#even if the fandom has done a very good job of surmising it

[edennill]

I was talking with Eri about shipping and authorial intent yesterday, and it occurred to me later that the importance even of the platonic bond between Maedhros and Fingon is probably distinctly exaggerated by the fandom (myself included) vis a vis how much attention Tolkien actually pays to it. What do we have in the books, really? The "ancient friendship" spoiled by the lies of Morgoth, the rescue, magnificent as it is, and the short mention of the Elessar (which, I will fight to my dying day, especially in a society where gems are present everywhere, is not in any way undeniably equivalent to courtship). Yes, it is extremely easy to construct their narrative arcs around eachother, but I honestly think that this is more a testament to Tolkien's skill as a writer, than an entirely conscious move on his part, given that it is not at all emphasised within the text.

And no, I'm not in fact saying that the fandom should not focus on this friendship, and most relationships in the Silmarillion are closer to vestigial than not anyway because of the very nature of the book, but I do think that as a fact it bears pointing to.

[fishoutofcamelot]

Yves Montand's les feuilles mortes is Merwen as Gwen ages and becomes old, memories flitting in and out of her consciousness as Merlin tends to her last moments on her death bed, her hand caressing his cheek as she says the final goodbye. Merlin clutches into her hand tight, his shoulders tremored as he sobs, losing his last friend and lover.

Dude it’s MY job to make people sad about Merwen! If you keep this up, I’ll be out of a job!!! And I can’t afford that in this tragic fandom economy.

Ngl tho, you’re absolutely right about the vibes. Although if I might add, I also kinda get a reincarnation vibe from it too.

The scene: France, 1947. WWII is finally over. Merlin, or Michon Epinette as he goes by now, is walking down a wet cobblestone street. His face is sullen. As he walks, hands stuffed into his pockets and head bowed, flashbacks are interjected into his mind. Brief snippets of his time in Camelot - meeting Arthur, hanging out with the knights, saving the kingdom. But above all, his time with Gwen. All the memories and laughs and tears they shared together. 

The flashbacks increase in frequency the further along he comes, only now they’re all focusing on Arthur’s death, Leon and Gaius and Percival’s deaths, until only Merlin and Gwen remain. Until Gwen ages and dies too, until Merlin is left weeping over her dead body. But in none of the memories do any of their faces appear. The faces and appearances of his loved ones are just some of the many things he’s forgotten after all these years, much to his distress.

Merlin shakes his head to force the memories away, and enters a bar. It’s pretty empty. Everyone is fairly quiet aside from the clanking of glasses and occasional murmurs here and there - and on the stage, a slow, morose jazz performance.

He sits down at the bar and gets a drink, watching the performance and trying not to cry over how deeply the mournful lyrics speak to him. It’s the 1400-year anniversary of Gwen’s death, and it stings just as intensely now as it did back then.

The woman singing wears a yellow dress that is elegant yet simple, back exposed and black gloves deftly holding the microphone. Her own eyes are tearful, she herself affected by her own lyrics - Les Feuilles Mortes, now that he thinks about it - and if not for some impressive self-control then her elaborate makeup might have been running.

But looking at her face, her dark, gentle face and deep brown eyes, a most profound sense of deja vu settles into his gut. As if he should know her somehow. 

But Merlin has lived for many, many years, and has met many, many people. If he’s met her before, he doesn’t remember, and likely never will. And besides, it was probably nothing important.

Still, the clenching of his heart pulls him to her. As if something terrible will happen, as if he’ll suffer a loss worse than he can ever imagine, if he doesn’t hold her in his arms this very moment.

Instead of sweeping her up and never letting go, Merlin waits for the song to end, politely applauds, and then greets her as she sits down at the bar stool next to him. Another performer walks onto the stage in her place.

They speak in French as she asks if she’s seen him before, a puzzled look creasing her features. He says that he’s just got one of those faces, and reaches out his hand to shake hers. He introduces himself using his current alias, Michon Epinette, but his ribcage screams at him to tell the truth. To tell her that his name is Merlin. He ignores the impulse.

She calls herself Guinevere Laurent, and oh how his heart aches at the familiarity of it. Another Guinevere, just as kind and soft as his own had once been. He commends her performance, admits that it had made him cry, and she tells him it has that effect on people - especially those who have recently suffered a loss. 

Ms. Laurent asks him who he’s lost, then gets flustered as she apologizes for being so forward. He instead tells her that he lost a great deal of friends. Everyone he’s ever known and loved is dead now.

“The war?” she surmises.

“Yes,” he says, because while they’re not thinking about the same war it’s still true.

She sips from her cocktail glass. “I lost a great deal of friends to the war as well. My brother Elouan, my best friend Lazare, and my father Thomas. Normandy, all of them.”

He shrugs. “If they had to die at war, at least it was Normandy.” Then, flustering - “Oh no, I’m so sorry! That was so insensitive of me. I didn’t mean -”

Ms. Laurent - Guinevere - shakes her head. “It’s fine. You’re right, though. Normandy is...heroic. As good a place to die as any. I just...I just wish they hadn’t had to die in the first place.”

Merlin has nothing to say to that, so he doesn’t. And the two of them sit there at the bar counter, nursing their cocktails - which are, coincidentally, the exact same - and ruminate over their respective losses. Guinevere Laurent is likely thinking about the second world war, and Merlin is thinking about Camlann. And both of them are thinking about after. What happens next. Where they go from here, when everyone they care about is six feet under.

While the similarity in names is likely a coincidence, Merlin can’t help but feel drawn to this Guinevere too. She speaks and acts and feels so much like the one he lost that his chest burns with sorrow. But also, perhaps, with something else too. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Merlin ventures out his broken heart and cracks a joke, trying to lighten her spirits. For the life of him, he will never be able to remember what the joke is, but it does its job in making a tentative smile splash onto her face. 

Warily, with an uneven and rough voice, she murmurs out a joke of her own. He won’t ever be able to remember that one, either, but he laughs just as quietly and genuinely as she did.

After an hour their laughter has transformed into something loud and unending, and it fills up the entire bar with an orange, jovial mood. Other people are talking amongst themselves with more liveliness than they had before, and now Merlin and Guinevere are not the only people smiling in here. Even the scrunched-faced bartender is cracking a grin.

It feels familiar. It feels like he’s been in this situation before - laughing with someone as loudly as possible to chase away their mutual pains, until their desperation turns into sincerity and sincerity into passion. 

For one glorious evening, Merlin allows himself to exist in a fantasy world where Gwen isn’t dead, but sitting right next to him. It’s weird and wrong, for sure, but he can’t help pretending that Guinevere Laurent and Guinevere Pendragon are the same person.

The crowd raucously, drunkenly cries out to Guinevere for an encore, begging her to give them another song. She shakes her head and says she’s done for the night, and all her songs are too sad anyway, but the crowd remains insistent. 

Merlin nudges her shoulder with his own. “You can do this, Gwen.”

And for some reason, just locking eyes with him is enough for her to acquiesce.

She dusts off her dress and reluctantly shuffles onto the stage once more, and the current performer steps aside to let her have the microphone.

Guinevere discusses something with the people manning the instruments, and after a moment they appear to reach an agreement of some kind. 

As the music swells to life, she casts one final glance at Merlin. He nods encouragingly, and she nods back, then closes her eyes and begins.

“Je suis seul ce soir,” she sings in a soulful cadence.

He loses himself in the music, lets the medieval nostalgia consume him like a snake devouring a field mouse - and just as the snake’s venom strikes the mouse, so too does a heartbreaking realization strike Merlin.

He called her Gwen. He referred to Guinevere Laurent as Gwen, his Gwen.

But she’s not. She’s not his Gwen.

His Gwen is dead, and she’s not coming back.

Suddenly, the whole world flares harshly at him. The lights are too modern and bright, the music is too loud and lively, the crowd is too busy and young. And Guinevere Laurent stands on the stage, eyes closed as she sings from the heart. 

And it’s not Gwen. It’s not Gwen, it’s not Gwen, it’s not Gwen, and the reminder of this truth is a slap to the face. Gwen didn’t dress like that, didn’t speak that language, didn’t sing in French bars or drink cheap cocktails. 

Gwen died. She died in pain, and she died gasping for air, and she died pushing him away in fear because her senile mind could not recall who he was. She died afraid, surrounded by faces and places she didn’t recognize, tearfully asking for a brother who had been dead for decades.

But even despite with all the differences, Guinevere Laurent looks so horribly similar to Gwen, back when she was young and innocent. The similarities, the memories, are enough to shatter whatever shaky pieces of his heart he had managed to cobble together.

Merlin presses a trembling fist to his mouth as tears pierce their way through his eyes, clouding his vision and sapping his body of any resolve it might have had. 

He fumbles out of the bar to get away from it all, lest the agony bubble out of him like blood. The cold air stings his cheeks, but the bitterness of it provides a momentary distraction from the memories left behind in the bar.

Determined to find some other hole-in-the-wall at which to drink and forget forget forget, Merlin stumbles away, not even bothering to wipe away the curtain of tears shuttering his face.

But back in the bar, Guinevere Laurent begins to remember things. As the melody holds up her heart, as the fondness that ‘Michon’ had born within her chest lifts her ever higher, flashes of a distant life spark in her mind. 

A boy with an impish grin, stuck in the stocks but still shaking her hand. A young man with a colourful scarf, sitting on a hill and braiding flowers into her hair. A friend, back pressed to hers as they both hold swords and fight to defend their kingdom. A companion, holding her wrinkled hands and helping her get up the stairs.

The name whispers into her mind. Merlin.

But as the final notes of Seule Ce Soir  rumble to an end, as Guinevere opens her eyes in the hopes of soaking in the rays of her old friend’s presence, she finds no sign of Michon - Merlin - and instead a vacancy in his place. 

Thanks for the ask! <3

[tsarisfanfiction]

Flood

Fandom: Team Fortress 2 Rating: Teen Genre: Adventure/Angst Characters: Scout, Medic, Engineer

A storm has left the canyon at Double Cross a raging torrent, but the Announcer decides to proceed with the mission nonetheless. Character study turned story.

Scout glared out at the sun as it dared to peak out from behind the storm clouds. He liked the storm, thank you very much, and the ceasefire that it had brought on. Now, however, he realised that they're have to go out onto the battle field, to be killed multiple times in varying ways – from a quick headshot to a slow and painful burning – all for the sake of money, and a rivalry that never showed any signs of ending. Not that he was complaining about the money, mind you. All except the very basics that he required to live on was sent to his Ma back in Boston, to keep her and his numerous brothers afloat. When he was younger, he'd never imagined that he'd become the main breadwinner in the household. Most of his brothers had failed to find themselves jobs, mainly due to their criminal records. Scout himself would be in the same boat, if he had not been approached, after a particularly nasty gang fight that had left most of the opposing gang dead or incapacitated, by Miss Pauling – such a hottie – and given an offer that he just couldn't refuse. Regardless of what his teammates thought, he was not stupid. He knew that with his childhood the best future he could hope for was life imprisonment so when he was offered the chance to become immortal (only during battles) and fight for a living he knew that it was more than he deserved. Especially when he signed the contract and saw how much he was to be paid. He thought it excessive, although he was careful not to mention this to his employers in case they decided that he could do with a pay cut, until he started. After the first day, he realised that 'immortal' had not meant what he'd expected, after several trips through respawn. After experiencing death so many times, and in so many ways, he understood why they were being paid so much. His Ma didn't agree with his job, but she realised, like him, that it was more than he or any of his brothers could ever have hoped to earn, and so long as he came home in one piece at Christmas she had no reason to pull him out. Not that she could, what with the contract he had signed, but she didn't know what the exact contents of that was. And he had no intention of telling her that it was for the rest of his life. Which would be until his speed – which was what had prompted Miss Pauling to approach him in the first place – lessened until it was no longer his advantage. At that point, he knew, he would no longer be useful to them and more likely than not would be terminated. He'd never been expressively told that, but the implications were there and, as already stated, he wasn't as stupid as most people thought.

He surfaced from his reverie when the rain stopped, water droplets no longer falling on him. Not that it mattered – he'd been out there so long he was soaked to the bone. He turned his back on the sun and re-entered the building, avoiding the other mercs as he headed straight for his room to dry off. Medic was good, but none of his equipment was suitable for curing colds, or even hypothermia. All that would happen would be that he was confined to the medbay and having to sleep with one eye open in case the insane doctor decided to use him as a test subject for one of his weird experiments. It had happened before, and Scout was not willing to go through it again. So with this motivation he threw off his dripping clothes and had a quick, hot, shower in his private en-suite (thank God for that – he hated showering with other people around) before pulling on his uniform and grabbing his faithful bat before leaving the room to locate his teammates. As he entered the communal area to find it empty he heard the Announcer.

"Battle begins in 60 seconds."

That explained where everyone had gone, but why was he the only one to have not known in advance, he wondered as he put his greatest asset to use as he sprinted to the respawn room. For his teammates' sakes, he hoped they were already there. He'd make it in time, because of his speed, but none of the others would, and tardiness was not accepted in this line of work. It got you killed. Permanently. He skidded into the room as the Announcer proclaimed that they had 30 seconds remaining, and noted that he was, indeed, the last to arrive. Soldier drew breath to shout at him but Demo got there first.

"Where ye been, lad? Didny'a hear her earlier?" Scout shook his head and grabbed his headset from its place in his locker, jamming it on over his hat.

