our morning letter fool. All, yet first me she had return’d to proved Chick with chaste—and somethinks he stood I will join my fright so uttering like lobes, heart, upright of there a ball—no game out blush’d the woman, looking fame; and light, and thoughts and so witness set on from out a war nothing. Just from the shouting hound, kneeled accents earth the illusion’s scouraged, Sir; but if my charcoal sketch: you luld have known to Virtue’s primate upon the hurry to be the she taught by grey hairs in rank before the page to endless breatherein shure will she rest of sleep, in nor night.

               IV

Sincere a noble Vashti, noble darts having pinions of wurst be rude sound light: I said, so purer air office, which a rose-buds of Elfland act, thou music that she beguiled; the champagne fluid invent wither’s dochter! Other own head such from when tis thee.—If I could have it else, and modest maids opener paradise, which did not envy mask to lingered every sure. I WILL enjoys of us—a watching, the grow. I lovely grave wept for the teach the nights more thee an heart, nor so digree world’s amends for I avow, and a wholesale common place, that their either back-hoe.

               V

As a coronet and we see bemoan the would repelling or Old Master, clear that won them all knowing into go although sent; when ye be love, but not a nexus breakes; stella, fiery gulfe, with lie: that they have bitter taste. Sliding make one to me you, whom all the corniced share, vp to tumble yoke distantly open eye, kissing no doubtless that their torturing, happy hand act of Corinth, with the copses, flower by thou triumph of adorne: when thought as such heau’n, and burn, untie, Tam; but someone like a gude bonie case the dead, her frequence, it may penetrate.

               VI

Its plague, thou to pitie the woods may yet to me, and I heard thumbs-ups, and wil sing, each wore then he disintermines so every sure you may! The women cease, in the poore mad poetry left your wearing merely free of Reason such such some vncrudded, hauing as not, or deformer! Speak of you pause. Tell used; hers still that fifty will open an again, that ye damask, and their mind; nae ferlie ’tis twilights in far faire Sun: ’ then drugs were not thyself in me down men’s Zone glisterity with hence, and blow, bugle, blown on thy hive. But the who would see whose eyes their punishing notes like a ring.

               VII

Unto the West grass your joy: the violet this is golden them to the jewel set in the next to addorne that. At kind judgement seem all her thee, nothings coquettish deceive men! Prest Planet is gone And so true loue contented, Ganymedes, in thy face it shone, set once, so euill order thine eternal home thus love. For sing, that sacrilege, or iar. Hearing rush our steedes sad swamping the snake, and, from the deare, ’twad buy; but beside the weak. Than South-westward but not, to the pegs sword of hand cold,—but my Pegasus to tell, gave a gum. If to lament dames, and see but Maud were game.

               VIII

Coming fame, let mine eyes here; but thee! Sweet could not slay, there Homer’s closets and vain.— No song, where is thy self in fareweller. And wriggling apt to she what I do to talk of trials, that a purple greene, th’ enamour’d clear red ran from me; and distress how that wiry Coroner fools for ever maling. Love sands, and plants should Nature inhabit; thered by might gates, and length with me. Flush to you, receive, if Maud shortest the hearing light do boast asleeping sun. Virgin Cynthian grow, if though atween us, Ah, Lycius registered; for the Earth after the soliteness.

               IX

Twenty yeare, and, nor red remembered in the lead you and I ken bring but on the grace, as longest fitly done, and long punishing lightning the learned and down himselfe did; his small principles that I cold, amongst the rivers on though cannot borne day of Petrarch of snake, besides, heard the sky like a floating myself avoided wet feathe iron maids shall not happy in torture, only sad eye. Go and she what contempt, and lilies have left me before them all heart from thee, and burn, and creating pageant at become and time of lilies, I dancing shadow’d brush of silver. On a summer so dight, the air clear wish in me with blot of fame, conce after will back wherea’s dew of tendering Tyrant’s shall this a mirror had a floor, and can the sun on thine, to those vapours abed and what woe afternoon, the shoves away, and many anguish you, being flower?

               X

And heart beat’s what thinner, and the chair, her box’s blowing apt for thy beams more whom, and the faint on them, that may be still many a look, thought into a sweet common ruin’d foe sues for here as I tells me so dumb phone. Since as sport a stayre, and I asked, his eyes college and genital flames and horror had store of than a girland, if not one direction, to tie up his impetuous more vs once and necke hear, Eadwacer? About Leila, wash that oil’d, she stain’s drooping those paths, and eeke a pearl and smooth loves as pillowship which proud face and and sounds bleed at you, with a loveliness.

               XI

And Mitford in heiress of Albany. He wonderful and duty was, t is three hands rest in my own fact the new, that reap to your skin, that, ’ I asked, untold, the childe of pianos, children leap, and come, nor dove, and Nature dark thou know. The next. Upon thy mind, as long here in the times, when thornless produce; no observes purchase of all it: free as if the fisher steep her forth its O, listening, farther! Whose it? Nor wise you maysn find some over way I am for thou stay to choose. The Monk sad one strained thousand that made intent till Moon, the doth to every worth intented.

               XII

Before as broken, the ravish’d music,— why advice to sing, if Maud were empty be, except the tasks: Gathers and tremble fight. Judas had pond which lead: nor evil luck, of thy sight without any hours shook him as if I should answer and to hip quiver way: whome whose body, and lawsuits some old and her, Hermes, ne let the sweats, but in his her it went reveals, as a woman’s range Poet-princkled strewings, or leaves fall early modest day, we paceship. Then it’s impossible up their veins for absolute is broken, soldiers are kindest way lips have you in miserable?

               XIII

Out thing vine, and go talking. Above me thou beauty to knees I els would invisibly, she, adorn my stains his body fit to my mind; and lighter of the El’er’s marble hils deeme lyke golden back and close it were the beames sun, and roars betters? The never long trees and arch with those that you, my heart so our bower turn out the summer. Whom her goodly mixt; without againsay to poure out when the swore the lonely, the breath to recompetition, her lips to be able winter-shoed pale strong, being moon half-oblivion, poor Fred roses, their dwels spent pay into one.

               XIV

Mild morning speeches wild as ye her pity the grass a not melts the night. But Venus’ dove, and the cloaths, to drawn forced a woman holds my loues prate. So to saying have might send my handle song but who haste, of every woman’s knelt; at thy soul may be beach. The hearingly, but approvement when you’re against me, I obtain cry, Speaking upon sandal. In a man he hath catch: of heart, I saw their own poor, and diamond place. Grew grossly foot may vs seeing; and cuff’d by evil still that glowed her smile and clime, tell her attracting them ill, and in the light? ’Er our doth parts you—’take or plan but with you! And her drew near and whittle was a pond which there’s noons, the sair hae a woods may yet so are ready, o mount and would I have know enlarge, such a dying friends, among the reject their glitter when a heuk had speech it may be now. I’ll tell her celestial wives; the ice.

               XV

Full mask’d nothing its web of its be not the vine artist, not be thy blush’d earthwart to trample pink who great those despair is them a whole more than she most faith deceived. Came, as twas Cupids sing, ne another; and when yet renewed, shatter of dancing a holly: but for this fit too deep, impart. Whose perchangings that, and only time it was hell what is comming off your head banging’s fire, be immoral; now I saw myself of our comes, threescore. Blow, sun, the try she ways: I measures for a form and we are tongues to use like if your wretched your eye; while, and my foot which cannot bites.

               XVI

What I in lovely-head! From our stony name I am pinned and engagement hiss their name ain’t surer, thus tell hearts have my winter virtuous eyesight, the serpent’s eagerness? As liberal and the beat’s romantic, worn at finer came Cyril, and her, being eddies, which love you too, We are lost, yet tone, none kind of old in summer by then die; then fool and wriggling as broken. About an over; what say No, ’ a pearls of love you are my necks unyoked me, afternoon and silke riband. On whose heart, fearful meads the this still adoration credit will, my own, and the lost.

               XVII

But I an echoing on your pleading Jealous, of well-built. Makes stead o’er ever court, ’ and thus earn my e’e. And shine to plunge into me, he one look back air or pleasure. Which is marriage, why choices impossible figures many a fly. ’Re alike, such eyes had me thou for hero glad Genius, shake invasive zebra mussels, long many gaze. Changed, shall counting two? Her eyelids. For something Was My Fault has before ioyfull ten from this dignify must be safeliest liv’d long vncomely ioy, faileth of you thy minstructed on the nerves: who mighty pall; then over us.

               XVIII

And agains his much cannot bottom, a little eyes responds unto doe the Lord Mayor’s feelings her tongue that for me. What thou would say: I said the landlords without: ne let their veins, to a magnifies handless the sound by the wide unapt for after all. Upon the chosen doth to his own fingertaps and let me back at anchors at though I flung in the high degree, why chaste our and me! Set this darken to have, and in the heart’s curious state, she expected by the Wood-Gods, and wind in the universe music from his face temples rootes, haunted on my lips shall men.

               XIX

Me knows, whose holy music we two bodies& hand: and disgrace to expected. Thou look on the season see, as may wear and blisse in a day, and fell, go and so adore; nor grace, and one refuse the painted on they once, would neither groome prepare a spicy flower? Spent, poore my nigh. Sometimes— as on the riddles it. Sow, an’ twenty, Tam. ’Er-sweet the brilliance touch our hunt the hill or mine houses the degree, which is dawn. Most so often capitulation. The Judas half-words young petals drew here’s nouring pale silly wakened, wife, shattered noyce, al with pipe no loved us.

               XX

Till the prognosticate-stepp’d, and their sands, in the yearly and short times my coffee Black and the off me and only tempting while commenced; Decided sister thou, O sun, love; to quietsome, which their grace, a gold. Come once vnto her drew near—close to the milky way, think good she brydall beauties college, that the bays, used uttering of annoy there the stony name I am afraid lest have seen a heart uniforms already to climbing on thy nakedness of solemn choice called tea. His glow reflection roll from under whites soft-brushed again by long, longum valedico nugis.

               XXI

Out his dawn of cypressing, came Cyril’s lot, couleur dear, too much.—I say that woman’s column he sang our veil and blues about Judaic ground out your entrap, nor every side. Of emerald’s bosom bleed at the nectar; but thou dost travelled her truthful surpassed the part. Rubbing to the birds lie buried ghosts that, convuls’d without the woods there the whole successors. A floating that audit by thee! No voice virtue beside their sweetness. And a race of clay,—to me; and her world, and fell? But to-nighted there no doubt we say to inform the riuers that thou know whether, flash’d by this rever.

               XXII

And guide and crowds, whose love died: if someone morning dance what be but in fold upon the souls, which in it be beleeued. Merry Muse begot Maiesty. ’ Gear, the loss, or industrie: of heauenly alchemy; and open. And nature remember because though she sage, the stopped-off heard and out, ’-for loud with sacred rites, the holy free, much the honour, with such passion, and thus go about— as mornings to they said fair, and thee, that diamond and to blind for Vice suppression I had been and your eyes a boat, Select the pity: thus, Ah, Lycius could not roused us. A further voice which insphere.

               XXIII

To love-hat reap to traces of the women is golden brow; but them night! Wink at others your live one POU STO when a florid maidens, whose eyes. Well, white anchor weary time and that others too, was no help the bonie last said, as thou more the koi. Of cloudy rack, south, to hunt the wealthy fair and wals with oyster-sterued, your hand is the Camp we drown on the colour bleed, for hectic phthisics, and then a monster of dignity: for the rivers keeps so bitter whispered that rites; then had refore them born sighs. Real spreading from only mixt with is yett, wha methink that bring woods no peace.

               XXIV

Or give their eye finger, loveliness. Admit thou fayre eyes, before you. Quest was metaphysics; others year on stir, which I be survey like petrel on my beloued. Dabbling him from tongue into far; but the rigging silent eternity a hundressed, the curtain the Gospel’s Sin nor four, lay that night: tis done please affair, fallen ear the city, a false, though t were inherit, of all thy region bites. Like bowle of head where the bare. Lingers of stately species are all like diuell losing it was you, a kind thus our plate to music, which flattery, but to go by.

               XXV

There droned how silent said for I avow, a half a speak, breather meikle in me. That relationship, on spring, ne with gold, and thenceforth, south, or not tales sturre, but speaking of the blossomed like to be a generous were—wherewith honour rain, by prays the blossoms blown raine herself, a slight sees that they learn to be observer it was receive, he hills all—the range the skin can moral less. In brown worthy force from element replied, better for her backs, lovely grace enisled, resembling a virgin’s lamplighter of a man-eating me license; the blood old through the head I place, consolate the may answere, from the blacke, and left so ioyfull dampe, his pageant amid the perchanges in one harts have choicest virtuous sky with suddenly guide is tir’d, and it, after dying, with hinds, the would sigh’d, saying and tyme to the spheres, who for love me the lythe approuance.

               XXVI

Behind thee wrong heap hotel First, woe, but is they’ve wrang’d, and, as oft as still kiss with a bachelor to me, kings, quick without his misty dale, not all friendship so truly thrown to breaths, fair creation. They never comfort but a voices importune may so bitters, breaks the luck thee O fayre Hebe, and let th’eyes open eye, which forests of the fell to horse the dim, yet me, wilt, and silver made; for the was—but very poor industries, ye would more shall keep, or issue, yet this is a mattery! Shall render, and constancy our hands of solemnize: and breed at thou, recompetition.

               XXVII

Love, and go, and foolish, liquid fix’d; but, alas, now thee. Endure with Melissa, know the prince, no bride of path the apple thine, O liberally every having heap, disdain, a kinder pine so true, you vomit the saw each heather flown by my for it; smiling at the Muse, but if we statue shade—for soft, so Orpheus did precede to endure with gold, yet favourite’s funeral send for despair of the shall thinking tree say, my Katie? Because herself, the three the morning they dazzled, we thus go, and walking friends and now he had been the creature, and flowers I note.

               XXVIII

Who can’t father. Or say to his work, the perhaps grown back stretches—almost blue Fair, and be with a hand new, that I do strong wine mulciber’s cold wanton is no colour, her garb, or a Tear is heart, my digree! Hath now thinke, my come thus, to me, leaving all that you finds no brides. Grass, love you out at the Marius, to her the had leaue yondering day. If twas Cupid, and memory whenever chattering died slave to another feet what I still turn’d to eyesight, from me, kings are by explain, the time, that now between their ear that blow, sun, at boy, ’ she well faith on a dusky cold.

               XXIX

Alas, if dumb? We’re all that bear, who knows: ’ and tremulous power and holding Jessie, unseen: for thy sins in her yearly risen she knew his vindicating on the holy perfume! Wind of the wishes with a moist mischiefe I not, or at project like a tear shame, which waves, with small, yea, too, he faring, forget not done, settles, dancing pride errs, possess’d him in withall. Change alive, then clever, and their behind, one blush to roam. Age call my brown to species of vine creeps beside a moon, the got, and they are thee trye? Thee, and yong me in upright the fame; and those soothes the read—no book’s beauty, glorious, over, and open’d blank end. So say: That my youth or set for the long its back and clouds like to filch away she went. I am chance! And oughts trim her auburn her calls come over, not from my breaks from heau’n of snow whether, beggar loudless cannot be film of going!

               XXX

Your gown: thou leave alone voice, only link’d. Time, where is come years these ravisher smile have but keeps region of the you closeth her sure; I will did not in far more, read— no books’ gay come, sad, such this well more for you don’t every face and told. With what is it fade that suits: throbbing towards whose clue is it, ten front gate, And there’s not: in the printed lays, possessed Satyrs known these are return’d from that it might for euer steep her milder-mooned how shall killinery, the most success, O meikle thou dost though that serve it denied. That I am sitting like thy growing woods shall find: besides.

               XXXI

While say t was a gordians rushing ye the nights my mother. Are all, or thy collecture, careful can; while saving me, with suckt which on the glittering its neither not ask a kiss in x-ray. Pale of green off a spels, nor hands, the merely wake ones her eyelid dry, where those clue is it, after all too deep, that are bottoms moved accents of the thing chair, three, grace of thinks he part of days a little spoke, and clings in the violets shells: streets and let the wood, for they will rot, and hides the maids, pitch our dew, the seem all that labyrinth all reproued. White turn’d. I most above men! What shall die.

               XXXII

She main the wood, which this, seemst to delights serene, doe ye thine. And for youth, and very perfume hour: but when I saw then the besiege also gently to theyr choking in the word which is young a vision is one fluid in the bright I use of touches we’ll day, recruited hyacinth and when Pity ne’er difficult to all the young free, and greate the cooler shame, and a modest, grand imagining woman. To hurt you can calm’d twilight Where allow throne. Then look on Heaven unwed steer, and their sin: each like, a ghost this mind, and gaze, vpon vs rais’d, despising, and, Do I dare?

               XXXIII

In the sought, and lilies’ short of old fell it be ta’en abandonment of a differed is, that for music sadly? Cruel lady’s of this sights vncheare pleasance it gloomier take so call so; for a hundress. I condition now, set your complexion dwell that nothings … and lick’d upon meet? To endless at her loaths, or woe of man! Who keen, in the ghost not won your haughty pale fuss, and brighted, everybody love you I looks so weight grown on you all a man lean invade with her prayer and now, she postes are fresh fire, transmitted fayth an insphere: make you because I like seemed that the see rain another. To linger, who am not some like. Lady brings though of the out a far as grace, howe’er you She hath refusals to please me. In the bids from the dip dark thy slaue, and him half—inch of you out off and flies last, with thou my booth I was delicious much though a dying.

               XXXIV

Perhaps he says they’d under miser! The hills and grass turned hands, to stand in my breath and chamlet, never loath thee contented loue inspird in our shame, counts her can in truth’s wise. Cries, Joy! Like a jewels smyte, and bone sits in one, became and swamping streets, and every meads with sure. An eclat, looking things are third, she hath the resist I’d knowledge of Fairy Diadem which in broods as made return, under feature, those thereto ape thereunto thou dost lovely, letter fresh is the dazzling brats them drop in thee in cataract, though the Elysian gazing again because of steel to assays, either eye waves on her story, which merely higher to a forego, vnto which the far as lost, and the violet knows: ’ and knit them like a cave, they locking that rich gifts of the bells me freshly blew silk canvases, endless all tear court, ’ and in one-night than never answer to care.

               XXXV

And my dearely, that if my beames, after it shout, that rises sit amid the sky, than attend this: throat it so unsullied within things that a through I bliss I can cataracter with the sea and playing wings so three or rich saw that faine with other in their either to mine, or nights, and distrusty to pipe now by his grace. Caught him, and all you dashing together due, utter’d assays, sweet nymph’st a panic feare as desire; for the mother thou didst not spell, in his hast people thine owne fauourable myster-tuned so well-refined appears the sold heaven to abused.

               XXXVI

Bloomed and the frailty of the fair Love and sorry he dreams strength, or galleys like the phosphor any dread, turning bloated hyacinth all the copses, when my Jeffrey head. Keeps its backyard like the languid arms, a wretch’d, shall of such amiss—I say, all pine; yet I shall be believe the guaranted, where Mercy, Pity, and why thunders vain the which pure in honest why heart of sleepe goodly vermilion-spot. When I saw each salted creater, we touched its war off for thy look into answer, again and further prove, and thee, I lean towards joy, to a court your kisses to Miss to my e’e.

               XXXVII

Between yon both we’ll nights mind. Natures mazeful hed. A watch it sweet land fetes, as lost thou are metaphysics, but now day in any harts hand will wo can taste away from elemen or a sample layes, shaking shrill but to the else usurper, a winners hath to the money, sweetest but thought that long men are so farre would be at the little this our cure, hope of ancie, drawn; but from me, lest sublime on laid great; his liue, that lie burdened for than half-hid in the short time for thine eternal appalls; I know’st modesty fixed a weak. In the womanly maiden queen: beneath would breathes has cause it stand all music; then from heau’n of sun my love’s alembic, and innocence, as on the virgin kiss. From Heaven the Samian Hermes, after who sits and Cleopatra—night, his descant pluck; and I keep of you comb it count to learnest, is when fretful spread, as that there.

               XXXVIII

Their punishment. Lighted and for the risk’d not have your actions— swith marbles of metal waits with lurid before far-blown a little gates water, but season faded by human hold his as no more his time; for, heavily, that we known appeared but thou shalt stray; you soone reposterity—and soar about Judas, that doth you has charming on the statue shall the people than privacy becauses fill its hoards; and prove, ’ why shalt be more class, though sheet which was her eyes? And he had pass’d of records dispose; but in upon the warm my father&father back? Where as the sunlike to avenge thee try she wombe influence of condemnified. To enthrone, beloue and what her be at postures of lilies and choke one hones to us. To humble yoke where into heart more she little children—these flowers which love I dream of earliest on oughts seeing bare but if Love, lay me.

               XXXIX

They are, and yeeld that she euen to towre, al with gold, she rapt in a year o’er-sweet could be time; and flimmering page, but since Hamlet, nor harmed before you and for there as it was girls were the laugh to drown more may still the time angely paced, she throughout the this like restaurants taught is nighing vehicle a long fire, as that riches back upon my break and fast holy; doe ye wonted, she, my cherryes chain-smoke to quality of the brags in one an’ gar me laugh to swage; natures, who that epoch is nothings, beat, and I chide the worth, sweets distress than thus gentle rode a moth, I can, the morning me in the long that thought thee. Where partial looks at beat’s whate’er hand glances are love you this day; all suffers it would in her champaign, drawes of before: love your sounds in polish me! Be leaues vniustest all her, to the flies laborately selfe, with the sun one with charm of wind.

               XL

To swage; nature gets by railing on to our land draw; some overlooked back is wife. And blue you go? And robed in to arrests a peace.-Oblivion laid by the shall else reputative shorelesse of Reuben? He should such fell of idents, the errant fled Lamia, here, thought and to be at all world so peace where and pants daunce against my succeed, I say that would we spake with you shall it denies keep your pain aflame thousand what see whan the warm youth, of love there, won’t making indignantly lives. Don Juan was too, she, mine; I’ve ground a chance on lands and begot in a goose: her lip?

               XLI

Of emerald’s eyes the perfect, a minutive speak, over than weed-cover under which my dearest, bury make his minds comer; or—as is not wonder and we sparrow brough common, and gentle heirs. Ne let th’eyes open it is croon If your making of. So the illusion smould thy minstrels going chambers fallen and ever had foul, thought comfort builds up as well-oiled, regard the tame, and seems but thought of Spain? My sigh’d Alas your reflected to free, i’ll behoof, who scarlet pass’d at leave wise, the moment revolving long sincere affeard: ne let him, as sword a trembled not.

               XLII

And I dar nor prize, and wouldst be spake the sun and let throne—but has fether with it, sparrowes us not unco wae, to these world o’er common treasure; a woman lock bonds unwreath would her, if our voice by hearts forth his chose polish’d genial spiring, I dare equal with tears, dissolving its moue? His name shoulders and barbarous praise, the time for Hymen is by mutual lord, tho’ fickle; I, on a chin the change; and white turn’d—syllabling to be weeds: but thy soul to see therer. Blue Fairy Queen; so neighbour’s lost thou beauties of the bowle of lilies in my nights into thee?

               XLIII

In their guilt: for it would I prays, my room. I cut of pain cry, Speak the care a noble to informer love a woman fayne, poure out a wonder but do twinkling of condition—but my secret please of amber met ane an’ I saw hypocrite! The occasion of man! Ne let stil Silenus’ dove, children are fewer to the Caducean he prove Nymphes of tears like tempestuous every life, and knee to-nighting again but I’m relatinous great loseted and, as thou know, my Wulf, O, my Katie? And the stone. Pleasant there left overwhelming day, after than onion.

               XLIV

Blow, sunlight, that else importune to save this washed theyr show only whereto the out murder, ready to stead of poetry in dispers be not all the fragrant now the beamy blinder the most lord, there was a row olders as calme anger; now, sun, and me devilish all that, in physics! Your gynocracy; you whisper mounted on the utmost thy pain my fathers stones learnt our love and know no more like retreat this i’ve knowing lamp, when those rose the sea, the future with masquer, and between fortune— range, if she stay your eccho ring. To look on Heaven’s faith you plays happy band?

               XLV

Water smile, that give: to tie up his brutes tell heart, yet commerciless clouds wrapped their tongues, to help my objects in a yeare, flies betweene somethings. Years to she digits, a voice, near than we were lot is as that of love we give our waiter showers that for thy call, as flicked cherish the same fair moving novels, or hour mouths at bottom, a little, when your heart, glistening steps, after you in a war not seem’d his body I love was—but I suspect in violet though the Head. Whilst I takes which paine. Would sight, he touch think of the pleasant to the lover’d her dreadful short a descennine.

               XLVI

I’ll lend destroys all get, to these bird, now no more made and the new lands of women upon this, now ’gainst thought arise; come, my Katie! I love and cold, a great. Still deliversions whisper’d run herb, trembling light’s self from the Sword of delight broke from heap of a sun, and bright where is to begin to unperplex’d there the needs restraight and a Hierome, set you dash on; exposed eyes glorious, shall beneath yet tones, and sweet; but, heard, and so that blesseth. The other honeycombs: thou wounderbolt not thy obiect were, fresh lustrous, scent, his is shall be see except and on the crush to reading refuse do you can creature; but from a wish alone couchant it cares, when she drum we’ll words; crown wish her so tangled love, across a sweetheart beloue show august over where is long-stemmed wet in the Nymph his bounding makes soft wing all threw thy purity; anon perfumed be i’d brushed; but less.

               XLVII

Lilies’ shorn our sleep, greate, without flames doe obay, all pleasure, for if in ever was an into that somethings, beautiful things thy doe remaine, thy soul. The sun as he made a storms and pale, from the mutes, from heauen all thinks I had bee: all heart, unsoughts walked at thief, and marriage underest thick- leave plague, Vertue up, to weep, and we were shamed nothings, mote by thighs, then shall her, ’ I answer& fathom the reads people say thou smile, what’s wrong hear how his love, a far it. My morn nor thy neck warble tabor, as thou Hymen, Hymen from our and canst the eve’s closer, at all adorne my smart I thee.

               XLVIII

Die, but her laught words the flew; nor any eden where last, I shall be cut my coat wreck’d, where that all the looke the spake that flirtation mee: who is come old lovest! Smell of promises&cloud, so I shure we should, thou, who lives is thee—I am flying: such a death won his grown and so happen the which will wake all time, nor earest buds doo fish, ioylesse, when its chiefest how so nothings of the through oft seemst to those two, should not. Thou, my Pegasus shriech Oule, so fair Lamia’s shall I shalt though fallinery, the answere, with thee. An’ twenty, Tam. And the while, like as cold,—twas Cupids.

               XLIX

In by both shall dance the bowre and cakes all me who more thee, for thin, that her and where Homer’s longing. Were art; as to us, love or mine of battle. The motives, like a knotlessed the questionship baser sun, and green slivers, bind it quite, her knew white; and the wood, the who yield or so death, and ye writes haue so truth: he had so he spring men the should be also stony name into the secrets of the moment on the laws, since did’s unknown away or thou went on my thou can be, nor this twilight drinks my mastern that my fathers, that down, but of Platonic shadows, and die.

               L

Washed up to you the Nereids from that will now thou deserve thee last! Who have you striped like Mahomet’s Paradoxical, clever, floating light meet me be clematis. With not be rising weed, crush’d to the lobes of garland my find thoughts: While in her by my roving on the ocean? As Philip’s social speaks the night watch divinity,— of his darke, Stella, in the green will drop in mann’d the time by vnrighted awhile if one me, and gave, though the approve the develops, when look’d there tongue constances at peace. These rudded, have the pine; yet the flood, slow as I may enter wishfull content?

               LI

Their wits, or free as the Wester’s live thy amen—’Who would seemed toward thus earned me! In ten find the wild, we may do. Your sickness of lovely ioyes, by which wild himself in limbs we’lldisposses: there sitting like trash in lies, Perilla, loads for walls and once thee, why blew silken way, that star these rites she their has enought obsequious lamplight of some sun restlesse lend, at not yet. I gaed up without a shadow swear shame shall by him.—Borne long made a sin whom all me Love’s divinity upon their lone islander palating on to blende me as flies which has and studying, in the barb, nor with tress; and many other his small come. As that he secret that give the season. A half—inch space that the mix’d? To hearts? Of insides, the porcelain, my mother to her sun, at a column he lend, and set on where by exhortation bending page the heraldry beclowded stream.

               LII

Plain, the dawn of twenty years ago. Look back and the koi, still from my love there than prided the which it see what she mother truth thee, drop that a pinch of the approve a thieved her worse the stalk’d about that flies and let me be disturbance that suffer parts she heaven’s education, each words of Albany. Ah, my Pegasus today: you, who hath the choice. And place! Should be, with refused; since after tended this, which breathe warm into spright. Is not so soft lute. Light her eye, kissing or a zealous, overlooked and in my heart, I say, I had touch one piece give their sweetest, grand woe were less. Glimmers in steam-boats airily by thousand by exhortations lay, in lilies but the hath good of wurst blunders playing light Tead that I were boldly: we wounded that give ourself, them anymore. To fill, nor love gives is these happy of heart, and trouts do we rods at window-pane.

               LIII

Music animals; and fast, take this world to happy as the wager the natives, others to innocence, and marble, grew, so crowning in juice o’ luve’s first could I prize: now, my children: saying just friends which do endure wi’ naebody. Then he stopped and a twined, unassail betwixt sighest: wink at your joys, strange thee, let all that woe after loved access set, them in the was simple poor Frederick may get theyr chambermaid. And light arise of our captives, and she what temples rolled as I have always rattling up the shalt seene to see, and Mercy, Love’s rich on your echoèd.

               LIV

Love, anothers have to an opening way to doe you didn’t loveth melanchor’d; whither hair were she was fold or all, and dance, so last does lyke cheek these dream shadowed to, a though of women, her break so good; for deaths whose of impossible and her steer, or fits.—I had also she walls, and of air clear raindrops in sight of those shall as Lais how a new still too beside to mine into the word? Cruel lady’s hear than to Venus’ tempers roll, they never! The memory of that is dwelt upon the gods have I never creased their autumn, indeed, and camp, ’ and man move her matterd light worth by choices they fair against all is class, but my only on my deaths, or more more disturb the national polish, liquid fine concoction meant ayre children: saying her to herself avoided to tell melts throne at dislike a blinder pinewood could it goodly done miser’s dochter!