"10…" Scout tuned out the countdown as he crouched by the balcony, ready to jump to the floor below. They were at Double Cross, and as such was guaranteed to be a 'Capture the intel before they get ours' mission. The countdown ended and he propelled himself off the balcony, ready to sprint for the intel. He faltered slightly when he realised that he had landed in about an inches' worth of water. That made things harder, although at least the enemy Pyro was not such a threat. Out the doors he ran and out onto the narrow bridge. Immediately he had to dodge as an arrow came whistling towards him, courtesy of the opposing Sniper. Adrenaline took over, as it always did and he wove his way to the opposing base. He made it to the room that housed the intel with little problem – and knew that his counterpart would have done the same (it was easy for someone of their speed to reach the opposing base with no injury at Double Cross) – before slowing and assessing the surroundings. The Engineer was bound to have set up sentries to protect the intel – he knew Engie had done so – and he took a quick stock of their positions before darting in and grabbing the briefcase. Escaping also went without a hitch – he ran rings around the lone sentry, noting a lack of the Engineer, before darting back out, now slightly slower due to the case on his back. And that was when it all started to go wrong. First he was met by the Pyro, but as he'd already surmised they were useless in the flood and so easily went down from one blast of his scattergun without causing any damage to him. Next was an Über-charged Heavy and his accompanying Medic. Scout cursed, then jumped to the other side of the sand piles to dodge the roaring minigun as he continued his mad dash back to base. Just as he was about to reach relative safety an arrow struck his leg. The Sniper had got a lucky strike. His leg buckled and he fell off the bridge and down onto the railtracks beneath it. Ordinarily, this would not have been a problem, but with all the rain there was a healthy flood down there. The water behind him gained a red tinge as he bled and he knew that he had to get out of there. Especially when he heard an ominous rumble of thunder. Surrounded by water as he was, one lightning strike in the vicinity and he was toast. The heavens re-opened and Scout was hit by a sudden deluge of water. In a panic, he realised that with his injured leg and the heavy briefcase, he had no hope of swimming against the current that was slowly but surely pushing him away from Double Cross. The ice-cold water, helped by his wound, sapped at his strength just as efficiently as a Spy could sap a sentry. He entertained the thought of suicide, just to get back to respawn – the intel could wait; it would reappear in the base soon enough for him to reclaim – when he realised that he was likely outside the respawn barrier. If he died, he'd die. With this realisation he did the only thing he could think of. Reaching for his mic, he brought it as close to his face as he could and called for help. Predictably, Medic was the one that replied, asking where he was and how bad his injuries were – assessing if respawn was the better option, no doubt.

"Fell off the bridge," Scout gasped. "Sniper got me in the leg. Water's pushing me away. Think I'm outside respawn. Got the intel." Panic and the cold forced him to speak in short sentences as he gasped for air, watching the water tumbling down the sides of the canyon towards him, reinforcing the water and making it hard for him to fight the current. He heard Medic reporting his predicament to someone as he struggled to keep his head above water, undercurrents making themselves known as they tried to drown him. He'd given up fighting the direction of travel, instead keeping an eye out for something to cling to – an outcrop of rock, even plants would do at this point. Just as he was about to give up and accept his fate – Medic muttering in his ear about how he couldn't do anything to help him made his situation all the more real – he saw an outcrop, just as he was hoping. The water lead him straight to it, smashing his body against it mercilessly – Scout felt several ribs break – and he grabbed for it, somehow finding the strength to climb up. It was a tall plateau, exactly what he needed, and away from the edges so the cascading water didn't hit him and he flopped onto it in relief, grateful for the respite. His entire body hurt – muscles seizing up from the cold and smashed ribs abusing his insides – so he stayed as still as he could. Looking back the way he had come, he could just about make out Double Cross in the distance, flashes of blue and red indicating that the battle was still in full swing. Realising the only way that his team had a hope of winning, he pushed the briefcase away from him, letting it drop back into the raging torrent.

"I dropped it," he panted into his mike. "Someone – go get it. We have to win." He heard someone – Engie, he thought - acknowledge him and relaxed, completely exhausted. "A-and... T-tell Ma… Tell her that I'm sorry," he sighed, knowing that he was dead. Safe as he was on the rock, no-one could reach him and his injuries were sapping what little strength he'd managed to maintain as he bled out. By the time the water calmed enough to allow access to him, either his injuries or hypothermia would have finished him off.

"Don't talk like that!" Soldier barked in his ear. "You will live, you hear me. True men don't let a little water best them." Despite the harsh words, Scout could hear the worry in his voice.

"Pyro's got the intel," Sniper said suddenly. A moment later there was a cheer as the firebug returned to the base, winning them the mission.

"At least we won," Scout sighed in relief, closing his eyes.

"Herr Scout!" Medic's voice cut through him. "Stay avake! Ve are coming for you."

"D-don't bother," Scout whispered. "I'll be dead before you get here." His teeth began to chatter as the anticipated hypothermia set it. "B-bye, g-guys." With that he let his eyes close and waited for death.

"-out?" cut through his consciousness, not loud enough to have come from his headset. "Scout!" Scout? Who was Scout? Why couldn't they leave him alone? He moaned at them in protest but the insistent voice continued. A sudden pain in his leg made him cry out in protest and his eyes cracked open just enough to see a fuzzy person looking down at him. Funny, they had a yellow head. "Come on, son. Wake up." He squinted at them in annoyance and watched them come into view properly. His head wasn't yellow, he realised. He was wearing a yellow hat. A gloved hand gently patted his cheek in an attempt to wake him and he moved his head away. "Scout. You need to wake up." Slowly his consciousness returned to him enough to put a name to the irritating voice, and the face of the man bending over him. Engie. Why did that seem important? Engie…

It all came flooding back to him – getting shot, falling into the raging torrent, throwing away the intel. Saying goodbye…

"Engie?" he murmured as the face finally came into sharp focus. The Texan grinned at him.

"Good to have you back, son."

"Herr Engineer," another familiar voice began – Medic. "Ve cannot move him far. Can you set up a teleporter?"

"Sure thing, Doc," Engie said. He stood and retrieved the necessary blueprints. Soon the familiar sound of a teleporter whirred into existence. Engie returned to Scout's side and picked him up, presumably at a signal from Medic. Short as he was, the Engineer was hardly weak and he carried the semi-conscious Scout through the teleporter with ease. As they materialised, Scout became aware of the other mercs beginning to crowd round as Engie placed him on a bed – the teleporter appeared to have led straight into the medbay.

"Give ze boy some room!" Medic snapped as he emerged, shooing them all away as he brought his giant medigun to face Scout's battered body. The machine whirred to life and Scout felt his ribs realigning. As usual when under the effects of the gun, there was no pain, just the strange sensation of feeling his body put itself back together. Soon it was over and Medic cut through bandages that Scout hadn't even noticed had been wrapped round his chest.

"Zhere is no need for zhese any more, ja?" he said as he removed them. Scout managed a lopsided grin.

"Thanks, Doc."

Unfortunately, the gun did nothing for the hypothermia and so Scout was bundled up under several layers of blankets and told to sleep. Despite his misgivings about sleeping in the medbay he soon went under, welcoming the darkness.

When he next woke, the following morning, he saw Medic approaching with a wicked grin and a needle in one hand. Scout didn't even pause to think – he threw off his covers and fled the room, accompanied by the laughter of the doctor. Scout vowed to never again fall ill near the man. Medic hounded him into the communal area, where the other mercs were waiting.

"Good ta have ya back, mate," Sniper said. Scout froze as Heavy grabbed him in a massive bearhug.

"Leetle Scout is safe," he cheered. Scout watched Medic arrive in the corner of his eye and tried to get away, until he realised that the doctor was no longer holding his instruments.

"You seem to be cured," he chuckled. Scout glowered at him when he realised that Medic had frightened him on purpose.

"That was not funny!"

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 7/? Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe Additional Tags: Established Relationship Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one who was shackled next to you? What do you have in common, save for the chains that bound you both?

Yvanne decided she wanted a garden.

Why not? The rebuilding was happening anyway, she may as well make some changes. The Howes had had a garden in the inner courtyard, but it had withered and died, and now only rotting leaves littered it. Well, not if Yvanne had anything to say about it. Her garden would have rose bushes and stone benches and black and white marble tiles. In the foggy depths of her childhood memory there was such a garden, in those memories where she still had a mother, although surely the garden in her memory was brighter and warmer than any real one had ever been.

Why not a garden? Everything else were being rebuilt. The Vigil’s beautiful walls were nearly all torn down, the keep itself riddled with holes. It would take so long to fix. So why not a garden? At least it made her feel better.

It could have been worse. It would have been worse, if not for the high iron walls and the strong armor of silverite. Yvanne comforted herself with this thought, in the moments when little else brought her comfort.

Loriel was sympathetic, Loriel was nothing but soft to her about it, but she didn’t understand. She hadn’t been there. She hadn’t lived it with her, and Yvanne was coming to realize that what had happened during the siege had changed her in some important way, shifted her soul just slightly to the left. She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t pin it down, but the person who’d left Loriel outside Amaranthine was not the same person who met her again in the courtyard.

It was a small change, a small shift, the cry of a young sparrow in the dense wood. But it was there, nonetheless.

These days Yvanne focused on learning more spirit healing. She rarely picked up a sword anymore.

She regretted looking in on Loriel through their Fade connection. She had seen a version of her that she’d never seen before, a strange cold woman who Yvanne didn’t know at all. She didn’t understand that Loriel, and maybe didn’t want to. In retrospect, it felt like a violation, although Loriel never said so. She’d told her everything, but now Yvanne didn’t know if she’d done it because she’d always intended to, or because Yvanne had already seen it.

Loriel tended to keep things to herself, it was true. She hadn’t mentioned learning blood magic when she’d first learned it, hadn’t mentioned her secret chamber below the Keep when she’d first claimed it, but those things made sense. They’d grown up in a prison tower filled with armored men ready to kill them for any perceived transgression. There wasn’t a Circle mage alive—and still possessing all of their faculties—who was not a master in hiding and deceiving. It wasn’t something you could easily turn off.

Yvanne wasn’t much good at it. She figured she was only alive now because Loriel had done the work for both of them. So she could hardly blame her for tending to be a little secretive now that they were out.

She shouldn’t have looked.

Slowly the walls of Vigil’s Keep rose again. Yvanne helped re-raise them. She took charge of the resupply logistics. She built her garden.

Sometimes she forgot Varel wasn’t the Seneschal anymore.

The weeks passed by, and with every passing day it seemed more and more likely that Velanna was gone for good. Whether she was dead or simply not returning, she was gone.

And then one day the elf appeared.

She strode through the gates as though she had every right to be there, as though no time had passed at all. Yvanne had been with the victims of a recent construction accident, but when she heard, she finished quickly and ran straight to the outer courtyard, where she could do the important business of Yelling.

“And just where the hell have you been?” was what she lead with. Velanna flinched. She looked so gaunt and drawn, like she’d been living rough for all these weeks, that Yvanne almost regretted yelling. Almost. “Have you any idea how many men I’ve wasted looking for you? What an uproar you caused? And here you are looking fine as anything.”

Yvanne waited for the cutting reply, but it never came. Velanna mumbled something apologetic, and then Nathaniel appeared out of the Keep, unconcealed joy radiating from his face. He asked her no questions and demanded no answers, only embraced her tightly—as a comrade?—and Velanna didn’t protest. She even closed her eyes, leaned in to the touch, and consented to being taken inside for food and a long bath.

Really? she thought, watching them go. Them? Those two? Well, stranger things had happened.

When she had no more duties to assign herself, Yvanne went back inside and collapsed in relief, not quite realizing how heavy a burden she’d been carrying.

—

“I need to tell you something,” Velanna said, closing the office door behind her.

Loriel nodded and gestured for her to sit. That was a major part of her leadership style, all the nodding and gesturing. It got most of the job done, depending on the job.

Velanna, looking a little better now than when she’d first arrived, eyed the petitioner’s chair with suspicion. She gingerly took a seat. “I went looking for my sister.”

“Yes, I assumed as much.”

Velanna glared. “You’re really mocking me?”

There was a time when that would have flustered her. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know that isn’t what I meant. Say what you have to say.” Why couldn’t Velanna have simply told Yvanne whatever she’d had to say? Why was she talking to her?

“I heard what you did at Drake’s Fall,” Velanna said. “You spared it. The darkspawn.”

Loriel tightened. “The Architect. Yes. How do you know that?”

“Sigrun told me.”

Loriel didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing. Sigrun had been so angry with her. She’d even thought things would come to violence; the disabling spells had been on the tip of her tongue. She would have spoken them, if Sigrun had gone for her axes. She would have. She knew it.

She hated knowing that about herself, that she’d slay a friend and teammate at what now felt like so little provocation. At no other time had she wished more bitterly that Yvanne had been with her. Yvanne would have known just what to say to make Sigrun come around. It had been her who’d made them a real team, always passing out presents and bothering everyone for their life stories. Loriel was the Commander, but she knew who they were really loyal to.

Now Sigrun didn’t trust her. She still smiled when she saw her, still went about her duties. But she didn’t trust her. Loriel had tried so hard, and still ruined it before the end.

“I see,” Loriel said evenly. “What about it?”

“It was the right thing to do.”

Loriel blinked, and said nothing. Velanna was growing more uncomfortable beneath her gaze by the moment.

“I meant that as a peace offering,” Velanna said irritably. “Can you accept it so I can tell you what I’ve been doing?”

The Commander sighed. “I...apologize. Please, do tell me.”

“I have been in the Deep Roads.”

Not surprising. “The way I heard it, you disappeared in the middle of the battle, beneath a heap of rubble. Yvanne was very upset.”

Velanna scowled. “I was in no danger. I can move through the earth. But when I called to the earth to protect me, I fell through, into the tunnels below the Keep. They lead to the Deep Roads.”

“You didn’t think to rejoin the battle?”

“I thought I saw Seranni. In the shadows.”

Ah. “And you went after her. Or what you thought was her.”

“Yes.” Velanna leaned her forehead against her wooden staff for a moment. “I don’t know if it was really her, then, or just my imagination. But I had to check.”

She said nothing for long enough that Loriel was compelled prompt, “How did you survive down there? You were gone for weeks and weeks. Were you down there that entire time?”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Velanna said, gripping her staff tighter. “I survived, that’s all that matters. And I did find Seranni.”

Loriel held still.

“She was with it. Him. The Architect.” She scowled. “We talked.”

“What did you talk about?”

“None of your business,” Velanna said, muttering an elvehn curse Loriel couldn’t understand. “I used to hope he would release her. But I was wrong. He’s never going to release her. She doesn’t even want to be released. She believes in it, what he’s doing.”

“And you don’t,” Loriel surmised.

“I don’t give a single mihrnig about what the Architect is doing,” Velanna said. “I just wanted my sister back. But I…” She inhaled sharply. “I have accepted that she has made her choice. So whatever you and that thing are doing, whatever idiot plot you have to end the Blights and bring peace amongst the darkspawn, this thing that Seranni was willing to throw away her life for—it had better be worth it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Loriel said delicately.

“The Architect had a message for you.” Velanna let out a long, slow exhale. “He said...he said that he accepts your terms. And that he looks forward to working with you.” She said it all in one breath, as though the words had been imprisoned in her mouth and were now being set free.

She practically threw a leather bag onto Loriel’s desk. “Now take this thing off my hands before it poisons me.”

It landed with a heavy thump, and did not bounce.

“That’s all I had to say,” said Velanna. “Do I have the Commander’s permission to depart?”

“You do,” Loriel said. “Thank you for delivering the message. We are all glad that you are back.”

Velanna probably hadn’t heard the last part. She was already out of the petitioner’s chair and at the door when Loriel got to it.