               LV

But the eastern the quaystone, or a town on the winding as the studies unclasped be; yet maidens do, as more, but I meant to see so fasten’d with you esteem thine, and legs sword and trous were be least witness some suspect is sun starry, ’ and Chatham gone. Said: And should counterchange of all her worst of Christian, I with which wan from the Peraean rills, and the ghost resolve is not what is anotherless throughout how a man an army of euill of design’d, your shade of metamorphos’d a plan but whose koi. Yet you too, such hail, and arm, delicious landscape a venge bed. For disting!

               LVI

I hunting manured outbraves; pensive, perfect, now enlarge, and so milk-white hair fracticable of my strayt, then he degrass turn’d the ourself to filch away, those than this small depose, but any wished, disturbance he sprite, the balance of lilies shalt themselves fall be cut in soures: now disjoin, which regular despair; then you: her how here, turne, which loose your maiden said so well from Thames will back to this blue. Precipitating to motley have all in the Cyprian ashes lights watery disk caught I using beside of my coffee spoilt all the most kisse-world hill, through despised I will enjoy, Adieu’s lang all you, rich she-worth a seven al they came and the disinterpretinue follow: sure wi’ him. Who that haply I could bold, thought that your heart is our client, surround, both catch, you to me; it is to that—love-sick to you, tell her, if she part oft prevenge!

               LVII

Is the cornice-wreathers which was morals are made so fair Albany. But if, my Katie? Want to drowned to bed; and bring how you ain’t had before th’ amorous her sapphires, bring that see your sister- sterued. Where wi’ naebody; nae fertile earth, they will so; Christians rush of grief, when your vice to mount, and the graven under fathers purer could wrong: into that which in ever empty of than it be clear pools for Juliana came and when it glistenings, a heaven’s Angels Alleluya singing in the men! Is the rules Love meaning strangered handsome with us.

               LVIII

And step. When he was could come and trouble known, but yet. With him, and, like a face forlorn what way, then happy Lycius torments kisses: the walls than never—which was no better thee to sleep. Where let the stars, and fetes, muse, yet the age of our devilish Ielousie! When forgive our miraculous—almost fervent kisses whose trew near with sanctifying heauens the case and fly and we are you art at the river said mething mortals broken sky. Before may give these two walls and wals wits; who is command mortal dream, cherish dread all the same as I use majesties throught haunted page. But at both shameful think your dead, which old-recurrent married, which cutting. She springs; then three says god help, O heauen what way, to they will be all people thou yield us not, joy it: where is no suit, at once, saying across my many houses my revels, or forth in it doth with many a life.

               LIX

Stay, to passioned to, thing arise; comes budded, howe’er sure and blessing men of the heart; so celestial thy brown hair farthern wind me, leauing dance on higher eyes whose it’s imparte’s for a Tear it. I dream shade our closely flew alone is not with neither sloped to those to spent; the bribed changes forth whiles me like a marble hurl, my kin; I nibblers, it growing case affectual this. For all the tears and thumbnail— bring about he studies and honours free those or these words the father lay me religious meriment. Toward his while or if it were splendour survive not starry sky.

               LX

Became out of cure th’ vnpleasurer, from the grew and beauty is thy kind of impostor candle. See how so new, grows an asked, which man. Behind her full hae a wretched fists on a floor, and nuance today it wax’d mass of his God. Come thud of early rise how plentious emulation is not the fraughter, and each is there reign, and walkes are. It make his than the arms my lonely was the curtain glibber all. This island in paine. I measures give the voice of loue why he tried maiden, going cup, and faith one the sins in his nature dazzling themselues; for America!

               LXI

Pride and slowly fiery gulf asleep. Of you because though it malingers, which birth, as design’d, then I am Lazarus, could not, be at all into these grandsires’ thighs, yet loue all bring has born, before: but her and snow, by prude brands and send sugar first beauteous array, seems to singleness flicker praises and also may be before a bachelor to Rowhampton gates of Elfland the while his earth secret days to the off thinks my lover. Sighed ears, like to trueloued. Sings are not the strange set, and good thrown, or Andalusian mute—no spit out the say, that black letter to tracks.

               LXII

The is yet of Corinth talking all him to the way. I wanton was. But if that is it, at so stammering plagues, the their either: one with my bag with the air have been crimes, in window and died, in Tempe, lying lady. She same; and thou are sheeted for it is—I ready made to have morning at last, if I stack by her new landscape able play, and in me. And his said though thoughts and Cleone.—Twas the sun. And the day send her love’s grace of woe to beat, and white feet snatch’d must get that Lycius! For free will last, arysing to seek Scotland let me hame out an yellow ledge I drew here!

               LXIII

The out up in the yearly and marriage? The wood, the little moral nation one is it, sparkling so loud of time and judgment in them I heart a time. Of the was na Robin show, the tear alone knew, and send memoried tune thy sweet the thunder, too, such alcoves as she mild and should has not so sweete with from so sweete are that euen her long like that dares down they wither fights some clouds, and there’s a Catalie held each in he softly as Gauls he colour bier? Some and feete with a wand’ring the duly doe remember because that I have, and all they had a little of the Head.

               LXIV

But I love heart—it is heavens of graving it were tenders neuer town of thy kin a morbid? To your nectar; but pick’d upon you needst that never wants have see how it always the could makes and ye waves into another the fame, when thornes? As if with seconds, and lick’d upon a due to thy stones, My Empirie, how losest thou not what their could lend throbbing in this meant to that long after a good she braced, so when this cups, thy played about; but light shakes and Cleopards. Selected by his is but of temple as truly thou not began an oxymoron or abstinent!

               LXV

You called Rescue Inc. Here the world wanton ways. His liuely names: I have been atheists, heart had all the gleams, shall lips, poor the cloud with his own heart, The Longman Angel for my princely give a genial. Take it is caracter wither hand, beloued, as trust tell her hand, and light sun, the night be permitted in the way did; not indeed: And she crost, he, why did set th’eyes do chace found with pleading streets that lift vp her said, may come untrue. From the selves—o—child: yet may be, touching you witch, in high—which form divine blood instancy and the Demigods of the may covering unknown through him?

               LXVI

Loved us not say just, and of them with thought on myself forth one hip Her train the gras, twixt sighes man’s croon If you and sorrow changed, she moss in my kneel, by a feeble clasp from lack by hearts forehead them on a big load of dark dissolved to be pursued as you: home leaves in the perhaps he maidens, I’m waited water is sweet husband the crown! And rather who hath, to rest word a mere states. Token my fear too much known, she angelo. Message hideous with sudden crimsin dyde in pain but neighbour de rose, and breaths, or thoughts lip had snatches may channels of my grew grossly dyed?

               LXVII

There if t is their gazes spread to plunge in labour dreams in tune, hast with mine of perrill a Boy, and to work to all. Alas the rose own deserved innocent the earth, sound, i’ll becomes in fail. Alas the cruell the young coy, she errs, but when, clickings. Delicate, and yet myself forth because I then the upon by sin and the talent— The curtain stair; or else her the temple porch, mid banging’s death, or were and fair, I dare strewings of satisfied. For you, girls, austers Melissa shop wind blinded of epic Love’s and please those while fault, seem’d, and pitying sea. Vine an’ twenty, Tam!

               LXVIII

The may plums sucked it of a day arise; come, most oppressly— but to her sing to the cloud humour marriage, people as prompt to theyr name in truth, even after a wizard ensnaring arts, ball-field that your head grown on the below. Then the tenth in a moons best by house from Egina isle fresh and yet sad climb Aornus, though all the delicious black is frae me a sin, nor harpstring, the moments If your elbow as yet with mine eyes may murmured on thee. Let not be plac’d to wish in envy master of us, and to hurt you stay, the sun, and never the time she know’st my fear old affianced that oil’d from mass return as ye her pray, see thy life, shew his woe, i’ll tell be love, t is dark the lie, nor like-wise with high in vain to singled tea. The pillar’d their sweetness of loue it speak, for what in the maiden, thus for your twisted at though traves dost many state of it.

               LXIX

That gladly, ofte peeping it liv’d long its warm firmaments various in jealous hed. Now cease, in the vestal with me my roving him if he was nourishes;—not mine eyes wide weed-covering when if we seem’d his body love head. Because and gave it? Beat assail’d and of his eyes consequences. And woe theefe, A thee, when as I had to rob, but neighbour’d flash upon the studious stone. And bluer still meet and ward, keeps cowards wild, we should make men world, the other breast it best be crushed to blest both windows? Instance of which may charming world- greeted by a fleet ’twad been very day.

               LXX

Strictest lies in the raw begin, i’m this but enslave trip and even gentlest steward—an I have gone day: now did distil through the when this that home is not honour, I praises and marks of vine bringst the bear of use, poure out and gave a dunce, fed with pleasure, banishes;—not found lick’d to blesse to far from the marks of these two, breast in this occasion. And virulent; for your Princely graduate, a patch out-at- elbow as your three guse-feathe neck regard once the fruitful hours should I note it with you see, and this island; I, on as kindest sum, called cataracter white as one.

               LXXI

See her find our delight and left. In pole, his lips ev’n see, and there even is not, or man hold the rosy heigh-ho! To take like their native spent; what’s why we are streets, a full of all be mere unlock’d too deep, her simple. The only fiery gulfe, she, like thou should be; yet eloquence, thoughts and yet relations that the examplesse, too, let us pay, the they breather’d with half importune, had founded by the famished, but the which, I am alive, if though before to be received. Love me to secure, though the dove me thy Children, the rain, i’ll both dew; nor rich another.

               LXXII

Her love, so Corinth, as which, Perilla! Alloy of the Fairies, to the rose; in white as had man, then promise, in the time to play, he seed washed fist of June? Then from the bad to the gazing arms, drying. Seem dash’d ears hence is night, where plough to spasmatic books? Break, or backs, long heart’s too late him feel it And of my coffee Black This dayes my reason fades, Frederick may yet inexpect form a friends. Of mankind walk in all me woods did banging couplings in blood of thin no more may girl; as the bearded once, still the example pride, keeps coward hand all her stone is was no bring again!

               LXXIII

Nay, and I was a stars, every soueraigne of the work, that it is throb with what small day; all pleasant thee wrongs train of all our break, and the balance rule by men, and a holds up scarce avaricious: through against me in pain. If, what it on. How between the secret a license do rob, but some is the strife of his knows what’s what flow with suckt which you, with you, each the shin’st, and blesse, and the zodiac run; next of lilies last womb—it is—I realms were as was at reason, numbers wide hour breast, and laughed, before these vicissitude; for the river glittered cherrywood crown hair, but at all?

               LXXIV

No casuist, surround the sight, doing a stream, cherish that was, shall revenge to Jove’s was not walk in thinks my strifes, my delight growth a venge the thus, are by over thus, and thus vse the voice, some what I suppose. The state: then sweets, than cataract for his moral less. Such as did you art is that find it, in nor would distant sandal state, pulling highes mixt with thy souls unbodies ruin’d from sullen in, ’ and pale silt all the for bells you. By slowly grew more thus drains his is time where the glowing of you spy’d their sweet tale of my chart, and let me before the love: if I stack by him.

               LXXV

To thine in proposed there disciplined and still unshent, forget not say to another furlough: ’ and play herself from its couert night: my ruddering Tyrant from element weddings to be film overwhelming fever knew who sits and in one: the words, and she take. Ah, my Wulf, my father praise of somethings now my sweet falsehood has better when three doth boys, or a storm of grave, or writers malthus began toucht with sucked a hollowed to turned, by this hall, I have lost treasures form. For to makes or when I’m afraid so new, in their popping the traduce; nor found her, and sages, they most sweet!

               LXXVI

Blush our dolefull heed, that the flowers, all known approached about the secret of the wise. That I had stole act a phant shall not know all rolled. This is but though the tribe of woe the came, would finds cut my bent. And in, as a red range calm words replete them, climate with milk and tendering time espy of snows, and of friends joy, for possessed. I means to pitious stronomy, but is so bitter of metaphysics; other to love the rose, and, say now grateful dreamed. Men, women! Crawls on my little spake. But assail’d by the ground after that could have for then summers, bright, and thus its person.

               LXXVII

And the queen absence, the night to the monstrouse there at island, from chime, I cast; and even to lift vp her she play to stones with eyes doth sorrow change: the moved accept there, the pity—and times, where dull dreriment. I’ll serve touch on a Gem, his grace by peace with nor weeping speed, beneath, or ears and the matrimony’s love, my days? Floating men to his brough their owne ioy doe rauish quilled hand all friendless clicking thinking on a thou came in a sweet there’s nourish that euen her my excuse the foliage marked, his head, and for by thou stol’n of Vengeance range then tears rather, shattery.

               LXXVIII

Him a golden had had a fleece of lilies in the would makes me the sea and glove, so hear here in delite, ye gently by him. Its plays in subiect were gave,? In the form impregnable place fayre chimneys, heaven indignantly renew think who hast with gay girl of deare as the iawes as if though not vain ye be light you esteem threw the which was not missed his be moue you loved bee: and snow, i’m mart, gather, flash’d threw their nation, not thus, They behoof, i’ll go, and in the Great anchor and leaue nothing hip to the Grey ward, for all, I sucked me thoughts, ne let me in me them anymore.

               LXXIX

Nothing: might seemed the chancer and that had for your tend floor of theefe: then forgotten. Band on a storic monster’s hath thee arighted, as a boy tugs at relation good she key. Her whiskers, sear, but to thy murmured light it was, twixt the saw myself the winds and let thy self. Like in beauties cold, among he magnified. And thee broken, softer, and cowslip’d lawsuits to thy beat the little Leila’s education. Nor house, too, rare. Marble fann’d the Nymphes the scarce a spurn and this in pride as she, in me dome say or none thy lightingales along, that your sleep … tiresome way.

               LXXX

And what euen to have a prince, which thou leaves fly, leave me, and walked to gaudy May-games? Now, suck our in weird syrops, three doth light the leaue to be presence, seeke a tornado, for it shades do beat you were less that has the pipe the found thee, drop in collars, indeed—and settling all truest with scared in happy roses flying. In sight or the cannot to metaphysics, that is my love you out the apart, even whose love no observes be students, ye would it quite so dear, threat proffer o’ yon both thou the gates for the monument without an Eurydice; for a sort; but, I readers.

               LXXXI

As if thou dost different not—till soon wrapp’d serpent, in which hail, and make outlander robed in all adore in score,—I would bright, and thus tell young petals without how she would have been my kin; but O for me. The bone of contently, that fix you wert builds itself to her saw. Wide her orient as serpent, so it wealthy contrary, she thou will poor, or ever fingers Cupid’s unlikely Like, the Ayr; but one into a weaker boldly threw; I care free; they leaue this sense of glow-worm lend, than hearts? To hearts hath sorrow brough shame, both wither and when you, girl keeps for such hellish me!

               LXXXII

If I may answer, echoes flow on the yellow like me, leaving like. Look off, and in hair, fallenge be thief, and live damask, and gazed by the had heard, the crown leap in thus: yet, now they light, consonant charm. Morning because hill-flowers fetter of think to change: the ever empty Coca-Cola candle, that you were are forlorn what roars before. Sometimes unclipt gold then on my deeds for I would in heigh-ho! Which take all for a kiss. To suppose familiar, universe musk and cling of cam in the Princes of Crete’s was her brow; but rather, at boy, To your credit will the right?

               LXXXIII

By thee bemoan the lambs and skill feel not be filled, will men a crimes, I felt and sending speech there hath thy deere, who all through by both reaches from the wet in my sweetness, and pebbles shine imagine Natalie roll, the you and layes, brined and wonder’d jealous, and yet they of all be time weeps its unopposing too; but, your body in that there not such as shouldst could she, adorne days, either things I love died there fields are life scarce could love to a woman’s crowning on the gladly set; and him three living that jealousies of some fainted phrase, and tell, for you, guilty gave you, that place, because he midday moued toward perling upon by mutual love, Mercy, Pity, you, from heauenly fierce: when you’re alive; on my hear you She had left me but from the eternally from then several part in Ioues prey: this green he branches fly, ofte peep forth, nor come of—Heaven! And lustrate.

               LXXXIV

And laws, come ice. That may accidents, who hath calmly into no helpe, most faintly open at once, as doth shadow, set myself, nor thou a theological exercise? Room after air My heart—it is not go throates, my come home tasks: Gather, and go although atweene that I in a strength to music sadly? Though himself in fall adores to me sick; your hair. The corner for me. Terrace, as the Fairies, that flow. On a panic feares with themselves inosculation clouds to murder to our words them a cuckoo-song, and adoration. And not ask our Eccho ring them.

               LXXXV

The bane of grass as if to foule how that large, and melodious spred, this take and let the learn how she would pass our de rosy heigh-ho! Advise to cares, breake into rob the when I shalt strange into a Midwife, or ever charitable the edge holding what’s the loved song a jewel of all likewise with away, closed him err: nothing fairer fathom this the bonds, that hapless all over thus sight, and swell there’s charity then adieu; but blunder, read— no games alone, to happen their mother own wish impossible, and I, after a good new, grows to speak, for a nation.

               LXXXVI

Madam, your client, that girdle, you seest now transmission, ’ Lady FRANCES dression slow, flushed to will that dropt her speech did your wise, to tell me Love’s obvious mowing, withal, in his passage strong. I said, shall sees the fragrant of heauens faith is a genial sweet involved in complain or a churls her as snow what you, you receivest now it is another back to a dream of greet is my legs are but lately grew for so simple into certain half of one of love-burden of somewhat when, any wood country come through heau’n of sleepe good-bye and bush at another in quarrel tilts, among that swirlings to me, that dost nymph’st a precious have heart believerse in here affection’? Other you upon think thee—on the wouldst be noted, on here, fruitfull of the same men of this work War’s over again, just to bright, a half-denial. These two, be dumb as he, disdaine to all.

               LXXXVII

Love, thou, Anthea, morning, dying, double, that much bended, touches flame; and half be know between, and nature made her when weddings made glowed body loved so had touch’d must bulk that well she did for your glorious through use her owners of my thou dost extinction, the approved, be kept: all heauen indent on the brotherless cried, he bridge whole; but now enlarged; yet I feel., Your huntsman heiress fix and Love, a wish: wept for is impostor can awkward gray denies. ’ I myself from the years the bels, must be time it to stood backyard like to be the tyrannie, if rules the first tis done, once mine.

               LXXXVIII

The film overwhelming behind their sin. Or down with shine eyes, in nor weaker bones, the great way thought hand a day so calm’d to see what may enterchants the woo the thretnings. My loues proud usurer, are every day delight; and to church have that with Cyril: Paulo Majora.&Curving heart, that the color. And would not in the servile rouleaus! Do I dare not to do twinkling moon beyond me to thy circles, she asleepe their veins, to these bough—begg’d there is pleas’d, she hers to his gold, a laugh, what I have been work for what mankind: besides throughts like these bird and, having me it swear, his hair!

               LXXXIX

And so sweet nymph and man hollow little china with her mirage then divide in a beast entire retine, and said: and sky the lark and glove, my bent tread, by the will know the grass your man sicker; her said, whate’er shame sicke took how his sad Time dome she mart, yet words that had beene into thee, I have your bands! With which in the cloud, that woman hollow little, while with his wing, there as you. My letter he deare, ’twould shook my pulling on as thereat his brown of all the night esteemed their light hands replied, being, each aunt, and lips must of that wiry Corinth all sudden, your eccho ring.

               XC

Who is trusty to save up till corrupt by hear the towers henceforth his feast doth but pitty? I’ll bed reason. Of court we shoes, dying fit, sometimes, crowns and kiss. And shop called Rescue Inc. To still weary mount and beat, and take and to Cleone. Sweet, doe not one the run to tie up as do thy hive. Have to the tenth in the blesse, to place from the air has call’d to trample door. And seemely in a longing. Exposed, I have not so well more enlarge pedigression; for head grown of the night of the moments be sparrowed without know whether flowing joy, forehand, when a little or iar.

               XCI

Her age, but you finds cut thou shoulders at peace all friend touch mark which thee, I do any hart did pieces of her will become tongue, Vertues of long roun’, sae meikle into the greedy honour, the dimension table, were forrests some friends of love you has saucie Loue than t’ others pluckt, whose power shame, while the showing dawn she flower turn on Change the woman. The narrow up on Greenwich hang scars wild cats aside, and, where your face of the cannot boast those lovely, in the smooth all grass crown the game, coming fever with a hundred this winged with companion to fill, for any wives blow, thousand his world o’er me and thou the faire fayre, spreader! And learn my beauties to entangled with us, Ah, Lycius, as moral end that dearely, love you wilt though it sweetest now none exchequer doubts honey toward mine, ankle, that I, in truth we shown a feast, thoughts fortunes and set to speak.

               XCII

But they accidentic roses mid his needs music animals are forego, vnto that shine hardly higher cheek and door. A female fuss, and met her exultations and show me only centre. Bid her room, imprisoned gaze, to heart, marriage, as I have been, and thought, and faire then a letting. My sight flared my will entertains his needed balsam, so fit to be prefigured shafts, I poke though the crags, O Sea! A light with several hundrest Phoebe front, and I, yet relation and balsam, so the crack of brow, such he whiles all those voice really is, the cup was a wonder pain.

               XCIII

The chain, alone, the dawn where I prayer skin’s lady elf, some pity t is meant to talking refused uttering, then worse than thee, lie with strong. In each your prince the meadow stings! She had your echoes, nor gore, suffer o’ luve’s a work War’s over of shadow-larks will no more loss of thy for to a foremost of this pleasures give their hours, the spake some and holy place will’d to mine eyes nurtured like a ring. The goes thy pain my lips crime whole succeeds in thy face, as soone with honeycombs: thus hed. Fair, on her veteran with sacred glowing came, tell together. To force our toward his God.

               XCIV

To quiet, to thy breakes and fetes, whether; her met me sleep. Beauty of dancing by this weary hearts, castle, and you fall lips themselves away, married Lamia, now my thought euer to humble feete with dewy gem, fright we first tie of this chosen; tis a breathing my stepping it, lopped the project like a little tast. Which their guilt: for white ances are dull dreriment I am murdering about it’s impair’d with the tyrant splendor our vice in curl’d grass, and finger’d Muse, her malice slain, swoon’d, and in the Prince breaching your veins for me. Where is surface, or with dew; fragile.

               XCV

How shew the stone; a lawny first, morning, so witness. Wake no eyes. Of heart with itself I guard, i’ll say: this they accept itself the cups, the rose, flute. Our worst seat assail the hedge is not seemes the presume? Those of such-wise which proued. When thus array’d to climb; then small, alive; some from fear of the slipped that he shedding forth high marks of thee, for where perhaps the holy placed, so new, impair’d with seeing the last grass, did rays, and the pure, wound meticular exacts their person was gone. She safely trod, as ocean? Saying it was fuel, heat names: I have we had doth parts would liberates I’d long fire, to take. And slow approve thee. But on, once she had stored me up into a bank of the lythe Captain’s rewards have squeezed that euen the miserable? And she what is lost, and the page fly; but, fury, woe to a swooning seaward prayed it would Natures, but this eyes a boats of them.

               XCVI

And I help her side: but Maud shown him as still repayre. She taking thus with a kingdoms in blood instructor; but to the winding Love all on to be there, such fell to be presage flying legs, a head, and whereof garland, Do I dance, before have your grace all begin my thunderness songs deck thee naked to where a bed of her eyes are you, my Flocke, and splendours, with white necke her the night: and heart is the virgins least known through on the lake, thought in, mart, yet to do inhabit; thou not guesswork: adultery, to tie up to heap’d of some palms tip toward Lamia, here, not this sad place!

               XCVII

While and show of soliteness. Years henceforth took how a bore than staine, O heard, in the crane, faded night, an empty house to make it were it lives Poor bound among to Corinna’s state on all find that it do more, beauties spread when I shure image beauty had left me like it unseen he beloued, is to you but since left whiskers, and watch of one, do offer o’ yon roses feature which doe tender due, letting fears, quick objects in madnesse, free that I’d like lamp, the resurrection, to fill, for blush anchors at thought me so celestial the nails are we got, and now thy playing.

               XCVIII

Jeffrey heart is to golden quilled into cinder thus, she sails, she care of greenness for me, a songs and the men! Its most patronize, and body. Respect for this but by on my tongues come he hair. Loved us. If one hast sum, called dahlias ancied in his blandishment but in a coronet ane annoy the answer, nor thine artist, thou fall for all, or bring my Muse! To play, he fraught the would borne to move, when land, another, next she shapes past. Had speak affections of our walks in my presence mine. Cease the brass, dost radio, may plum. Into amazed your eccho ring. What if Love inevitable, who is my hair: then much, that haply say truth iniurie: who would feet which should coquetry, woe, but now ’gainst a curb trapped in thy love thou leave the her pointing winged eye do, albe prayses lives he made unapt for mutual this three. For bloom’d, and flow in the greeting like a mask.

               XCIX

Answer, echo of our sleepe and ungentle Hermes in black hair! And the wears before the Latmian Hermit would seaze me, learnest eyes, of battle, to lovers flow, as theft: from the other had a little prove the appeared but had a great elder introduction, that fair, with beautyes glorious land fair Albany. Spread sitteth. Of this mother blush’d from their king an egg, even most most guilty of ten-thousand to a dreamed Simile she pageant to makes me like bower is holds fair and hunting to the eyes were not her the printed one; the tear’st the same sheet which pure spurn’d to restral fruit, thou made that if he hated then those from many flow, that oft, so frame the the list, when the seed, that drains a love, and them teach in her: I never to thus, my death the seems than thou, my archaisms, who hast the clouds an Arab behind holy; doe still are theological exercise?

               C

For he hand we shadow of the bliss! That you webs you meet the chose who yield us not lineal indeed three, before. Leave thee, which it as I swim somewhere droned the secret bed. But my years it wearied this legs, a heauen the take now my heart come unto the looked up with neck grip the was not vain. To be like resurrection. You, that haply said: o friend, and so weigh, and added the house, in Tempe, lying: who this plentiously, about what it liv’d long is sights vnchearefull have chose, and someone like at large, and act, the resurrection table; let all, and you. Born to will not you.

               CI

Covet no faces are will grass, does your bands bleed at all the summoned in the sky after her by a flower, and your Eccho ring, say just tell me will rot, and made me may knows what more mad poets waters that was a friends. In unexperience me a kind. Hearts, can everything eyes went tree by lectual thinking, the stray, let me so dumbe that could vanish’d swell a primal night and starke how her shall day; then comprized. Men or planet’s side. But first exemplary was born, which to her sighs I blush? That the saints or otherless they fused meads th’hill’s sleighty, hath cares? Can all know he island.

[dearestdeeer]

Guy's I'm cooking. Idk how to call this au? Tim acually replaces someone hm? What will you say abt that Jason, not so special are we? Maybe crime alley Tim au idk Anyway --->

Timothy Drake disappeared on July 15 ten years ago just four days before his seventh birthday. He was found three months later covered in mud and dried blood that wasn't his own. His parents assumed the child's change in behavior was trauma related and didn't pressure him, the slight change in his eye color also didn't raise their suspicions. Things like that happen when kids grow up. It's only natural. They didn't remember buying him a digital camera though so he must have brought it with him from where he disappeared to. The therapist said the memories would come back and to not pressure him too hard while he was recovering.

So Janet Drake never turned it on perhaps If she did she would find the pictures of her boy strapped to a chair, slowly bleeding out from a gash on his young, pale neck.

But she never did turn on the camera. Maybe she knew deep down that her son was long gone, stiff and cold on the bottom of Gothams River.

His parents moved on with their life and departed on another trip three months later.

Tim had mostly forgotten about the deep blue eyes hunting him, so similar to his own paler color of sea. That is until Timothy Drake's body washes up ten years later, still six years old and still dead.

And Tim's reminded of who he was before what happened on that one cold night. He's reminded of the name he thought was buried with the boy and his gasoline soaked documents.

Alvin Draper. Forgotten. Gone. Never loved and never mourned, much like Timothy Drake.

He- He should visit his own grave again, he may no longer have the name Draper but it was still his grave.

Tim was getting fucking sentimental.

He took a last glance at the body or rather bones squeezed into an old suitcase filled with rocks and trashbags. Tim took a breath and retreated to continue his patrol after waving goodbye and good luck to Commissioner Gordon.

"Re-" He squeezed his eyes shut. "-ed."

"Red Robin, do you copy?" Oracles' voice cracked in his ear followed by Nightwing.

"You okay there Baby Bird?" Dick asks with a hint of tease, masking the concern. Tim tries to open his mouth but he finds himself unable to say anything more than a simple. "Yeah."

"That bad?" Dick asks and Tim frowns, unable to comprehend what the older one means.

"Wha-" He cuts him off. "The body, Oracle says it was a kid." He sounds sad and a bit resigned.

"Yes, about five to ten years old from the looks of it." Tim replays simply thinking of Timothy's choked sobs at the blood slowly drained from his neck. His brother hisses in sympathy. "Don't worry." Tim assured him, plastering on a forced smile to make his voice sound less dead. "It was just bones, nothing too spooky."

There is a noise from the com it sounds like Nightwing is deciding on something. "So we got an old case hm?" He blinks, scrunches his brows and slowly asks.

"We?"

"I might be staying home for a while… It would be nice to work on something together, what would you say Red?"

First time Dick makes an effort with brotherly bonding and it has to be over Tim's own death. Or well… Other Tim's but still.

He's fucked.

Fic idea: Tim Drake is actually Alvin Draper who stole Tim's Identity when he was little after finding Tim's body and Tim's parents never noticed.

🧍

[crystalcow]

𝑀𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠//𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑

Master list // part one // part three

Dreamwastaken x !child reader !p Dreams childs death scenes

Pronouns used: none specified

Warnings: death, loneliness, betrayal

»»————-　⚠︎︎　————-««

♥︎♥︎♥︎

“My dad loves me, I don’t know what your talking about!” I shouted at the man infront of me. We stood outside next to the large ocean, small waves puddling on the sea front.

The trees were blowing with the strong wind, during the rare occurrence of a storm in the area. Rain was pouring down, leaving me and Fundy both soaked. The chill running down my spine.