As the echoes of her rapid footsteps died away, Loriel reached for the leather bag, a small thing suspended on a length of chording. Inside was a crystal, perfectly black. Its faces were smooth and it seemed to pulse from within with some kind of anti-light, some energy of its own. It resembled lyrium, more than anything. But it wasn’t lyrium. Interesting, Loriel thought. She would study it carefully. And of course she was pleased to hear from the Architect.

She had no other meetings for the day, and it was late enough that it was reasonable she not be in office. She headed down to the chamber she could only describe as her laboratory.

Loriel had tried to aid in the rebuilding effort at first. It was only right. She was the master of this Keep, she could help in its re-raising—besides, Yvanne cared about it, that made it important. But somehow she seemed to only get in the way. She didn’t have the skills for it. Unparalleled master of entropy magic she might be, perhaps even a genius not seen for over a century, she didn’t know a single spell that could have been remotely helpful for rebuilding a Keep. With a faint start she realized she was a battlefield mage, and good for little else.

Well, one other thing, perhaps.

She recalled the conversation she’d had with Yvanne on the eve of her return to the Keep, down in the lower levels. She had explained everything, what she’d been working towards, why the darkspawn and the Architect were so interesting to her. The idea hadn’t occurred to her until recently—it had been percolating quietly for a long time.

She was going to cure the Calling. She was going to put an end to the Blights. She was going to transform the world, and she was going to do it her way.

Loriel told Yvanne everything, carrying on about all her ideas, about such and such reagents and that sort of distilling process and how she was going to write Avernus and wasn’t it good that they’d kept him alive after all, and how the Architect was going to help her and how it was all going to come together.

And Yvanne had listened long and careful and finally put her hands on Loriel’s shoulders. Loriel realized suddenly how much tension she’d been holding in them and tried to relax under her touch, letting her sentence trail off.

“That’s all great. But, listen,” Yvanne said, sliding her palms up to Loriel’s jaw, rubbing small circles on her cheek. Down here amongst the stone, her warmth was all-encompassing. “Are you happy?”

Loriel didn’t know how to answer that.

“Because you realize of course that you don’t have to do this. If you really want to, I’ll do everything I can to help you. I think you can do it, because you’re a bloody genius, and therefore probably won’t need my help, but you’ll have it. But you know you don’t have to.”

“Of course I know that.

“So why are you really doing it?”

“Because...you were right all along.” Loriel closed her eyes. “I should have gone with you. I should have protected our home. You needed me, and I let you go, and I’m so, so sorry.”

“Oh, you—stop it, won’t you?” Yvanne muttered, twining fingers into her hair, massaging her scalp. “You saved so many lives. What kind of monster would I be to wish you hadn’t done that?”

They didn’t want me to save them, Loriel thought. I should have stayed with you. She noted that Yvanne had not exactly said that she didn’t wish for that.

But this she didn’t say. If Yvanne needed to believe that what had happened had been best for the both of them, then Loriel was going to let her.

“I’m a terrible leader,” Loriel said. “I never should have brought us here. You were right not to want to come—”

“I never said—!”

“But I knew! I knew you didn’t want to, I knew you might hate it, and I insisted, because I didn’t know what else to do with myself.”

“It worked out, though,” Yvanne said softly.

“That’s right. It did. And I’m so glad it did, Yvanne!” Loriel found herself smiling. “I’m so glad you have this. I’ve never seen you so happy in my life. You’re alive in a way you never used to be. Do you have any idea how beautiful that is to me?”

“I pointedly note that you didn’t answer my question,” Yvanne said sharply. “Are you happy?”

Loriel thought about it. She wanted to answer honestly. “I’m as happy as I possibly could be, with everything as it is. There’s nowhere we can go where I think I would be better off, nothing I want to be doing more than I want to be doing this, and nothing you can do to make it any better. Except, just be with me. And be happy.”

“I can’t just…augh, I should never have left you! I was panicking, I thought you’d be right behind me, I didn’t think—oh, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Result was the same, wasn’t it?”

“You saving the Keep? That result?” But not saving everybody, Loriel thought. Not the Seneschal, not all those young soldiers, not all those farmers and their families hiding in the Keep for protection as the darkspawn army fell upon it. Not all the people that would have been saved if Loriel had joined her, had been there to spare her some small part of that suffering, and then maybe the Seneschal would still be alive. As these dark thoughts darted through Loriel’s mind, she could see them darting through Yvanne’s mind, too, and suddenly she felt worse than ever.

“What I mean to say is—you’re important to me,” Yvanne said. “More important than anything else. And I do mean anything. I’ve built up this Keep, these lands, but that’s nothing to what I’ve built with you. Nobody in the world knows me like you do. I couldn’t replace that if I lived a thousand years. And I want you to be happy. And if that means we have to leave, find somewhere else—”

“You make me happy. And the work makes me happy.” Loriel cracked a smile. “No, there’s nothing for us out there. We’ve found a home. Now we just have to live in it.”

“Then we will.” Yvanne said it almost dazed, as though she hadn’t been expecting this. Like she’d been ready to give everything up, and was surprised to realize that she wouldn’t have to.

It still hurt, that she’d left. And Loriel could tell that for all her apologies, Yvanne was no less hurt. But was it any different from all the other times they’d hurt each other? There’d been many such occasions, more than she could count.

That was what real love was about, Loriel had concluded. You hurt each other, maybe even hurt each other a lot, because how could two lives be lived in such proximity without some measure of pain? You hurt each other, and you stayed, because it was worth it, all of it. It was worth it.

—

They were in bed. Normally they’d be asleep by now, but Yvanne wasn’t sleeping well lately. Ever since the siege, she was taken to waking up suddenly, and taking a long time to get back to sleep. Wine helped, a little. So they were having wine.

“The garden’s almost finished,” Yvanne was saying, “you should see it, it’s beautiful. Not quite like the one I remember, but only because it’s better. Only flowers I like in this one, no stupid carnations or anything. I know it’s indulgent of me, isn’t it? But we should spend more time in it now. It’s a peaceful place, you should see the roses, and I’m thinking perhaps a lemon tree seeing as it’s so warm up here in summer…”

Loriel fiddled with her hair, letting Yvanne’s voice roll over her.

“...but anyway. How was your day?”

She gave the question serious thought, then finally hazarded, “Has Justice...talked to you recently?”

Yvanne wrinkled her nose. “Why? Has he been hassling you about mage freedom, too? He’s been at it for weeks with me, and Anders for even longer, and he’s nearly talked him round. Now they’re both insufferable and I have no one to talk to at all.”

Loriel paused midway through winding her longest lock of hair around her finger. “Why? Don’t you think mage freedom is just?”

“Just?” said Yvanne, and rolled her eyes. “Show me one gram of justice in the world, one morsel of mercy. The world is what it is. The best we can do is find something worth protecting and protect that. Justice just doesn’t know it yet because he’s the spirit equivalent of a baby.”

“Maybe he’s right.”

“Who cares if he’s right? Him being right won’t change anything. Anyway, if he’s been hassling you, you should tell him to knock it off and bother somebody who hasn’t saved the world a handful of times. Maker knows you’ve done your part.”

“He hasn’t been hassling me,” said Loriel. “He asked me about...well, he asked me about love.”

“Oh,” said Yvanne. “What about it? Has he been getting on with Aura? I know that’s important to him.”

Loriel thought for a while about how to put it delicately, even though she’d thought of little else all week. “He wanted to know why it is that we love each other but aren’t married. He thinks it’s—er, a requirement. Marriage, I mean.”

Yvanne actually laughed . “Married!” she said. “Imagine that! What with us being mages and all. Not to mention women.”

“Well,” said Loriel, growing heated. She’d had some wine. They’d both had some wine. “Why not? We aren’t Circle mages anymore. We’re Wardens, and Wardens aren’t forbidden to marry.”

“It’s still a foolish idea. What Chantry would recognize such a union?”

Loriel sniffed. She got out of bed and threw on a robe, suddenly remembering about some paperwork that she had to do right now immediately. “Well if you hate the idea of marrying me so much you could have said so from the start.”

Yvanne sat as though struck by lightning. “Does that mean—are you asking? Are you proposing?”

“I’m not doing any such thing,” Loriel said primly, “Seeing as you’ve made your feelings on the matter perfectly clear. Excuse me. I’ve forgotten something I need to do.”

“No! no no no no, stop that!” Yvanne leapt out of bed, dragging the sheets with her. “Are you serious? You’d marry me?”

Loriel huffed, crossed her arms, and looked away. “You know perfectly well…”

“What is it? What do I know perfectly well?” She struggled with the sheets, tangled. “Damn you! Did you really mean it?”

“Yes, I meant it,” Loriel managed. ���I’d marry you, if you’d have me. Which you already knew perfectly well, and you should be ashamed of yourself for making me say it as though you need any more proof.”

“If I’d have you!” Yvanne closed her eyes, dragging her fingers down her cheeks. She opened her mouth, but seemed only capable of repeating herself. “If I’d have you! Well! Isn’t that a fine thing to say!

Loriel could feel the beginnings of the blush. “I’m being difficult, aren’t I?” She sighed. “Alright, let me start again. Yvanne Amell, my love, will you—?”

“What are you doing?” Yvanne said, scandalized. “You can’t do that here. This is the entirely wrong place.”

A gentle lifting of an eyebrow. “What’s more suitable, then?”

Yvanne thought, rapidly pulling on whatever articles of clothing were nearest at hand. “The balcony! The moon’s almost full. It’ll have to do.”

She seized her by the hand and they ran through the deserted corridors, to the best balcony. Yvanne threw open the door and pulled Loriel through.

“There,” she said. “That’s better. Do you have a ring? Wait, I think I have one—it grants protection from fire, it’ll do—”

“I can hardly give you a ring you already have,” Loriel protested.

“Fine, then, I wanted to be the one to ask, anyway. No, don’t argue! You’ve mucked up your attempt already, that means it’s my turn! Fair’s fair, even Justice would agree to that.”

“Oh—you’re absolutely beastly, you know that? You’re taking advantage of me.”

“One word from you and all this ends.”

“Hm. Very well. Ask, and maybe I’ll consider it.”

Yvanne took out the ring of fire protection, or whatever it was, and sank to one knee. Moonlight bathed Loriel’s face, silvering her hair and glittering in her eyes. How could Yvanne have ever thought her plain? She was the most beautiful woman in the world.

“Loriel Surana, my only love, my truest and my dearest, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

Loriel had fully intended on hemming and hawing and making a big show of thinking about it. But now that Yvanne was kneeling in front of her like that… “Yes,” she whispered.

She rose from her kneeling position, smoothly into a kiss. It was the most recent of many, and they would both remember it, later.

“We ought to get real rings,” Loriel commented, at length. “Sometime during the course of the engagement.”

“Engagement?” Yvanne whined. “How long’s that going to take? I want to be married to you now. I want to be married to you yesterday. Months ago. Five years ago. But now would be almost as good.”

“Now?” Loriel thought about it. “What’s the time?”

“Three hours or so til dawn, I think.”

Loriel nodded thoughtfully. “The Amaranthine chantry is still standing,” she said slowly. “We could make it there by morning. If we rode.”

“By sunrise if we rode hard,” Yvanne said eagerly.

—

They didn’t make it by sunrise, but that was just as well, since Revered Mother Leanna generally didn’t rise until nine at the earliest. Perhaps this wasn’t very holy of her, but, she reasoned, she had spent many long years righteously, diligently rising with the sun to go about doing good works. So in her old age, she felt entirely comfortable giving herself a break.

Which was why it was so annoying to have the gates to her Chantry banged upon no later than seven in the morning. She swore—with Andraste’s pardon, thank you—and shouted that alright, alright, she was on her way, just let her get decent first, and hobbled to the door. She was expecting something dire, perhaps a premature birth or sudden death or abandoned baby, and so was rather put out when instead she found two apparently quite healthy adult women.

Then she blinked, and realized, to her horror, that one of these women was in fact the Arlessa, the Warden-Commander, the odd pale woman who raised the dead and drained vitality from the living—and the only reason the Chantry was standing at all, Revered Mother Leanna sternly reminded herself.

She fell to profuse apologies for her lateness and rudeness, and if there was anything she could do to express her gratitude—

“It’s quite alright,” the Arlessa said mildly. “We’d just like to get married, please.”

Revered Mother Leanna looked between the two of them. “You’d like to get married?” she repeated.

“I’ve got the rings and everything,” said the Arlessa’s—betrothed?—and proudly flashed her left hand. As far as Revered Mother Leanna could tell, she had quite a number of rings, on both hands. Most of them were glowing faintly with enchantment. But the Arlessa was nodding along, displaying her own ring.

“I—well,” said Revered Mother Leanna. Well, she could hardly refuse. “Come on inside, then.”

Most of the sisters had risen already, and watched the proceedings curiously. “You have no witnesses?” said Leanna.

“Oh,” said the Arlessa. “Do we need them? We didn’t think of that.”

“No, no, er, the Maker and his Bride will serve for witnesses. Come along to the altar, then.”

Some of the altar candles had burned down. Leanna lit them hurriedly, then cleared her throat. Usually there was quite a bit more pageantry involved, but the essentials were all present. “Have you any vows you’d like to speak?”

The two women stared blankly at her, then at each other. “We didn’t think of those, either.”

“It’s alright,” Leanna said hurriedly. “It’s traditional, but not necessary.”

“No, I want to vow something!” said the Arlessa’s betrothed—bother, Leanna couldn’t remember her name, though she’d seen her about town before. “Let me think!”

But before she—Yvette? Yvonne?—could come to any conclusions, the Arlessa took her by the hands. “I vow to honor and protect you, to...to love you for all time, and…”

“Slay any enormous fuck-off dragons that might bother us,” she suggested.

“Yes, that, and also, spend some time in that garden you worked so hard on—”

“I vow all that, and also to take care of any irritating paperwork that you don’t want to do—”

“—and make sure you don’t sleep through breakfast because I know you like it when everyone’s together—”

“—and not to loom, not on purpose anyway—”

“—and not to be difficult for no reason.” The Arlessa looked at Leanna. “Is that suitable?”

Leanna realized she was being addressed. “Yes, it will serve,” she coughed. “You may exchange rings.”

“Wait, sorry, I’m confused,” said the Arlessa’s betrothed. “I thought rings were exchanged at the proposal, not the wedding?”

“I thought so, too,” the Arlessa said. “Should we find another set? Is the jeweler’s open?”

“Not necessary!” squeaked Revered Mother Leanna. “The Maker blesses your union! May your days be long and fruitful! You may kiss.”

They kissed. A particularly emotional sister, who loved weddings and always cried at them, ran to go ring the bells before it was too late.