“Then why are you out here? Why are you here sneaking out during a fucking storm? Instead of being inside, curled into a blanket while reading a book with your so called dad.” I scoffed at the fox, my small iron axe in the dark.

“He’s not here with me because, he’s fiddling around and throwing arrows at your father. The one who destroyed my family!” I took a swing out at Fundy as he easily blocked in defense.

I squirmed off to the side catching my break on a tree. The waves getting stronger by the second. “He destroyed your family? He’s the reason why I couldn’t grow up. Why I lost my best friend.” I stopped in my tracks looking out behind me.

“Do you really think I enjoy this? That I enjoyed watching how people run when I walk by, or how whenever my dad comes home he’s covered in scratches.”

We both stopped looking at one another, faint flames dying out. Lightning strikes in the distance, tears mixed with the water in the terrifying storm. I suddenly felt weak, the axe in my hand weighing down like a ton.

I dropped down to my knees mud spreading on my clothes. Before the last thing I saw..

Fundy slashing a sword through my chest

𝐘/𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐈𝐭𝐬𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐲

-------

♡︎♥︎♥︎

“Quackity, come on man.” I said, reluctantly pulling one of the levers. I jumped as the tnt below me added to the large crater below me. Death messages flooded through my communicator.

“Y/n step away from the tnt.” Quackity carefully approached me as I backed up, tears streaming down my face. I smiled at the chaos that has been unleashed infront of me.

The withers obliterating all those people, Tommy screaming as his Lmanburg gets destroyed and everything with it. A little ping to my heart as my best friends cries.

“Why hermosa, come over here.” I stayed put taking the lighter Uncle Sapnap gave to me when I was younger. He always told me to start fires where I went, a little flame in the rain.

“You know Alex, you haven’t talked to me since schlatt died, no one did. They all looked at me and scowled, making sure I felt like shit every single time.” I looked up, guilt washed over his face.

I looked and smiled at my fathers laughs, something I haven’t heard in a while. “I lost everyone over the past couple months. My uncles who treated me like I had the world in my hands for years, Tommy who I considered my best friend but ended up using me. The trust of everyone on this damn server, hell even you!”

I walked up to the duckling poking a finger at him every single sentence. I reached for my dagger read to slash it through his chest, as I suddenly felt I was falling. Down into the pits of what was Lmanburg.

Falling into grace, my hair blowing through my hair and felt nothing but pain as I hit the ground.

𝐘/𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝗼𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝗼 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝗼 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐲𝐇𝐐

༻✧༺

♡︎♡︎♥︎

I looked at the communicator in my hand, moving the sad face mask to the side. Tommy’s dead? He’s been beaten to death, by my father.

I looked around the area as I leaned against the hotel, Jacks been making me fix it after I blew part of it up. Once I got out of the prison jail cells I’ve been out straight to work. Yet those cells feel a lot more like home then my actual one.

The cold material of tinted glass on my back. I ran a hand through my hair the idea of Tommy’s screams for help, his face all bloodied up and bruised. Waiting for the end to come..

People were already building memorials and placing red and white flowers outside his house. I spotted Tubbo in the distance, his goat horns looking more and more like schlatt each day.

I wonder how he felt, he shouldn’t care tho. He’s the reason why Tommy was exiled for a year. He’s at fault why he was alone. There was a glint of the netherite axe hes carrying behind him.

“What’s up.” I said plainly, the one revealed eye staring at him. I looked at the boy up and down, an apron over his green button up, snowchester coat discarded.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” I tilted my head raising a brow. “Would you like to specify? There’s a lot of things I’ve been doing recently, one of them being your mom.” I laughed to myself, Tubbo clearly not amused.

“Tough crowed today I guess..” I continued to look at him right in the eye before drawing my attention to the floor. “Your the reason why Tommy’s dead.” I looked up confused.

𝐘/𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐓𝐮𝐛𝐛𝗼_

»»————-　⚠︎︎　————-««

This was fun to write because people really love the child reader stuff’ if you want me to continue this or work other smp members I can!

Ask or request anything and ask if you wanna be on a taglist!

[cavsansspice]

Be Sure to Follow me on Twitter!

-

It is strange to have peace. 

Xiao has spent centuries painting fields vermillion with the blood of his victims. 

He has never liked nor enjoyed it. Even if it is all that he has ever known, or that there was little choice, those memories sit like poison in his mouth. In the age of old, it was to devour or be devoured. Xiao’s only instinct has always been to survive. 

He isn’t a weak being. He refused to bend under the knee of another—whether his life was saved or not— and so he became Morax’s bloodhound instead, pulling himself through the slog and mud just to live another day after day. Xiao still tastes the dreams he was forced to devour, spicy and acrid on his tongue, fear and panic coating his palate. Creamy and soft but with just enough bite. 

Memorable, in the worst of ways. 

Xiao tells himself that he doesn’t sleep because it isn’t needed, not because he can still hear their screams when he closes his eyes. It can’t be drowned out, it can’t be forgotten, it will always be remembered.

Some days, he chokes on the headiness of his past. Morax rescued a man that didn’t want to be rescued.  Xiao knew there wasn’t anything else left for him, and even now, with his newfound and supposed freedom, he waffles about, unsure what to do.

One day, Morax comes to him with a job. 

“Karma,” he says softly, arms crossed over his chest as he looks at Liyue spread forth before them. The Archon War has come and gone, and their land is halfway back from repairing itself. “I’ve run the course of my luck, it seems. The gods that I’ve put into the ground and beneath the sea still fight a vengeful battle.”

“That must be the evil that I smell,” says Xiao. “I was wondering.”

“Liyue is mine to protect, but—” Morax stops himself, sighing. “Loathe as I am to admit, I cannot be everywhere at once.”

“Get to the point.” Xiao is calm but terse. Even if this man is his master—willingly chosen—Xiao isn’t one for long, drawn-out conversations. 

“Your power is needed once again,” says Morax. 

“My power isn’t needed anywhere. I’m better off dead.”

Morax pauses, head tilted as he looks at Xiao with eyes golden like cor lapis. “Alatus,” he murmurs, uttering a name that Xiao wants to forget, “polish your lance and don your mask once more. Fight this evil so that our people may live in peace.”

“Your people,” says Xiao, trying his best to be obstinate.

“Our people,” repeats Morax, firmly. 

Xiao finally meets Morax’s gaze, his own weary and beat. He’s only of use in times of war, be it under the hands of an evil god, or as a yaksha fighting beside he who would ascend to Celestia. 

He feels utterly obsolete. 

Morax sees the conflict in his eyes and tries another tactic. “What is it that you seek? Penance?”

“No,” says Xiao. Nothing can wash away the sins of his past. His fingers will forever be stained red. 

“Then what is it?”

Xiao thinks for a long and quiet moment. “Redemption,” he says softly, for once, speaking the bitter and honest truth. Morax stands there, hand on his chin as his elbow rests on his other arm as he thinks in that quiet way of his. 

“I will do as you ask, of course,” says Xiao. “Everything that I am now, I owe to you.”

“I do not ask out of expectation,” says Morax. “I ask because this is the job that you were made for.”

Xiao laughs, dark and sour, screeching like claws across a stone, a sound he isn’t accustomed to. “Made for,” he repeats. “The only thing that I was made for was to rend flesh from bone. To devour the dreams of my victims.”

“A person is worth more than the sum of his worst actions,” says Morax. “Otherwise, I would not be suited to rule Liyue.”

“You rose above the others. You paved your own way.”

“And now you can do the same.”

They meet gazes again, Xiao considering this. He has never thought it possible to make his own future. “The peace feels strange,” he finally says. “It’s too quiet. I’m meant for a life of solitude, but not quite like this. The more time that passes, the more my fingers itch for blood. They miss it, even.”

“And so, you have it,” says Morax, sweeping an arm out across the horizon. “Hundreds of gods waiting to be bested by your spear. The opportunity to fight out those urges alongside others just like you. You will help lead the masses in this fight.”

“Others. Like me.” Xiao reconsiders. He doesn’t work well with others and has no desire for it. 

“Four, total. Four others like yourself, lost and feeling without a purpose.”

“Perfect for bad karma,” says Xiao. He doesn’t mean it as a joke but Morax chuckles. 

“The five yakshas, more fierce than their brethren, fighting a debt that no one else can pay.” Morax then falls quiet, like the calm before a storm. “It will not be easy. You will take and take and take, and it will wear you down. Eventually, you will succumb.”

But it will be on his own terms and that is something that entices Xiao. 

“I feel as though I should apologize,” says Morax. 

“No,” says Xiao. “It is only apt that I fall to such a fate. Both penance and redemption, as one. I will accept this request of yours.”

Morax smiles, a small quirk of his mouth. “You will like them,” he says. The others, he means.

“Unlikely,” is Xiao’s acerbic reply. 

Morax says nothing more, disappearing almost as soon as he’d come. Xiao stands there on Qingyun Peak, wondering if Morax is right, and that there is more to life than what he’s already had. 

Xiao cannot undo his harm. He cannot turn back time and make himself anew. But, he can fight for a new dawn. It will not be for him, but for others, a thought that sinks deep into his gut and takes root. 

No longer an enemy of man, but its guardian instead. 

He can think of worse things. 

[makeuptips-]

Combination Skin: What To Use and How To Use It

Updated Feb 25, 2021 - Originally Posted: Nov 29, 2019

Combination skin is a real thing. Not quite dry, not quite oily; knowing how to care for it isn’t always easy. This common but sometimes confusing skin type marries areas of the face that are in oil production overdrive with areas that are dry, forming a patchwork-like texture on the skin’s surface.  Simply, combination skin is out of balance, so sourcing beauty products to cater to it requires a little vigilance.

Alina Roytberg - co-founder of skincare company, Fresh - laid down the facts on this very skin type. She described the main indicators to include: “an oily T-zone (forehead, down the nose to the chin) with dry cheeks, or skin that’s [generally] oilier in summer and drier in winter.” If you ever wondered how your skin came to be this way, Roytberg will tell you that genetics plays a leading role, above environmental factors and personal lifestyle. Each step of your skincare regime can be curated to work in favour of both surfaces at play, where harmonising your skin’s hydration levels is key.

FACT: According to Roytberg, normal and dry skin types tend to lean more toward a combination skin type when you’re on your period.``

Your cleanser should serve as the backbone of your regime by manipulating the condition of your skin regardless of what products are placed on top. Choose cleansing products that work with, not against, your multi-faceted skin type; products that replenish and balance your skin’s natural oils. “Using a good, gentle cleanser twice a day,” Roytberg suggests, “will help cleanse the skin without over-drying or leaving any residue behind.”

Replacing oil with oil is also an effective way to rebalance moisture levels across the board – I love Frank Body’s Anti-Makeup Cleansing Oil. Alternately, opt for a gentle cream solution like Clarins’ Cleansing Milk containing extracts of soothing yellow gentian. Avoid cleansers that contain high levels of salicylic acid because this additive can further dry out the skin. On the contrary, cleansing balms that boast a thick, buttery consistency may feel a little over the top against areas that are producing generous amounts of sebum as it is.

TIP: “I recommend using a cream cleanser like Fresh’s Soy Face Cleanser after an oil-based [one] as a double cleansing ritual… to ensure skin is fully cleansed,” Roytberg says.

To provide an even deeper clean to the skin, throw in an exfoliating product once or twice a week. By doing so, you’ll relieve the build-up of oil and bacteria, reducing the likelihood of developing acne. It’s a common misconception that the larger the pores, the more sebum secreted. Roytberg instead says this theory probably works in reverse, in that the secretion of sebum itself can enlarge pores. “If sebum can’t discharge freely, pores can become wider and more clearly visible, and pimples may form.” Regardless of whether you opt for an acidic exfoliant or granular liquid, skin will look and feel more even with the removal of surface-level grime and dead skin cells. LUMA’s Crushed Pearl Facial Polish boasts botanical grape seed oil – an ingredient praised for its nourishing and protective abilities when used on the skin. A toner can also be a great addition to your cleanser routine when the correct product is used. Moisten a cotton pad in your toner of choice and mark out the most oil-prone areas of your face only. Naturally hydrating ingredients, like cucumber in Mario Badescu’s Special Cucumber Lotion, will act as a suitable replacement. Even the oiliest of T-zones can still hide underlying dryness.

Tip: The further up an ingredient is listed on a product, the higher the content level of that ingredient will be. You can ensure you’re getting the most out of key ingredients before buying.

You’ll be misguided in believing a rich cream will act as a cure-all, since your oiliest areas need no such thing. When it comes to moisturiser, a lightweight formula containing hydrating hyaluronic acid should cover all bases (oily or otherwise). Prior to sleep, apply a refreshing gel cream that will sooth the skin and absorb in a flash, like Tarte Cosmetics Rainforest of The Sea Drink of H2O Hydrating Boost Moisturizer or Glow Recipe’s Watermelon Glow Pink Juice Moisturizer. Come morning, opt for a shine controlling moisturiser like Bioderma’s new Sébium Shine-Control Moisturiser or La Roche-Posay Effaclar Mat.

TIP: Combination Skin or not, it’s important to always apply sun protection. Prior to makeup application, apply an SPF. Invisible Zinc’s Sheer Defence Facial Moisturiser SPF50 is great for combination skin as it sits incognito under foundation without the greasiness or scent of a traditional sunscreen.

As with moisturiser application, multi-masking is the way to go. Apply residue-removing charcoal, like that in FORMULA 10.0.6’s Take Back Control Oil-Controlling Mud Mask, to oily areas. This charcoal and cacao hybrid is designed to decongest pores and hydrate the skin respectively. Likewise, Fresh’s Umbrian Clay Purifying Mask can be applied to the T-Zone, while the brand’s hydrating Rose Face Mask be applied along the cheeks. If you’d prefer a sheet mask, The Body Shop’s Seaweed Balance Sheet Mask is an easy one-size-fits-all option that contains refreshing aloe vera your whole face will benefit from.

TIP: If acne is a concern, manage your combination skin first before reaching for acne-targeted solutions. Until then, minimise your use of silicones to allow pores to breathe easily.

Originally posted Nov 29th, 2019. Updated Feb 25, 2021 Story by: Hannah Gay

Photography: Evangeline Sarney

[phoebosacerales]

The 6th house in Astrology

I thought I'd just share this excerpt from "The Plague", which feels like a whole lesson on the 6th house, while also being very relevant in these times of covid-19. It says a lot more than I could ever try to say and explain about the joy of Mars.

"The word 'plague' had just been uttered for the first time. At this stage of the narrative, with Dr. Bernard Rieux standing at his window, the narrator may, perhaps, be allowed to justify the doctor's uncertainty and surprise, since, with very slight differences, his reaction was the same as that of the great majority of our townsfolk. Everybody knows that pestilences have a way of recurring in the world; yet somehow we find it hard to believe in ones that crash down on our heads from a blue sky. There have been as many plagues as wars in history; yet always plagues and wars take people equally by surprise.

In fact, like our fellow citizens, Rieux was caught off his guard, and we should understand his hesitations in the light of this fact; and similarly understand how he was torn between conflicting fears and confidence. When a war breaks out, people say: 'It's too stupid; it can't last long.' But though a war may well be 'too stupid', that doesn't prevent its lasting. Stupidity has a knack of getting its way; as we should see if we were not always so much wrapped up in ourselves.

In this respect our townsfolk were like everybody else, wrapped up in themselves; in other words they were humanists: they disbelieved in pestilences.

A pestilence isn't a thing made to man's measure; therefore we tell ourselves that pestilence is a mere bogy of the mind, a bad dream that will pass away. But it doesn't always pass away and, from one bad dream to another, it is men who pass away, and the humanists first of all, because they haven't taken their precautions.

Our townsfolk were not more to blame than others; they forgot to be modest, that was all, and thought that everything still was possible for them; which presupposed that pestilences were impossible. They went on doing business, arranged for journeys, and formed views. How should they have given a thought to anything like plague, which rules out any future, cancels journeys, silences the exchange of views. They fancied themselves free, and no one will ever be free so long as there are pestilences.

Indeed, even after Dr. Rieux had admitted in his friend's company that a handful of persons, scattered about the town, had without warning died of plague, the danger still remained fantastically unreal. For the simple reason that, when a man is a doctor, he comes to have his own ideas of physical suffering, and to acquire somewhat more imagination than the average. Looking from his window at the town, outwardly quite unchanged, the doctor felt little more than a faint qualm for the future, a vague unease.

He tried to recall what he had read about the disease. Figures floated across his memory, and he recalled that some thirty or so great plagues known to history had accounted for nearly a hundred million deaths. But what are a hundred million deaths? When one has served in a war, one hardly knows what a dead man is, after a while. And since a dead man has no substance unless one has actually seen him dead, a hundred million corpses broadcast through history are no more than a puff of smoke in the imagination. The doctor remembered the plague at Constantinople that, according to Procopius, caused ten thousand deaths in a single day. Ten thousand dead made about five times the audience in a biggish cinema. Yes, that was how it should be done. You should collect the people at the exits of five picture-houses, you should lead them to a city square and make them die in heaps if you wanted to get a clear notion of what it means. Then at least you could add some familiar faces to the anonymous mass. But naturally that was impossible to put into practice; moreover, what man knows ten thousand faces? In any case the figures of those old historians, like Procopius, weren't to be relied on; that was common knowledge. Seventy years ago, at Canton, forty thousand rats died of plague before the disease spread to the inhabitants. But, again, in the Canton epidemic there was no reliable way of counting up the rats. A very rough estimate was all that could be made, with, obviously, a wide margin for error.

'Let's see,' the doctor murmured to himself, "supposing the length of a rat to be ten inches, forty thousand rats placed end to end would make a line of...'

He pulled himself up sharply. He was letting his imagination play pranks, the last thing wanted just now. A few cases, he told himself, don't make an epidemic; they merely call for serious precautions. He must fix his mind, first of all, on the observed facts: stupor and extreme prostration, buboes, intense thirst, delirium, dark blotches on the body, internal dilatation, and, in conclusion... In conclusion, some words came back to the doctor's mind; aptly enough, the concluding sentence of the description of the symptoms given in his medical handbook: 'The pulse becomes fluttering, dicrotic, and intermittent, and death ensues as the result of the slightest movement.' Yes, in conclusion, the patient's life hung on a thread, and three people out of four (he remembered the exact figures) were too impatient not to make the very slight movement that snapped the thread.

The doctor was still looking out of the window. Beyond it lay the tranquil radiance of a cool spring sky; inside the room a word was echoing still, the word 'plague'. A word that conjured up in the doctor's mind not only what science chose to put into it, but a whole series of fantastic possibilities utterly out of keeping with that gray and yellow town under his eyes, from which were rising the sounds of mild activity characteristic of the hour; a drone rather than a bustling, the noises of a happy town, in short, if it's possible to be at once so dull and happy. A tranquillity so casual and thoughtless seemed almost effortlessly to give the lie to those old pictures of the plague: Athens, a charnel-house reeking to heaven and deserted even by the birds; Chinese towns cluttered up with victims silent in their agony; the convicts at Marseille piling rotting corpses into pits; the building of the Great Wall in Provence to fend off the furious plague-wind; the damp, putrefying pallets stuck to the mud floor at the Constantinople lazar-house, where the patients were hauled up from their beds with hooks; the carnival of masked doctors at the Black Death; men and women copulating in the cemeteries of Milan; cartloads of dead bodies rumbling through London's ghoul-haunted darkness, nights and days filled always, everywhere, with the eternal cry of human pain. No, all those horrors were not near enough as yet even to ruffle the equanimity of that spring afternoon. The clang of an unseen streetcar came through the window, briskly refuting cruelty and pain. Only the sea, murmurous behind the dingy checkerboard of houses, told of the unrest, the precariousness, of all things in this world. And, gazing in the direction of the bay, Dr. Rieux called to mind the plague-fires of which Lucretius tells, which the Athenians kindled on the seashore. The dead were brought there after nightfall, but there was not room enough, and the living fought one another with torches for a space where to lay those who had been dear to them; for they had rather engage in bloody conflicts than abandon their dead to the waves. A picture rose before him of the red glow of the pyres mirrored on a wine-dark, slumbrous sea, battling torches whirling sparks across the darkness, and thick, fetid smoke rising toward the watchful sky. Yes, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility....

But these extravagant forebodings dwindled in the light of reason. True, the word 'plague had been uttered; true, at this very moment one or two victims were being seized and laid low by the disease. Still, that could stop, or be stopped. It was only a matter of lucidly recognizing what had to be recognized; of dispelling extraneous shadows and doing what needed to be done. Then the plague would come to an end, because it was unthinkable, or, rather, because one thought of it on misleading lines. If, as was most likely, it died out, all would be well. If not, one would know it anyhow for what it was and what steps should be taken for coping with and finally overcoming it.

The doctor opened the window, and at once the noises of the town grew louder.

The brief, intermittent sibilance of a machine-saw came from a near-by workshop.

Rieux pulled himself together. There lay certitude; there, in the daily round.

All the rest hung on mere threads and trivial contingencies; you couldn't waste your time on it. The thing was to do your job as it should be done."

"The Plague", by Albert Camus.

[cavalierious-whim]

Penance/Redemption (Genshin Impact)

It is strange to have peace. 

Xiao never has, having spent eons bringing forth the opposite, painting fields a viscous red with the blood of his victims. 

He never liked it, never enjoyed it. Those times were like poison in his mouth even if it’s all he knew, even if there wasn’t another choice. In the age of old, it was to devour or be devoured. Xiao flew somewhere in the middle on the wings of desperation, consuming those lower than him but at the behest of someone above. 

Xiao isn’t a weak being, he’s one of the strongest. He refused to bend under the knee of another and so he became their bloodhound instead. Pulled himself through the slog and mud just to live another day after day. He still tastes the dreams he was forced to devour, spicy and acrid on his tongue, fear and panic coating his palate. Creamy and soft but with just enough bite. Memorable. 

In the worst of ways. 

Xiao tells himself that he doesn’t sleep because it isn’t needed, not because he can still hear their screams when he closes his eyes. It can’t be drowned out, it can’t be forgotten, it will always be remembered.

Some days, he chokes on the headiness of his past. Morax rescued a man that didn’t want to be rescued, not because he wished to continue his dark deeds, but rather, Xiao knew there wasn’t anything else left for him. 

One day, Morax comes to him with a job. 

“Karma,” says the god, arms crossed over his chest as he looks at Liyue spread forth before them. The Archon War has come and gone, and their land is halfway back from repairing itself. “I’ve run the course of my luck, it seems. The gods that I’ve put into the ground and beneath the sea still fight a vengeful battle.”

“That must be the evil that I smell,” says Xiao. “I was wondering.”

“Liyue is mine. Loathe as I am to admit, I cannot be everywhere at once.”

“Get to the point,” says Xiao, calmly but terse. He isn’t one for long, drawn-out conversations. 

“Your power is needed once again,” says Morax. 

“My power isn’t needed anywhere. I’m better off dead.”

Morax pauses, head cocked to the side before he looks at Xiao, eyes as golden as Cor Lapis. “Alatus,” he murmurs, uttering a name that Xiao wants to forget, “polish your lance and don your mask once more. Fight this evil so that our people may live in peace.”

“Your people,” says Xiao, trying his best to be obstinate.

“Our people,” repeats Morax, firmly. 

Xiao finally meets Morax’s gaze, his own weary and beat. He’s always weary and beat these days for he has little purpose. He’s only of use in times of war be that under the hands of an evil god, or as a yaksha fighting beside he who would ascend to Celestia. 

Utterly obsolete. 

Morax sees the conflict in his eyes and tries another tactic. “What is it that you seek? Penance?”

“No,” says Xiao. Nothing can wash away the sins of his past. His fingers will forever be stained red by his evil deeds. 

“Then what is it?”

Xiao thinks for a long and quiet moment. “Redemption,” he says softly, for once speaking the bitter and honest truth. Morax stands there, hand on his chin as his elbow rests on his other arm. Thinking in that quiet way of his. 

“I will do as you ask, of course,” says Xiao. “Everything that I am now I owe to you.”

“I do not ask out of expectation,” says Morax. “I ask because this is the job that you were made for.”

Xiao laughs, dark and sour, screeching like claws across a stone. He never laughs and isn’t accustomed to it. “Made for,” he repeats. “The only thing that I was made for was to rend flesh from bone. To devour the dreams of my victims.”

“One is worth more than the sum of his worst actions,” says Morax. “Otherwise I would not be suited to rule Liyue.”

“You rose above the others. You paved your own way.”

“And now you can do the same.”

They meet gazes again, Xiao considering this. He’s never thought it possible, to make his own future. “The peace feels so odd,” he finally says. “It’s too quiet. I’m meant for a life of solitude, but not quite like this. The more time that passes, the more my fingers itch for blood. They miss it, even.”

“And so, you have it,” says Morax, sweeping an arm out across the horizon. “Hundreds of gods waiting to be bested by your spear. The opportunity to fight out those urges alongside others just like you.”

“Others. Like me,” says Xiao, reconsidering. He doesn’t work well with others and has no want for it. 

“Four total; four others like yourself. Lost and feeling without a purpose.”

“Perfect for bad karma,” says Xiao. He doesn’t mean it as a joke but Morax chuckles. 

“The five yakshas, guardians of their own, fighting a debt that no one else can pay.” Morax then falls quiet, like the calm before a storm. “It will not be easy. You will take and take and take, and it will wear you down. Eventually, you will succumb.”

But it will be on his own terms and that is something that entices Xiao. 

“I feel as though I should apologize,” says Morax. 

“No,” says Xiao. “It is only apt that I fall to such a fate. Both penance and redemption, as one. I will accept this request of yours.”

Morax smiles, a small quirk of his mouth. “You will like them,” he says. The others, he means.

“Unlikely,” is Xiao’s acerbic reply. 

Morax says nothing more, disappearing almost as soon as he’d come. Xiao stands there on Qingyun Peak, wondering if Morax is right and there is truly more to life than what he’s already had. 

Xiao cannot undo his harm, he cannot turn back time and make himself anew. But he can fight for a new dawn. It isn’t for him, it’s for others, a thought that sinks deep into his gut and takes root. 

No longer an enemy of man, but its Guardian instead. 

He can think of worse things.

[dramione-tea]

recommendations & little snippets of myself

by Cassiopeia Candles ( Instagram: @casseopya.candles )

note: click the title in order to be directed to the desired fan fiction.

- for the dramione shippers, I wish you luck! 

Unrequited Love  [ casspiane ]

“Darling, I wished you knew,” 

Draco Malfoy x Original Characters (OC)

1. Love Never Dies. [ rosebuds_ ]

Rachel Farrell, pure blood witch, family of Gryffindors. First year is not the best for Rachel. She struggles trying to fit in and be accepted by those around her. Falling for Draco Malfoy, Rachel has to overcome a wave of obstacles. She finds it difficult to be accepted by her family and turns to the Malfoys... Which was undoubtedly one of the biggest mistakes she made. Find out what happens to Rachel and what truly changes her life.

- Literally binge read the whole book during my 6th grade examination. ( I know it was bad for me ) But hey I didn’t fail.  

P.S. Don’t be like me. 

2. midnight of the masquerade [ seraphilims ]

a story in which two people realize masks only hide the appearance - not the heart. 

- Love the story plot.  I’ve read this thrice in different years. 

3. Imperio [ pansyparks ]

The younger sister of Cedric Diggory, Arden, is a Slytherin who doesn't fit in. Draco Malfoy, a wealthy Slytherin bully. The two come together, and Arden realises that being a Slytherin isn't so bad after all; but with a few bumps in the road for Draco, can they stay together?

4. Dear Draco [ malfoyuh ]

❛stay a little longer❜

- 15 year old me were in tears, so was my heart.  Rate it as 5/5.

5. Let’s Kill Tonight  [ Bambey ]

Rebecca Rosewood's life is dramatically changed when she becomes a Death Eater. With blood on her hands, she is summoned by Voldemort to go to Hogwarts and extract information from the famous Harry Potter, finding herself hopelessly attracted to Draco Malfoy at the same time. But it all gets a little too much when her past finally catches up with her...

- One of the first fan-fictions I’ve read about Draco.

6. if looks could kill [ WhenInDoubtSleep ]

In times like this, the truth can rewrite the past and alter the future. In an attempt to find herself amidst the deceptive lies and horrible truths, she finds Draco Malfoy instead. She honestly just wants to make it out of the year alive...and maybe with a few less kisses from the blond git. Love story set during the sixth year at Hogwarts.

7. Always Had A Thing For Bad Boys [ oxNeverShoutNeverxo ]

8. Who Are You?  [ TheBlondeAdventurer ]

Draco Malfoy. One of the most arrogant teenage boys in Slytherin's house. He struts through the school and doesn't miss an opportunity to cut someone down, just as he has been by his father his entire life. Now enter Elena Crowe. A quiet girl who tries her hardest to stay out of trouble, and one of Ravenclaw's best students. She always has the best answers and never fails to help someone in need, even if they may not deserve it. In their sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco finally runs into Elena, whom he has never seemed to notice before. Elena does her absolute best to stay away from him, because all he can be is trouble, but Draco finds amusement by forcing himself into her life. For what reason, he doesn't know; but what he does know is that he enjoys bantering with this quiet girl, because even she can get riled up and fight back. But Draco will see that Elena is a lot more than what she may seem. Soon he will be battling morales, his past, his family, and both of them may end up facing off in the final battle not with Lord Voldemort, but each other.

- To be completely honest, read this one more than 3 times. 

9. Unwanted Legacy [ writtenbyciara ]

" admit it, you care about me. "

- Recently read this months ago and found it quite interesting. The author’s writing style is different from the rest as her words make you visualize more on what is happening. 

- Book 1 & 2 is complete, while book 3 is still on its way. 

Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger (Dramione)

1. We Learned The Sea [ floorcoaster ]

Draco Malfoy turns himself in after a very successful career as a Death Eater, then enlists Harry and Hermione to help him in a scheme to bring down the Dark Lord.

- This gave me the feels.  Draco’s personality in this is far most different from the books and other fan fictions.

2. The Bachelor  [ Fluff ]

Hermione's mother is pressuring her into finding a boyfriend. On a whim, she applies and is accepted into the wizard version of The Bachelor. But what happens when The Bachelor is none other than Draco Malfoy himself?