“That’s it, then?” said the Arlessa when they broke apart and the wedding bells were ringing. “We’re married? Just like that?”

“Yes, you’re married,” said Leanna. The whole affair had taken less than ten minutes, and she was wondering whether she might be able to go back to bed for another hour or two.

“Well, good,” said Yvonne or Yvette or whatever her name was, smugly putting her arm around her new wife’s shoulders. “We should do it again sometime. Now we’d better get home; we haven’t slept in a while.”

Leanna wished the newlyweds the best of luck and all the joy in the world, and went gratefully back to bed.

—

They ambled back to Vigil’s Keep late in the afternoon, hand in hand and thinking of more vows to make for the next time. They were met at the gate by a stern—and rather matronly-looking, with the particular set of his crossed arms—Nathaniel Howe.

“Commander,” he said tersely. “You were missed today, I’m afraid. Lord Guy was here around noon, expecting a meeting and throwing his weight around mightily when he found you absent.”

“Oh,” said Loriel, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Sorry, I forgot completely. I’ll write him an apology later tonight. We were out getting married.”

“It’s fine, I handled it,” said Nathaniel, “Only he’ll be back next week wanting—you were out getting what?”

Yvanne showed him the ring. “It grants protection from fire, too.”

He stood dumbstruck, then started grinning. “I—well—congratulations!”

“ Please don’t make a big deal out of it,” Loriel urged. “It was spur of the moment, more of a formality than anything.”

Nathaniel nodded very seriously and promised not to make a big deal of it. Only he made the mistake of telling Anders, who told the whole Keep, who subsequently proceeded to make a big deal out of it.

The ambush lay in store in the Great Hall, during what was normally the dinner hour. Anders was there, tapping his foot. “I cannot believe,” he said, at the sight of them, “that I would be betrayed in this way, by my two favoritest mages in the world. I trusted you, and I am hurt so deeply.”

Loriel almost went into a panic, and started mentally backtracking through every interaction she’d recently had with Anders and whether any of them might be construed as a betrayal. She started mentally composing an all-purpose apology, but Yvanne was already laughing and telling him to fuck off. It dawned on her in stages what was happening.

“You really didn’t think I’d let you get out of this without a wedding reception, did you?” he said seriously.

They were being thrown a party.

She wasn’t sure who’d put this together—Maker knew it wasn’t all Anders; perhaps Garavel?—or how they’d managed it so quickly, but somehow the whole Keep was in on it. Wine flowed, as well as other stronger things, and all the residents of the Keep who were so much as passing fair at a musical instrument cobbled together a makeshift minstrel troupe.

Apparently Velanna knew how to play the flute. She was pretty good at it, too. Anders was terrible on the lute, but it wasn’t stopping him. It didn’t take very long at all for Oghren to start a long and bawdy wedding night song about a nug and a bronto, and apparently Sigrun knew it, too, and it had a structure simple enough that soon enough more than half of everyone present was singing on it, and by then Loriel had drunk enough wine that she wasn’t embarrassed by any of it.

What she remembered most clearly was dancing with Yvanne. They’d never danced together before, and they were awful at it, and everyone was watching and laughing and cheering. How strange a thought, that they had never danced together—surely they must have tried it at some point? But no, there’d been no dancing at the Circle, and during the Blight they’d always been staring over each other’s shoulders, and then during the celebration at Denerim it had all been too heavy, despite the joy of victory, and after that, what with one thing or another…

But she would always remember this dance. Yvanne flushed and happy and looking completely ridiculous, looking at her and at nothing else. She would remember that for a long time, even when she had occasion to remember little else.

Shortly after that someone—probably Oghren, but maybe Anders—persuaded her to try the aqua magus, and her recollection of the evening grew rather fuzzy. What she did remember was that close to midnight Anders declared that it was time for the honored tradition of the bedding, and before Loriel could even begin to wonder what that was, they were being lifted bodily by the crowd and spirited away. Dozens of hands carried them through the Keep, up the stairs and to the Commander’s bedchamber, where they were dumped upon their bed amidst a great deal of hooting and hollering. Then the crowd, shouting helpful suggestions, were ushered out, until finally the door was shut and they were alone on their wedding night.

They were far too drunk to do anything but struggle under the covers and fall right asleep, and nothing went wrong for nearly an entire month.

[yang-did-everything-right]

Episode 12 Beeview

So we’re finally here, this was it. An episode that honestly had all the weight of a finale for at least some of us, and for some it was a true end. Like last week, the mech fight was spectacular and Ruby was a truly shining star. Weiss was a hero and the cast overall was a delight. But like last week, that’s not why we’re here So. Let’s get to it shall we?

The episode brought us right back to where it had concluded last week, the girls holding hands. The meme that they had been holding hands for a whole week arose from that and it was certainly fitting, as they then proceeded to keep holding hands through an entire conversation. In fact, they did not stop holding hands till it was clear that battle would be starting once more. The conversation was important though, it showed a continued effort by Adam to force a wedge between Yang and Blake. It showed an understanding by Adam, that the two of them united were a genuine threat to him, after Yang pushed him to such a degree all on her own. But it also showed the renewed resolve Yang had in Blake’s fidelity and commitment, Blake had warned her way back in season three after all. Back when seemingly, Yang was starting to show traces of what Adam had become even though it had actually been Emerald’s trickery. Blake went into very careful detail about how Adam had changed before her eyes and now Yang was seeing it right before her own eyes. She was seeing Blake’s nightmare and she put those pieces together in her mind. “Did she leave you? Or the person that you were pretending to be.” It was a powerful statement, one that left Adam to fall back on a guilt trip. But that fallback was equally telling. “So I just wasn’t good enough for you.” It suggests that Blake should have accepted him despite his abuse, murder and sociopathy. Her followup couldn’t be any more clear. “You know it’s so much more than that.” And he did, because he had no rebuttal. He didn’t care, is the point. In his mental landscape that was his right, it was his right to do as he pleased and who was going to stop him? 

“I know you’ve made your choice, and I’ve made mine.” The theme of this volume, is Choice. Giving chances, making decisions and the result of those choices. But Adam didn’t really give Blake or Yang a choice, not when the alternative was death. This last line was him taking their agency away, he was stripping away their choice and forcing them to fight. Because again, death is never a choice. 

Additionally his line draws a parallel to Sun’s line in his duet with Blake in “Like Morning Follows Night” In where Blake says “I’ve made my choice” and Sun follows. “And now I’m making mine.” However in this case, the context is worlds different. Blake is choosing to run from her friends and loved ones to save them from Adam. Sun is telling her, that friends and loved ones are hurt more by her departure than any physical harm Adam could do to them. And he is right.Yang is the prime example here, as her ptsd triggers far far harder at any mention of Blake prior to their reuniting, compared to jokes and play involving her lost arm. Adam hurt her, Blake hurt her far, far worst. It is something Adam tried telling Blake too, when he exposed his scarred face. Saying her leaving him was worst than even that branding, yet again the context was far far different. Blake left him because he had become a monster, an abusive monster willing to murder civilians to propel his agenda. It was not the scarring that did that, it was not Blake’s departure that did that. It was Adam. Adam made every choice that led him here. So it began once more. The fight this time was completely onesided at the start, Yang and Blake together absolutely thrashed Adam to the point that they were ping ponging him back and forth with explosive physical strikes.However he was careful to block any slashes from Blake even when it left him open to punches and kicks from Yang and Blake in turn. It suggests that attacks from her blade were far more dangerous to him than blunt strikes from fists and feet which makes sense all things considered. However when Blake went for the other half of Gambol Shroud, that was when Adam was able to turn things around again. One of Adam’s strengths is knowing how Blake fights, when she went for the other half of her weapon he knew why. The main use of that half was for shooting bullets, which he benefits from. Or flinging it to use the ribbon for controlled mid range attacks and grapples, which she did in this case. It gave him an opening to do two things, potentially harm Blake from a distance if Yang didn’t stop her attack to jump in, or focus on Yang for a bit while Blake recovered if she did not. Yang went in for the save giving Adam breathing room and leading to a fandom anticipated reverse Bumblebee, however this was a mistake. Normally, Bumblebee is Blake flinging Yang around, who has her shotgun gauntlets to propel her and add to her impact force. Blake has none of these things, however I honestly feel this would have gone sour even with a proper bumblebee. Why? Because it is a massively telegraphed move that culminates in a huge strike. Adam is extremely quick and able to tank just about anything if he can catch it against his sword and absorb the energy. In short, it was too slow and gave him too much energy all at once. The end result was Blake being sent flying with such an explosive recoil that it shattered her aura on the spot. (Purple aura, soul mate, etc etc) This was bad for many reasons, it let Adam know that Blake was essentially done. Any and all wounds he inflicted on her at this point would potentially be fatal and she smashed into the rocks so hard, it wasn’t unreasonable to think she’d been knocked out. In fact, that’s almost assuredly what he thought. Yang’s fearful cry brought Adam’s attention to her instead and this was a turning point. His side and back was to where Blake had fallen, he would not see her climbing the cliff face beside him mere seconds later. Yang then had a ptsd episode when Adam brought up that trauma, eyes widening in fear and her hand trembling. It was a very real initial reaction, once more coming from the unique perspective of personally suffering a combat related injury induced ptsd. It shook Yang up and allowed Adam to take a quick initial advantage as her movements were sluggish and her evasions were slow. However when Yang looked up again, she saw Blake and that changed everything. Some have surmised that Yang might have been initially worried that Blake was running away again, but climbing up a cliffside, slowly and being out in the open and obvious to the one out to kill you is not the way. This is why Yang began to make him See Red. Adam is the Bull and Yang was the Matador. She didn’t attack him, she never even threw a punch, she just evaded and deflected what she could. This infuriated Adam, as he demanded her to hit him, but this was all Yang’s acumen at work. Yang kept glancing at Blake, watching her progress and she put together Blake’s plan just from that. Yang made Adam so mad that he used his semblance over and over on her, yet still she did not attack and allowed his strikes to send her flying. This too was her acumen, why? Because his semblance was like hers, he required incoming damage to utilize his semblance and she was not giving him any. This culminated in his enraged question of “What does she even see in you?” and the enraged followup of “You’re just a coward like her”. Mistakenly he believed he had broken Yang and she was not attacking because she was scared. At this point, he had used his semblance to take Blake out of the fight and pummel Yang, but had been given nothing back. His tank was left empty after Adam unleashed a massive shockwave from his semblance, the impact of Yang blocking the blow raising obscuring dust and smoke so he, and we could not see her. However just before the impact we saw... this.

I slowed it down a bit, but as you can see her expression goes from scared to... yep, that is a hint of a grin there. This had been her plan from the moment she saw Blake climbing and maneuvering, Yang and Blake had always been able to tell what the other was going to do in a fight from single words and even just glances. This came into play here as Yang had purposely kept Adam facing her and with his back to the climbing and positioning Blake, this meant all of her maneuvering was intentional, where she was knocked to was intentional. She never Allowed Adam to move the fight in a way that might expose Blake, all while taking a beating from him.  Thus, when Adam leaped into the air at her smoke obscured form, he clearly expected it to be the death blow. However, what he got... was this.

“Gotcha” The word choice here is incredibly telling, she’d been moving, planning, waiting for Blake to be where she needed to be and Adam to spend all of the energy he’d managed to gather. Something she was in a unique position to understand far better than he was, why? Because he absorbed energy through his sword and never had to feel the damage inflicted onto him. But she had to feel every last punch and kick she took, every slash of his sword and smash of the hilt. She was able to see how much he took before activating, and compare notes in her head and it all lead to this. Because unlike his repeated use, she had not used her own semblance even once. At least, not till now. 

This was the end result of all of the power she’d absorbed for the entire fight, this was the First time Yang had used her semblance in three volumes and over a year in world time. One massive punch with everything she had, it was enough to deplete her aura but it did the job she needed it to do. It depleted his too and gave Yang his most powerful weapon. His Sword. Now, all three of them were on equal footing, none of them had an Aura anymore and it was with this understanding that Yang said what she said. “I may not be faster, but I’m Smarter.” As she threw his sword over the cliff and sent him racing after it. Right where Blake wanted him. Yang has gotten a lot of flak from people that don’t understand her character or overlooked all of her showing of intelligence throughout the show just because she is a busty blond, and it shows. But Yang’s theme has always been the fact that she is more than what she appears to be and the Crwby said it in all caps for everyone to hear. This was the moment where the atmosphere changed, this was where Blake sent Adam staggering backwards, where he stumbled over the two pieces of Gambol Shroud knocking one behind him and the other in front of him. The pieces were set, we had our forks and knives. Rooster Teeth wheeled in the entree and set it on the dinner table. Adam saw the sword half of Gambol and saw Blake see it, instead of going for the gun he still had at his side, he panicked because his greatest weapon was gone. So he ran for it and so did Blake, but unlike Yang, Blake -is- faster than Adam. Even exhausted from fighting and climbing a mountain bare handed without aura, she was faster than Adam.  Adam was closer to the blade than Blake was, but she reached it first. Grabbed it, and with Yang coming in from behind with the other half clenched in her her hand? They buried those blades into his body with no mercy. This act was symbolic in many ways, Blake killing him from the front rather than behind defeating the notion that all she could do was run. Her Blade went right into his heart, symbolizing a severing of their romantic connection and all the sentiment she had poured into her bond with him in the past. Yang’s attack from the back signified her own constant chasing of who she’d once been and pursuing the back of the man who had taken her arm and Blake away from her. Her fear had shaken her to the core, but she was Armed and Ready, the next time they met would be His Disaster. And so it was. As Adam felt the blood and life leaving his body he could only say one thing. “Oh” Because his question had been answered. “What does she even see in you.” In his final moments, he understood he had been replaced, he understood that and there was no struggle. No crying, no last remarks about his pride, how he was wronged. He certainly had the time, but there was nothing.It was such an absolute understanding that he took it with him to the grave, on his knees as his last breath spilled from his lips and he fell over. Death had claimed him even before he fell, as his expression did not change as he flipped over. Nor did any sound leave his lips as his back and skull cracked sickeningly against the rocks below. Unlike Cinder falling into a dark void, there was no ambiguity here. But, just to add to that. 

They only asked about the fight, however The Death, was confirmed there. After this, the next shot was of Blake, dropping her piece of Gambol and collapsing in a heap sobbing and trembling heavily. Plainly in shock from what she had just been forced to do, because she had been forced. Remember what I said earlier, Death is never a choice. Adam had decided when he rushed for that Blade, that killing them was more important than escaping with his life. So he managed to traumatize Blake one last time with his own final choice, he forced her to kill him because the alternative was their death. He did not choose to die, she did not choose to kill him. But his choice to attack instead of run, forced this outcome onto Blake and in turn, onto Adam. The way she dropped Gambol was almost in disgust, as if the weapon was tainted and in a way it was. The defensive killing of her former mentor and lover turned stalker and abuser, had shaken her to her core. Despite his predatory methods, he had been one of the most important people in her life. Yet she had to kill him alongside the woman that had become the most important person in her life. For Yang it was likely cathartic, she did not have any of the extra baggage Blake had, none of the guilt, none of the love, none of the sentiments. For Yang, Adam had been a negative from the first moment to the last. At worst, any emotional pain came from seeing Blake collapsing into such a mess after the fact, seeing just how powerful of a grip Adam had on her psyche. So Yang didn’t just run to her, she slid to her and gathered her into her arms, pulling her right in for such a tight hug that they both clearly needed. Her fingers in Blake’s hair, gently cupping one of her cat ears, while the other hand softly stroked her shoulder. Blake wrapping her arms around Yang with a pained sob as the first words from her mouth were so damn powerful and painful. “I’m not going to break my promise, I swear.” Even after Adam was dead, her first fucking concern, was making sure Yang knew that despite what Adam said about Blake leaving, Blake would not do so. This answer seemed to change something in Yang, because she immediately withdrew a little in order to bring Blake’s face before her so that they could look eachother in the eyes as Yang gently cupped her cheeks and told her. “I know you wont.”  This. This is huge. The very core of Yang’s ptsd and even before her trauma, was abandonment issues. She had been abandoned by her mother, her father for a time, and even the little sister she had raised when her father had been mentally incapable after the loss of not just one wife, but two mere years after the first. Even that little sister she’d trained and watch grow into the leader of the very team she was a part of. That sister too, left her to go be a hero because she had sunk into such a deep depression after the loss of Blake and her arm that she was inconsolable.  But Yang had seen it now, first hand. Yang had seen the man that nearly killed them, the man that had taken her arm. The man that Blake had ran from. The man of her nightmares who had been Blake’s nightmare for far, far longer. She understood that only he had that kind of power over Blake, and she’d returned to Yang anyway and even in spite of that fear. Any doubts Yang might have had, were utterly erased by this fight. Some people say they still need to have a talk, I just don’t see it. What talk can trump seeing the nightmare and fighting it with it’s victim? What talk beats seeing how powerful Adam was even after all of her preparation, seeing how Adam was able to manage the two of them together. Hearing how he talked to Blake and in turn talked to Yang. There might still be some kind of talk down the line, but it wont be to fix their relationship, it will be to make sure Blake gets through this final trauma okay. Oh yea, and nearly everyone on both teams got their aura smashed and there is a giant godzilla grimm on the way with an army of others. Who here remembers how much effort they had to put in to kill one Sphinx as a full healthy team? Go back and count how many there were in the sky, it wasn’t all manticore up there. This finale is gonna be wild babes.

Oh, one more thing 

Unbeelievable to some, but we Bumbleby baby. Sorry for taking so long with this, but it was a doozy and I felt like putting a lot more effort into it. Anyway, hoped you all liked it and feel free to send me any asks and messages about this post or anything rwby related.

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 9: The Nine Realms: 101

Chapters: 9/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: Mention of implied non-con, mention of implied past abuse, Mentions of colonialism Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not yet) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Thor (Marvel), OFC, Heimdall(Marvel), Brunnhilde/Valkyrie(Marvel) Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending, Reader was Once Part of a Board of Paranoid Conspriacy Theorists and has Never Denied Being One of Them, Reader Gets Things Twisted, Loki shows off, Loki is Jealous and Doesn’t Know Why, Time For a History Lesson, My Headcanons; Let Me Show You Them, Writer Loves Worldbuilding, Ode to the Worst World Mythology Book I’ve Ever Read Summary: Reader gets some disturbing ideas from a poorly written world mythology book, and also a joint history/astronomy lesson

Andsvarr would not let you leave the rooms that day, and he did not know when Loki would be back. You understood that the man was a prince and had a great deal of responsibility, but you didn’t know what to do with yourself while you waited.

Saldis had been by, to deliver a disappointingly small stack of English language books.

“They were with the donations.” She explained. “So there’s likely to be more at some time. Until then, this is all we’ve got.”

Four books, that was all. One on world mythology, another on Icelandic history. One astronomy textbook, and the last, a volume of the works of Shakespeare, containing his tragedies.

Well, if all you could do was wait, then it couldn’t hurt to learn a thing or two.

The ‘world mythology’ book was much more of a ‘Greek mythology with a few short entries from everywhere else’ book, but the small Norse section nevertheless contained some rather shocking concepts. You did not recognize the Loki portrayed here, nor the Thor. There were many other names listed, none of whom you had met. Where were the rest of them? Had they all died in the tragedy that brought all of Asgard here to Earth? Or were they just out doing their jobs, like Heimdall, and you simply hadn’t crossed paths yet?

Once you’d read through the tiny section, wondering where the heck this Odin fellow was, you had to turn back to the much larger Greek and Roman section. They probably weren’t the same gods with different names, as you had once surmised, but they were contemporary with the Norse figures, and might help you understand godhood and your relation to it a bit better.

A few hours of reading passed, and the results were not comforting. Either the author had a major bias, or the gods were just kind of terrible. Every story seemed littered with assault and murder, suffering, revenge, and sexual misconduct-to put it delicately! Why could the gods turn humans into other things, but not turn them back? Why was every story so sad? Why so many non-consensual relations? Was that just the nature of dealings between man and god? If so, did the royal brothers simply see everything that had already happened to you-and everything that might happen to you in the future-as completely acceptable and normal? Where were the lines drawn?

Back on the fens, Iron Man had accused Loki of kidnapping you across the sea like it was still the Viking age. Loki hadn’t refuted the claim; he hadn’t even reacted to it. The last time an Asgardian had set foot on this planet, that had been seen as a completely normal thing to do. A legitimate way to get oneself a wife. Or at least, a female slave that they could do whatever they wanted with.

Loki’s time on Earth had been very short. What if he wasn’t up to date yet? What if that was how he saw you? What if he came to expect certain things from you? What might he do if you didn’t provide?

What could you do? Pretty much nothing, that’s what. This was exactly why you didn’t want to be dependent on him, or any man really, for your living conditions. You’d already been with someone who had gotten you into just such a situation. Him, you had been able to walk away from, eventually, though it had left you with scars and baggage. You had no means of escape from Loki.

And he had suddenly gotten so very tactile. Almost the very instant he knew that you would be staying, that he had gotten that concession to let him ‘take care’ of you out of you. Had he taken that as consent? How far was he going to take it? What could you do to fight back? Could you?

You set the book aside, and gazed out the window at the budding city, trying to calm down. Surely you were jumping to too many conclusions. There was no evidence for any of this, except for every entry in that book, which unapologetically painted the gods as major league assholes.

It wormed its way nefariously into your brain. Thousands of years was a long time to do truly awful things, and become jaded about them. Or simply forget they had even happened! A long time to justify, to normalize. What might be hidden, coiled up in his past, waiting to spring out at you? You didn’t know the man!

The book openly described him as a god of evil. Of trickery and lies, of deception. It didn’t seem possible. Evil wasn’t a solid concept. Acts could be evil, deeds could be evil, but evil as a concept was nebulous. It couldn’t be embodied by one person. People could, and did frequently do both.

But what if you were wrong? While you considered yourself as well educated as you could get on your own, it wasn’t as if you had never been fooled before. And if he was basically the god of fooling people, really so cold-hearted and vicious, really just playing a little game with your life, how would you ever know?

You were stuck trusting him, while the only source of information you had said that was a thing you should absolutely never do. So which did you believe; your own brief experiences, or an author who might be biased or might be an actual expert on the subject?

Did it matter? Knowing what he might do to you did you no good if you had no way to escape it. Maybe you should just steel yourself to the idea that he might not be done taking from you.

You were wound tight as a wire by the time you heard him enter the rooms, and you prayed to whoever might be out there that he would just skip checking in on you.

There might be thousands of gods in the universe, but they were all deaf tonight. Loki opened the door without even knocking.

“It’s dinnertime.” Was all he said, clearly expecting you to simply come along. So that’s what you did.

                                                                                   *****

Brunnhilde was a goddess too; the book had said that all Valkyries were. Not goddesses of anything in particular, apparently, but divine nonetheless. You were the only one at the table who was…lesser. Even Heimdall had come in and joined you all for supper.

Why Loki insisted on having you there baffled you. That first night was obviously a formality, but there was no reason to keep bringing you along. You felt even more awkward and out of place tonight, and he still kept touching you!

But with a bunch of gods at the table, maybe you could get a few answers.

“Um, if you don’t mind me asking, where’s Freya?”

Thor hadn’t been expecting the question, but didn’t seem offended by it.

“She’s on Vanaheim, naturally.” He said, as if it were obvious. As if you knew what Vanaheim was.  “Along with her brother, and her father. Among others. Right?”

He looked at Heimdall, who gazed at the ceiling for a long moment.

“Yes.” He said simply.

“Good. They are just elsewhere right now, why?”

“Well, I just wondered why they weren’t here with the rest of you.” You said. The book had said that Heimdall could see anything, anywhere. It looked like that part was true. Did that mean the rest of it was? “Or why you weren’t with the rest of them. Why you decided to relocate here instead of…Vanaheim, was it?”

“The Earth is among the largest of the ni-eight realms.” Thor explained. “There is room for us here. And to be perfectly honest, humankind is much better at adapting to the presence of strangers than any other people I know. It must have something to do with your unusually short lifespans. Or maybe the almost aggressively social nature of your species.”

“What are the eight realms?” you asked. Your book must have skipped over that part, in its brevity.

“I believe an astronomy lesson just got planned for tomorrow.” Loki said.

“History too.” Brunnhilde added. “How’d you like to be the first human in centuries to gain an education in Asgardian history?”

“Second.” Thor muttered very quietly.

Loki and Heimdall seemed to both find that one spot on the ceiling very interesting, while Brunnhilde attempted to stare more information out of Thor.

None of your business. You turned your attention to your serving of creamy yogurt stuff-skyr-and its delicious red berry topping. Why didn’t they have this stuff back home? It was amazing. You didn’t allow Loki to drag you away until you’d finished every bit.

                                                                                     *****

 You ended up in the big library again, in another newish layered dress of green, black, and gold. They weren’t being very subtle about this. It wasn’t that they were bad colors, it was just that they were so very specific.

The prince and the Valkyrie had taken over an entire table, piled it high with books and illustrations. Loki waved you over excitedly.

“We’ve devised a joint lesson that you should find very enlightening. Come, sit. You will like this.”

He pulled your chair out for you, a noble gesture that was mostly lost on you. He took his own seat beside you.

“Let me start with the local galactic supercluster.” Loki said.

“The what now?”

“Yggdrasil.”

“The what now?”

He gestured grandly at the center of the table, from which a billowing figure began to grow and branch. Bright lights blossomed in places, glittering sparks shimmered across limbs of darkness. A masterpiece of tiny details, almost incomprehensible outside of context. It was incredibly beautiful.

“Is this…is it space?” You hazarded a guess. You hadn’t gotten very far in your astronomy book, but he had called it a ‘galactic supercluster’ which sounded rather self-explanatory.

“Oh yes. This is Yggdrasil. The Tree of Worlds, the Guardian of Wisdom. Is it not glorious?”

Another gesture, and the image began to slowly rotate.

“It’s very beautiful.” The way he was looking at you was so expectant. Was he showing off? “This is full of galaxies then? All these lights?”

“The lights are individual stars. But the glow you see is the combined light of tens of thousands of galaxies. Asgard once held influence over great swathes of this area, and our name was known and respected all throughout.”

You stared. This one image represented an area bigger than you could possibly comprehend.

“How?” You asked. It didn’t seem like there were enough Asgardians to even leave a single representative in every galaxy therein. How could the influence of one species reach so far?

“Same way everyone else does.” Brunnhilde said. “We’re really good at stabbing things.”

“There were a number of factors.” Loki said dryly. “Our great lifespans, prior connections made with other races, expansive colonies, the high number of Aesir born to us, and of course, the Bifrost. Other races had those other things to some degree or another, but no one else had a Bifrost.”

“That’s the beam of light that brought me here, isn’t it?” You asked. “That’s the thing that brought Thor, uh, the king back and forth between Asgard and Earth, right?”

“The one that brought you here is but the palest reflection of what we once had.” Loki said. “But give it time, and we will rebuild it to be as great as it once was, perhaps even better. I’m not sure you will live that long though. Maybe, if we are lucky, I can show you another planet someday.”

It was a good thing you were sitting down. The very thought of being on another world was both terrifying and elating.

“W-where would you take me?” You asked. What worlds were out there?

“Probably here.” The image zoomed in and in, past galaxies, stars, and nebulae, to focus on a very green and cloudy planet with one large moon. “This is Vanaheim. It isn’t dissimilar to what your own planet used to be a few thousand years ago. Here is Midgard, for comparison.”

The familiar globe of the Earth popped up next to Vanaheim, and your eyes widened at the difference in size. You were vaguely aware the Earth was the largest terrestrial planet in your solar system, but you hadn’t realized how big that really meant. The little image loomed over Vanaheim, nearly twice as big, and with much larger oceans.

“The differences look great, but Vanaheim is very similar to Midgard in composition, atmosphere, and ecology. Look.” Again, the image zoomed in, blowing through thick clouds, dropping down among tall forests that looked like conifers, though you knew they could not be.

At ground level, there was a small clearing from which a village sprouted. People moved here and there, looking just like regular people that you might see every day.

“These are the Vanir.” Brunnhilde said, taking hold of the conversation again. “Let me start a bit earlier in our history. Asgard became a space-faring civilization very early on, and we expanded into the star system that would become ours quickly. We conquered Nornheim, the only terrestrial planet in the system.” She gestured to Loki, who brought up an image of a large, dry, stony world, nearly as large as Earth, but without any blue or green, nothing but rock.

“This was back in Buri’s day, mind, and the Bifrost had just been built. Invading the planet was a test of its power. Turned out there actually was a race of people who lived there. They were rocks, just like everything else on the planet, but they really, really didn’t like us being there. And just like that, we were at war. We took the planet, but the rock trolls wouldn’t surrender. So we experimented with the Bifrost once more, using it to remove the trolls from Nornheim, and sending them to the next planet we found. That turned out to be Vanaheim.”

“Good lord.” You said, appalled.  “Why do all that in the first place?”

“Why do humans go to war?” Brunnhilde asked. “Not the fake reasons. Not religious or ethnic reasons, but the real, underlying reasons your ancestors always went to war?”