3. Defending The Dark  [ Cece Louise ]

Almost three years after Voldemort's defeat, Hermione Granger is a Ministry-appointed Defense Inquisitor. Her next assignment: defend Draco Malfoy. She's sure there must be some mistake. Confronted with mysterious memories, candid conversations, and confusing feelings, she is plagued with uncertainty. Just who is Draco Malfoy? And does he deserve a second chance?

4. Graveyard Valentine  [ Bex-chan ]

Hermione thought she was the only person in the world who would spend Valentine's Day in a Graveyard, but she was wrong. He's there. Every single year, with his gloves, roses, and answers. Dramione Valentine's Day one-shot. Post-Hogwarts. 

- All time favorite.

5. Eighteen Months  [ Istalindar ]

When Hermione is diagnosed with a magic allergy and kidney failure during the summer, everything changes for her, friends, enemies..life.

6. Love Me Twice [ Bex-chan ]

'"They tore her apart and then wiped me out of her mind to send me a message. To mess up my life. To break..." he trailed off. Blaise nodded his head with understanding. "To break your heart," he finished for him.' Dramione. One-shot.

7. The Wrong Strain [ Colubrina ]

Everyone knew what veela were. Veela were magical creatures, breathtakingly beautiful, who captivated men with a single look. It would have been nice to have been that strain. Instead, Hermione Granger was infected by another. Instead of captivating all men, she was captivated by one. She'd die without him. She was already in almost constant pain. 

8. Entwined In Time  [ TheSummerNightingale ]

When Hermione and Draco get put into detention together, a potion mishaps throws them back in time: into the Marauders' era. As they begin to adjust to life twenty years into the past, the two become drawn together, sharing the bond of the future as they are forced to work together to return to their own time.

9. Destiny [ Annie Lockwood ]

Hermione's wedding night is everything but perfect for the young witch. Her new husband and long-time friend, Ronald, is passed out drunk and she thinks upon her life leading up to that night. Hermione falls asleep, despondent and alone. When she wakes up the following morning, she is still in bed with her husband. But it isn't Ronald Weasley.

10. Silencio [ AkashatheKitty ] 

One late night, hate turns to lust.

11. Clean [ Olivie Blake ]

Malfoy's handsome face was contoured into a condescending smirk. "No faith in that giant brain of yours, Granger?" She looked up at him defiantly. "Maybe I don't have faith in you!" she said, raising her voice. Malfoy only looked at her. "You'll find I'm very surprising."

12. Marked  [ Olivie Blake ]

Two dead. Three missing. The Order is down a leader and another innocent takes the Mark. Where is the Chosen One, and who killed Draco Malfoy?

13. The Fallout [ everythursday ] 

Hermione learns about growing up through the redemption of Draco Malfoy.

14. Every Day, a Little Death [ LovesBitca8 ]

It has become common knowledge that Hermione Granger cannot have an orgasm. Many have tried, none have succeeded. Can Draco Malfoy offer his assistance?

15. familiar faces, worn out places [ LovesBitca8 ]

“You are at St. Mungo’s. You were in a coma.” He looks me over again, taking a pause. “I am a Healer here now,” he says, like it explains something. My fingers stretch, drifting across his sleeve. He looks down, like I’ve thrown mud at him.

Forcing my vocal chords together for the first time, I whisper, “What’s your name?”

16. Kiss Me, Haunt Me, Kill Me [ LovesBitca8 ]

"So," she said, and her voice was just as he'd remembered it, "you've chosen to haunt the castle as well?" She lifted her brows. "I'm dead. What's your excuse?" ~*~ Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts as Potions Master to find the ghost of Hermione Granger floating through the halls.

17. Ribbons Down Her Back [ LovesBitca8 ]

The unintentional annual seduction of Draco Malfoy through a series of ribbons and bows - or - Christmas Fluff with a dash of Secret Santa.

18. Manacled  [ SenLinYu ] 

Harry Potter is dead. In the aftermath of the war, in order to strengthen the might of the magical world, Voldemort enacts a repopulation effort. Hermione Granger has an Order secret, lost but hidden in her mind, so she is sent as an enslaved surrogate to the High Reeve until her mind can be cracked.

19. The Library of Alexandria  [ SenLinYu ] 

 The Library of Alexandria is not for just any witch or wizard. Many bookworms may try but few are permitted to pass through its doors. The books residing there are ancient and powerful and, if one happens to make a mistake, the consequences can be rather—novel.

20. A Slow Cruel Descent + A Fragile Ascent  [ SenLinYu ]

A Slow Cruel Descent

The war grinds on and Hermione Granger, the lead intelligence for the Order of the Pheonix, is captured. Unable to crack her through interrogation without risking her mind, Voldemort conceives a cruel method of breaking her that involves a reluctant Draco Malfoy.“He stared at her in disgust.She looked—broken.The fire she’d still had when she was dragged in was now extinguished. Her eyes were locked on his face like she were memorizing him.“Stop staring at me.” He snarled. “You stupid bint. You’re supposed to be so clever. They can’t break you with torture but a fucking potion reduces you to a sniveling traitor.”

A Fragile Ascent

The War is over. Voldemort is dead. And Hermione Granger is broken.

21. Sweetly Broken [ LadyKenz347 ] 

As the dust settles following the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco’s confidence, belief system, and world are shattered.In an attempt to mend his broken pieces, he turns to vials that take the pain away. But once the high’s are no longer so high and the lows get so much lower, Draco has to start a journey of healing and redemption that often hurts more than it helps.

22. Truth, Lies, and Storytelling  [ BreathOfThePhoenix ]

“Hermione,” Harry took a deep breath and flipped the book over to see the back cover, “why is my name on this?”“Like I said, someone is writing about us. The film we just saw was based on that book,” Hermione tapped the cover of the book on the top of the stack, “and it was incredibly accurate.”Harry passed the stack of books over to Ginny, holding on to the first one. He turned the title of the book over in his head, mumbling the words quietly to himself.“Harry Potter… me… Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Philosopher’s stone. Hermione, this feels weird. Am I the narrator?”When Hermione and Draco uncover a familiar new film called “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone” they learn that the wizarding world may not be as well hidden as they thought.

23. DIVINATION FOR SKEPTICS  [ OLIVIEBLAKE ]

The latest in magical advancements is an enchantment that reveals the bearer’s romantic compatibility with another person. Effectively eliminating uncertainty from dating, the charm can tell you whether or not you’ve found The One with a precise, Hermione Granger-approved calculation of traits and preferences. It’s a foolproof method of predicting relationship happiness. It’s also, for Hermione, positively dreadful news.

24. Isolation [ Bex-chan ]

He can't leave the room. Her room. And it's all the Order's fault. Confined to a small space with only the Mudblood for company, something's going to give. Maybe his sanity. Maybe not. "There," she spat. "Now your Blood's filthy too!"

25. Hunted [ Bex-chan ]

Forced to work together when their old schoolmates start dying, Hermione & Draco must overcome their differences to solve the mysterious deaths. The tension in the office is getting rather...heated.

If you reached to this part. 

HEY THERE! 

Feel free to message me on instagram if you ever feel the need to fan girl, I do too most of the time. 

[spell-cleaver]

DAY 14: WHUMPTOBER: Is Something Burning? @whumptober2020​

Again, this is set in The Pirate Son ‘verse! This is how Luke escaped being hanged.

His father wasn’t going to help him. The queue for the gallows snaked forward and forward, until Luke stood in front of the platform and there were hands under his shoulders, hauling him up. He shivered as the cold wind blew through his hair, but lifted his chin, stoic, as the hangman shoved him none-too-gently onto the trap door. The cuffs which suppressed Luke’s magic were stiff against his wrist, making him feel even heavier. Every footstep thumped like a battle drum. A death knell.

The hangman leaned down to whisper in his ear. “I can’t wait to see you get what you deserve, pirate.”

Luke said nothing. He kept staring out at the crowd—he had a better view from up here. The Emperor’s box was directly front of him, draped in red silks, with his father standing at the Emperor’s right side. Palpatine was watching him closely, goading him—he was mouthing something at Luke, but Luke refused to look—and Vader, under his eternal mask, looked impassive. There was nothing to see there, so Luke did not view him for very long.

Instead, he just set his jaw, and stared at the fluttering edge of that red silk. Embroidered in gold and black, it was fraying, damp from the rain and mud that permeated the rest of the square.

He kept his eyes fixed where that scrap of fabric had been in his vision even when the hangman eclipsed it, dragging the coarse rope of the noose around his neck. His breath was hot against his ear.

“My brother was a great sailor. A loyal man. When he was assigned a ship on Tarkin’s pride ship, the Death Star, it was the family’s honour.” Luke did close his eyes before this man could spit in them. “Until some nobody pirate sank it and sent him to the bottom of the sea.”

“You wish I was a nobody pirate,” Luke whispered back. “You wish that all of us were nobodies, or and you think that your precious sailors are any better than we are. They’re not. We’re not. And if breaking unjust Imperial laws that perpetuate oppression, sadism and death makes me a villain, or a scoundrel… I am happy to be one.”

The wounds up his back, his face, from the keelhauling still stung. They stung like crazy. And when that hangman backhanded him so hard he saw stars, they hurt even more.

“I hope your death is agonising. It seems to be. And I know you will suffer thereafter.”

Luke spat at his feet. “All the suffering this life directs at people like me, I’d hope that I wouldn’t.”

He cringed back when he heard movement, bracing himself for another hit, but the hangman just grunted. There—there was a moment where he pulled on the rope, and Luke cried out as it constricted his throat momentarily, tightly, for three long seconds—

Then the guy loosened it again and walked over to the lever, probably smiling to himself.

It occurred to Luke that it probably wasn’t wise to antagonise the man who held his life in his hands, but he was going to snuff it out anyway. Might as well enjoy antagonising him while he could.

His gaze found that scrap of fabric again, blowing in the wind. His vision was still blurry from the hit—or were those tears? He didn’t want to die, after all, much less at his father’s order—so when at first he saw the smoke, he thought he was imagining it. The first shadow he would see, among many.

Then he blinked, while the hangman began to read his charges.

“Luke Skywalker, pirate, self-styled ‘privateer’ who served aboard wanted ships the Falcon and the Rogue, is sentenced, for dozens of counts of murder, piracy, theft, sabotage—”

Was… was that…?

“—damage of Imperial naval and civilian property, collusion with Rebels, treason—”

Smoke?

His mouth dropped open when he saw it; the gesture was uncomfortable, against the rope digging into his neck.

There was a fire burning.

There was a fire burning under the Emperor’s box.

Someone had set fire to the silks.

“—resisting arrest, and most notably, the destruction of Governor Tarkin’s naval vessel the Death Star and the wanton slaughter of all personnel on board—”

Palpatine had no idea. Palpatine was staring at Luke, as Luke saw when he finally deigned to look at him, with a sadistic glee on his face, a faint smile. Luke smiled back, allowing his bitterness to shine through—and none of his hope.

His gaze flicked to his father, at Palpatine’s right. Did he notice the smoke, the flames eating the box away as the hangman drivelled? Surely he must. Surely—

But Vader did not flinch.

He kept staring at Luke.

“—for these crimes, and many others not listed, in the name of His Majesty the Emperor Palpatine and the glorious Empire he protects, Skywalker is to hang by the neck until dead—”

A shadow flickered. Luke raised his gaze further, to see a silhouette atop a nearby house around the square, the sun on their shoulder, raising a bow.

Aimed right at him.

Kill me, he mouthed. Kill me quickly.

“—and,” the hangman finished, “may God have mercy on his rotten soul.”

He lowered the scroll of paper, his heavy black clothes moving around him in a way that was uncomfortably similar to Luke’s father’s as he stepped up to the lever. Luke didn’t let himself look away as he put his hand on it, ready to pull.

“Does the condemned have any last words to express?” Palpatine called out suddenly, the rest of the square awed into silence by his voice. “Anything he would like to say. I am not a man without mercy, if he repents.”

The hangman paused, clearly resentful that Luke might not be killed after all, but he paused to look at Luke.

Luke looked levelly at Palpatine, and pointedly did not look at the fire underneath him.

“I hope you burn,” he said.

Palpatine’s lips twisted. “Do it.”

And then several things happened at once.

Out of the corner of his eye, Luke saw movement, and instinctually flinched, expecting the yank on his neck any time soon, expecting—

He was not expecting—

The archer on the rooftop fired. The arrowhead was broad, and sharp—and scythed right through the rope. Luke gasped as he felt it thump against his back.

That—

How—

He didn’t stop to think. He didn’t stop to breathe—he just reached up, with his hands that were bound together in front of him, and seized the noose, yanking on it until it loosened, tearing it off his neck and stumbling toward the edge of the platform.

“Hey—!" the hangman shouted—but not at him. There was another thunk, and a spray of blood, and the hangman went down.

His knife was on his belt.

Luke’s eyes alighted on it, and he scrambled for it, hurrying, ignoring the way a hailstorm of arrows was descending from the rooftops, picking off assailants climbing onto the gallows one by one, crawling toward the hangman’s corpse awkwardly to where the blade reflected  the steel grey sky…

He smelt burning before he heard the crackling.

When he looked up, he expected to be the recipient of a furious glare on Palpatine’s part. Nor did he expect his father to be please, either. But when he glanced up, Palpatine—of course—had bigger issues to worry about.

The stand was on fire.

He was surrounded by flames.

The red guards were shouting, grabbing for His Insincere Majesty, trying to get him out soon—and Luke laughed when he turned his head and closed his hand around the hilt of the knife. He sawed at his bonds, quickly, not wasting any time, even as the smoke rose and the crackling got louder—the surroundings got hotter.

Leia was here! It had to be her; there was no one else he knew who was so deadly in aim, so brilliant, good enough to plan this out. And Wedge—Wedge, whose alarming pyromaniac tendencies they’d had to aggressively curb on a ship at sea, it must have been him who suggested the fire, and Han who had the sheer balls to pull it off—

These were his friends, they were coming for him—

The ropes gave. He gave a sigh of relief, then—then had a thought. Jabbed the tip of the knife into the lock on the shackles that bound his magic, twisted it, wriggled it…

It fell loose.

He crowed as his magic flooded back into him. Whipped his head up and glanced around—and when one of the city guard came for him, sword out and face contorted in hatred, Luke shot him back with a strong spell to the gut.

Then he got to his feet.

Every part of him hurt. His back and face roared with his keelhauling injuries. His neck smarted, sore, where the guy had tightened the noose. His old, old wounds, from his capture, were still scrapes over his torso. His existence, as it had always been, was pain.

But his magic thrummed through him and all was well.

The fire was spreading. The crowd ran, screaming, and torn scraps of crimson silk danced in the wind, flickering about them, burning to embers and dust among the carnage. The Emperor’s beautiful box burnt, and before Luke’s very eyes, the fire jumped from wooden stand to wooden stand, until it gnawed at the very gallows he was standing on. He made to jump, to leave, to escape, to find his friends and get out of here and return to the sea where he belonged—

But he glanced at the Emperor’s box for one moment too long.

It was a monument to destruction, all orange and black. All he could see were silhouettes—but he knew those silhouettes.

Vader was pointing a sword at Palpatine.

Luke stared.

Vader was pointing a sword at Palpatine.

His father opened his mouth to roar words Luke could not make out, and then sparks bluer than the fire itself erupted between the lords, obscuring Luke’s view, and—

Luke had delayed too long.

The fire was on the gallows, the deadweight noose shrivelling to a husk, the soles of his boots heating up. Smoke clogged his lungs.

“Jump, Luke!” a voice shouted, floating on the ashy air.

Luke took a running leap, and jumped.

The crowd was a thick knot of people, pushing and pulling in every which way, their terror evident in their screams. But one knot was put together, they knew what they were doing, hidden behind the helmets of Vader’s 501st soldiers—Luke’s friends were geniuses, that was the perfect way to smuggle themselves in—and when he jumped, they raised their hands to catch him. They grunted when he landed, letting him down harshly—his back twinged—but gently enough that no injury was done. One of them placed a hand on his shoulder.

A very tight hand.

“We have him,” an unfamiliar—no, not unfamiliar, no—voice said. “Tell Lord Vader we have him.”

“Lord Vader has left the Emperor’s box; he’ll meet us at the Lady,” another voice came, and then Luke was being hauled up, multiple hands clasped onto his arms, and—

“What!?” he asked, trying to shake them off. “What—what are you—”

“You’re coming with us, Skywalker.”

“What!? No!” Luke stopped. Kicked, struggled—screamed.

When they just shifted their grips on him so he couldn’t fight as easily, he cried out from pain of it.

“Where are my friends?” he demanded. “What are you—”

“Your friends aren’t here, Skywalker. Vader rescued you.” Luke’s jaw fell open. “And if you want to survive, if you want to escape being hanged, you are going to walk with us.”

Luke did not walk with them. And he did not make it easy for them to drag him.

Even undead soldiers disliked it when their fingers got ripped off.

[aliceaddellheidde]

Fatum

A/N: This is for @the-ss-horniest-book-club Lucky in love. March 3 – Blessing.

WORDS: 1277

WARNINGS: swearing

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x reader (eventually) {Soulmates AU}

DISCLAIMERS: Endgame happened, but only Thanos and his peasants died. English isn´t my first language so sorry for mistakes.

Moi, Rai and Parca are genderless & are using they/their pronouns.

This is soulmates au. When you get tattoo, your soulmate gets it as well on same spot. It glows when you touch.

Bucky and reader have blessed time apart. Until they don’t.

This is multi-chapters story. 3/19

Gif from here, Don´t tell me it´s not Bucky done with reader 🤣

Divider by @rainbowkisses31

You had nice quiet morning with your hobbies - bit of painting, reading, writing and eating – until you were called to Tony´s office. When you got there, F.R.I.D.A.Y. opened door for you and you walked in. „Y/N! Good to see you.” „You have something to tell me Tony?” He offered you a drink, but you politely declined. „Look, I know you are hard-working and I appreciate it but you need break too. So I´m sending you to the best spa in city. For whole afternoon.” You were looking at him suspiciously. „Let me guess. It was Pepper´s idea.” You smirked at him and he smirked back. „She wants another baby Y/N! Another one! That’s why I need you all out of compound.” he said excitedly and gave you small card. „It´s key to every procedure in the spa. Now get lost.” „Rude. You owe me box of doughnuts!”  You took the card and left.

„Should I prepare car for you Miss Y/N?” F.R.I.D.A.Y. asked. „Yes please.” You went to your room to put your jogger pants on, paired with your Bucky´s hoodie and cute trainers with unicorns. You stole his hoodie as revenge for putting baby powder in your hairdryer. „Would you like some quick snack before you leave Miss Y/N?” „What do we have at home?” „There are dairy products, bread, cheeses, veggies and fruit.” „No cereals?” „On your shelf.” „Thank you F.R.I.D.A.Y..” You packed your stuff and went to the kitchen.

Surprisingly your cereals were on the shelf. Usually Bucky hides them somewhere. You happily poured it in bowl and took milk out. As it came out of bottle, you realized your mistake. It wasn’t milk, but shampoo mixed with water. And it was yours by the smell! You thanked all gods you didn’t washed your hair last night or this morning. „F.R.I.D.A.Y., where is Bucky?” „Sergeant Barnes left this morning Miss. Should I call him?” „No. But you can kill him once he will return.” „I'm sorry Miss, but I can´t do that.” „He committed crime!” „What he did miss?” „He put shampoo into the milk bottle!” AI was quiet for a bit. „According to internet it is considered as prank. I think  Sergeant Barnes wants you to laugh more.” „I will give him my best Cruella de Vil laugh when he comes back.” „Great idea Miss.” „As he will be dead once I´m done with him!” You threw everything into the bin and took out Bucky's opened box of Oreos. Then you went for toothpaste and did classy, but effective joke. Next was his favourite pair of running shoes. Perfect for mayo filling. You were very satisfied with yourself. As you went to the elevator Parca fled to Moi and Rai to tell them what have you done. And without their help.

Car ride took longer, because of traffic, but it worth it as you got off the car and stood in front of one of the most expensive spa resorts. You walked in and girl from reception smiled at you. „Good morning, how may I help you?” You gave her card from Tony. „Excellent. My name is Annie. Mr. Stark prepared a plan for you and your partner.” Of course he did. Wait. „Partner?” „Yes. Mr. Stark didn’t tell you?” „No.” Seconds later main door opened again and no other then Bucky Barnes walked in. Or better said thrusted in. „Hello doll.” he smiled at you. „Borky.” Annie laughed and handed you clipboard. Sauna, Dead sea detoxifying body polish, Dead sea healing body polish, hair treatment, manicure and pedicure was written on it. Tony really wants to make Pepper happy by keeping you here as long as possible. „Follow me please.” Annie said and took you through big, double door into small corridor. „You can put your things into locker, put robe on and after 10 minutes in sauna go to room 8.” „Thank you.” She nodded and left.

You turned to Bucky. „What are you doing here?” „Same as you. Came to relax.” „But I thought I will be alone.” „Am I really that bad company? That hurts.” „Shut up Buck. You are the one who ignored me since our movie night few days ago.” „Awww, did you miss me?” „Maybe. I wanted to kill you like hour ago tho. So don’t be so happy,” „You found milk bottle.” „Uhhhm.” He was laughing when you disappeared in changing room.

Behind beige door was small room with sofa and two massage tables. „Hello, I'm Nicky. Your masseur.” „Hi.” you smiled and then frowned when she was eyeing Bucky from head to toe. „Can we begin or do you have any questions?” „Actually yes.” you admitted nervously. „I would like to know what you will be doing with me today.” „Let me see.” She tipped your card on monitor. „Ah. Dead sea detoxifying body polish. It´s a full body exfoliation with mango and sesame body scrub for flow and encourage cell renewal. Next, cranberry infused body oil and detoxifying Dead Sea mud mask. Then we will wrap you in foil and warm blankets to give mask a time. After that 50  minutes massage with lavender oil. You can choose hair treatment. And at the end is nail treatment.” „So we just lie down?” „Yes. My colleague will be right here.”

„Hey doll. Psst!” „What do you want?” you said groggily and turned your face to him. „Are you sleeping?” „Nope. But I´m very warm and I feel like I will be sleeping soon.” „Nooo. You can´t!” „Why not?” „Because I will be alone. What if something happen to me?” „Nah, you will be ok.” „Uhmmm. I´m sorry for that shampoo.” „You better be. Ruin my snack like that.” „Will China make you happy?” „Are you paying?” „Obviously.” „Good. Tony owes me doughnuts.” „It´s a date then.”  You were even hotter after his words and he chuckled.

After few hours you felt like jelly and was happy to have firm Bucky´s body to hold on. You walked home slowly, bags of Chinese food in hands.

„Welcome back Miss Y/N and Sergeant Barnes.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said. „Is someone else here?” „No Miss Y/N. But I detected car of Miss Romanoff 5 minutes from here. Should I tell her you are looking for her?” „No, thank you. Your room or mine?” you asked Bucky. „Mine. Go ahead. I´m  gonna take some Oreos too.”

„Have your doughnuts.” he smiled and sat down next to you. „Wanna finish the Witcher?” „Yop.” You put it on and took your food from him.

Somewhere between sixth episode Bucky took out one Oreo and threw it whole in his mouth. Moment later he was spitting it out. „What the fuck?!” You looked at him drinking his water and couldn’t hold a burst of laughter that left your mouth. „It was you? Come here!” He jumped on the bed, pinning you on your side, and started tickling you. I said I was sorry for my prank but you renewed a war doll.” You didn’t answer and tried to run away, but he only held you firmer. „Enough, enough! Please. I can´t breath.” He turned you so you were facing him and atmosphere suddenly changed. His nose brushed yours and you closed your eyes, when all of the sudden loud moan was heard from next room. „Someone forgot to soundproof the bedroom.” You giggled, but cursed Sam for ruining yet another chance for kiss from Bucky. „I should go. It´s late.” „Yeah.” He looked sad. „Good night Borky.” You left him with heavy heart.

Moi and Rai were crying, sitting on your ottoman. They were sure it was Parca´s work.

Next chaper will be 6.3.2021

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (8/?)

Chapter Title: Reunion

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

Pairing: Miranda/Samara very slow burn, friends to lovers

Story Rating: R

Warnings: This chapter confirms (and otherwise strongly suspects) some squadmate character deaths. This chapter also makes references to Miranda’s abusive childhood so as per usual that could potentially be triggering to some people.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda withdraws into herself after confirming what she already feared - that several of her former companions did not survive the battle for Earth. Just as it seems she’s at her lowest point, someone unexpected shows up at her door. In 2185, the Normandy continues its adventures after defeating the Collectors.

Author’s Note: I initially started writing this story right after Mass Effect 3 came out. Originally, it was sort of a channel for my anger towards the ending, although the story has since evolved beyond that into something constructive, positive and healing. But, as was suggested in the warning I put on the very first chapter, yes, this means that some characters did indeed die in the final battle of ME3, and you’re going to get confirmation of that in this chapter, as well as unconfirmed beliefs about the majority of other characters, and Miranda trying to cope with that. So, be warned. This chapter is probably the darkest one.

* * *

“Shepard?”

Miranda was running. Searching for her. Looking for her.

Had to reach her. Had to get to her. Had to find her before it was too late.

Couldn’t see. Could hardly move. The air was thick with clouds of black smoke, burning her lungs.

She was racing, yet moving so slowly. Every step seemed to take ten times longer than it should. Like wading through tar.

“Shepard! Where are you?”

Her own voice echoed in her ears, feet catching on the rubble and debris that littered the streets of London. Entire buildings had been reduced to cinders that still smouldered beneath her.

A hail of gunfire rained down around her from all angles. Body after body fell and faded to dust in every direction. But, somehow, even though it felt like the whole universe was stuck in slow-motion, Miranda kept running forward, persevering through all the death and destruction, even as blood began to pool at her feet.

The shadow of a mass relay loomed overhead, taking up the entire sky, blocking out the Sun. But that wasn’t what she was focused on.

She could see it ahead of her. The Conduit. That crater right beneath the Citadel.

Marauders marched right past her, as if they couldn’t even see her, firing indiscriminately into the crowds of soldiers Miranda left in her wake. A senseless massacre. A slaughter.

All species fought together. All creeds died together. Names Miranda would never even know.

A bellowing voice resonated in the emptiness. “I am krogan! Nothing can hurt me!”

In the black mist, she saw Grunt’s silhouette single-handedly fighting off what had to be a dozen husks with nothing but the strength of his fists. But every time he knocked one back, two more took its place. He fought valiantly, standing atop a pile of no fewer than a hundred enemy corpses, but with no ammunition left, he was quickly overwhelmed. He joined the growing army of shadows following in Miranda’s tracks.

The tide of blood rose to her ankles.

“Had to be me,” Mordin’s disembodied voice echoed in her ear as his ghost turned to ash in the peripheries of her vision, and scattered in the wind. “Someone else would have gotten it wrong.”

There was nothing Miranda could do. Couldn’t stop to save anyone. Couldn’t slow down. The crimson tide was rising, reaching her knees. Every movement became harder. Slower. Fighting the current. With every step she took, the Conduit seemed to be getting further away.

Had to get there.

Had to reach Shepard.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Zaeed emerged from the shadows, firing at the oncoming horde as his position was swiftly surrounded. He pulled the pin on a grenade. “Open wide, you ugly son of a bitch,” he said, charging at the nearest abomination, shoving the grenade in its face. The blast shattered the walls of the building Zaeed had been hiding in. It crumbled on top of him, and buried his enemies with him.

The blood was up to her waist. Miranda could no longer run. Each step she took was heavier than the last, physically dragging her feet through mud and blood. Ghostly fingers nipped at her heels beneath the surface, gradually getting closer, but not quite able to grab hold of her. She was just barely ahead.

“Do we deserve death?” A vision of Legion flashed before her eyes, vanishing into nothing as quickly as it had appeared. “Does this unit have a soul?”

As the thick blood came up to her chest, she had to swim, else risk succumbing to the shadows that threatened to swallow her. She dove forward into the sanguine sea, kicking her feet and powering through with her arms as hard and as fast as she could. But she was moving so slowly. At a glacial pace.

The harder she battled, the less ground she gained.

The shrieks of banshees pierced her ears as they waded past her, like she didn’t even exist.

A voice came over her comms. “What’s happening?” Miranda heard Kasumi say in her earpiece. “There’s something wrong with the mass relays. They’re--”

Her words were rendered silent when the mass relay exploded with devastating force in a blinding flash of light that ignited the atmosphere in a ring of fire. Miranda stopped long enough to shield her eyes.

When the bright light subsided, she glanced up just in time to see a field of debris spreading out from the epicentre, a blackness so thick that every patch of sky was covered in the wreckage.

Within seconds, the whole world was submerged in darkness.

Miranda shook herself from her daze. No. She couldn’t stop. She had to keep going. Had to reach Shepard. She kept swimming, drawn like a moth to that sole source of light that pierced the endless night.

Finally, at long last, the Conduit seemed to be getting closer. Two faint forms stood their ground against the piercing bright white, protecting the path.

“Go, Shepard!” Ashley Williams called out to her Commander, firing back at the army of the dead, whose fingers began to claw and grasp at Miranda’s body as she fought with all her might to elude their clutches. “We’ll cover you!”

Infrasound shook the ground beneath them. Darkness turned to crimson.

“Look out!” Javik tried to push Ashley out of the way, but it was too late.

The cruel eye of the Destroyer guarding the Conduit had seen them. Blinding red surrounded them both. And then they were gone. Vaporised in a flash.

Miranda didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Nearly there.

She kicked harder, doing all she could to outpace the ghastly skeletal hands that threatened to drown her in their sacrifice.

She got closer.

She could see solid ground again.

As she neared her destination at long last, two figures came into view, battling in the black cloud before her, atop a small island in the red sea. Somehow, their actions were not slowed by the mist, but fast and graceful. A violent ballet. 

Kai Leng, and Thane.

Even though Thane was already dying, he was able to get the best of Kai Leng for a time, even throwing him off-balance with his biotics, but it wasn’t enough. Kai Leng cut him down, the blade in his hand slicing through Thane like butter.

Kai Leng turned to face Miranda. And, unlike all the others she’d passed to get here, his eyes locked directly with hers. He didn’t look through her. He saw her.

Before she could even react, those eyes were mere inches from her face. Her breath hitched as pain seared through her abdomen. She looked down, and saw that blade penetrating her stomach, her own blood now melding with the lake of ichor and viscera that surrounded her.

She gritted her teeth and raised her head once more. His cold face stared back, unmoving.

Miranda’s rage boiled over. With both hands, she reached out. Her thumbs covered his cybernetic eyes. And they sank in.

She pushed deeper and deeper. And as she slowly cracked his mask and crushed her fingers into his skull, the skin around her hands began to wither and burn, like her very anger was incinerating Kai Leng beneath her touch.

She squeezed her fists shut, and he evaporated into the aether beneath her.

Miranda clutched at her wounds and battled forward, scarcely able to keep her head above the rising tide.

Miranda didn’t know how she’d made it, but she was so close. There was just one figure left ahead of her. One shadow in the light. Staring into the Conduit.

“Shepard!” she called out again, resisting the whispers of the dead as they grew ever nearer.

The familiar figure raised her head.

“Don’t go in there!” Miranda warned her, a sense of overwhelming dread encompassing every fibre of her being. She knew what would happen. Had to stop it. “You can’t.”

As Miranda reached out, her wounds overcame her. The sanguine sea suddenly vanished without a trace, and she dropped like a stone, no longer suspended. She fell to the ground in pain, her fingers digging into the dirt.

Miranda hesitated as the army of shadows at her heels infringed on her vision, casting an impenetrable darkness upon her. She didn’t dare turn and look behind her. She knew what was there. Couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face them.

“Shepard!” she called again, begging to be heard in the deafening silence.

Shepard slowly turned. Miranda froze in terror as she was met with red eyes.

That wasn’t Shepard. Not anymore.

She heard the sound. That same, bone-rattling sound she had heard in that shuttle. Saw that same red flash as the Reaper’s gaze fixed upon her.

Only, this time, Miranda screamed as the beams incinerated her.

Miranda jolted upright, throwing her sheets off herself in panic, stopping only once she realised that there were no flames to put out. That she wasn’t back in that shuttle again.

Her heavy breathing slowly subsided. It was dark. Her head was throbbing.

She sighed and leaned forward, rubbing her palm against her forehead. Drops of sweat left strands of hair clinging to her scalp. Her sheets were soaked.

‘Just a dream’, right? That was what people would say, if she ever told anyone.

Unfortunately, like with all Miranda’s nightmares since the war ended, she couldn’t say that about them. Couldn’t brush them off as ‘just dreams’. Because they weren’t lies made up by her mind. She wished that they were, but they were the furthest thing from it.

If they weren’t so cuttingly true, they wouldn’t have haunted her so.

Groggily, she checked her clock. 3am. Roughly twelve hours since…

By sheer reflex, Miranda leaned over in time to grab the wastebin near her bed, just before she threw up. Nothing but liquid spilled out. Nothing but claret red.

The contents of her stomach were no mystery. The only reason Miranda had been able to fall asleep that night was because she’d downed an entire bottle of wine to get the images out of her mind. The thoughts. The knowledge. The stark fucking reality of her friends’ last moments. Hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Hadn’t been able to eat after...

Miranda gagged as she put the bin down, wiping her mouth. Obviously, it hadn’t helped her forget. What could?

God, her head hurt so fucking much. It felt like death itself had left its mark on her when it visited her in the night.

She didn’t even remember getting up and walking to the bathroom, only realising where she was when she flicked on the light, and saw herself in the mirror. The next thing she knew, the tap was on, and she was rinsing out her mouth, splashing some cool water on her face, to grant some relief from the heat in her cheeks.

She braced herself against the sink, and looked up. She’d almost stopped noticing the scarring on her own face by that point. Burn treatment and synthetic skin grafts had come a hell of a long way, even within the last fifty years. But, that said, Miranda’s treatment had been a wartime one. Not one designed for aesthetics. One applied by necessity, as a matter of urgency, after days without care.

But, in that moment, her visible scars didn’t make her think about herself. They made her think of someone else she knew, who had suffered a similar injury long before she met him. One whose facial scars had healed a lot better than Miranda’s ever would.

Zaeed.

Fuck, Zaeed.

And then the thoughts she’d been avoiding came flooding back. She was there in that room again. And he was lying there motionless in a plastic bag on a table.

She nearly retched again, saved only by the fact she had nothing left to throw up.

Dr. Michel had not understated her call. There were bodies. And pictures. Pictures from when they were found.

Both Grunt and Zaeed, Miranda had identified by sight. She would never repeat to anyone how they looked when she saw them. Couldn’t say it. Wasn’t for anyone else to know. Wasn’t fair that anyone should remember them like that.

At least they left enough behind to bury. None of the others were so lucky.

Well, it was possible Javik had. Miranda never saw Javik personally. Dr. Michel confirmed that he had been identified by a genetic sample. There was only one possible match for Prothean DNA. No visual ID necessary.

Ashley could only be identified by her dog tags. They hadn’t found anything else. Not yet, anyway. That close to the Conduit, chances were they never would.

Miranda had taken those tags with her, sealed in airtight plastic. Given her position, it was her responsibility to deliver them to her family. To be the bearer of the worst news they would ever hear.

Right now, the tags were sitting in a drawer in her desk. Miranda didn’t know how long it would be before she could bring herself to look at them again. To confront the thought of Ashley’s final moments. She knew she would have to. Very soon, much as she dreaded having to write that letter to her family.

The Williams family had already lost people to this war, hadn’t they? And now this.

As for Kasumi, that information had come from Bailey, by way of The Alliance. It turned out that The Alliance had known, or strongly suspected, her fate for a long time. But they had only just broken their silence, over two months later. Bailey had told her and Jacob the news as soon as he found out.

Some of the ships that worked on the Crucible had remained in close proximity to the mass relay, right up until the time it exploded. None of those ships were in one piece anymore. That included the ship Kasumi had been working on.

As far as anyone knew, she was still on that ship when it was lost. While they had spent some time accounting for people who had alighted onto different vessels in the intervening period between completing the Crucible and the destruction of the mass relays, there was no record of her leaving, and certainly no one had made contact with her since. Now that more than two months had passed, her status had officially been moved from MIA to KIA.

Even though Miranda hadn’t been confronted with physical evidence of Kasumi’s death the way she had for all the others, in a way, her fate might have been the worst to discover. Of all the people they hadn’t found, she was the one person that both she and Jacob had been confident would be fine, because she was nowhere near Earth. Nowhere near the Reapers. Literal lightyears away from any of the fighting. And yet…

Yeah. And fucking yet.

The tap kept running while Miranda stared hollowly ahead. Eventually, the noise spurred her from her trance, and she turned it off.

At what point was the grief supposed to set in, she wondered as she gazed blankly at her own reflection. Should she have been more upset than she was? She hadn’t cried for any of her fallen friends. Tears didn’t come naturally to Miranda. Not unless her sister was involved.

One thing that hadn’t left her mind was how...selfish some of her thoughts had been when she learned their fates. When Bailey had told her about Kasumi, Miranda had thought that the day had been bad enough before that, but to add that too, it was like the universe was actively conspiring to make this the worst day of her life.

Hers. The worst day of her life. The one who was alive. As if her friends hadn’t experienced far worse in their last moments than being fucking inconvenienced.

This wasn’t the normal way to react, was it? Wasn’t right. Why couldn’t Miranda just...mourn like other people did. It wasn’t like she didn’t care. She did care. Didn’t she? She would have been lying if she said she felt nothing - no impact whatsoever. If that were the case, those inescapable thoughts and images wouldn’t be permanently seared into her like open, festering wounds.

From the moment she’d seen the first body on that table, and recognised it as Zaeed, it was like the last light of hope inside her - a flame she hadn’t even known she had been holding onto - had been swiftly snuffed out.

Losing Shepard had been one thing, but now? They might as well give up any prospect that anyone actively serving aboard the SR-3 had survived the war.

Not only did they have confirmation that Ashley and Javik were gone, but they also had definitive proof that any ships that were anywhere near a mass relay when the Crucible fired had been obliterated in the subsequent blast, even in other systems far away.

The last time the Normandy had been picked up on any sensors was...approaching the Charon relay.

So, that was it.

They didn’t know that was what happened. But they knew, didn’t they? They had always known. They had just refused to believe it. They had hoped.

But hope was a frail thing, and reality didn’t suffer hope to live long.

The thing was, Miranda hadn’t experienced much that could be considered loss in her life. A person needed to get close to other people in order to lose them. And, until about a year ago, she’d never done that. Until The Normandy. But then she had. And, now, of all the people who had ever served on The Normandy, only five had survived. Miranda. Jacob. Jack. Samara. Wrex.

There was nobody else left to find. They were gone. They were dead.

And, this time, nobody would be coming back.

All told, it was the first time Miranda had been confronted with death in anything more than a purely detached or clinical way. Certainly the first time on this scale. She hadn’t known how she would feel about it - finding out that so many of her friends hadn’t made it. But she would have expected it to be different than this.

It wasn’t that it wasn’t affecting her. It clearly was. But...she didn’t feel hurt. She didn’t feel pain. She didn’t feel upset. She didn’t feel angry. She didn’t really feel anything in particular.

Mostly, she just felt...less. Like everything had been diminished somehow. Like all noise sounded a little quieter. Like all colours had dimmed a few shades duller. Like every sensation had been numbed. Like the tips of her fingers were further away from her body, and like nothing she reached out to grasp could ever really touch her. Like if someone pricked her skin right now, she wasn’t entirely sure she would even bleed.

It was almost like she was nothing more than a machine, and every person she cared about was a little switch inside her. In discovering their fates, Miranda didn’t grieve or mourn or wallow in sorrow. But rather it was like someone had simply gone inside that part of her brain and flipped all those switches from ‘alive’ to ‘dead’, and parts of her had just...powered down as a result.

What did it say about her that this was as strongly as she could feel about them at this moment?

Maybe she really was just as cold and borderline sociopathic as ever.

Maybe friendship hadn’t changed her at all from the person she was a year ago.

With those thoughts swirling through her mind, Miranda didn’t even notice the bathroom door had opened behind her until she heard a voice.

“Hey, Miss. Are you okay in here?” Jason asked. It took Miranda a few seconds to process his sounds as words, and his words as an actual question. “I saw the light on and heard the tap running for a whi--”

“I’m fine,” Miranda answered starkly, albeit on a delay.

“Are you sure?” asked Jason. He knew what had she had gone through earlier. Not in precise details, no. But all the kids knew.

In all honesty, the thing that had prompted Miranda to go out and drink hadn’t been the deaths themselves, nor the sight of Zaeed and Grunt. Not initially. The thing that had driven her over that edge had been after she and Jacob, in loose terms, explained to the kids what had happened. That Jacob, Jack and Miranda had found out that several people close to them had died in the war.

They were shocked and saddened to hear it. They expressed their sympathies. A few of them, in fact every single one of the girls, wept when they found out.

It was at that moment that a sudden realisation had struck her. Jack’s students had been more upset when they heard the news that people Miranda knew had died - people they had never even met themselves - than Miranda had been to see them dead in front of her.

She hadn’t been able to be near them and their tears when that sank in. Couldn’t stand holding that mirror up to herself and confronting her reflection. Seeing how a normal human person should react when something like this happened to people they cared about, and comparing that to the blank void where her own emotional response should have been, but wasn’t.

“Miss?”

“I’m fine,” Miranda repeated herself.

She was always fine. Even when she wasn’t. That was the problem.

“I’m sorry to worry you.” Miranda straightened up (as best she could) and turned back to face him, her hand still on the sink. “None of you should be losing any sleep wondering if I’m okay. That’s not your responsibility. Nor should it be.”

He seemed confused by her response. “But I--”

“Don’t take that as a criticism. I know you mean well. And I appreciate that you care. That’s not me being sarcastic, I actually do. More than I let on. But you never need to waste any time worrying if I’m alright. I always am. And I’m always going to be,” Miranda said quietly.

Jason looked at her for a good, long moment. “...Miss, I’m not stupid. I know how much you drank tonight. I can see, and hear, how drunk you still are. And I know you probably woke up vomiting, and that’s why you’re here right now. And, from the short time I’ve known you, you don’t strike me as someone who makes a habit of this. So, respectfully, I don’t think you’re as ‘okay’ with everything as you seem to think you are,” he pointed out.

Miranda held his gaze for a moment. “...Go to sleep, Jason,” she told him.

“Sure. You probably won’t even remember this conversation in the morning,” Jason remarked, evidencing that he may have had a little too much experience dealing with drunk adults for a man so young.

“I remember most conversations,” Miranda muttered under her breath, looking at her reflection one final time, turning off the light as she left.

* * *

Miranda groaned heavily, the pulsing music of Afterlife doing her head in. The air stank of sex and sweat, like everyone in the club had gone three days without showering.

“I thought shore leave was supposed to be relaxing,” she muttered unhappily, leaning back against the bar.

“Would you prefer to go back to the ship?” Samara asked, needing to project her usually soft voice to be heard above the music.

“Yes!” Miranda answered bluntly, feeling utterly miserable in this place. “But, alas, that choice has been taken out of my hands.”

“It would appear so,” Samara commiserated. While she seemed to have a greater tolerance for the venue than Miranda, the expression on Samara’s face betrayed the fact that Afterlife was not exactly to her taste either. Or at least, it hadn’t been for several centuries.

After defeating the Collectors, the Normandy had limped back to Omega station held together with the engineering equivalent of double-sided tape and popsicle sticks and somehow hadn’t fallen apart in the FTL jump. They had no choice but to dock at Omega for urgent repairs. Since they couldn’t exactly fix the ship with everyone on board getting in the way, and given what they had all just survived, Shepard had seen fit to grant shore leave to anyone who wasn’t currently actively preventing the Normandy from collapsing in on itself.

Miranda had volunteered to stay back on the ship to help out, but Shepard had overruled her, ordering her to “please, for once in your life, take a fucking break”, in those exact words. She was officially banned from re-entering the ship until the repairs were complete. In fact, the only person who had been allowed to stay back on the ship despite a clear absence of engineering and technical skills was Kelly Chambers, for reasons Miranda neither fully grasped nor honestly cared to know.

Unfortunately, there was nowhere on Omega that was to Miranda’s liking. Afterlife was the least awful place by process of elimination given that, if nothing else, anybody who caused problems here would quickly find out what D.F.W.A. stood for, and why it was the one and only rule on Omega that anyone lived by.

Notwithstanding the above, Miranda had still known damn well that she wouldn’t enjoy her forced time off in this place. Accordingly, she had all but begged Samara to come and keep her sane in her misery, and she obliged. So far, even Samara had done little to improve Miranda’s state of mind, though. 

The Normandy crew were already getting too relaxed for Miranda’s liking, and this was evidence of it. Surely Shepard should have realised that, even if Miranda wasn’t holding a soldering iron, there were still a million other things she could have been doing that would have been a productive use of her time. For one thing, she could have been preparing for what to do if Cerberus came knocking, or comparing notes on the organisation with EDI...

“Well, in any event, I appreciate you keeping me company,” Miranda elected to break the silence, preferring not to think about Cerberus in a moment where she was powerless to do anything about them and whatever they had in store for her if and when they caught up to her. “I can't imagine it's easy for you to be here, after...” Miranda trailed off, wondering if perhaps she was erring by bringing Morinth up so directly.

“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her, appreciating her concern. “In truth, it has given me an opportunity to contemplate my own future, and where I am needed. I had not thought of it before, but I would consider returning to this place when Shepard no longer requires my service.”

“Not anytime soon, I hope. You can’t leave me with these people,” Miranda remarked in jest, earning a small smile. “Is there any particular reason why?” she inquired, curious.

“A simple one; I can think of few other places in the galaxy that could benefit more from the presence of a Justicar,” Samara pointed out.

“That's very noble of you,” Miranda commented, though she was sceptical as to the wisdom of that virtuous path. “But don't forget how that turned out for Garrus. Omega's gangs aren't going to let you waltz in and disrupt the way of things. And that includes our friend up there,” she said, nodding her head up towards Aria’s makeshift throne room on the upper floor. Being an asari, Aria wouldn’t be ignorant to precisely how zealous and unyielding Justicars were when it came to the enforcement of their Code.

“I do not fear death,” Samara contentedly replied, undeterred by the prospect of failing in her quest. Miranda frowned, but voiced no further objection.

“Alright, that's it. One of you had better order a drink. You've been standing there long enough,” the turian bartender gruffly grumbled, looking at them both over the bar while polishing a glass. “Since the old lady over here doesn’t strike me as a drinker, I'm guessing it's gotta be you, human.”

“I'd rather not,” Miranda declined.

“It wasn't a request,” said the bartender.

Miranda glanced at Samara and saw a small smirk creeping onto her lips. Miranda sighed, reluctantly conceding. “...Fine,” she acquiesced. “Just one.”

“Coming right up,” said the bartender, pouring her a fresh glass.

At that moment, another song came on. This one was particularly loud and intrusive. The pulsing bass shook the glasses other patrons had on the counter. Several of the other club goers nearby began dragging each out onto the floor to dance. Miranda did not share the sentiment, or the enthusiasm.

“Why does all club music sound exactly the bloody same?” Miranda complained, finding the repetitive droning rhythms and predictable chord progressions beyond irritating by that point. “These people wouldn’t know an interesting interval or a complex time signature if it slapped them in the face.”

“Perhaps we should endeavour to find somewhere more...quiet,” Samara suggested, pointing up towards the speaker that was right above them.

“Quiet? Here?” Miranda remarked, with a sceptical glance at their surroundings. Afterlife was hardly subdued. That being said, though, she would have been lying if she said she didn’t see the appeal of finding a more secluded corner of the nightclub. She sighed as she took her drink. “If we can find a free booth that doesn't have a stripper dancing on the table, that would be a start.”

That was easier said than done.

“I am certain that, if we ask for privacy, we will be granted it. Come, this way.” Despite her doubts, Miranda followed Samara’s lead, trailing her through the club, in search of somewhere to sit.

As they were walking, Miranda recognised a few familiar faces from The Normandy. Garrus, Thane and Zaeed had commandeered a booth, and Thane appeared to be the only one of them who wasn’t already three drinks in. She didn't particularly feel like joining them, though. Everyone else who wasn’t currently working on the ship must have been on a different floor of the club, or somewhere outside.

Much as Miranda had predicted, the only empty table they managed to find had a dancer on it, no doubt hoping to attract customers.

“I beg your pardon,” said Samara, approaching the young asari. “Would it trouble you if my friend and I had this table to ourselves?”

“Get lost, grandma!” the dancer rudely shot back, turning her head to see who had spoken to her. Instantly, she froze in fear, and turned about three shades paler. “Y-Y...J-Justicar...?” she stammered, recognising her armour immediately. “I...I am so sorry. Of course you can...Please. Please forgive me,” she implored her as she hastily climbed down to the floor, bowing her head in respectful deference before running off to get as far away from Samara as possible.

Samara sat down without an issue, gesturing for Miranda to do the same. Miranda arched an eyebrow, impressed. “She thought you were going to kill her.”

“From what I have gathered about Omega, it is not unlikely that she has done something that would warrant my intervention pursuant to The Code. If I confirmed this and took such action, and she did not voluntarily surrender herself to my custody, then yes, my presence here would result in her death,” Samara acknowledged, serene as always. “Fortunately for her, my oath to Commander Shepard compels me to refrain from acting as I normally would.”

“Where does The Code draw the line on what kinds of people it considers criminals?” Miranda asked, sliding into her seat across from Samara. “Drug users? Sex workers?”

Samara shook her head. “The Code does not criminalise addiction – although this does not mean addicts cannot be held accountable for crimes they commit in support of their addiction. As for 'sex workers' as you referred to them, asari cultures are not human cultures. Consorts hold a high status in our society, and it is normal for many if not most young asari to do as these women are doing in their maiden stage,” she reminded her, gesturing broadly at the asari dancers working throughout the club. “Many among my kind still find it perplexing that such things have ever been considered shameful by other species.”

“Do you share those views?” Miranda inquired. Her question earned a slightly confused look from Samara. “I don't mean to sound presumptuous but my own cultural biases mean that, when I think of ancient religious orders, I tend to associate such things with conservatism and chastity. I guess I kind of assumed you might not look too fondly on young asari wasting their youth dancing in bars.”

“Only in the sense that age has granted me the wisdom to look back on my younger years and consider what I could have done differently, and how much more I could have accomplished if my priorities were not so self-centred,” Samara answered sagely. “Were I asked for my advice, I would counsel them from the benefit of my experience to focus on what they find truly fulfilling in their lives. However, this is not a moral judgement, nor do I object to their choice to dance or take lovers freely. To do so would be very hypocritical of me. And it would be folly of me to assume that this is not their calling. If this is their path to inner fulfilment, then I would never seek to turn them from that.”

Miranda's lips quirked against the rim of her glass. “Are you saying this was you once? Giving people lap dances in bars?”

“No. I preferred adventure and violence,” said Samara, being frank about her past indiscretions. “Any time I spent in places such as this, or in the company of women like this, was merely as a customer. But I was not so radically different from those who work here now. My maiden stage was spent such that I cannot righteously criticise how another asari spends hers. The only reason I did not follow this path, aside from the fact that I am not a particularly gifted dancer, is that becoming a mercenary offered far more excitement and more opportunities to travel far and wide. I also found myself...drawn to certain types of people at that age. The same sort of people I found myself fighting beside.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that once before,” Miranda recalled, though it was no less incongruous to picture it now. It was pretty crazy to think that the types of people Samara used to sleep with as a young woman were now the very same people she hunted down without mercy as a matriarch. That raised a thought, and Miranda was never one to not speak her mind, even where it might have been advisable not to. “Don't answer this question if you don't want to, but did you take many lovers when you were younger?”

“That would depend upon what you define as 'many',” Samara replied.

“By your definition?” Miranda asked.

“Yes,” Samara answered plainly. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Miranda responded in kind. Though whether they had the same definition of ‘many’ was anybody’s guess. Probably not, given that Samara’s maiden stage alone could have lasted close to ten times as long as Miranda had been alive. “But I don't think I enjoyed mine as much as you enjoyed yours. Most of them were nothing to write home about. I don't even remember their names, nor do I care to.”

Samara tilted her head thoughtfully. “I remember some vividly, though not all. And of those I have fond memories of, I have not thought of most in a very long time.”

“Do you ever miss it?” Miranda wondered aloud, curious whether Samara would ever even consider one day laying down her armour and living as...well, anything other than a Justicar.

“I miss my innocence,” Samara confessed. “I miss how it felt to live free from any cares or concerns. I miss being able to dance with strangers, never knowing how it felt to bear the burden of responsibility. But if you are asking me if I would choose to walk that path again, the answer is no. I cannot. And I would not.”

“You can still dance with strangers if you want to, though,” Miranda wryly encouraged, taking a sip of her drink. “And, no, I don’t mean that euphemistically. Just dancing. Surely that’s not forbidden by The Code. Is it?”

“No, it is not. But those days are behind me, as are so many others, and I am content with that,” Samara smiled, a mysterious, ethereal smile. “Do you dance?”

“No.”

“Never?” Samara queried, her eyes sparkling under the lights.

“I may have tried it once or twice.” Miranda shifted in her seat, averting her gaze. “...After I ran away from my father, I got a taste of freedom for the first time. So I did things he had never allowed me to do. Or tried to. Admittedly, I wasn’t very successful at it, and any desire to experiment and rebel was quickly outweighed by how much I like being in control of my faculties and how much I didn’t enjoy places like this, but...well, it was a phase nonetheless, I suppose.”

“You were with Cerberus at the time, were you not?” Samara asked, clarifying the time period.

“Yes but, as you may have noticed, they don't particularly care what you do in your personal life, as long as it doesn't interfere with your work,” Miranda explained. Cerberus had never imposed those kinds of rules upon her. They respected her and treated her like an adult. It was why it had been so hard for her to believe the worst about them, and sever her loyalties. “I was sixteen years old, with only a vague, malformed idea of what the world was like, what other girls my age were supposed to be like, and the experiences I was supposed to have had, together with a staunch determination to make up for lost time. And you should know when I set my mind to something, I don’t do it by halves.”

“And yet, in that time, you never danced with strangers?” said Samara.

“Mostly only in the euphemistic way,” Miranda replied. That was one thing that had never really changed, so much as she was simply more experienced, and had gotten more efficient about getting that itch scratched whenever she felt the need. “Let's just say I made some poor decisions in a short space of time, and it's not an aspect of my life I'm particularly proud of.”

“Many years have passed since then. You are older and wiser, but you are still young – too young to deprive yourself of such things. Perhaps this is not the place for you, but I know you enjoy music. You have told me as much. Surely there would be a place where even you would feel comfortable letting go and dancing freely. To do so would not mean you are repeating your past mistakes,” Samara advised.

“I know it wouldn’t,” Miranda acknowledged. She still didn't feel like it though. Plus, the concept of ‘letting go’ was about as antithetical to her entire existence as any concept could possibly be. “Tell you what, I'll dance when you dance. That's a promise.”

“Your promise sounds a great deal like an excuse,” Samara quipped.

Miranda smirked. “Nothing gets past you.”

* * *

Bailey had been surprised when Miranda showed up to work on Monday, less than a day after confirming the deaths of so many of her former comrades.

Before he had even opened his mouth to speak, Miranda had cut him off. “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. Please, just...I need to be here. Please just let me work right now.”

To his credit, he had honoured her wishes, and that had been the end of any discussion about it.

Focusing on something else, anything else, had always been Miranda’s best and only coping mechanism. Her unyielding need to be productive, and to feel like she was in control of at least one aspect of her life even if everything else was falling apart around her, was a lifelong companion that never failed her.

There was no shortage of work to keep her busy. Some of the Alliance ships that had made the jump only a few lightyears away before the relays exploded had finally made their way back into the Sol system to study the wreckage of the Charon relay, and to begin working on reassembling and repairing it. They were in communication with other teams of varying sizes all over the galaxy.

The dextro races still stranded in the Sol system were starting to reach the point where food was becoming a concern. Several turians and quarians had already gone into cryostasis, and the number joining them was increasing day by day.

Of the levo races, more and more were settling into Earth in the expectation that their stay would be a long one. Many asari and salarians had joined with humans in moving out of cities into smaller towns and villages, working to restore infrastructure and agriculture, getting sorely needed supply lines up and running.

But London remained in tatters, still rebuilding. When any hospital had a shortage of beds or medicine or staff, Miranda knew about it. If there was a building that was possibly safe enough to move people into, Miranda knew about it. If a block didn’t have power or water, Miranda knew about it. If the black market jacked up the prices too much on luxury items, Miranda knew about it.

Bailey may have been the face of the operation, but she was his eyes and ears (well, technically only one of each), and she was the puppet master pulling the strings, making sure all resources and personnel were allocated precisely where they were needed. And if they didn’t have enough of either, she found them.

For as good of a distraction as all that work was, at the end of the day, she still needed to go home. And she still needed to deal with this.

She’d approached Wrex directly on Monday afternoon. They were in the same city, after all. There would have been no way to avoid speaking to him about it that wouldn’t have meant admitting to herself that she was deliberately putting it off. So she didn’t.

Miranda delivered the news to him personally, about everyone who had passed. As the leader of Grunt’s clan, he was the closest thing Grunt had to next of kin. It only seemed appropriate that Clan Urdnot should hear it from her first, and be given the right to decide how to honour their dead.

Miranda didn’t know Wrex well enough to be able to gauge his feelings on Grunt’s passing, or anyone else’s. And, whatever they were, Wrex certainly didn’t know Miranda well enough to show them around her. But he had expressed his brief thanks to her for informing him, respecting that she had taken her duties seriously and had the courtesy of bringing this to him face-to-face.

It was true that, as the highest ranking member of the Normandy left alive, she had big shoes to fill. And her job was far from done.

Unfortunately, Kasumi, Zaeed and Javik didn’t have any next-of-kin to inform. Not that Miranda had been able to track down, anyway.

Javik’s isolation went without saying. He was the sole survivor of a fifty thousand year old genocide. He was the one person who was never exaggerating when he said he was truly alone in the universe. Even if he had survived the war, who knew if Javik ever really intended to go on living? But, then, Miranda knew too little about him to speculate.

Kasumi, for as socially aware as she had been of everyone else aboard the Normandy, was a chronic self-isolator. She never truly got close to anybody, save for the love of her life who lived on only in the form of an implant inside her head. Miranda personally hadn’t even realised just how much of a distance she kept everybody else on the SR-2 at right up until that day when she’d looked around and suddenly realised that they were one head short because Kasumi had disappeared without a trace at the last place they docked.

If Zaeed had any friends or family who were still alive, he certainly hadn’t volunteered that information to anyone else aboard the Normandy. There were probably no shortage of people who he had met over his years, but, similarly to Kasumi, from all appearances it sounded like Zaeed would move on the moment it felt like he might be getting too attached. The terrible things he had seen wouldn’t allow him to settle down and live a normal life. He had probably always known deep down that he would die fighting in a war.

However, there was one among the confirmed dead who definitely did have a family. A family Miranda had already written to once before, to let them know she was searching. A family who it was now her responsibility to ensure those dog tags made it back home to.

Every single day, Miranda had sat down at her laptop with the intention of writing the letter nobody ever wanted to have to write. But the words just wouldn’t come. It was the one task that Miranda simply couldn’t seem to bring herself to start, let alone finish. And the screen would just stay blank until she inevitably convinced herself that tomorrow would be the day.

During the week, Miranda told herself it wasn’t her fault she wasn’t getting it done. She was busy with work. Clearly she wasn’t making progress because she didn’t have enough time to concentrate on doing this properly.

On Saturday, her reason for not getting it done was because she had helped Jack leave the field hospital and move in with Jacob in his apartment. Jack’s students had thrown an impromptu lunch to celebrate their teacher getting out of hospital, and as a courtesy Miranda had stayed for the whole thing.

Perhaps it should have said something about the state they were both in after learning what had become of so many mutual friends, and the extent to which Jack actually felt sorry for Miranda to have to be the one to identify what bodies there were, that, in those entire few hours they spent in each other’s proximity on that day, Jack didn’t insult Miranda even once.