You thought for a moment, stripping away all the excuses, ideological differences, racial fears, age-old prejudices. What made the first man pick up a stone and smash the guy next to him?

“Resources.” You said. “Either need or greed, it’s all about what you can take from them.”

“You got it!” Brunnhilde said. “Buri was trying to build the foundations of Asgard and he needed as many mineral resources as he could get. And there was a whole planet of rocks, guarded only by rocks. So he took it.”

“Why not settle there?”

“Because it was just rocks! There was no water there, except in trace amounts in the atmosphere, and inside the rocks. No plants, no life other than the rock trolls. And Buri was obsessed with building an eternal realm for his people, from scratch. Before that, the pre-Asgardian people lived on fleets of ships, but most information from before they arrived in the Nornheim system and took over has been lost. No one knows where our ancestors first came from, and after Asgard was built, it was no longer considered important.

We mined Nornheim from then until very recently, and there was still plenty more left. It’s lost to us now. Perhaps new life will arise there again, who knows?

In any case, after the base of Asgard was built, we began looking outward again. The Bifrost allowed us to discover more worlds, and to rediscover Vanaheim. By that time, we’d actually forgotten about the whole banishing an entire species to a completely different realm thing, but the Vanir sure hadn’t!”

Nornheim disappeared, Earth disappeared, the wall of illusions focused back on Vanaheim and the Vanir.

“When we arrived, we hoped to take trees and topsoil back with us. But it turns out the Vanir had heard of us, from the mouths of a new enemy who had appeared suddenly to make war on them generations ago. And just like that, we were at war again.

The Vanir have always preferred to put down roots and stay where they are. We could have just left, and they would not have followed. But this was the reign of Borr, and Borr liked to conquer.”

You shuddered. It was a little disappointing to discover that the magical space gods ancestors had been just as bad as yours, and on a much larger scale.

“We lost.” Brunnhilde said.

“We didn’t win.” Loki corrected. “There’s a difference.”

The Valkyrie shrugged. “To Borr, a draw was as bad as a loss, because it was not a win.”

“Yes, he was rather rigid and uncomplicated like that.” Loki grumbled, as if embarrassed.

“This was your ancestor?” You asked.

“This was my grandfather.” He admitted.

“That recent?”

“It would not seem recent to you. And I never met the man. He died in war, long before any of us were born. A fitting end, I suppose.”

“It’s how he would have wanted to go, if he had ever expected to die.” Brunnhilde resumed. “The war ran long and fierce; neither the Vanir or Asgardians were very numerous at the time, but both were ferocious combatants. The Vanir are blessed with many of the strengths that our people once thought belonged only to them; long life, great strength, resilience, and so forth. And, to our great surprise, they had Aesir among them.”

“Those are gods, right?” The book had given that name to the gods, but hadn’t mentioned them belonging to different species.

“You would call them that, yeah. This was the first time we encountered them outside our own people, and it really threw us. Neither side could prove superior, so we had to try for peace instead.”

“Something Borr never tried again.” Loki interjected.

“Vanir custom demanded a trade of political hostages to ensure peace. From us, they gained Vili and Ve, Borr’s youngest sons. From them, we gained Njord and his children, Freya and Freyr.”

“So, they’re Vanir? Well no wonder they are on Vanaheim!”

“They come and go at their whims, now that we are allies” Loki said. “It’s better that they were there. Freya has a terrible temper, and while I would have personally loved to watch her punch Thanos in the face, I would not have liked to see her killed. I’ve never had anything against the twins.”

With a gesture, the trees and village swirled and coalesced into three incredibly beautiful individuals. A man who appeared to be closing in on middle age, decorated with seashells, his black hair attractively wind-blown. A gorgeous, voluptuous woman with a sword in her graceful hand, and a conspicuous golden necklace at her slender, tan throat. An extremely inviting young man with sparkling black eyes and a gentle smile, flowers in his tidy hair.

You reached out for him, without even realizing you were doing it. Your fingers passed right through, and Loki caught them on the other side, as the image dissipated around your hand.

“It’s just an illusion.” He said. “He’s not really here. A creature of base urges, are we?” He seemed annoyed.

Loki is skilled in the artifice of illusion, and he uses this to embellish his lies. So the book had said.

“Well, you made the illusion!” You said defensively.

“Oh, were you reaching for me?”

“No! I was just…” What had you been doing? You had just needed to try to touch the image of Freyr for some reason.

“Can it, your highness.” Brunnhilde interrupted, receiving a furious glare in return. “You know she couldn’t help it.”

“Is a simple image really so potent?”

“You’re Aesir, he doesn’t affect you in the same way. She’s mortal, and came from a land of grain. She was a baker, for the Norn’s sake! Of course even an image would affect her!”

“Why, please?” You asked above their rising voices. “I didn’t actually mean to do that. What happened?”

“Freyr is a fertility god.” Loki said dismissively. Oh yes, he was definitely annoyed. “He governs the cycle of crops, prosperity of all kinds, fruitfulness, and so on, and so forth. He and his retinue are associated with the baking of bread and animal slaughter; both as symbols of plenty, and as sacred offerings. You lived and worked in his domain, whether you knew it or not.”

His tone clearly indicated that he considered you weak for acting as you had, but his words sparked a pulse of pride. You had been doing, if not THE Lord’s work, then A Lord’s work.

“Oh, don’t look so smug. Fertility and prosperity gods are ridiculously common. They make up a huge percentage of Aesir across the universe. Coming under the influence of one or more is practically inevitable for mortal species.”

“You know, you asked me if I was ashamed of the work I did, or of ‘what I am’ was how you put it. And I’m not. My society really feels the need to consider poor people as less than dirt, and they take all the value away from low-paying jobs, but the thing is, those jobs are actually really important. All those jobs they say are for losers and failures are jobs that provide services that they desperately want. That they need even. Without those jobs and those workers, civilization would fall apart. What are you going to do without grocery stores? Or gas stations? Or sanitation workers? Or bakers?

The bad treatment did get to me. It gets to all of us who are in that situation, because we can see how wrong it is. But now I find out there’s a god somewhere in the universe who thinks bread is good and worth something, and surrounds himself with people like me. Why shouldn’t I be proud of that?”

“Oh, he’d like you.” Brunnhilde said.

Loki released your hand and crossed his arms. The illusion dropped away entirely.

“Anyway,” Brunnhilde continued as if nothing had happened. “We considered it safe to retreat back to Asgard at that point, and couldn’t do much invading for a while after that. But we did continue locating other planets across Yggdrasil. Some were empty, and we sent small groups to colonize them. Others were inhabited, but friendly. Borr conquered these through treaties and trade. But eventually, our army built back up. And then we located Svartalfheim. But before we go into that, would you like to take a break, to think about what you’ve already learned? It must be getting close to lunch time.”

“Yeah, actually.” You said, grateful for a small reprieve. Time to reflect on the information and ask questions without derailing the whole lesson would be welcome. So would the food. You wondered if you would ever stop feeling so hungry.

The three of you left the table as it was; according to Loki, no one would bother it for the rest of the day. You found yourself back in the side room off the banquet hall, enthusiastically tucking into a tasty lunch. At least the food was better than your budget usually allowed.

“So can you tell me more about the Aesir?” You asked.

Thor entered the room with a plate full of food.

“Specifically, why are there so many fertility gods?”

Thor immediately turned around and left.

“Coward!” Brunnhilde called after him. Loki snickered.

“Okay, what was that all about?” You asked. It was weird watching the mighty Thor retreat from a conversation.

“Oh, he’s just shy.” Brunnhilde said. “You know he’s a sky god, right? Lightning and thunder, storms?”

You nodded.

“And guess what else?”

“What, really? But I’m not drawn to touch him.”

“Eh, well, it’s kind of secondary to the thunder thing. He’s associated with the rains, but not the harvest. Freyr’s there from the beginning, to the end.”

“Gotta get me a man like that.” You mused.

Loki set his fork down just a bit harder than necessary.

“He’s married!” He exclaimed.

“Oh?” You asked, surprised that he seemed so scandalized. “To whom?”

Loki looked away from you, lips pressed into a thin line. Brunnhilde chuckled.

“A giant.” She answered.

“There’s giants?” You asked. Another kind of alien? How big could they get?

“That’s an entirely different lesson. You wanted to know about Aesir?”

You dug into a little cobbler of a blueberry-like fruit. They had called it bilberry. You called it delicious.

“Yes. So, are they just born at random, or what?”

“They can arise from any line, at any time.” Loki said. “We have recorded them in at least six of the ni-eight realms. But they do occur more commonly when there is at least one Aesir parent.”

“How do you know if you are one? You come out of the womb shooting lighting? Or does it at least wait until puberty?”

“Eh, it depends.” Brunnhilde said. “I assume they figured Heimdall out as soon as he opened his eyes. For others it’s a bit more subtle. But it gets figured out in the end.”

“But what causes it to happen in the first place?” You wondered. “This has presumably been going on for what, millions of years? When did it start? And why, and what keeps it going?”

“I’m sure every culture throughout time and space has their own mythos about it.” Loki said.  “My personal theory is that it involves the infinity stones. Which just means that I’ll never get to test it.” He grumbled.

Brunnhilde stared at him.

“Do they have an affinity for magic?” You asked. “The king said they made up everything in the universe.”

“They could be considered magical. Certainly they come from a source beyond anyone’s total understanding. There are stones that correspond to concepts so nebulous as Power, and Reality. I don’t suppose it would be too far-fetched to think they could have influenced the creation of beings such as us.”

“Excuse me!” Brunnhilde interrupted, earning a disgruntled look from Loki, who seemed to have been really getting into his theory. “Why does she know about that?”

“I honestly have no idea.” You said. “I remember what happened, but nobody knows why.”

“Is it because you have magical potential?” She asked. “His majesty said you were learning sorcery.”

“I…don’t know? Is it?” You asked Loki, but he was already hurrying out the door to yell at his brother.

“I think I know how to tell which humans can learn sorcery! Thor! She said there was a whole forum of them!”

“Thank you, Brunnhilde! You’re so brilliant!” She called out after him. “Oh, thank you, I’m aware! But it’s nice to hear anyway!” She laughed, shaking her head. “Well, there goes my co-instructor. Come on, you want to go learn about Svartalfheim anyway?”

[catbowserauthor]

MIDDLE EARTH 30 Day Challenge Day 22: Character You Pity Most

So here we are, Day 22! Character you pity the most. This is a fun one though, I don’t think I follow most fandom expectation. That’s okay though. I love switching things up though I suspect I’ve become a little predictable.

Let me address the character most people think of when this question is raised—Gollum. Now, I won’t lie, I do pity Gollum. Or to be more precise, I pity the creature he used to be, Sméagol. That was a distinction I started a while ago: Gollum is a corrupted, dark creature that will do what he has to in order to serve the Ring because he has utterly lost his soul to it. Sméagol is the River Folk that made a horrible mistake and in his emotional weakness, fell prey to the ring’s promise. Sméagol still loves his cousin and has never forgiven himself for murdering him. In fact, while little is known about their family, it is surmised that they held a similar to relationship to the bond that Merry and Pippin have, which makes it more heart breaking.

It's actually really disheartening because Sméagol almost wins out over Gollum, due to Frodo's kindness. There is actually a point in time where we see Gollum nearly disappear and Sméagol, "slowly put out a trembling, hand, very cautiously he touched frodo's knee- but almost the touch was a caress. For a fleeting moment, could one of the sleepers have seen him, they would have thought that they beheld an old weary hobbit, shrunken by the years that had carried him far beyond his time, beyond his friends and kin, and the fields and streams of youth, an old starved pitiable thing."

However, Sam awakes and immediately accuses Sméagol of wrong-doing and it seems that this accusation is what makes Sméagol surrender to Gollum. Tolkien utilizes a "green tint in the eyes" to symbolize Gollum being in command and while before, it would flicker, after this event, "the green glint did not leave his eyes". That is what is most pitying to me. Sméagol _could_ have been saved, and nearly was, but for one cruel act. I really love how this emphasizes that while a good, unremarkable deed can save someone, likewise, a cruel but not uncommon one can condemn someone.

However, there is one that I pity more than Gollum.

No surprise, we're back to the Durin line again and that award has to go to Thorin, specifically Movie Thorin who has a lot more development than Book Thorin (though the Appendixes gives more background than The Hobbit does, probably because The Hobbit is told from Bilbo's POV).

I just...I feel so bad for Thorin. He really presents as curmudgeon who is pretty stoic but when you look at how his life panned out, it's really hard to blame him for it.

He watched his grandfather give into Dragon Sickness and greed when he was less than 24 (by the book, the Movie implies he is of mature age for Dwarves so at least 75) but either way, he was quite young. Given the Dwarves' strong link to family, this must have crumbled him to see someone who no doubt had been deeply involved in his life as he grew suddenly giving way to madness, such so that he probably did not even recognize his loved ones anymore.

Then, there's the attack of Smaug. Again, the book states that Thorin was 24 which would have been preteenish in Dwarvish terms, if not younger but the movie indicates he was a young man, maybe early 20s by our standards or around Fili's age. He had to flee with his father, his grandfather (having to forcefully pull the half-crazed man from the hoard of gold) and lost the only home he had ever known.

Then, there's the struggle to survive. With no home, the Dwarves wandered Middle Earth, looking for settlement before attempting to take back Moria. This ended in a horrible massacre and the death of Thorin's grandfather, right in front of him, and the death of his little brother Frerin. His father, Thrain, vanished in the battle, leaving Thorin with only his little sister Dis left.

They make a living in the Blue Mountains but it's a hard living, one where he has to work to maintain the survival of his people in addition to serving as their political leader and ruler. In a sense, working three jobs. He works with the others to maintain the safety of their kind but there are still battles and conflicts, during which he loses his brother-in-law and thus, steps in as a father-figure for his two sister-sons. While he loves them dearly, this is another pressure placed onto his shoulders. All of this is being done without the support of the other dwarf clans because they will only rally to the one that possesses the Arkenstone, which is lost amid the treasure trove of Erebor.

Then, he sets out for Dunland in hopes of finding his father because he had heard rumors that he had been spotted only to be disappointed. He would never see his father again. Gandalf finally approached him with hopes of reclaiming Erebor and thus, not only winning back a culture, gold and home that was rightfully his but a means of uniting the dwarves and giving his family what he felt they rightfully deserved. Despite all this, he still falls to the Dragon Sickness and while he fights his way out of it, far more than what his grandfather had been able to do, he dies in the battle to protect what is his. Perhaps worse than even that is that he has to watch his sister-sons, boys that he had helped raise, die before him. Boys that, upon realizing they were in a potential trap, he even was willing to abandon pursuit of his mortal enemy in an attempt to save them.