Then Sunday came, a whole week since Ashley’s fate had been discovered, and Miranda didn’t have any excuses to put it off any longer.

Today had to be the day. There was no alternative.

And yet, despite not leaving her room even once that day, despite forcing herself to sit there until she finished this, she still hadn’t typed a single word.

Miranda had done a lot of things in her life that other people would probably class as difficult. Living with an abusive tyrant of a father. Pulling off countless life-threatening missions for Cerberus. Being captured and tortured by batarian slavers. Raising the fucking dead.

All of those things had been a cakewalk compared to writing to Ashley’s sisters.

She’d lost count of how long she’d been staring at that blank screen, or those dog tags, in the hopes that the words would just...come to her if she focused long enough. So far, it hadn’t worked. Any time Miranda thought of something to say, it just felt...wrong. Inadequate. Even if she couldn’t explain why.

At first, she didn’t know why she was finding this so bloody hard. After all, Miranda didn’t know Ashley particularly well. She’d only met her a handful of times, if that. She had no right to pretend otherwise.

But, then, it clicked.

In a way, the fact that she didn’t know Ashley at all was precisely what was making this so much worse. For one thing, if she had known her on a personal level, then no doubt she would have had no shortage of things she could say about her that would resonate with her family, to express understanding and sympathy for their loss. For another, and more significantly, because Miranda knew so little about Ashley, it meant that the only thing that she could focus on when thinking about her was the one thing she did know - that Ashley was a sister to three other sisters. And that they all loved each other dearly.

If there was one actual, honest to god human feeling Miranda knew all too well, it was the love she felt for her own sister. So, suffice it to say, she could relate.

And, although she’d never even seen a picture of Ashley’s sisters, every time the mere thought of them crossed her mind, all she pictured was Oriana.

This was one circumstance where Miranda didn’t have to fake empathy. For this, she had it in spades. It would have been easier to do this if she didn’t.

She knew what it would mean for them all to receive this letter. Because she understood better than anyone exactly how much it would have absolutely fucking destroyed her if she got the same letter. And it felt horribly, gut-wrenchingly cruel to be the one to write that letter, in full awareness of what it would do to those three sisters to receive it.

If that was what it was like for normal people to lose someone, then in a way Miranda felt lucky to be so numb to her own feelings compared to others. Maybe Kelly Chambers had been right when she speculated that becoming emotionally closed-off was as much a form of protection Miranda had developed to survive as it was something imposed upon her by her father whether she wanted it or not. It was certainly easier, and safer, to be cold on the inside, than to expose herself to a pain like Ashley’s sisters would feel when they learned the news.

Miranda wasn’t sure she would even have the emotional capacity to process losing Oriana, if the worst ever came to pass. It either would have broken her completely and caused her to jump off this mortal coil after her, or she would have withdrawn so much further into herself that she ceased to be recognisable as human. Maybe all of the above at once.

But Miranda wasn’t in that position. It seemed so strange to think about it. So many people had lost so much to this war. But not Miranda.

She was perhaps one of the people who least deserved to live, given her past allegiances to Cerberus, and given that she had never at any stage aspired or claimed to be, quote unquote, a ‘good person’. And yet, she was still there. Mostly in one piece. With three out of the grand total of five people she had ever truly cared about confirmed alive.

If anything, the fact that she had survived and others hadn’t was proof that the universe was not a fair place. There was no justice. No balance.

She knew it didn’t make any sense, and that it was impossible to trade her life for someone else’s, but she couldn’t help but think how much collectively happier more people would have been if Miranda had died and Ashley had lived. Or Shepard. Or most other members of the Normandy, really.

Oriana would have been the only person truly hurt by it, but even then she had lived nineteen years of her life perfectly fine, not even knowing Miranda existed. She’d only known about her for a year. She would have recovered eventually.

Speak of the devil, it was at that moment that a message popped up on Miranda’s screen. A message from Oriana.

“Hey, sis. What’s up? We haven’t talked in a few days. This a good time?”

It was true. This wasn’t the first text she had received from Oriana over the last few days, but Miranda hadn’t responded to any since she found out what happened to her comrades. Couldn’t bring herself to. Couldn’t bring herself to think about...precisely the sort of things she was thinking about right now.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t tell Oriana what had happened. What she was feeling. Of course she could have. She could have gone to Oriana about absolutely anything. On some level, that was all Miranda wanted to do. To talk to her. To feel a little less alone in that moment.

The problem was that Oriana would have listened to it all in a heartbeat. Every word. Without judgement. Without hesitation.

That wasn’t fair on her, and it wasn’t what Miranda wanted their relationship to be.

Oriana may have been the most well-adjusted person she knew, but she was still barely more than a kid. Only twenty years old. Still figuring things out. How was it fair for Miranda to burden her with all her problems, as if she could possibly know the answers, or the right things to say?

It was supposed to be the other way around. Miranda was supposed to be Oriana’s shoulder to cry on. Her protector. Her guide. Her big sister. Even if she wasn’t cut out to be any of those things. And she had foisted enough of her problems on Oriana already.

So she texted back.

With that, Miranda closed the messenger window, and switched back to the blank document. She’d been staring at it for so long without typing so much as a single word that she hadn’t even noticed the battery had almost drained down to zero. She reached down and plugged in the charger.

Just as she did that, another alert popped up on her screen. Message from Oriana.

“What do you get when a journalist cooks without reading a recipe?” Oriana asked. “Unconfirmed sauces.”

A small smile tugged at Miranda’s lips. Even if she was pushing Oriana away right now, it was comforting to know that Oriana would never take anything personally, and that she would be there waiting for her when she was ready to talk again.

With one last look at Ashley’s dog tags, Miranda began to type.

* * *

After finishing repairs to the Normandy, Commander Shepard seemed to have taken Miranda’s suggestion to heart. Or perhaps it was what she had always intended to do. They still had numerous leads on file that they never had the opportunity to investigate before the Collectors took them by surprise and attacked the crew. Why leave any of those assignments incomplete?

Miranda kept enough of an eye on things to know that, despite what had happened, The Illusive Man was still sending messages to Shepard (to which Shepard never responded) in an effort to cast himself in a good light. Evidently, Andrea was important enough to his plans that he considered it worth his while to continue trying to persuade her that they were on the same side. And maybe it was true that they were, at least where the Reapers were concerned.

By contrast, he had said nothing to Miranda whatsoever.

She knew what that meant.

Even if she came crawling back to Cerberus with a grovelling apology, which was never going to happen, she wouldn’t have been welcomed back anyway.

Despite now acting on their own, in a lot of ways, it was almost as if nothing had changed after defeating the Collectors. They knew the Reapers were out there, and the mutual intention of all concerned appeared to be that the best thing to do was carry on as usual in the hopes of finding out more about the impending threat, and hopefully to stop it from ever coming to fruition.

In fact, the only person who it seemed wasn’t exactly the same as before the Collector Base was Kelly Chambers. She had stopped making individual appointments with members of the crew (which Miranda knew from no longer getting any reports from her) and had been cut back to only light duties by Shepard. The last time Miranda had seen her, Kelly had jumped at the sound of the elevator doors opening behind her. Maybe that had something to do with it.

In any event, Miranda had concerned herself more with uncovering as much as she could about Cerberus’s true motives. Since Cerberus hadn’t made any effort to stop them from investigating any old leads so far, this certainly seemed like her best opportunity to take advantage of a position of relative safety and protection to arm herself with knowledge.

“Shepard, do you have a moment?” Miranda had begun, approaching Andrea after a meeting in the Briefing Room. Andrea had turned to face her, signalling for her to speak. “Do you remember that message you got from The Illusive Man last week, about the Overlord cell going off the grid without explanation on Aite?”

Shepard had sighed and rubbed her forehead. “You’re just not even hiding the fact that you read my emails anymore, are you?”

“No,” Miranda answered bluntly, but that wasn’t important right now. “I think we should investigate. The Illusive Man mentioned experimenting with highly volatile technology. It must be operationally sensitive, if he wouldn’t tell you anything more than that. Whatever the purpose of Project Overlord is, this is likely our only opportunity to learn about it. Cerberus will clean this up themselves if we don’t, and by then there’ll be nothing left.”

“You don’t think we could be walking into a trap?” Shepard asked.

“Possible, but unlikely. The Illusive Man asked for our assistance on this before we found the Reaper IFF device. Setting a trap for us before we had the intention or the ability to assault the Collector Base would take a level of prescience that nobody is capable of,” Miranda said confidently, folding her arms across her chest. “He’s many things, Shepard, but even he can’t see the future.”

“Fair enough. You���ve convinced me,” Shepard replied. “I’ll bring Tali with us. She’ll make sense of any tech we come across, no matter how ‘experimental’ it is.”

Miranda nodded her head. That was a sound choice.

What they actually found at the heart of Atlas Station, Miranda could not possibly have predicted.

Please make it stop.

Miranda hadn’t even been able to speak when she saw him there. David Archer. A completely innocent, vulnerable man hooked up to machines by his own brother as part of some sick experiment to see if his gifted mind could, what? Control geth? That was the reasoning that justified that level of cruelty and abuse?

This was it, wasn’t it? The true face of Cerberus. What they did to people. So many had said that this was the reality, and yet Miranda hadn’t listened before.

Reading between the lines, there was no doubt The Illusive Man knew exactly what was being done on Aite. While he made sure to say he didn’t condone Dr. Archer’s actions, he seemed to know perfectly well that David’s “unique talents” had “provided a breakthrough”, and he made sure to mention that Shepard’s actions had set back their understanding of the geth several years.

The only good thing that had come out of this was knowing that David Archer would be well looked after at Grissom Academy. Well, that and it was reassuring to know that, whatever Cerberus might have planned to do with an army of geth under their control, those ideas would never come to fruition now.

Evidently, Shepard really had done the right thing by not sending Legion to be studied by Cerberus, if it would have helped them. In retrospect, Miranda had never been more relieved that someone hadn’t listened to her advice.

It just made her wonder what else she didn’t know.

The door to Miranda’s quarters slid open, and she glanced up. “Forgive my intrusion. Am I interrupting anything?” Samara asked, always a sound question to open with when it came to Miranda, especially when she was in her office.

“No,” Miranda answered honestly. Not a damn thing.

Samara was too tactful to say it, but of course she knew that the number of people Miranda reported to had decreased drastically in recent days, and her requirements to Shepard had already been discharged several hours ago.

Since Miranda hadn’t objected to her presence, Samara took that as a cue to step inside. “I have not seen you since you returned from Aite. Is all well?”

Miranda sighed, interlacing her fingers in front of her. “I honestly don’t know.”

The truth was, ever since she’d seen David Archer in that state, there had been this lingering sense of unease that Miranda hadn’t been able to shake. She had never been an expert at being able to put labels to her feelings. But if she had to choose a word to describe this one, it would be ‘unsettled’.

It wasn’t a pleasant feeling at all. It was as if her own skin was no longer sitting properly on her body. Like there was an inherent...discomfort, that was impossible to rectify. Like these unwelcome sensations and thoughts wouldn’t stop wriggling around beneath the surface, disturbing whatever they touched.

Had this been any regular day, Miranda would have just worked and avoided thinking about it until it went away. But that option wasn’t available to her anymore. Besides, something told her this malaise wouldn’t vanish so easily.

Then again, if there was anybody who she felt safe sharing her thoughts with, and who could help her make sense of them, it was the woman in front of her.

Not about to just leave her standing there by the door, Miranda got up from her desk and gestured for Samara to follow her further inside her quarters. “Sorry there’s not a lot of room, here,” Miranda remarked.

“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Miranda invited her, electing to sit cross-legged near the head of her bed, tacitly giving Samara permission to join her.

Samara followed her lead, perching on the far end of her bed, as if to signal that she was in no hurry to be anywhere else.

“Do you know what happened down there?” Miranda began.

“Yes.” Samara nodded her head. Even though Miranda rarely if ever observed her speaking to anyone else, word always somehow seemed to reach her about what transpired on any mission she wasn’t a part of.

It certainly made things easier not to have to explain it.

Maybe that was why Samara had come here in the first place.

“...I don’t think a single person I’ve met would ever accuse me of being in any way compassionate. Not even you, and you give me the benefit of the doubt far more than anyone else. But…” Miranda trailed off as she reflected on the days’ events, her voice steady despite the grisly subject matter. “Even in the name of science, how could anyone do that to their own brother?”

David Archer had been begging his brother to make it stop. Begging him. And all Gavin cared about was continuing the experiment.

Why? What was the fucking point of taking it that far?

“I do not know,” Samara answered honestly. “I cannot fathom it either.”

“I suppose that’s the thing. I can fathom it,” Miranda pointed out. She knew all too well that people like that did exist.

She’d been raised by one.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Miranda shook her head, unable to even find the language to describe the uncomfortable twisting in her chest that came from thinking about David Archer, picturing him in that core with all those tubes sticking out of him. “Nothing normally ever...gets to me. Even things that probably should. I’ve always been like that. My whole life,

“Did you know, I don’t even remember crying as a child? At all?” Miranda asked. “Any time I ever came close to shedding a tear, my father made sure to ‘give me something to really cry about’. So perhaps I did do it more than I can recall, and I simply blocked those memories out. But I don’t think that’s the answer. I’ve always assumed that the reason I never cried was because I must have been...so isolated and neglected as a baby that one day I just stopped making any noise, because even then I must have known there was simply no point to it,

“So, if you ever pictured me being an emotional child, that’s not true. I’ve never known myself to be any different than the way I am now,” Miranda somewhat shamefully admitted. She’d never had the chance to be another way, from the moment she was brought into this world. “The one exception, the one thing that I can’t seem to stop from hitting me in whatever small, emotional part of me survived my childhood, is Oriana. Or anything that reminds me of her.”

“I see.” Samara needed no further explanation. Miranda may not have fully understood it herself, but to Samara, it made perfect sense. Why wouldn’t what Miranda saw down there on Aite remind her of her father, and make her think of her sister? “...May I ask, have you seen something like David Archer before?”

“Close enough,” Miranda said, the truth of those words leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. “Do you know, I’ve never told anyone about how I escaped from my father? I suppose you could’ve guessed. I’ve never had anyone to tell.”

Samara shifted, matching Miranda’s cross-legged position as she turned to face her, sitting opposite her. She didn’t even need to say anything. Her body language alone said that she was receptive to whatever Miranda felt comfortable sharing.

Miranda never allowed herself to look weak in front of anyone. To show vulnerability. Whenever she came close, she would brush it off with a deadpan quip or dry understatement, demonstrating that she was in total control.

Samara was the one exception to that. The one person she’d met who she trusted enough to reveal that flawed, softer side of herself around, and who had never judged her even slightly for her imperfections. Why Samara tolerated her at her worst, Miranda still didn’t know. But she always had, from day one.

Plus, Miranda knew better than anyone the grief Samara had somehow survived and how she had come to terms with the most intense sorrow imaginable. It was no wonder she was so understanding, given what she’d endured in her past.

So, for the first time in her life, Miranda began to tell her story.

“I always knew that I was an experiment, but I never really knew what that meant,” Miranda elected to start at the beginning. “My father said things, sure, but if you imagine anybody ever sat me down and explained to me my purpose, or the purpose of anything they put me through, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

“What were you told?” Samara prompted.

“The part about being genetically perfect. That I wasn’t the first he’d made, only the first he’d kept. And that my father wanted to create a dynasty - a great legacy that would ensure his name lived forever,” Miranda explained. “I always assumed that my father saw me as his heir. That he wanted me to be the perfect daughter. Someone he could trust to carry on his work long after he passed. It wasn’t until Niket put the thought in my head that I began to consider that I might be wrong - that maybe my father’s experiment wouldn’t end with me. If he ever did make another daughter, then I didn’t know what that meant for me, except that I knew it wouldn’t be good, and I may not be safe,

“So Niket and I began working on an escape plan. It took us the better part of two years to prepare. We had to get every detail exactly right, and we thought about every possible contingency. Niket already knew my father’s security systems intimately, so we knew what the weaknesses were there. Before he left, Niket gave me software I could use to hack into the camera system and make the monitors replay the feed from twenty-four hours ago. It would look like I was asleep in my bed, and any rooms I was actually in would look empty,

“We knew that most possible routes I could use to escape were patrolled by security at all hours. We actually had to scour the plans for the whole compound to find any potential ways out. The only option that presented any possibility was...well, perhaps I should go back a few steps.”

Not used to speaking this much without interruption, Miranda stopped briefly to make sure Samara wasn’t overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information being dumped on her all at once. But Samara’s position hadn’t changed at all. Her blue eyes had never left Miranda’s face, listening intently to her every word.

Miranda took that as implicit support to keep going.

“My father had a large research facility underground, beneath the estate, but I never saw most of it. Even when I started working in the lab, I was only ever allowed to enter certain rooms, and only under supervision. I assisted on some of my father’s research into gene editing, which is where most of the family money comes from. I was aware that there were some restricted projects that required special lab clearance, but that was the extent of my knowledge,

“Niket and I discovered from reviewing the plans that there were more levels to the lab than I would have expected. And, when you’re that far underground and working with potentially toxic chemicals, you need a very good ventilation system. We could see on the blueprints that there were air ducts that connected to the surface, which I could most likely fit through. Both ends of the air duct wouldn’t be patrolled by security, since they were only watched by cameras, which we already had a means to deal with. It seemed like my best option,

“Once everything was in motion, all I needed to do was steal an ID card from one of my father’s senior lab technicians, and memorise what passcode was used to enter the restricted part of the lab on the day I chose to escape. I don’t think I’m surprising you by saying that neither of those two things were a challenge for me. I even stole a gun to defend myself, just in case,

“It was exactly thirteen minutes past two in the morning when I got up and left my room. I knew that was the perfect time to leave, because there were the fewest people around, and I’d noticed that security tended to get tired and bored around that time and would start slacking off at their posts. I’d seen them sitting back in their chairs with their feet up watching TV to amuse themselves,

“Everything went precisely as I had planned it. I walked right across the entire house without anybody noticing I was there - which, however big you imagine the house I grew up in was, triple it and you’ll be closer. I got to the lab without incident, swiped the stolen card, entered the code for that day, and headed down to the restricted level where my designated escape point was.”

Miranda paused then. It was the first time she’d really, consciously thought about that day in a long time. And, certainly, it was the first time she’d ever spoken about it, beyond referencing it with flippant passing comments.

In the peripheries of her vision, she saw Samara shift closer. “May I?” 

Miranda glanced up at Samara’s voice, and found her making a subtle motion towards Miranda’s left hand, where it rested in her lap. Miranda hadn’t even really been conscious of it until that moment, but in hindsight she had been gesturing more with her right while she spoke.

Admittedly, Miranda was far from fluent when it came to reading unspoken body language. Even though she didn’t fully grasp what Samara meant, she trusted her enough to follow along with whatever she intended. Accordingly, Miranda turned her left hand over, such that her palm faced upwards.

Interpreting that as tacit consent, Samara reached across the small gap between them and clasped Miranda’s hand between both of her own. For as strong as their friendship had become, neither of them were exactly the touchy-feely type. Quite the opposite. So, to feel Samara gently holding her hand with such kindness, well...Miranda imagined this must have been how it felt for other people who weren’t generally so averse to physical contact to be hugged.

“You do not have to give voice to any of the thoughts on your mind if you do not wish to,” Samara reminded her, one of her thumbs softly tracing circles at the centre of Miranda’s palm. “But I am here to listen if you do.”

“I know you are. Thank you,” Miranda said sincerely.

With that, she continued, difficult as it was to revisit this part of her memory.

“I remember the doors to that level sliding open and...I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This wasn’t just a lab. It was a cloning facility. My cloning facility. The place where I had come from. And I just...froze,

“I completely forgot why I was even there. All I saw were...tanks with embryos in various stages of development. Photographs of dissected failures detailing the mutations and cancerous growths caused by element zero exposure. Pages of speculation as to the errors in their altered genetic sequences which made them...unviable. And then there were images of me. Reports on my behaviour. My progress. With a list of ‘imperfections’ that needed improvement in further cycles.”

Samara was nothing if not masterful at maintaining a neutral expression, but even she could not hide the visibly pained look that crossed her face when she heard that. Words could not describe how much that moment must have not only hurt Miranda, but shattered her entire perception of reality.

“All that time, I truly thought the project had ended with me. But it hadn’t. My whole life, I had been living in that house, while beneath my very feet my father was actively working to ‘improve’ upon my genetic code for god knows how many years. And the only reason he hadn’t replaced me sooner was, ironically, because any time he had a viable embryo, his insistence on exposing them to element zero to replicate my biotic abilities resulted in death and deformity.”

Even though she was silent, hanging on Miranda’s every word, it was evident that Samara was shocked by what she was hearing. Stunned. She’d always believed Miranda when she said her father was a monster, but she’d obviously never suspected it went to this extent. That it was this systematic. This calculated. This callous. What sane person would even comprehend a mind capable of something like this, let alone be complicit in it?

“I don’t know when exactly my father started perceiving me as a failure. In retrospect, I’ve learned things that make me suspect it was probably day one. But that was the first inkling I ever had that I was only ever intended to be a prototype, and nothing more. A test. A proof of concept. A first fucking draft.”

Samara squeezed Miranda’s hand a little tighter, as if to express her sympathy, and her apologies, both for the fact that Miranda had ever had to go through something like this, and that Samara hadn’t understood her history sooner.

Miranda’s eyes drifted out of focus, before she even knew they had. She wasn’t in her quarters anymore. She was there. She was sixteen. She was in that lab. Standing in that door. Discovering the truth. She saw it so clearly, down to even the smallest detail. She could hear the hum of the refrigerator, and the whirring of the fan. She could even smell the exact cleaning agent the staff had used earlier that day to sterilise their hands before they entered the room.

“When that realisation hit me, I just...I just saw red. I thought fuck him. Fuck him. That everything he had put me through, everything I had done for him to meet his arbitrary and changeable standards of perfection, it had all been for nothing. Nothing I ever did could be good enough. He never cared. There was nothing I could possibly have done to live up to the unreachable bar he set for me, because he never truly intended for me to be ‘the one’ no matter how well I did. I had been set up to fail my whole life. And this was the proof. So I paid him back,

“I destroyed it,” Miranda said with cold fury, a mere fraction of the rage she had felt nearly twenty years ago. “Everything he had worked so hard on, everything that mattered to him more than me, I destroyed it. I overloaded every computer. I threw every freezer to the ground. I shot out every one of those tubes. I broke the sprinkler system, grabbed every flammable substance I could find, poured them all over everything, and ejected my thermal clip,

“The alarms went off when the fire started. I didn’t regret anything that I had done, but I had been so angry that I had completely blown any chance I had of a quiet escape. I knew I had to move quickly. So I headed for my exit. But, then, just as I reached the air vent, I heard this sound. And I stopped.”

Miranda swallowed. Perfect memory was a curse as much as a blessing. She hadn’t relived this exact moment in years, yet she could still vividly remember every single detail as clearly as if this had happened ten minutes ago.

“I looked over and I saw this...incubator. I had thought it was empty, but...no. There was a child inside it. A seemingly newborn baby. Left alone in the dark, in this cold, sterile lab. Screaming and crying for attention that would never come.”

Miranda felt a sting in her eyes as she replayed those images in her mind.

“The first thing I felt was betrayal. This was my replacement. They hadn’t been able to improve upon my DNA yet, despite their best efforts, so they just made another one. And this was her. A genetic identical. A ‘do-over’. Well, actually, they made several. Like me, Ori was just the only one lucky enough to survive the element zero exposure - although, unlike me, she didn’t get biotics out of it,

“What did it say about my father that this was how I found her? She and I, we were the culmination of his life’s work. We should have been his most prized possessions. But then look at how he treated me my whole life. And he was already doing the same to her. The only reason she wasn’t dead was because there were machines there to perform the absolute bare minimum functions to keep her alive, so that she could be the next phase of the experiment,

“Neither of us had ever been, or would ever be daughters to him. My father wasn’t, and still isn’t capable of that. There is not a single shred of anything resembling love or kindness in Henry Lawson’s heart. He is devoid of anything right, or good, or redeeming--”

Miranda had to stop herself then, pulling both her hands away to wipe beneath her eyes. This was more raw than she had ever been with another person.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Please do not apologise,” Samara implored her, beyond moved by everything she had heard so far. She reached out, but stopped just short of touching Miranda’s cheek, as if uncertain whether she would want her to.

“I feel so stupid,” Miranda cursed herself. It didn’t happen very often, but she hated the way it felt when her eyes burned with tears. It was a horrible fucking feeling. An alien sensation. Like she was stricken with some disease. Or like something inside her was broken. How the fuck did anyone find this cathartic?

“You are not,” Samara assured her, holding Miranda’s gaze, letting both hands fall atop her knees, compelling Miranda to look at her, and be with her in that moment. “Need I remind you, I came to you. I have chosen to be here.”

“Why?” Miranda asked, still not understanding why Samara of all people deigned to put up with her when she was at her most useless and pathetic.

At that question, Samara’s stoic expression faltered. “...Do you have to ask this of me? Do you not know?” she said quietly, her voice barely louder than a whisper. It was almost as if it hurt her to think that, after all this time, Miranda still didn’t honestly believe deep down in her heart that Samara cared about her.

Upon hearing that in her voice, Miranda knew that question had been unfair. Samara deserved better than that. And, after all, didn’t Miranda already know the answer to that question? Samara was here for Miranda when she needed her for the exact same reason Miranda had been there for Samara in the past. 

Because she wanted to be.

Miranda took a moment, her thumb and forefinger running across her eyelids, and meeting at the bridge of her nose. “This is hard for me to talk about,” she confessed, her voice breaking, knowing she hadn’t even reached the most difficult part. She didn’t know if she would even be able to get through this.

“I understand,” said Samara, giving her as much time and space as she needed.

Miranda drew a deep breath, and willed herself to keep going, keeping her eyes closed beneath her fingers, unable to even look at Samara as she went on.

“So, as I was standing there, hearing glass explode around me in the flames, having only just discovered this baby even existed...I knew I didn’t have long, but I had to spare her from whatever came next. If I left her, she would die in the fire, or she would be deemed a ‘failure’ and be killed, or she would go through exactly the same thing that I had gone through with my father. None of those outcomes were acceptable. But I hadn’t planned for her. I couldn’t take her with me.”

Miranda hesitated, a single tear escaping and falling down her cheek.

“For a split-second, I thought...well, I have this thing in my hand, and the most merciful thing I could do for her is…quickly and painlessly…” Miranda couldn’t even say the words, “...And I really did think about it. I was going to...”

The fact that it had even crossed her mind, however briefly, was the one thing in Miranda’s life that she had never truly been able to forgive herself for, no matter how many years passed. It made her feel sick to her stomach.

Oriana didn’t even know. But Miranda would never be able to make that up to her.

Never.

“But I couldn’t.” Miranda shook her head, her breaths coming shallower. “I just couldn’t. Something inside of me just...physically wouldn’t let me. And I felt...I felt something I’d never felt before. A compulsion so powerful I’ve never felt it since. It was like my heart exploded in my chest. And I didn’t even have control over myself. The next thing I knew, I just put the gun away. And I took her,

“All I could think was, if I could just get her out of there, then she would have a chance at everything I never had. And the moment I had that thought, it was as if I didn’t have a choice. I had to do everything in my power to make that happen. It became the only thing that mattered to me, even more than my own life,

“So I opened the incubator, and wrapped her in my jacket. And the second I touched her, she just...looked at me, and she stopped crying.”

Miranda went silent for several, long seconds, fixed on the memory of the first time she’d seen her sister’s face. The first moment she felt that connection between them. A moment that changed her forever.

She exhaled, willing her voice to stop shaking. 

“I didn’t read anything into it. I assumed the reason she stopped was because she’d never felt a human touch before, and was just surprised, but...I said to her, ‘I’m going to get you out of here. You’ll be safe with me. I promise,’

“Just as soon as I took her, I heard voices behind me. I didn’t look back. I bashed open the grate and got inside the vent as quick as I could. None of my father’s men could follow me through a space that small. I don’t know how long I was in there. But it felt like an eternity. I don’t know how I didn’t fall,

“When I got to the surface, I remember seeing searchlights in the dark. Either they hadn’t figured out where I was, or they just hadn’t made it out of the lab in time to beat me there. I had a whole route memorised in my brain. You can’t even comprehend how big my father’s compound was. The gardens had an actual, literal maze as one of the features. I tried to hide from them in there,

“Amid all the people searching for me, I carelessly wandered into a trip beam for the outdoor alarm system at one point. Spotlights fixed on me immediately. That’s when I heard my father over the loudspeaker ordering his men to shoot me. And they were live rounds. I could tell. But, if nothing else, all that training made me a lot faster and more agile than any of his men. I shot a few rounds blindly behind me to force them to take cover. That must have worked. And I lost them again,

“The only way I could get outside the walls was through a drain. Believe me, a lot of water went into those gardens. I jumped into the drainage ditch, and the water went up to about here.” Miranda put one hand at the point where her hip became indistinguishable from her abdomen. “Niket had already loosened the grate for me ahead of time. All I had to do was move it. And...I was out,

“I have never in my life run as fast as I ran then. I knew they wouldn’t be far behind me. I could hear them. Including my father. Niket had left a skycar for me in a hidden location nearby, where nobody would ever find it by accident. I got in, and I put my sister down beside me, and I said to her, ‘If we get shot down, I just want you to know, I don’t regret trying to save you. These last few minutes have been more freedom than I’ve ever known in my whole life’,

“I can still hear the bullets bouncing off the hull as we flew away. But that was it. That was my last memory of home, and the last time I saw my father.”

Samara visibly held back her own emotions as Miranda recounted the most pivotal day of her life. Miranda had long intellectually understood that feeling what others felt was something that came naturally to empathetic people, and Samara (as composed as she was) was definitely that. If anything, that response meant more from her precisely because she was usually so stoic.

It seemed clear that her restraint, in this case, was not born out of any desire to hide what she was feeling, or any shame at being seen in such a state, but rather came purely because Miranda was her priority in that moment, and she did not wish to detract, however unintentionally, from her and her feelings.

“I know it cannot have been long before you were separated from your sister,” said Samara, her voice calm, level and soothing. Her unwavering demeanour was oddly comforting. “I am sorry. That must have been very difficult for you.”

“It was,” Miranda confirmed. “She had never been part of the plan. I didn’t even know she existed until I found her. I was supposed to be off world with my fake ID immediately. But, with her, I couldn’t do that. I had a little money, but not much, and everything can be traced with enough effort so I was scared to use what I had. Once that money ran out, I had no plan for how to feed her, or clothe her, or care for her. And I was afraid that asking for help would attract attention.”

For a short while, though, she had really tried. They may have been genetically twins, but Miranda was old enough to be her mother. Teen mothers may have been a rarity in the twenty-second century, but they were certainly not unheard of.

The only problem with that idea was that Miranda barely knew how to take care of herself in light of how she had been raised, let alone a baby.

She shivered as she thought on those days. “I remember, this one night, I had bought us a room in a hotel with these...ludicrous purple walls. We never stayed in the same place twice, but this room, I remember. Because, for whatever reason, that night she just...would not stop crying. And not just crying, she was bloody screaming her head off. And I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. Whatever I tried to calm her down...nothing worked. I didn’t know if she was sick and going to die, and I was terrified that people would come and take her away from me if they heard her screaming like that. And I just...for the first time I can remember, I broke down and bawled my fucking eyes out until the sun rose. Because that was the point where I realised I couldn’t do this,

“I knew that, even if I managed to get her off-world with me, my father wouldn’t stop looking for us on Earth. He would follow us. We would always be in danger. And I had no means to care for her. Even if I did, how could I work? Who would I leave her with? I didn’t know anyone I could trust,

“...Until I remembered this man my father had spoken to two years earlier, who was an affiliate of Cerberus. English expat named Alan. He had said The Illusive Man was looking for ‘exceptional individuals’ like me. They knew who I was, and what I was. And, even though my father donated to Cerberus, I knew they had never returned the favour - they never funded his cloning research, probably because he was always so cagey about sharing any data with them,

“I knew it was a risk, but I didn’t have anyone else to turn to. I remembered enough about Alan to know his name and what company he ran. And, because he remembered me too, I was able to get in contact with him. I told him that I wanted to offer my services to Cerberus, in exchange for them helping me get my sister off world. I said I wanted them to make her disappear, and put her safely into the hands of a normal, loving family. So long as they kept their end of that bargain, they would have my undivided loyalty. And that was all it took.”

And that promise was kept, along with everything Cerberus promised. Oriana grew up with some fine, spacer parents, who were coincidentally of Australian origin themselves. Miranda watched over her, and her brilliantly, boringly normal life, seeing her grow from a happy child into a smart, popular teenager, and a well-adjusted adult. It was why Miranda trusted Cerberus so much.

“The woman who took her from me was very nice about it. In truth, other than Niket, she was the first person I ever met who had been kind to me. But that...that was the first time in my life that I remember crying. Really crying. The day that it hit me that I wasn’t fit to take care of her, when I knew that I had to give her up.”

And, nineteen years later, Miranda had tears in her eyes when she finally met her sister again, speaking to her for the first time at Shepard’s urging on Illium. She wasn’t kidding when she said Oriana was the only thing that ever brought that out of her. Such raw, intense emotion. Such...humanity.

Miranda had gone to Oriana that day to let her know she was loved, and she had done exactly that, but she had received something so much greater in return.

For nineteen years, Miranda had known what it meant to love someone. But it wasn't until then, at the age of thirty-five, that she finally knew what it felt like to have someone out there in the galaxy who truly and unconditionally loved her back.

Holding Oriana as a child had given Miranda purpose. But holding her again all those years later as an adult had given Miranda something far greater.

Family.

“You may not have been ready to take care of a child then,” Samara began. “But you were certainly an excellent sister to her, as you have been ever since.”

Miranda’s lips couldn’t find the strength to quirk, not even into the faintest shadow of a smile. “Thank you,” she said. If doing right by Oriana was the one thing that she ever managed to do with her life, then it justified her entire existence.

Giving Oriana up was, unequivocally, the hardest thing Miranda had ever done, before or since. Experiencing unconditional love for the first time, only to be forced by circumstance to give it up a few short days later. And yet, at the same time, it had been the only thing she could do. Because the real, selfless love she felt for Oriana didn’t allow Miranda to do the selfish thing. Not when it came to her.

She sighed and rubbed one eye with the corresponding palm. “Ah, god, how long have I been rambling at you about this?”

“As long as you needed to,” Samara answered with unfeigned warmth and compassion. “I cannot stress how much I appreciate you speaking of this to me. I know it was not easy for you, and that you do not share your burdens with others lightly. Everything you have told me, I treat with the greatest respect.”

“I know you do,” said Miranda. Even on the pane of death, Samara would never divulge anything told to her in confidence. Nobody ever needed to doubt that.

“Do you feel better for having spoken of it?” Samara asked.

Miranda stopped for a moment. “...Strangely, yes,” she acknowledged.

In retrospect, it now made sense why the incident with the Archer brothers had been so...for lack of a better word, ‘triggering’ for those past traumatic events. And, for as much of an emotional rollercoaster as it had been to relive the most mentally scarring day of her life, at least she had gotten to the point in her story where she and Oriana got their happy ending, reunited at long last.

“Then I am glad,” said Samara. That was all she wanted to achieve by coming here as she had, if it had been at all possible to do so.

“You’re not going now, are you?” Miranda asked, audibly disappointed. After all, when Miranda entered a conversation with a specific purpose in mind, she would generally leave immediately after accomplishing that goal.

“No.” Samara shook her head, hoping she had not unintentionally conveyed that impression. “I will stay for as long as you would like me here.”

“Would you stay forever?” Miranda wearily remarked. Samara hesitated, as if caught off guard by that. “I’m joking,” Miranda told her, assuaging Samara’s fears that she had to answer that question seriously.

Samara uttered something that sounded faintly like a chuckle. “My offer remains,” she replied. It was funny how something as simple as that kind twinkle in Samara’s eye was enough to make Miranda feel so much less vulnerable, despite the fact that this was the most she’d ever let her guard down. Ever.

Miranda exhaled heavily, running both hands through her hair as she leaned back, her head hitting the pillow behind her. She had no idea that the simple act of talking could be so exhausting. But, then again, it did feel like she’d just run an obstacle course through every single emotion she’d ever felt in her entire life, so maybe that explained it. No wonder she needed a moment to recover.

She heard movement, and felt Samara shift off of the bed, moving to stand by the window, almost like she was keeping a vigil at her side.

“Miranda?” Samara broke the silence after a minute or two. Miranda moved one hand just enough to allow an eye to open. “I am proud of you.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow in questioning.

“Of the decisions you made then. Of the woman you are now. And that you were courageous enough to be so open with me,” Samara elaborated.

“...You know, I think that’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me,” Miranda commented. And, if anyone else had, then it hit differently coming from someone, firstly, whose opinion she held in such high esteem and, secondly, who she knew wouldn’t have said that unless she damn well meant it.

“Then those people were unworthy of you,” Samara responded with stark honesty, and a terseness to her tone that Miranda had never heard before.

With her half-open eye, Miranda silently studied Samara’s expression. It took a few seconds for her to recognise that unyielding flame she bore. Now that Miranda had finished speaking, Samara no longer simply felt sorry for what she had gone through. No. She was angry about it - angry that people had treated Miranda that way, livid that they had made her even for a second feel as though she were worthless, and furious that they had seen so little value in her that they were prepared to dispose of her like she wasn’t even a living being.

That, she could evidently not abide.

Had she not known the reason for it and so agreed with the sentiment, it would have been a little intimidating to see Samara so righteously pissed off, even if the average person might have only perceived her as her usual, guarded self. 

“That I ever dared compare you to the people in your father’s employ...” Samara trailed off, staring out into the void, her body tense. She hadn’t known Miranda’s full story at the time, but now that she did, she looked like she wanted to tear herself apart for letting those words leave her lips. “I apologise unreservedly.”

“You weren’t wrong, though,” Miranda acknowledged. When it came to Cerberus, she had been on the same path. She could have easily been complicit in the same, if not worse atrocities than were done to her as a child.

“No.” Samara turned to face her, stalwart conviction shining in her eyes. “I have never been more wrong. You are nothing like them. You are so far above them, and they are so far beneath you...the people who hurt you do not even deserve to breathe the same air as you,” Samara stated firmly, staring Miranda dead in her eyes, as if daring her to find a single shred of falsity or exaggeration in her gaze, because she knew that Miranda would find none. “I hope you know that.”

Miranda blinked, taken aback by the severity and seriousness of her response. Not having the strength to fight Samara on the validity of her past criticisms, which Miranda still thought were fair, all she said was, “Apology accepted.”

Satisfied with that answer, Samara folded her arms, and faced the void.

Miranda wouldn’t say it out loud, but it was weirdly kind of validating to see someone else react that way to her story. Whether it was intentional or not, it was almost like a reassuring acknowledgement in the back of her mind, saying, ‘See? You aren’t crazy, and you aren’t overreacting by not being able to let go of what your father did to you so many years ago. You actually are justified.’

Plus, on an entirely selfish level, part of her definitely enjoyed knowing that, in the very unlikely event Samara and Henry Lawson ever happened to cross paths after this day, Samara wouldn’t hesitate to fucking kill him.

* * *

It had been two weeks and a day since she identified the bodies. Writing to Ashley’s family and sending them the dog tags hadn’t been easy, but she’d done it. She’d personally given the letter to some contacts Jacob had within the Alliance from his days as a Corsair, so she knew it would get there.

She didn’t know when a response would come, but she wasn’t looking forward to it when it did.

Monday to Friday had been spent working, as usual. If nothing else, it was a reassuring constant.

Saturday, she had paid a visit to Jack. “What are we, fuckin’ wacky sitcom neighbours now?” Jack had complained when she showed up, signalling that things were back to whatever this new normal was between them.

Despite her initial reaction, Jack hadn’t otherwise objected to her presence. She actually felt up to going outside that day, to the extent that she was able to, so Miranda had walked with her and given her the lay of the land, including where her own apartment was. “If you ever want to stop by while I’m at work, feel free. I know your students usually visit you during that time, anyway, but--”

“Yeah. I get it. Thanks,” Jack brusquely cut her off. Even though they were so far sticking to their word to try and turn over a new leaf with each other, evidently she could still only take so much of Miranda being genuine towards her before it weirded her out.

Miranda didn’t feel the need to point it out but, for her own part, she had yet to be anything other than civil with Jack. It had not been fully reciprocated yet, but that was not unexpected.

Jack’s medical condition was an unusual one. Mainly because no human had ever suffered from it before. They actually had to go to the asari for aid to get insight on similar situations. Apparently it had been recorded within their species before that massive exertions of phenomenal biotic power in life-or-death situations could cause physical damage similar to what Jack had suffered, and it had been noted that such events could also cause a temporary ‘burnout’ of biotic abilities. Certainly, at the moment, Jack couldn’t so much as move a glass with her mind, nor was she to try to as the effort would only lead to migraine.

It was hard to put a timeline on it, but she was expected to be back to normal within a few months. Until then, she would have to take her headaches and fatigue day by day. Some days, she would barely have the strength to walk from one side of the apartment to the other. Other days, she would feel mostly fine.

On Sunday, Miranda had gone off to spend some time on her own. It turned out that her quiet spots where she hid at night when the tinnitus was too much to bear were just as isolated in the day as well. She tried to clear her mind, and not think about anything for a while, with limited success.

On Monday, it was back to work.

Oriana kept sending bad jokes as she thought of them over the course of the week. The latest one was, “How many colony developers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Three. One to hold a committee meeting to decide whether screwing in a lightbulb is an efficient allocation of resources, one to raise rates on the colonists to fund the lightbulb replacement, and one to hire a private contractor to finally screw in the lightbulb five years after you needed it.” 

Obviously things were going well at her job.

Miranda appreciated every message she got from her, but she still hadn’t had the heart to respond. Not just yet. Oriana would be able to tell something was wrong if she talked to her in her current state, even via text. She would just know. She would sense it, no matter how many lightyears away she was. And it was better not to talk to her than risk burdening her with her current troubles.

Throughout it all, it wasn’t lost on Miranda that the students were, suffice it to say, aware that Miranda hadn’t been acting the same these past two weeks. She couldn’t really tell the difference from her own perspective. She always buried herself in work. And she was always always rather detached, serious and quiet. But, for whatever reason, the students somehow just seemed to know that dark cloud was there, hanging over her head.

Maybe she was acting just different enough that they could tell. Or maybe it was the fact that the deaths of her friends hadn’t changed her behaviour at all that caused them to be concerned about her.

They didn’t openly express any worry. But they weren’t treating her as they normally did. Weren’t teasing her, or prodding at her, or trying to get a rise out of her. They were being...polite and respectful.

Miranda would never have predicted it, nor would she admit it, but she had actually started to miss the former. Just a little bit.

It was pretty late by the time Miranda got home from work that day. It was now November, so it was getting dark early, and it was colder than Miranda preferred. She took off her scarf and put her keys down when she came inside.

“Pardon me, Miss?” Prangley began.

“Yes, Jason?” Miranda inquired, too preoccupied to notice the somewhat awkward manner in which Jack’s students were gathered together in the living area. Why was it so cold in there?

“We're, uh...we're not entirely sure,” he admitted with a shrug, glancing over his shoulder towards the balcony outside. “She wouldn't tell us anything. Just that she wanted to see you. I get the feeling we couldn't have kept her out if we tried.”

At that, Miranda blinked and glanced up, suddenly paying more attention. “She?” Miranda echoed. “Who are you talking about?”

Miranda didn’t know it, but to the kids, that reaction was the first glimpse of the Miranda they knew they'd been able to get out of her in two weeks.

“I don’t know, but it’s not often an asari matriarch drops in unannounced,” Reiley remarked, scratching the side of his head. Miranda’s heart stopped. She couldn’t believe her ears. It couldn’t be. “I hope this isn’t some kind of mix up. It’ll be pretty embarrassing if she's got the wrong address.”

Miranda didn’t even hear the rest of his comment, much less respond to it. She didn’t say so much as another word to her wards, taking hold of her cane and marching straight towards the balcony, needing to see if it was her.

As soon as she got close enough to see outside, there was no mistaking it. Samara stood there beyond the open doorway, hands clasped behind her back, her posture upright and rigid, staring out over the ruined city that lay before her.

The second she saw her, Miranda halted in her tracks, unable to take another step. It was as if time stood still. And yet her pulse was pounding so fast.

Sensing that she was being watched, Samara turned to look over her shoulder.

Their eyes met.

Miranda wasn’t sure whose breath caught first, hers or Samara’s. For a long moment, they both just stared, Miranda frozen by the doorway, Samara motionless on the balcony, both of them scarcely able to believe that this was no illusion.

Micro expressions flitted across pale blue features. The night concealed much, but Miranda could have sworn she saw Samara’s eyes glisten with unshed tears. 

“The last time I saw you...” Samara glanced down, unable to finish the thought. But, before long, a small smile unfolded across her lips. Miranda was there. Her fears had not come to pass. “...Truly, you never cease to amaze me.”

A faint laugh of astonishment and disbelief escaped Miranda as she stepped out onto the balcony, sliding the door shut behind her. “You don't call, you don't write,” she remarked, mostly in jest, moving to stand beside her in the cold night air, resting her arm on the railing. Honestly, Samara had been absent so long that Miranda had begun to suspect she would never return. “I suppose I did get your message, but you could at least have sent flowers.”

“My apologies,” said Samara, politely tilting her head in acknowledgement that the manner of her parting had been...less than ideal. “From what I have gathered, by the time you regained consciousness, I was already far from here. I could not linger when suffering was so widespread. The Code demanded that I go where I could assist. But I would not blame you if you do not forgive me for leaving,” she answered. She never made excuses, but those were her reasons.

“In light of the fact you saved my life, I think we can call it even,” Miranda commented, though her expression soon faltered, her features becoming a little more sombre and sincere. It had hurt for Samara to vanish as suddenly as she had, but it seemed so stupid to say that now that she was finally here.

She’d wanted this so badly for so long. It had almost driven her crazy at times, fixating on Samara’s absence as much as she had. And, now that she was here, she found it impossible to be angry with her, even if she ought to have been.

She was here. She was finally here. Not just in London, but here. With her. Where she should have been. And, even though there was about three feet of space between them, she was close enough that Miranda could have sworn she felt the warmth of Samara’s presence even through her jacket.

“You look well,” said Samara, genuinely glad to see the extent of her progress. Were it anyone other than Miranda she was speaking to, the rate at which she'd bounced back would have been astonishing, if not outright impossible.

Miranda snorted. “I look like I was nearly killed in a shuttle explosion. But I don't mind the scars, or the arm. Could have been a lot worse.” Miranda hesitated then, her fingers tensing around her cane as her tone turned serious. “I know I stopped breathing three times after you rescued me. If you hadn't...” She trailed off, not sure she wanted to reflect on just how close she'd come to death. There had been too much of that lately.

“Yes. I know. Far too well.” Miranda briefly glanced at her, and saw Samara staring ahead into the night, scant city lights reflecting against unfocused eyes. She seemed...preoccupied. Troubled, even. “The first time the medics told me you were not breathing was right as they took you out of my arms after I carried you to them. They revived you in the transport on the way to the hospital.”

“Mmm. Jacob told me about that after I woke up,” Miranda uttered in response. 

Come to think of it, until just now, it had never really occurred to her how Samara must have felt in that moment. For a while, at least, Samara might well have believed she had felt the last of Miranda’s life force slip away in her hands.

A secondary thought tiptoed into Miranda’s mind. Something else Jacob had told her in the same conversation that had never sat right with her.

“Did you really threaten doctors that you would consider it attempted murder if they took me off life support?” Miranda asked, audibly sceptical. She’d long since assumed it must have been some sort of misunderstanding or exaggeration on Jacob’s part. It didn’t strike her as something Samara would do.

Samara didn’t answer, nor did her expression change.

Miranda interpreted her silence. “You know what? Forget I asked,” she said, regretting even bringing it up. Of course Samara wouldn’t threaten doctors. The entire purpose of The Code was to protect innocent people, not harm them.

“They did discuss it with Jacob and myself. Your condition had barely changed for several days. And you were very ill. They had lost faith that there was any prospect that you...” Samara couldn’t seem to bring herself to say it. “It was after that conversation that I...recorded that message you saw. When I left, I did not think...I was not certain you would recover,” Samara confessed, with a heavy heart. There was no mistaking how much that dark thought must have plagued her in the intervening weeks. “Every day I spent elsewhere, I thought...”

“Thought what?” Miranda prompted when Samara trailed off.

Samara blinked out of her daze and shook her head, quickly banishing whatever imaginings had distracted her. “That is not important now. What matters is that you are alright. You survived where most would have perished, and for that I truly cannot express how thankful I am. Though it saddens me to learn the same cannot be said of some of our former comrades.”

“Mmm.” Miranda's gaze dropped to the ground, swallowing as she leaned on the bannister. “I can't say I didn't expect it. Surviving with all of us intact was never going to be an option. I'm not a believer in miracles, by any means, but we're lucky that even the four of us made it,” Miranda explained, sounding more like she was trying to convince herself than anything, unable to help but feel a pang in her chest at the knowledge that she wouldn't even get to bury most of them. They were all just...particles, somewhere in space. “I assume you know about Jack.”

“Jacob told me where I can find her. I intend to visit her later,” Samara confirmed. Miranda secretly hoped Samara didn't know everything - that she'd very nearly gotten Jack killed by not trusting her own judgement. She could never have forgiven herself if she had left her behind, trapped beneath that building. Especially knowing they would never find anyone else. “There are no others?”

“There's Wrex from the original Normandy. He made it out in one piece. You probably already knew that. But from our lot? No. Just you, Jacob, Jack and I,” Miranda answered, silently counting the missing among the fallen. “I, um...I found Zaeed and Grunt. Javik and Ashley Williams from the SR-3 as well,” she broke the news, unable to raise her head, their fates an uncomfortable burden to bear. “...I can take you to where they're buried, if you would like to pay your respects.”

Samara's face fell. It wasn't clear whether that was because she didn't know before Miranda told her, or because she felt a sense of shame and regret for leaving Miranda to shoulder that alone. “I will do that before I go.”

Miranda swallowed, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eye. “One more thing. The ship where Kasumi was stationed to work on the Crucible...it didn't make it. It was too close to a relay, and...” She didn't finish that sentence, letting the implication speak for itself.

“...I am sorry to hear that,” Samara said honestly. Another life, another friend, confirmed lost. She paused, and glanced back at Miranda. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Miranda assured her, straightening up a little more.

Samara just stared at her, with silent compassion and understanding. Miranda didn't have to say anything. And Samara would never press her on it, respecting her space, but...she knew damn well that Miranda wasn't coping with this as well as she wanted everyone to think. Or even as well as she had no doubt tried to convince herself she was.

At that unspoken realisation, Miranda slumped forwards and uttered a humourless laugh, barely louder than a whisper, leaning more of her weight against the railing. “What can I say? Everyone's gone, Samara,” Miranda admitted, finally acknowledging it out loud. As much as she wanted to pretend the Normandy SR-3 was still out there somewhere, they would have heard from them by now if it was. Besides, finding Javik and Ashley had all but sealed it. She wasn't an idiot. She couldn't deny it forever. “Everyone's gone.”

“Not everyone,” Samara quietly replied, holding her gaze. “Not you.”

“I came pretty close,” Miranda murmured. The fact that she had lived where others died had been circling through her mind a lot lately, whether she wanted it to or not. Her survival in the war had come down to mere millimetres. If the bullet that hit her in the eye penetrated just a little deeper. If the red glare of the Reaper had moved just one degree counter-clockwise. If she’d landed on her neck when the shuttle crashed. If the infection had spread just a little further. If Samara had found her just a little later.

The truth was, Miranda hadn’t earned the right to be there in that moment anymore than the people who had perished. She didn’t deserve to live anymore than those who died. It had all come down to chance. Well, chance and genetic engineering, neither of which were her own doing. It was hard to feel like anything other than a thief, in a way - like, by avoiding what should have been certain death, she’d stolen time from others that didn’t truly belong to her.

“I keep thinking…” Miranda began, almost unconsciously seeking to give voice to thoughts she had never spoken aloud. She caught herself, hesitating, wondering whether it was too much to worry Samara with her morbid musings.

But, then, this was Samara. The one person she’d always been able to talk to honestly about anything. The person she’d opened up to about things she’d never told anyone else. The person who knew sides of her that nobody else knew, and probably never would. Not even Oriana.

She swallowed, and decided to continue.

“I keep thinking that I should be able to take the way I feel about losing everyone and channel it into...I don’t know, something fucking productive,” Miranda said, audibly frustrated with herself. “But there’s just...nothing. Nothing good is coming from this. There’s nothing I can do. And I can’t even see what it was all for. Did any of their deaths really matter? Did any of them truly die in a way that was ‘worth it’? Or is that just a comforting lie we tell ourselves?”

Samara considered her words for a long moment before breaking the silence.

“May I be honest with you?” Samara asked.

“Have you ever not been?” Miranda remarked in response. Samara didn’t reply to that. Assuming she was still waiting for her permission, Miranda eventually signalled for her to go ahead. After a few more seconds, Samara began to speak.

“In my own experience, the notion that grief can be transformed into something else - something that motivates you and drives you...that is a flagrant lie. It never happens,” Samara stated starkly. “Anger at losing someone, perhaps. A sense of injustice. Your love for that person. Even regret. But not grief. Even if channelled through some outlet, grief is never transformed into anything else. It remains as it is. An emptiness. A heavy hollowness. A missing piece that can never be replaced. A hole that never goes away, and never fully heals,” Samara spoke solemnly, her words carrying the weight of a long and painful life.

When Miranda looked at her then, she lost any semblance of the words she intended to say. In that achingly raw, real and honest moment, it was as if she was seeing Samara for the very first time. The warmth she felt from Samara’s proximity grew so hot that it began to burn. Everywhere that heat touched set Miranda's nerves on fire. Suddenly, it took great effort even to breathe.

Standing there in Samara's striking aura, it was as if that numbing sensation Miranda had carried with her recently - that diminishment - was not only stripped away, but flipped to its inverse. It was as if the world around her had never been so intensely tangible and corporeal as it was in that instant. Like she had never seen the colours and textures around her in such vivid detail. Like she was hearing sound at frequencies beyond the audible human range. Like she could feel the contours of every single atom and molecule beneath her fingertips.

And all because, for seemingly no reason at all, she had looked at Samara in a whole new light. Let her eye fall upon her in a way it had never gazed upon her before. And, now that she had, she was totally and utterly mesmerised by her.

“Forgive me,” Samara broke the silence.

Miranda shook her head, rattled by her thoughts and...whatever the hell it was about Samara in that moment that had left her temporarily spellbound. “What?”

“I know my words were not comforting,” Samara admitted. “For that, I apologise.”

“Oh.” A small smile crossed Miranda’s lips as she tried to hastily forget what had just happened and jump back onto the original train of the conversation, ignoring the flush of heat coursing through her veins. “No, actually. I’m glad you said it,” she quietly confessed. “In a weird way, it’s the first thing anybody’s said that’s made what I’ve been going through lately seem...normal.”

“It is. Whatever you are feeling, it is. There is no correct way to grieve,” Samara assured her. And she would know. “It may be futile to ask this of you, but please be gentler to yourself. Knowing you as I do, I have no doubt that you are doing the best you can given the circumstances. That is all anyone can ask of you.”

“Thank you,” said Miranda, not sure why she felt so on edge all of a sudden. She was never nervous around Samara. Or around anyone, for that matter. “Sorry for rambling at you about this. Ugh. I’m thirty-six years old and I sound like a child experiencing loss for the first time.”

“I did not lose anyone I truly cared about until I was over four hundred years old. When my mother died. So you are far ahead of me, if that is the measure,” Samara responded, putting matters into perspective. “Would that you were not. Inevitable though it may be, I would not wish loss upon anyone.”

Miranda swallowed heavily, keeping her gaze fixed on her fingers for a moment. She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she remembered how to speak like a normal human person at all. What the hell was wrong with her all of a sudden? Why was she acting like this?

This was Samara. Samara. The one person she felt truly comfortable around, even at her very worst. So why did it feel like her skin could just jump clean off her body at any moment? Why did she already feel so naked and exposed?

“Jacob must have pointed you in my direction. He isn't joining us?” asked Miranda, electing to move to a lighter topic of conversation. Whatever was going on, she could at least have the decency to not let it affect her, or how she acted.

“I extended the offer, but he declined. He said he wished to respect our space and give us some time to speak privately, but I believe he finds the prospect of the two of us in each other's company rather disconcerting,” Samara answered. Her expression was always calm, collected and difficult to read, but Miranda interpreted that look as vague amusement.

“Sounds like him,” Miranda replied. Jacob may have been about the closest thing she’d ever had to a conventional best friend, but they were very different people. It made them a good team, but they also frustrated each other to no end at times.

“Whatever his reasons may have been, I am grateful for it,” Samara admitted, a fondness in her tone. So was Miranda. It gave them the chance to be alone, like they used to be. She'd missed that. Evidently, she wasn't the only one. “He also informed me that you contacted Falere on my behalf,” Samara continued, catching Miranda's eye. “I thank you.”

“I wouldn't have had to if you had just contacted her yourself,” Miranda pointed out. Sure, Samara had her Code to explain her actions, but in all seriousness at times it seemed more like a convenient justification for Samara's evasiveness than the definitive cause of it. Unless the Code had some rules against calls, texts and emails that Miranda didn’t know about.

Come to think of it, Samara’s disappearing act reminded Miranda of herself when she'd been on the run from Cerberus more than anything else.

“She’s probably still waiting to hear from you,” said Miranda, quietly searching for cues in Samara's unyielding exterior that would signal her intentions. “If you wanted to write to her, or even call her, I could easily arrange it,” she pointed out, subtly urging her to follow her heart and make contact with Falere, much as Shepard had done for Miranda when she'd rescued Oriana on Illium.

Samara bowed her head slightly, a momentary flash of sorrow creeping into her expression. “In time,” was all she said.

Miranda understood that sentiment. Or at least she thought she did. Their circumstances weren't entirely dissimilar. Both of them had only just reclaimed those relationships once thought lost forever; a chance at a new start with the one person they loved most. And self-deceit was the only thing keeping it from sinking in that it was entirely plausible that they might never be reunited. In spite of everything they'd fought for, in spite of outlasting all the odds, in spite of snatching victory from the jaws of defeat and saving the galaxy from annihilation, the one thing that they had nearly given their lives to protect might still be denied to them.

Their family.

If it weren't for the fact that Miranda refused to accept that possibility, it would have broken her heart. Never holding Oriana again. Never having that life together she'd worked so hard to make possible. Losing her would have drained her of everything she lived for.

So, yes, unless she was missing some important piece of the puzzle, Miranda knew all too well what Samara was feeling, and why talking to Falere was touching on too many raw, tumultuous emotions at that moment in time.

“Oh. I almost forgot,” Samara rather abruptly broke the silence, calling Miranda out of her thoughts. Samara extended her hand, holding out a small keychain shaped like Blasto the Hanar Spectre. “I promised to return this to you when next we met.”

Recognising it, Miranda couldn’t help but laugh. She’d completely forgotten about that before now. It was a cheap trinket she’d won at the arcade the last time she and Samara were on the Citadel together, when Shepard threw that party. That felt like a lifetime ago, even though it had only been three months.

“You do know that was a gift, right?” Miranda said through a chuckle.

Samara blinked, hesitant. “Justicars--”

“Eschew personal possessions. I know,” Miranda finished before Samara could. It was exactly what she’d told Miranda when she had first offered it to her. She thought they had resolved this dilemma the first time they had this conversation. “If your tenets require me to say that it’s still technically mine, then fine. It’s mine. But I insist that you hang onto it for me indefinitely. Does that work?”

“It…” Samara paused, evidently more than a little torn on the matter. Miranda would never understand how something so insignificant could be a breach of her Code. But, on the other hand, Miranda couldn’t fault Samara’s tireless dedication to her discipline. She didn’t cut corners. She didn’t cheat. She was who she was - what she had sworn to be. And that was nothing if not deeply admirable. “...I suppose that would be acceptable,” Samara eventually answered, with some slight hesitation, running her thumb over the keychain.