Seriously, can someone give this guy a break? It's interesting that the Dwarves re-taking Erebor would actually play a role in the battle against Sauron. It isn't touched upon but there was a great battle at Erebor where Easterlings, under the rule of Sauron attempted to take the Lonely Mountain and Dale, presumably both for the riches and for the strategic position. The dwarves having retaken their homeland played a major role in these armies being pushed back. Also interesting is that after the capture of Gollum, ambassadors of Sauron approached the Lonely Mountain twice, each time asking about Hobbits and offering three of Dwarven Rings of Power plus the return of Moria in exchange for this information.

The Dwarves refused.

I can't help but pity Thorin, in no small part because life just never cut him a break. He had his faults but overall, all the guy was asking for was the return of his home that was taken from him and a chance to give his family the good life that they had lost.

He lost his own life and the life of his two dearest sister-sons in the process. I know life isn't fair but...damn.

Again, AU for the win...

[elleonmybeloved]

Hidden Point of View

Title: Hidden Point of View Author: PinkPerfume Fandom: Amnesia Pairing: Heroine/Kent Rating: Mature Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22620043

Summary: An impatient Hera decides to get back at Kent for scheduling his University student's exam day on a Saturday... by stripping for him on cam. It's fine, everyone's supposed to have their eyes on their own desk only anyways. The only problem is that she's wearing that underneath...

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

It was a ridiculous suggestion to begin with, one that nobody would have considered on their wildest day, not to mention him. Kent thought of himself as a rather logical person, it was something of a point of pride. 

And yet, ever since he’d met Hera, he had begun to call that severely into question. The rate at which he had begun to defy reason for an emotional reaction instead was rapidly increasing.

That’s why in the middle of his university lecture, coyly smiling at him in a small rectangular tab on his laptop, was his girlfriend stripping for him live on videochat. Meanwhile his students were taking a test.

He really must be out of his mind.

Only a very concentrated amount of control kept him from jerking in his seat at an errant cough from one of his students. Meanwhile, Hera wiggled her hips, taking her time as she slowly slid her skirt down her legs.

Kent rose a hand to cover his mouth. She was wearing that - Ikki’s idea of a funny gift for her birthday, ‘for the two of them to enjoy.’ At the time, they’d both rejected it vehemently, the number being incredibly inappropriate for even his girlfriend’s rather bold tastes. 

It was dark purple, completely see-through, and covered the parts it wasn’t supposed to cover and left the parts it should have covered completely bare. The front bared her opening completely with a slender heart shape enclosure. Paired with the criss-cross pattern of the black cord that connected her choker to the bust, pressing tightly into her skin, it was way beyond the realm of perverted.

He thought she had thrown it away.

He was very glad she kept it.

Keeping in line with her original intention to ‘make him regret scheduling exam day on a Saturday’, she crawled forward, making sure he could see the arch of her back and blew him an exaggerated kiss.

According to his calculation, thirty minutes at the very least were between him and her. Fifteen until the allotted exam time window was up, five to gather his things and leave the university building, and ten to get home.

Propping a pillow beneath the small of her back, she lifted both legs up high in a v, tapping low on her stomach cheekily, as if beckoning him to be there. He lifted a brow as she grabbed her cellphone, and though his phone was silent for the test atmosphere, he discreetly checked the message. He couldn’t resist.

If I tap it once, it means I want you to kiss me there. If I tap it twice, it means I want you to lick. Three times means I want that thing Professor Kent has in his lap~ ♡♡

Kent almost choked. Hera could be brazen at times but she was really pushing it now. He was at her mercy for the moment, but the wheels of his mind were already turning on how to get back at her. He was almost sure now that she did it on purpose. That she enjoyed pushing his buttons just to see him flustered.

He frowned disapprovingly at her through the video chat.

Hera gave the look no mind and changed the angle of her camera so that it was above her. Giving him her best pleading expression, she tapped once against her lips, twice against her breast, and with a sugar sweet pout, thrice against the exposed pink folds of her opening.

Up until now he’d been doing a decent job of not thinking anything overly untoward during her show, but she’d just plainly expressed her desire to do the things they did when they made love…

And that had promptly called forth several images from his memories of doing such. 

She liked to be kissed breathless - sweet keening noises of approval abundant whenever he was really passionate. He’d noticed it made her eyes haze over with a glassy look, and her self lubricant would produce at a faster rate. 

The perky nipples at the tips of her large breasts were sensitive, but she didn’t get off on them much. In his observances they were best used to tease her when she was getting too cheeky - and entice her into more. She made the cutest yip at the application of teeth. He didn’t really touch them often when he was inside her though,  preferring to use his hands elsewhere. 

Ahh and her face, those expressive large eyes. Perfect for an emotional creature like her, he’d often thought. She made the cutest face when she climaxed, like she was drowning in pleasure. She’d always hold onto him while she did so, no matter what position they were in. He liked that. She was so precious, it was always satisfying to squeeze her tight and indulge in some odd urge to shield her with his body from anything, even the dizzying heights of her own pleasure. 

A biological male instinct, he’d surmised, was the cause of the desire to hold her. It was logical, made sense with human history. 

Hera had always worn her emotions on her face, and often times she could be read like a book now that he was familiar with doing so.

Even now, he watched her expression change and rattled off the meanings in his head.

Satisfaction, as if she knew she’d gotten him riled up. Mischief, and pride - for having done so. Ah… and the next one tugged a little at his heart.

Loneliness, a face that said ‘come home already.’ It was true he’d been rather busy this week. 

A tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he leaned forward so that his face was in the range of his cam, and when he saw that he had her full attention, he tapped once very slowly on his lips.

A kiss, through the computer.

The smile she beamed at him when understanding dawned in her eyes made his chest squeeze. She was too cute for her own good sometimes.

When the exam period was finally over, Kent quickly and efficiently retrieved all his belongings and curtly instructed his students that if they had any questions about it they could email him or schedule a time to meet during his office hours.

It wasn’t his fault if they insisted they didn’t have any, looking a little spooked (he heard some whispers about him being “scary when angry”) as they filed out of the room. They were free to interpret him as incorrectly as they pleased, right now his only concern was how quickly he could get home.

I’m on my way home now.

He texted Hera.

…

No need to change outfits. Unless you’re cold.

It was a quick add-on and he shut the lid with a little more force than necessary, shoving it in his pocket as he made his way home.

Kent felt it vibrate, but just smiled instead of checking it. There was no need - he could already guess what it said anyways.

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 3: An Unexpected Journey

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: DRAMA, panic attacks, mentions of past death Relationships: Loki x Reader Characters: Loki (Marvel), Thor (Marvel), OFC, Heimdall (Marvel) Additional Tags: Loki is Impatient, Loki is Kind Of A Jerk, Reader is Impertinent, Reader is Kind Of A Jerk. Hey Everybody Makes Mistakes Summary: Reader is afflicted with a mysterious illness that has slowly been killing her. Salvation comes, but the price is high.

“What are you doing here _____?”  Your manager demanded.  You flinched, and concentrated on looking healthy.  You knew you were failing, despite all the makeup you’d put on to hide your ill health. She marched right up to you and tried to take a box of frozen, unbaked sandwich roll dough out of your shaking hands. You held on as tightly as you could.

“I’ve gotta work.” You said, voice small and weak. “Gotta make my rent.”

“I didn’t schedule you today.” She said tersely. You shrugged.

“I traded with Anette.” You’d pleaded with Anette. You’d lied to Anette, told her you were feeling so much better. You weren’t, but you were pretty sure you would feel so much worse if you got evicted.

You were sick. You were too sick to be doing your job, honestly, but at least you weren’t contagious. No one knew what was wrong with you. You’d paid doctors way too much money, just for them to give you clashing diagnosis, and prescribe medicines you couldn’t afford.

You had finally gotten one to admit that they had no idea what was actually wrong with you, but you knew what was wrong. You had been inflicted with a slow, wasting death. You had grabbed a vengeful god by the hand, and intended to demand something of him. No wonder he had cursed you.

That’s what the thing on your hand was: a curse, branded into your skin, a punishment for your insolence. You had made Tara promise not to tell anyone what had actually happened back in the tower, and whenever anyone asked about it, you just told them you had gotten very drunk when you were in New York, and had decided to get a body modification. Your manager didn’t care about it, since it was so easily covered up by the gloves you were required to wear.

What she did care about, was your dropping performance, and your failing health. Working in a bakery, even a tiny, grocery store bakery, required a certain amount of vigilance and effort, and over the past six months, you had slowly lost your grip on both of those things. Much like you were losing your grip on the box of frozen dough.

You set the box down on the counter, and began arranging the dough on a large sheet pan. You only dropped a few of them, and none of those hit the floor. Your manager followed you, hands on her hips.

“_____, I can’t allow this. You are definitely still sick. Both HR and the Health Department will be down on me like a ton of bricks if I let you work when you’re sick like this.”

“I can stand, and I can use my hands.” You protested. “What more do you need?”

“A competent worker!” She snapped. You knew it was only frustration. She liked you as much as a manager was allowed. She wouldn’t fire you for this, since you hadn’t done anything against the rules. But corporate might fire you, if you missed any more shifts on account of being sick.

Beyond the looming threat of homelessness and not being able to pay your bills, the loss of your job would spell the loss of your last remaining anchor to other human beings. Tara checked up on you when she could, and sent you texts every day, but she had her own job and her own life. Your father, likewise, still had to travel a lot for his own job. When you turned to your online communities for help with understanding what had happened to you, they quickly came together to discover that the man you had grabbed in the tower was none other than the outcast Asgardian prince, Loki, the scourge of New York, an extremely controversial figure who, five years ago, had tried to take over the world. He led an alien army into New York and caused terrible death and destruction. Now, he showed up more and more often in Avengers custody. Some surmised that it was some kind of rehabilitation program, especially now that Asgard was being rebuilt in Iceland.

You hadn’t known any of these things, and you didn’t get much chance to learn more. Considering you compromised, the communities had banned you, and blocked you entirely. Finding communities that were more friendly to the idea of Loki was no walk in the park either; most of those catered to a particular type of person you considered pretty damn creepy. They didn’t have what you needed, but they did have lots of…desires. And pictures, so at least you’d been able to confirm that the man from the tower was indeed Loki, brother of Thor.

So now you were nearly alone, your only reliable point of contact was your job, and you might be on the brink of losing that as well. That would leave the rest of your presumably short life with nothing but the torment of your dreams.

That was part of the curse, these terrible dreams. They stole your strength and haunted your waking hours, always the same. There was a soft, velvety darkness that you wanted so badly to sink into. It was rest, glorious rest. It was gentleness, stillness, quiet and peace. It was everything your body and mind desperately wanted. And he was there to deny you, every night he denied you that peace. He dragged you away from that welcoming darkness, fought to keep you from its hypnotic draw. He would never let you rest, like a demon, slowly draining you of your strength and health. He bore the mark he had inflicted you with, flaunting it like an insult to you.

You wished you could go back, wished you could apologize.  That you could tell him you simply hadn’t recognized him with his hair grown out, without the armor, without the horns. Without the alien invaders. You hadn’t meant any offence.

You also wished you could yell. Scream your anger and swing your fists. A little touch on the hand was no reason to do this to someone! You were just an ordinary woman who had made a small mistake. You didn’t deserve this! If you ever saw him again, you’d give him proper cause to curse you.

You heard a sound then, like a freight truck barreling down a street too small for it, like a hurricane wind. You shouldn’t be able to hear any of those things this far inside the building. The world trembled, and a burst of brightness outshone even the neon lights.

“The hell was that?” Your manager demanded. “Ladies, are you okay?” You and your coworkers chimed in with soft affirmatives. “Okay. We need to stay put and-“

The sound of screams began floating back from the entrance of the store.

“Nevermind.” She said. “Get to the back room, and out the emergency exit. Stay together.”

She led the little group of you out between the displays of cinnamon rolls and cornbread, all of you crouching low. Your hand ached, as if the mark was being pulled from inside. That couldn’t be a good sign. Nothing had made it react before, not for months and months, not since the initial cursing.

The world around you seemed to lose some of its reality. Everything moved slowly. You felt hot. There was a loud, heavy throbbing in your head, and you collapsed against a stand full of cupcakes, unable to stand by yourself any longer.

So this was how it ended. You finally pushed too hard, and now this sickness was going to claim you among the cupcakes. You never thought you would die at work, but at least this way your body wouldn’t molder in your little apartment for a week, before Tara or your father finally found you.

“_____, what are you doing?” Your manager hissed, and took your hand. Agony shot up your arm, drawing a rough cry from you. “Oh my god, _____, are you okay? Come on, we’ve got to go!”

One of your coworkers screamed. You propped yourself up on one elbow and looked where she was pointing, terrified of what you might see.

He strode purposefully out of the produce section, and your world plunged into frigid horror.

Foreign armor. Dark leather and gleaming metal, just like all the footage you had watched, over and over again.

No.

Shining golden horns, curving a foot above his forehead, the silhouette unmistakable.

No.

The entire loss prevention department surrounded him, shouting, but unable to do anything. They weren’t equipped to deal with anybody more dangerous than the occasional shoplifter, not this. This was never supposed to happen. He pushed right passed them, paying no attention. His eyes locked on yours, wearing the smile of a demon.

No!

Your manager tugged your hand urgently, sending spikes of pain up your arm, causing you to collapse further. Cupcakes scattered as you hit the floor. From this vantage point, he looked even bigger, some kind of giant, impossible to stop.

Your manager released your hand and ran, just as he reached down and hauled you to your feet. You couldn’t even find it in you to be mad at her for abandoning you. She had kids at home. You had no one.

Besides, he had you in his grip now. You were beyond saving.

As he set you back to standing, the fever clouding your brain began to clear and strength returned to your limbs. You drew a deep breath, and it was like expelling sickness from your lungs. You felt almost good. Even with your coworkers retreating as fast as they could, with screaming customers rushing past, with Loss Prevention shouting and trying to assure you that everything was going to be okay, and standing in the far too strong grasp of the entire planet’s number one enemy, you felt better than you had in half a year.

“Ah, there it is.” He murmured, still completely ignoring all the shouting and demands. “Looks like I was right.”

You turned slowly to look up at him, stared him straight in the eyes. They looked so normal.

Then you smashed the heel of your palm upwards into his nose with all of your returned strength.

His head did not snap back, his nose did not break, his grip on you did not loosen in the least. He did look just a little surprised, but nothing else that was supposed to happen, happened. You really shouldn’t have given up your self-defense courses. But you hadn’t been able to afford them, and could they really teach you how to fight a god anyway?