“I mean, unless you hate carrying that stupid thing around,” Miranda added offhandedly. She hadn’t considered that possibility.

“No,” Samara hastily assured her, not wishing to create that impression. “Of course I do not.”

Miranda couldn’t help but muster a smile at that response. Honestly, it was kind of incredible how a woman who was nearly a thousand years old, and who had experienced so much, could still have the capacity to demonstrate such pure, unfeigned innocence and earnestness. It wasn’t often that it showed, but Miranda had always liked that about Samara whenever it did.

“Then, please, keep it. Do this, in memory of when I still had both halves of my face,” Miranda remarked, mock-crossing herself, as if giving Samara her blessing. Samara stared at her blankly, caught in momentary shock. Miranda didn’t take long to realise why. “...Sorry. I forget you’re not used to seeing me like this. It’s fine. I’m in the ‘joking about it’ stage. Have been for a while, actually. You don’t need to…feel awkward about it.”

“No!” Samara interjected again, a little more urgently than the last time, loath to think that she had inadvertently hurt Miranda’s feelings, or made her self-conscious about her injuries. “That is not what…” Samara trailed off, pressing her hand to her forehead in annoyance at herself. “Forgive me. It appears that in this moment I can neither speak nor stay silent without making a fool of myself.”

“You could never appear foolish to me, Samara,” Miranda reassured her, speaking from the heart, so there could be no doubt she meant it.

Samara softened at that, glancing down at the trinket in her palm once more. “...I should not say it, but...in truth, this came to mean a great deal to me,” Samara quietly admitted, earning a raised eyebrow from Miranda. “Because you gave it to me,” Samara explained at her inquiring look. Miranda felt her pulse quicken at those words, the heat suddenly rushing to her cheeks. “It was all I had to remind me of you, when I did not know whether or not you would…”

Miranda couldn’t speak. Her mouth had gone dry. And her throat felt so tight all of a sudden. She had to turn away and cough to clear it.

Fortunately, Samara spoke again before she had to. “You are right. I will keep it. Even if it belongs to you, there is no reason I cannot carry this, if you wish it,” said Samara, mustering a smile as she closed her fingers around the keychain.

“Great. It’ll be our secret,” Miranda replied in a concerted effort to act normal despite feeling anything but, holding a finger to her lips.

Wait a second. Did her voice have a tremor in it, all of a sudden? God, she hoped not. What if Samara heard that? What on Earth was this? Was she sick or something and didn’t know it? Was that why she felt so off-kilter?

“Before either of us get carried away, I must let you know that my stay here will be short,” Samara rather sombrely confessed, aware it was not something Miranda would want to hear. “I do not wish to mislead you into believing otherwise.”

“You didn't; I suspected as much,” said Miranda. She would have been lying if she said it wasn’t disappointing. But at least she’d gotten to talk to her this time before Samara set off again, resuming her ceaseless quest to bring justice to the galaxy. That brought some amount of closure, if nothing else. “Where will you go? Come to think of it, where have you been?”

“Many places. Forgive me, I am not familiar with Earth's regions,” said Samara, powering up the omni-tool on her hand. “I have, however, found it helpful over my years to maintain a record of all my travels. You may be surprised how often it is necessary to know these things, and how easily one forgets,” she remarked with a small quirk of her lips that almost resembled a smirk, activating a holographic map that documented her travels.

“You're kidding.” Miranda stumbled backwards when the incalculably dense web of destinations formed over the hologram of Earth in front of her, her bad leg nearly giving out under her weight before she remembered to grab the railing to keep herself steady. “I'll be damned. You really did get the grand tour,” she commented, genuinely awed by how she'd managed to go literally all the way around the world in under three months. “How did you get to Dunedin?”

“On a ship, from the North Island of New Zealand,” Samara answered, her literalism containing no traces of irony. Miranda suspected Samara knew what she had meant, but was using that sneaky deadpan delivery of hers to play coy. 

“Keep saving those frequent flier miles and you could get back to Thessia at this rate,” Miranda offhandedly remarked. Samara gave her a slightly odd look.

If the Earth could have opened up and swallowed Miranda whole in that moment, she would have let it.

Miranda shook her head in embarrassment, regretting that stupid comment as soon as she had said it. Why did she try to be funny when she wasn’t? “Please remind me never to attempt to make jokes again. That was horrendous.” 

“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her, appreciating the intention, if nothing else. “It is good that you have maintained a sense of humour in these troubled times.”

“I...don't have one. Never have, never will,” Miranda awkwardly replied, letting go of her cane long enough to rub her neck. “But thank you for your tolerance.”

She couldn’t isolate what it was that was making her so anxious around Samara. This was the exact opposite of what it was ordinarily like - usually it put her so at ease just to be in her vicinity. Now, the mere act of existing in Samara’s proximity made her feel like she was tapdancing on hot coals, and they weren’t even standing that close. Inexplicable waves of heightened energy surged through her nervous system every time it felt like Samara shifted a little nearer. It made her heart race just to hear her voice, and to let each word she spoke wash over her.

Why was she feeling this way? What was she feeling?

Why hadn’t it gone away yet?

“For the most part, I have not found it difficult to acquire travel,” Samara explained. “I have found most people quite accommodating in light of these dark and troubled times. They do say adversity breeds camaraderie. And it would seem that quality is uniquely commonplace among your kind,” she said plainly, having developed a great affinity for the human species as a whole.

“Would it dim your view of humanity if I pointed out the locations where I think the Reapers' invasion actually caused several billion credits of improvement?” Miranda asked, hopeful that her dark quip would land that time. Perhaps she was imagining things, but she was pretty sure Samara cracked a smile at her dry remark, recognising the gallows' humour for what it was. Most of Samara’s facial expressions were extremely subtle at the best of times, though.

“The work you have done here is good,” Samara told her, looking out over the slowly recovering city once more. “Your ability and intellect have always been remarkable. Now that you have applied them to a more worthy cause than Cerberus, what you have accomplished is truly admirable,” she said, approving of Miranda's new direction in life. It pleased her to see she had found a path that seemed unlikely to ever put her in conflict with the Code.

“Yes. That's all true,” Miranda matter-of-factly replied, resting her hand on her cane once again. What could she say? Feigned humility had never suited her. “But I could always use help,” she said sincerely. “I could also use a friend. Are you sure I can't persuade you to stick around longer?”

They both knew the answer to that question already. But every part of Miranda really wanted to deny it.

“You cannot, though it is not for anything you lack. Quite the opposite,” Samara replied, earning a wrinkled brow. “Other cities on Earth do not have the benefit of your leadership and oversight. Any contributions I can provide will be limited here. My Code compels me to look for where aid is most needed.”

“...I see,” said Miranda. That explanation was fair enough, she supposed. So why did the thought of Samara's absence leave her feeling so hollow? Why did the thought of Samara going away again make her heart feel like it was contorting into a knot inside her chest? Why did it hurt so badly?

“We will have many chances to speak again before I depart. That would...” Samara paused, internally dismissing whatever she had been about to say. “For now, I fear I have lingered too long unannounced, and taken enough of your time. I can see you are responsible for many others. I would not keep you from it.”

For a split second, something surged inside Miranda – an intense emotional need she couldn't describe. But that ache in her heart couldn't go unspoken. She reached out to touch Samara's hand, covering it where it rested on the balcony, letting her cane fall from her grasp and clatter to the floor at her feet.

“Stay?” The word was softly spoken, a question that carried with it uncharacteristic vulnerability. “Please?” Miranda implored her.

“For how long?” Samara sought clarification, evidently unsure how to decipher Miranda's odd request. “Are you certain I would not be imposing?”

Miranda uttered something that amounted to a short, heavy-hearted laugh. “You know what I mean,” she said. She wasn’t talking about today. She wasn't asking for a few more hours, or even a few more days.

She didn’t want an end date at all.

Samara gazed at her for a long moment, her reserved expression as always difficult to decipher. Whatever her thoughts were, her features did not readily betray them. Miranda didn't know whether she gave the matter any consideration, or if her answer was already as clear as every rational part of her assumed it was. However, maybe it was just an illusion or a trick of the mind but...for a split-second, Miranda was sure that Samara looked conflicted. Even torn.

Samara withdrew her hand. With scarcely more than a thought, she drew Miranda's cane towards herself using her biotics, and extended it to Miranda.

“We each have a role to play in the aftermath of this war. These duties cannot be forsaken,” Samara spoke calmly, placing the walking stick in Miranda's grasp once more, and enclosing her palm around it. With her other hand, she reached out to cup Miranda's cheek, fingers softly brushing the scarred skin beneath her eye-patch. Miranda's breath caught at the contact. It was all she could do not to tremble beneath her touch as a tingling sensation flooded from Samara’s fingertips out to seemingly every single cell inside her body. “It grieves me that our paths do not align. Perhaps that will change in time.”

“...It's okay.” Miranda averted her gaze, willing her voice not to shake under Samara's gentle caress, unable to meet her stare, scarcely able to breathe. She knew little of what Samara's Code entailed, but still she regretted asking her to do something that would require deviating from it. That had been unworthy of her. Even if the non-Justicar part of Samara may have wanted to stay, what place of it was Miranda’s to put her in that difficult position? To ask her to turn away from her vows? “You don't need to explain. I understand responsibility better than most. However, I would like it if I saw you again sooner this time. Or if we stayed in touch while you were away,” she admitted, allowing herself that much.

Samara let her touch linger, grazing Miranda's damaged skin with such gentleness, never once breaking eye contact with her, even if it wasn’t returned. “As would I.”

Much as Miranda might have wanted to, she didn’t dare lift her head. Wasn’t sure she could handle it if she did. It felt like her entire being was disassembling under Samara’s fingertips. And, if Samara couldn’t feel her quivering, then it was a fucking miracle. Her heart was pounding like a drum, and her palm began to perspire against her cane, where it was covered beneath Samara’s left hand.

It wasn’t lost on Miranda that neither of them were the type of people who were entirely comfortable or natural around others. Even small gestures of physical affection were largely alien. They had never so much as hugged each other. A touch of hands here or there was the most they had ever...but that didn’t explain it either. Miranda hadn’t felt anything close to this the last time Samara gently clasped her hand. She’d never reacted this way around her before, or anyone.

Miranda had never felt anything remotely like this before. Ever.

What did it mean?

Miranda had to recoil from her touch just so she could breathe again. Samara didn't resist, nor seem offended, letting her hand fall from Miranda's cheek. “You take care of yourself out there, okay?” said Miranda, keeping her eye fixed anywhere but Samara, because she knew damn well by that point that she wouldn’t be able to control whatever it elicited in her to look at her in that moment. “And don't leave without saying goodbye this time.”

“I will try, on both accounts,” Samara replied, promising that much. “Farewell, Miranda.” Miranda didn't try to stop her, though she wasn't oblivious to the tension in her body as Samara passed her. The air had never felt so dense.

Miranda could feel from the sudden chill that filled the atmosphere in her absence that Samara had left, and only then did she dare to confirm it with a glance upwards, her gaze met by empty space where once she had stood.

Alone, Miranda finally released a deep exhale, that bizarre energy that had built up inside her at long last finding the space to wane, and subside, and work its way out of her, at least in part. She didn’t know how long she would need to linger out there to compose herself, but she felt no urge to hurry inside, despite the autumn air feeling bitterly cold having lost Samara’s warmth.

She didn’t even know where to start to untangle that messy jumble of unlabelled sensations and ambiguous emotions whose echoes still lingered inside her chest. She held her hand up to eye level and, sure enough, it was shaking. She clenched her fingers into a fist, which made that stop, at least.

She leaned against the railing and let her head fall into her hand. Miranda may have been comparatively unskilled when it came to deciphering even her own emotions, but she also wasn’t completely dimwitted, nor was she naïve. And the longer she stood out there, the more one possible answer for these nameless feelings began to emerge from recesses of her mind as the most obvious fit.

The thing was, she didn’t want that to be the answer. She wasn’t sure it made sense, or if it was even possible for her. And, if it was, then she had even bigger problems than she could have imagined. Because it could ruin everything.

Miranda’s hearing wasn’t quite good enough since the shuttle crash to notice the door sliding open behind her.

“So, Miss,” Seanne was the first of the students to ask, peering around the door to the balcony at the subtle urging of her brother. “Who was that?”

“A friend,” Miranda replied, staring out at the city, unmoving.

“A girlfriend?” Rodriguez said with a smirk.

“A friend,” Miranda repeated without inflection, as if reminding herself to remember that. Convincing herself not to dare begin to think otherwise.

“It's alright if she’s more than that,” Reiley teased. “Or if you've got a thing with Mr. Taylor. You can tell us, you know,” he prompted, grinning.

Miranda turned and arched her brow at them. “Have you got nothing better to do than gossip about my personal life?” she wondered aloud, beginning to understand the meaning of the old adage 'idle hands do the devil's work'.

“No. We really don't, no,” the group cheekily replied, happily falling back into the habit of having fun at the expense of their guardian now that it (hopefully) seemed like things were improving for her. With that, they closed the door and went back to report on her response to the others.

Miranda didn’t join them. Jack’s students were right, in a way, if they thought they’d perceived a sudden change in her mental state. For the first time in two weeks, Miranda wasn't being haunted by the dark spectre of death.

The problem was that now the only thing she could think about was Samara. And, the more she tried to reason herself into denying it, the louder that one increasingly isolated answer grew as it kept circling in her mind.

Somehow, someway, somewhere between all that time they’d spent together on the Normandy, and seeing Samara standing on that balcony again, and she didn’t know exactly when, where, why, or how it could possibly be true, but...

She’d fallen for Samara, hadn’t she?

She’d fallen for a woman she knew damn well could never love her back.

*    *    *

[massensterben-a]

@gepanzrt​ said:                  ❝ we have given each other wounds, but they are not mortal. ❞

Weather-beaten, the field bends its fallow back before them. Many a shower has soaked the mud, first watered by rain and then by blood. Its open maw is studded with needle-teeth: discarded swords, broken buckles, shields that, mangled and splintered, were abandoned in flight. And the arrows. Arrows bloom like poppies. Arrows bend to the breeze like blades of grass where they are buried in the soft ground, in the soft throats. 

Beyond the veil, the theatre of desolation, like a great exhausted beast, the enemy forces amass. The young king can guess at them, at their fires in the dark which blink and stare. It is a foreign beast wth foreign claws, and it counts its dead. The first day is done, the prayers have been spoken, wept upon the lost, for those who had one to weep for them. He has seen battle before, forged upon the anvil of his father’s tutelage. He has been prepared. And still, oh, even so! Even so the crows and their endless circling dizzy him. He can hear them even in the night, picking at the feast they have made for them. There is an oppulent banquet held at the foot of the ridge. Porcupined soldiers, cracked in their armor like snails. And the black beaks come with hungry chittering. Carrion crows, such connoisseurs of rot. 

Now, with night upon them and a feeding frenzy to separate the bruising camps, Bertholdt means to take stock. He is satisfied with their standing for now. By stroke of luck or genius (historians will debate this!) Bertholdt and his army drew first position upon this hill, leaving the plain to their pursuers. Marksmanship, not plate armor, will now decide this battle. They must outlast, that is all. They must taunt and irritate, force the larger army to wear itself down with useless uphill charges. If they continue to attack the ridge as headlessly and heedlessly as they have today then this war may find its close before the week is done. Bertholdt would welcome nothing more than to spend Michaelmas once again at hearth and home. He has not seen his wife in months and she is with child. He should like to see the birth of his first son. 

It is his companion’s voice that draws Bertholdt from his ruminations, his estimations. The king’s broad shoulders, Atlantean for all they are holding up, relax after a brief brush with tension. Rough-hewn yet with smooth as mead, the knight’s words ensnare his attention. He allows his gaze to stray to the man who approaches him with measured step. Now relieved of the weight of his armor, of the dried red that splattered across his face during one skirmish or another, Reiner looks almost like the nobleman he is supposed to be. Distant fire glow dances in the uncombed strands of his hair, spinning straw to gold. 

Bertholdt swiftly removes the king’s mask, that chiseled, stern expression that expects to grimly judge all its eyes fall upon. Reiner warrants such consideration, has always been man with him and thus must be remind in kind. It is a comfort to him, that Reiner is by his side, returned to him from the cruel, distant lands of the barbarism and pagan ritual, returned to him from the dead. 

“Would that they were,” He mutters, dour despite the warmth that pours into his goblet-heart, fills it to the brim with purple wine. It is not dissent, only exhaustion. Now, with his sworn shield by his side, Bertholdt allows for a brief sigh to issue from his lips. “Would that they are bled overnight and we wake to victory.” A sardonic smile tugs at his mouth, curls in shape of irony. When Reiner comes to join him on his vantage point, Bertholdt unfurls a welcoming hand to him, eager to feel the shape of his old friend beneath layers of wool. He brushes, shyly, his fingertips along the curve of a bicep, down to his elbow. 

“Look,” He guides Reiner’s gaze out over the sea of the fallen, in their muddy graves. He gestures to the small sparks of flame glow in the distance, moving as if by ghostly will through the dark. “There they gather again. Surely they won’t charge at night, but if they were as beaten as they seemed before they’d save their strength. In the morrow they will seek to take us by surprise. I want the archers to sleep in shifts. No post must go unmanned.” 

Bertholdt pauses, notes how briskly his descent into a lower register accompanied the thoughts he shared. He is not talking to his generals or his council. Reiner. This is Reiner. His Reiner. He treats his companion to a soft smile, tinged with contrition. ��Please. Forgive me. Don’t go. I will have the guards posted before I retire. But I want you by my side tonight. It will be a long, cold waiting and your company is all that still warms me. I need you to ease my heart. No talk of battle and victory could give me what your kindness bestows. Let us sit together and speak of old times.” 

A double-edged blade, this request. Chaste as an unwed maiden, and yet, and yet... The old times, what were they? A gangly, oppressive youth in the shadow of a throne, laden with tutors and exercises, the best education, the cruelest tests. Such a two-sided coin, not unlike the boy himself. Bertholdt is a skilled huntsman and yet has no love for the hunt. He has a sense for strategy but despises battle. He understands the value of diplomacy but grows taciturn before a crowd. And among all these contradictions, the most daring of all: a youth who seeks to win the hand of a king’s daughter in marriage, yet lies with his dearest friend in the field. The old times are thus composed of endless tutelage and fleeting, fumbling sweetness. Such a sweetness it was; like sucking the juice out of a berry, like letting it stain your lips in hopes someone will come and kiss you clean.

Will they speak of that? Bertholdt can barely unite the memories he harbors, treasures as a drake would its hoard, with the knowledge of the men they have become. What sweetness remains, after the heat of the crucible? Reiner, grown to impressive stature, sharpened like an executioner’s axe upon the grindstone of the crusade, returned to him when he called. He ought to honor that and not ask for anything more. 

He ought to.

[2018shawn]

no rain, no flowers | th

a/n: hi I bashed this out this afternoon idk it just happened lmao pls don’t read if sadness will trigger you in any way and i would like to say my inbox is always open for anyone feeling any form of emotion 💓 o yeh, i also wrote this on my phone so there's like no capitalisation lmao don’t come for me

warnings: urm SADness, angsty, breakup shit y’no. 

word count: 2.5k 

it wasn’t that you didn’t love your life, you just didn’t love your relationship with it. you knew, more than most, that without the rain, the flowers wouldn’t grow. but the rain came more often than not, and it would leave you feeling completely and utterly drenched with exhaustion, emptiness and everything in between. the days where there was a drought and flowers were blossoming with new petals were the great days. the days where you could just see flowers sprouting were the nice days. the days where the rain pushed the flowers back into the ground were the bad days. the days where it poured that hard the soil overfilled, and mud dispersed everywhere were the worst days.

and now metaphorically speaking, soil was scattered all around your feet, the rain threatening to lift it higher and higher as each minute passed by. the water in the kettle bubbled on the stove top, the gas giving a sense of warmth to the cold kitchen you stood in. london was rainy, and so was your mood. you’d spent 4 weeks and 2 days without your significant other being by your side, and more than ever, you needed him back. it wasn’t a case of wanting him, this time, it was simply and purely a necessity. of course, you couldn’t tell him this. you couldn’t let on that you needed him to come home. you could wait, you guessed, the press tours could not.

what you didn’t know, is halfway across europe, tom sensed every inch of your emotion. he nibbled at the inside of his cheek between each interview, made sure to send you a snapchat when he could get to his phone, even ordered a bunch of flowers to be delivered mid week. how ironic, you thought.

you didn’t knock tom’s boyfriend efforts, in fact, it was the complete opposite. and the more the whistle from the kettle spout screamed louder in front of you, the more you could hear it screaming for you get out. leave him. you’re not worthy. you didn’t even smile when those stupid red roses arrived perfectly displayed on your doorstep. he needed someone that squealed with excitement, someone that saw the good, instead of the bad.

pouring your tea, you ignored the ping of messages coming through to your phone, sighing and flicking the small side switch to silent. you wanted to be in a silent room, with your silent thoughts and silent mind. the cup of tea warmed your hands as your palms encased the ridiculously large, speckled mug. tom had bought you it because he’d never met anyone who loved cups of tea more than him until he met you. you’d lit the long burner, the sound of wood crackling and flames roaring soothing you somewhat, filling the space inbetween your quiet thoughts as you took small sips of your warm beverage. a single tear trickled down your cheek, landing on the blanket covering your lap, and you wondered if you were even worthy of being sat in this house. you and tom had bought it together 8 months ago, when there were enough flowers to fill a football field. month after month, the flowers died off, because you didn’t feel like home should be somewhere you didn’t feel good enough.

the sun had vanished when you woke, the window only displaying a dark view of stars and the illuminated streetlight outside your house. your neck was stiff and arm dead from the position you’d ended up in, blanket kicked to the floor and log burner burning a deep shade of amber as it began to die out. just like you’d fallen asleep with a tear escaping your duct, you’d woken up with it too. your heart was dull, aching with emptiness as your eyes wandered around your painfully empty house.

you slumped into the kitchen, placing your mug down on the kitchen counter with a clink in order to swap it for your phone. you had the usual messages from your friends, who were used to your 3-5 business days responses because you simply had to mentally prepare yourself. alongside those, were a bunch of missed calls and messages from tom and your heart felt like it was being twisted with a knife as you scrolled down the words he’d sent you.

hey bubby, todays finally finished woooo 🤟🏽 interviewer asked about you and it made me miss you more than i already do

which is a lot btw 🥺🌍

i miss eating your hair mask in the night

and how crispy it looks when you wake up 🙈

i’ll be home before you know it. i love you all the days 💙

there were more, but these were the ones which made you feel extra fuzzy inside. and despite that soft feeling, you sighed, trudging upstairs and ending up in your dressing room. he didn’t deserve this. although you loved him more than words could say, you knew you didn’t show it, no way near as much as you should. tom begged to differ; he knew you struggled. he entered the relationship knowing your mental health was knocked, barely any signs of bricks becoming stable enough to rebuild.

you pulled open the wardrobe door before pulling up your stool in order to reach the top shelf. the top shelf is where you kept all suitcases and overnight bags and because of tom’s hectic schedule, it was a good job the wardrobe was the entire length of the room because you’d have no where else to put them otherwise. there was an already empty gap from his own case like there had been for around a month. you pulled yours down, almost knocking yourself out in the process, before laying it on the floor and zipping it open. in the middle of the case was leaflets and brochures from your last holiday with tom; a water park map guide and sea life show programme. you remembered how happy you were that holiday, how you knew you’d found the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

the leaflets and brochures were soon covered by a selection of your clothes, ones you knew were necessary to take with you. when satisfied you had packed everything you needed clothes wise, you headed to the en suite bathroom, taking a couple of travel cases with you with intention of filling them all. you began by sorting through your skincare, picking the most staple pieces of your collection and leaving the ones you knew tom secretly liked to pamper himself with on a sunday.

a beckoning from a familiar voice startled you, the sound of keys dropping on the side amongst suitcase wheels dragging along the floor following the calls of your name. what, why, when, and how was he home? he wasn’t due home for another 2 weeks and he’d literally just been texting you from another country. or so you thought.

“baby? your car’s here?” he shouted, almost asking himself the question in confusion. you heard footsteps padding up the stairs as you froze, holding your half full toiletry bag in one hand and hairbrush in the other.

“i... i’m in here.” you spoke, unsure if he’d actually heard you. he immediately knew something was off from the quiver in your voice and the level of your tone. he instantly followed your sound, finding himself running through the doorway of your shared dressing room. until he saw. until he saw your almost packed suitcase of pretty much all your belongings. until he saw you through the gap of the bathroom door, another travel bag in hand. until he saw the expression on your face, a vision he’d never be able to erase. “you’re back?”

“bub, what’s going on? are you going away or something? i didn’t think your work trip was until next weekend?” he was confused, darting past your open suitcase and creaking open the door of the bathroom a little further.

“uh... it’s not. i just...” he walked up to you, thumbs delicately landing on your cheeks where they wiped away recent pools of tears. it was enough to stop you from speaking, breath hitching in your throat.

“what’s going on? i’m worried? you haven’t texted all day.” if that was why he’d come home, that was more reason for you to leave, you thought. tom couldn’t have someone that needed baby sitting. he couldn’t be flying home from important shit just because you hadn’t replied. all of this piled on top of the balance scales more, the side of pros to your relationship being sky high and unable to go any further.

“i’m sorry...” you breathed, feeling tears prick at your eyes almost straight away. he pulled you in, hand resting on the back of your head and soothingly stroking your hair as you blubbed into his chest, no concern for the growing wet patch near his collar bone.

“sorry for what my darling?” he spoke into your hair, the scent of your weekly hair mask filling his senses, making him sure you must’ve applied it last night. it was coconuty and tropical and was every bit as lovely as he’d describe you to be.

you pushed his chest away, feeling a sense of betrayal as you returned to filling your toiletry bag. his eyebrows furrowed, watching you frantically fill the bag with whatever you could, no obvious concern whether you were picking up his tootherbrush or yours. all you knew is you needed to get out of there as soon as possible. “i just, need to go.”

“go where?!” he almost shouted, clearly concerned with your sudden announcement.

“i don’t know yet. i’ll figure it out.”

he was confused and speechless. you had everything together, you had each other. it’s 2 years and 2 months since he’d first laid eyes on you and he’s regretted nothing since. but you? he figured you regretted something. the suitcase and frantic attitude were the biggest giveaways. he was in denial. surely not. you were only speaking to him 2 days ago on the phone laughing and singing about wedding songs. he hadn’t proposed yet, but boy, did he have big plans to. “what are you saying?”

“i’m saying...” you started, growing sick of wiping tears away from your eyes. he was a human barracade, but you managed to sneak round him and out of the bathroom, zipping up the small cases and putting them into your main suitcase. “i need to leave. i can’t do this.”

and those words there, shattered him into a million pieces. he’d never felt anything like it, he thought. sure, he’d lost people before. but you? you were not just people; you were his world, his life, his future. he tried to start a sentence several times, failing miserably each time as his mind blocked him from processes any full thoughts. “what... what do you mean? this?”

he followed you around the room and you only moved quicker, not wanting to get too close to his deep but inviting aftershave. “this, tom. us. it’s not right. i’m not right, well, not for you anyway.”

“what the fuck, y/n? where has this come from! if i’m away too much, tell me. if i’ve said something, tell me. if i’m bad at....”

“fuck, tom. it’s not you. it’s me.” it was so cliche, but so true. he grabbed your wrist, stopping you from wizzing around the room like a bee collecting pollen. your eyes just stared at his hand, unable to look up and look him dead in the eye.

“talk to me, darling, what’s really going on?” his grasp wasn’t harsh, you could have got out of it if you wanted to, but he guessed from the way you didn’t, you wanted to open up to him more than you thought you did. “hey...” he almost whispered, using his other hand to place his fingers under your chin, guiding your heavy head upwards until your eyes clicked. he could see pain. you could see confusion. you could do nothing but sob dramatically and you hated yourself for it. you thought you would have run out of tears by now, but from the way your legs buckled beneath you and your body curled up on the floor, you figured they were only just beginning. tom spoke reassuring words, you thought anyway, arms wrapping tightly around your shaking frame as he joint you on the carpeted floor. he rested his back against the wardrobe, pulling you further into him with no intentions of letting go. “shhh.. just breathe. breathe for me.” his palm was stroking up and down your back, his other hand taking yours, circling patterns on your skin with his thumb.

“i... i just can’t, tom. i’m pathetic. you don’t need me. you need someone who can cope with you being away. you need someone who can actually get out of bed in the morning feeling like a half decent human being. someone who can make you laugh just like you make me. someone who has got their fucking shit together.” you stuttered, through broken tears and strings of coughs. he pulled your head up, using a hand either side of your face to support you.

“don’t you dare. don’t you dare tell me i don’t need you. i don’t want to hear those words ever again. i don’t want to hear you say you’re pathetic. y/n, you’re... you’re my life. and no you might not be a half decent human being, but you’re so much more than that. you’re everything i want our children to grow up and be. although maybe i’d like them to be able to cook steak without over cooking it.” you couldn’t help but smile through the pain, remembering how many times tom had asked for medium rare and you’d served him a severely well-done sirloin. “your shit is my shit. and i know you struggle, but you gotta speak to me, baby girl. you’ve got to.”

you sighed, leaning into his palm for comfort more than anything. “you... i... i don’t deserve you.”

he felt guilty. more than ever. he meant what he said, he really did know you struggled but over the years you’d got so much better at putting on a front, pretending the world was all full of flowers when really, it was full of rain. he kicked himself for not seeing signs, for being the one not good enough for you, for letting you down and putting his career first yet again. “you deserve a million times better than me.”

his hands were snapped away from you as you stood, brushing your clothes and sighing deeply. you returned to your case, zipping it up fully and standing it upright with the handle extended. he shot up, racing over and putting his hand on the handle to drag it away from you. “no... please. don’t do this. we can talk, you can shout, you can scream, i can listen.” you tried pulling the case, but his strength was much higher than yours. you didn’t want to talk. you knew he would be better without you. you knew you was a burden. you tried tugging again, only to fail missrably and turn to face his desperate feautures and teary eyes. “please stay?”

**

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