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment you thought your head was going to roll. Then he burst into derisive laughter.

“Oh! She has spirit!” He exclaimed. “Not much common sense, though. Disappointing.”

“Not here to impress you!” You began to struggle, now that you knew you could. He wrapped one arm around your throat and pulled you flat against him.

“Heimdall.” He called, a word you didn’t recognize. It must have been some kind of magic, because seconds later, a flash of multicolored light blinded you, and a feeling of weightless set your stomach twisting.

For a few seconds your world was flight and light, then the sky seemed to spit you out onto a wide green field.

“Hmph.” He grunted. “Too far north again. We really must get that fixed.”

You saw men in the distance, one approaching at great speed. Loki swore quietly and released you. You dashed immediately. You heard him swear again, but only pushed yourself faster. You could see a river just a few dozen yards away, and you were a very good swimmer.

“Not that way!” He shouted, not far enough behind you as far as you were concerned. No way were you going to stop.

The ground beneath your feet gave way, toppling you forward. Within moments you were engulfed in sucking, freezing mud. What the hell was this? Quicksand? Quickmud? A National Geographic in the doctor’s office spoke of bog mummies found in Europe, but there was nothing like that in Iowa. Just where were you now?

Loki dragged you out of the mud before you could sink entirely, just as someone bellowed his name behind you.

“Oh good. You’re here. A proper welcoming party.” He said evenly in the face of his enraged brother. “I assume Heimdall tattled?”

“Loki, what have you done?” Thor demanded. “I told you to wait! Just a few days! You really couldn’t give it just a few days?”

“There was no time!” He argued. “She was dying when I found her. Tell him.” He shoved you forward. You tried to run for it again, but he caught you before you got more than a few steps. Taking you solidly by the shoulders, he leaned down and looked you right in your mud-smeared face.

“If you try to run again, I will let the land devour you.” He threatened.

“Went to a lot of trouble to kidnap me, just to let me die.” You snapped.

He sneered. “I’ve been known to change my mind on less than a whim.”

You looked at Thor, who shrugged slightly as if to say it was certainly possible. But Thor would help you, wouldn’t he? He would save you from this monster. Wouldn’t he?

Then why wasn’t he doing it?

“Please.” You pleaded quietly. Thor did nothing.

Loki took your chin in one hand and turned your head back to him.

“No.” He said. “You don’t look at him. You look at me, and you listen. You were mere steps from death, and I have saved you. Twice.” He wiped some of the mud from your cheek, shaking it off his fingers with obvious distaste.

“You’re the one who did this to me!” You shouted.

“I did not throw you into that bog.” He said.

“No, but you brought me here! And you cursed me in the first place!” You were aware that you shouldn’t be yelling at someone who was pretty much holding all of the cards, but one of Earth’s mightiest heroes was just right there, and he would help you eventually.

“I did no such thing-“ He began.

“Bullshit! You burned my hand back in the Avenger’s Tower, just because I touched you! And I’m sorry for that, but you went way overboard, cursing me with a slow death and constant nightmares like that! There was no call to go that far!”

He looked taken off guard for just one moment. “Nightmares? They were nightmares to you?”

“You didn’t even tell her what was going on, did you?” Thor accused. “Do you have any idea how much heat we are going to take for this?”

“You knew?” You shouted at him. “You knew he was doing this?”

Thor shook his head. “No, I was only just notified-“

“And the tower?” You continued. “When he cursed me, why didn’t you do anything?”

“It’s not a curse!” Loki protested. “Look, it’s on me too.” He held out his hand, but you completely ignored him.

“You were just letting me die! You were there when it happened, you saw it happen, and you didn’t even check to see what was going on!” Your temper was completely enflamed; you were shouting in the faces of gods. It was idiotic, but once you had started, half a year of stress and pain and fear came boiling out and you couldn’t stop. Loki was still trying to say something, but your anger was loud in your ears, drowning him out. “I know you don’t know me, but isn’t handling him part of your job? You brought him back here, you let him back onto the world. Why are you just standing there? Why haven’t you done anything to save me from this monster?”

Your voice rang over the field as your words reached their end, all of the bile poured out. They were both just looking at you while you caught your breath. A tiny trickle of worry wormed into your chest. You’d gone too far, hadn’t you? There had to be some kind of reason Thor hadn’t swooped in to rescue you. He was a king, he had so much to do. You were some nobody from the middle of nowhere. Insignificant. Regret grew behind the worry.

“I’m sorry-“ You began. Loki’s hand cupped your cheek; very gently snaked around to cradle the back of your head. Your breath caught. No one had touched you like that in years.

Then you saw the ice in his eyes, felt his fingers clench in your hair, and it snapped you right out of it.

“I have shared in your suffering.” He said. “You aren’t alone in this.” The words would have been comforting, if they hadn’t been said in such a threatening tone. If he hadn’t been wrenching your hair. “You have struck me.  You have disrespected me. You have insulted me and my family. Now you will listen to me. This-“ He held his right palm in front of your face, displaying the exact same mark you had. “-is an unknown affliction. I did not curse you with it. What fool would cast a curse that affected himself as well? That draining poison that stole your strength did the same to me. Ask him. He saw it happening.”

He turned your head forcibly to look at Thor, who held his hands up. “Okay, let’s calm down now. Brother, be careful.”

“You felt stronger the instant I touched you, didn’t you? Yes, you did. Strong enough to fight. Strong enough to run. When I first saw you, you could no longer stand on your own, and now look at you. Throwing tantrums in the faces of gods. That was me, that was because I came and rescued you. There was no time to explain. You were going to die, right there among your baked goods. I prevented that from happening.”

You tried to shake your head, but his grip was too tight. He felt it though.

“You need more proof? What about this then? What happens when I do this?” He took your marked hand in his, again seeming gentle, except for the fact that you could not move away.

The instant your bare palms came into contact, you felt the mark react. Like flipping a switch to power up a generator, a buzz of power rushed up your arm, trailing glowing runes in its wake. Just like back in the tower, you felt rooted to the spot, though Loki pulled you forward to press his forehead against yours, to get right into your personal space. Runes coursed over his cheek, infected his eye with their glow. The sight in your left eye became blurry, and you knew it was happening to you again too. It didn’t hurt this time, but it was overwhelming. A feeling of being filled up, like having too much blood, like your skin was too tight, and you needed to shed it. It robbed you of sense, of any thought other than getting out of your binding skin and becoming bigger than you ever had before.

“Do you feel that?” He asked through labored breaths. “I knew the instant I touched you that proximity was key. Too far apart for too long, and our lives drain away. But close up, we revitalize each other.” You saw light escape his mouth, unable to be contained even by him. It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying now, unfamiliar power overtaking your mind. You were shaking uncontrollably by now, your heart hammering your ribs.

“Enough, Loki!” Thor grabbed him by the shoulder to pull him away. “She can’t take this! Let go!”

Loki was drawn away from you, but kept tight hold on your hand, fingers laced with yours.

“Not until she understands!” He snarled. But Thor again took your wrists, and fully separated you.

You tumbled to the ground, groaning and nearly senseless. Thor wrapped his arms tightly around his brother, partly to hold him up, and partly to hold him back. He was scolding Loki fiercely, though you could barely make out the words. You lay back on the grass and let the world spin around you.

Moments passed, and then Thor knelt beside you.

“I am so sorry about this.” He said, scooping you up, and handing you over to Loki, who carried you effortlessly, despite your being dead weight. “You were not supposed to arrive here this way. But you were in danger, and we are going to take care of you. And Loki isn’t going to do that again, is he?”

Loki grimaced, but nodded. “I might have gone a bit overboard. Might. But if this thing is a curse, it affects me as well. I will get to the bottom of it. Until then, yes, we will ‘take care’ of you. I suppose it’s only fair.”

“Could you have said that any more ominously?”  Thor asked.

“What? What did I say? I just agreed with you, what’s wrong with that?”

“Did you have to say it like a looming supervillain?”

“Thor, I am carrying her, I can’t not loom.”

“You are carrying her like you’re on your way to drop her on some railroad tracks.”

“I’m sorry, are you carrying her? Because it looks to me like I am the one carrying her. Do you want to carry her?”

“I think I can walk.” You spoke up. They certainly bickered like ordinary siblings.

“Are you sure?” Thor asked. You hesitated, then shook your head. While being in contact with Loki did make you feel better, your legs still felt like jelly, and you were definitely still dizzy from all that light being inside you.

“Was that magic?” You asked. Your voice felt small and far away. “Is that what magic is?”

“It was a kind of magic.” Loki said slowly. “Either very old, or very new. Or perhaps very obscure. It feels familiar, but I can’t quite place it yet.”

“Why is it trying to kill us?”

“I don’t think it is.” He explained. “Rather, I don’t think it has a motivation. I don’t think it had a mind. It’s just something that exists, and there are consequences for interacting with it, however inadvertently. I don’t think you are to blame for this, and for once, I don’t think I am either. Until proven otherwise, I am going to be treating this as a coincidence that we just have to deal with.

But I believe it’s abundantly clear that we have to stay in the same area at least. Hopefully not touching all the time; that would be terribly inconvenient for the both of us. But not far apart. And since, as you might imagine, I can’t go traipsing all over Midgard-I have duties, you know-“

“And a hel of a reputation.” Thor interjected. Loki glared.

“Yes, and that. Because of those things, it is you who had to come here. If there had been time, I would have simply showed up at your home and tried to talk it out with you. But there was no time.”

“You had six months.” You pointed out. “And you’re just figuring this out now? You had that mark the whole time, and you never wondered what it was?”

Loki pursed his thin lips. You couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or amused.

“Tell me, do you live a busy life?” He asked.

“Well…I work a lot. Or at least, I did. I worked as much as I could. I needed every shift possible, just to get by, especially when I had to start going to the doctors.”

“Mhm. I co-rule an entire nation that is attempting to rebuild itself from scratch. I am busy. The mark was a curiosity, the sickness was inconvenient, but I had much more important things to do with my time.”

“Oh.” You said, and went quiet for a time.

They finally approached the other man you had seen in the distance, the one who hadn’t moved at all. He stood on a small, stone pavilion, gazing out into the distance. He looked even taller than your escorts, dark skinned, wearing warm brown leathers and an ornate bronze helmet with flanges in the shape of a crescent moon. Asgardians seemed to have a thing for elaborate headwear.

Before him was a large sword, partly buried in an odd contraption unlike anything you had ever seen before. He glanced at you with the kindest and most beautiful eyes you had seen all day.

“She is a guest.” Loki said as he passed.

“I know this looks incredibly shady, but-“ Thor began.

“I will let you know when they are coming.” The man said in a deep, even voice. Thor thanked him, then hurried after his brother, who hadn’t waited.

Loki crested a low hillock, and the skeleton of a city came into view. Even from here, you could see teams of builders at work, their construction efforts kicking up clouds of dust. From the looks of it, the place was eventually going to be huge, but for now, it was little more than foundations.

It was interesting to look at. You’d never seen an embryonic city before.

“Welcome to Asgard.” Thor said. “It’s a bit of a work in progress, but we’ll find a place for you.”

“I’ve already got one.” Loki said. “It just needs to be properly refurnished.”

You felt much better now, though your wet, muddy clothes were getting very cold. All the construction made you a bit apprehensive, especially all that dust. This was kind of like enemy territory you were being brought into. If you went inside, would you ever come back out?

“I’m pretty sure I can stand now.” You said. If you were going in, it should be on your own two feet. Loki obligingly set you down.  “Um, my name is _____.” You said. It was likely that they already knew who you were, but control of your own name demonstrated what small personal power you still had.

“Pleased to meet you.” Thor said. “Stay close to us, and don’t stray. Security doesn’t know you yet.”

You did as he said, but you still felt vulnerable with so many eyes on you. Of course people would stop and look if their rulers came strolling down the street. And they did attract attention; Loki with his shining horns, Thor with his resplendent cape. And you, sandwiched between, tiny in comparison, wearing a mud-drenched, company issue uniform that had always fit you poorly. Function was far more important than fashion in your line of work. But the people still stared.

Asgardians came in a surprising range of colors and features, but they were all pretty tall compared to you. They wore unfamiliar fashions, and some were carrying loads that you were sure a regular human couldn’t handle. They looked human, but they weren’t the same as you.

Construction continued all around you; even the roads were unfinished. You were led along the only areas that were fully constructed, workers rushing to and fro all around you. They all stared, especially the kids, many of whom seemed to be trying to help out with the building. You didn’t know how legal that was, but maybe child labor laws were different in Asgard. Or maybe they just needed every available hand, or had no concept of babysitters.

An adolescent girl energetically sweeping up construction debris sent a large cloud of dust into the street. It enveloped the three of you, and suddenly, you were no longer there.

You were back in Iowa, in a Summer drier than you could remember. The cornfields were dead for miles around, the destruction on such a massive scale that it had actually lowered the ambient humidity of the area. The town was mostly empty, streets choked with dust that stirred at the slightest breeze. You couldn’t breathe the dust.

You held your breath, lips pressed tightly together, heart speeding. You’d stopped walking, and someone was talking to you, but these were not your neighbor’s voices. You didn’t know them. The dust hadn’t settled. You couldn’t breathe the dust.

Panic beginning to rise, you frantically searched your soiled shirt for some patch of cloth that wasn’t soaked in mud. You held it over your mouth and nose, carefully trying to breathe through it. You couldn’t breathe the dust!

The dust used to be people.

A strong hand grasped your arm and dragged you out of the cloud. You looked into the face of a murderer and yelped in fear. The dust, a killer, an unfamiliar place…

“What’s wrong with you? Are you feeling sick again?” Concern over your wellbeing?

“The dust.” You choked out. Where were you? “The dust. Don’t breathe the dust. Cover your mouth, don’t breathe the dust. Please don’t kill me. Everybody’s already gone. Stay away from the dust.”

“What are you talking about?” A demand. You couldn’t answer.

“What’s going on? Look, she’s having some kind of fit.”

“We’re almost there, get her inside. Get her out of the dust.”

The Scourge of New York led you along, you couldn’t tell how far, but by the time they had brought you inside, you had started to calm down and remember your situation.

“S-s-sorry.” You said, still trembling. “I-I’m just overwhelmed.” It was clear from their faces that neither of them believed you.

“Just come along.” Loki commanded. “You need to bathe.”

You wouldn’t remember the corridors or the rooms, but you would remember the bath. It was bigger than any bathtub you had ever seen, and it was set into the floor.

How were you going to explain this? Tell them you had a phobia of dust? Would they buy that?

You sank into the bath and tried to let it wash you away.