#even though i should be writing the next chapter of a gilded cage

[firefly464]

The Gilded Cage - Chapter 9

hehe i’m very excited :) also thank you pami for doing write time with me that was super poggers and awesome you’re so cool 

Written in collaboration with @pamiiap​​ :D Thank you @tea-with-veth​ for beta reading, and editing :D

Master Post

First -  Previous - Next

~~~

Three days. That’s how long Eret stayed with the computer. Three days of nothing but staring at the same screen, desperately trying to test out different commands to see what would work. Three days of sitting in a dark, cold room, with nothing to keep him warm. 

Over the past three days, Eret had barely slept. 

He’d lingered there for hours, the clicking of the keyboard and flashing of the screen filling his senses. All he could think about was this could be his way home. A way to end this and leave it all behind. Maybe he could wake up and it would all be a dream. 

A dream.

Dream.

Dream was his friend. Dream was…

Dream was.

After hours of clawing at the keys for an escape, he hesitated for a moment. He curled his hands into fists and relaxed them, trying to release the tension he had. 

Instead of typing commands, he typed:

Why?

If anyone is reading, send me something

A sign, preferably

Tell me I’m not alone

Give me something

Anything

The shaking in his hands slowed, the edges of his vision melted away. He watched as his world faded into darkness.

~~~

“Hey, chat!” He says, on impulse. “How’s it been? Feels like forever.”

“Sorry for the long hiatus, life’s been throwing curveballs at me.” He continues.

Don’t worry!

You’re fine!

Its okay :D

“I hope you guys have been alright. Don’t know what we’ll be doing with this stream so I’m going to start a little poll in the chat here…”

Time melts away as he talks to his stream, he knows that. That’s how streams usually go. It happens in a blur, the eyes of thousands of people aren’t on him anymore. The stream has ended.

He falls into nothingness.

~~~

Journal Entry #1

I found the Console, still can’t get back home yet though. I’m still unsure on how it works, but I know, I know, that I can get home. It’s kind of like a command block, you can input code but it needs some sort of activation key to trigger it. Haven’t found that yet.

I’ll update this as I find more information.

Journal Entry #2

Text commands seem to work, more extreme commands need the trigger. I really should make some sort of command list, that might help. 

Journal Entry #3

I’ve made a list on a separate paper. I’m running out of space.

Journal Entry #6

What could the trigger be? I need to find it.

Journal Entry #8

I haven’t slept in three days. I need to head back.

Journal Entry #9

Nothing new as of the moment. I’m going to start working on a trigger to activate this thing.

Journal Entry #10

I wonder if I could undo whatever Dream did to everyone’s memories? I wonder if I could make it so that they didn’t hate me anymore. 

Journal Entry #13

I can’t sleep. 

Journal Entry #15

Going home back again. Bad’ll still have muffins, I hope. (If George didn’t eat them already)

Journal Entry #16

George ate my muffins. Prick >:(

Journal Entry #17

Packing for another trip to the Console today. Bad made extra muffins to compensate for the atrocity that happened yesterday. (Sidenote: George had his muffin privileges removed for a day)

Journal Entry #20

Bad’s worried. I wouldn’t blame him. I don’t think I can blame myself either. I have to get home.

Journal Entry #24

I’m here. Glad no-one’s tampered with my list. I’ve been gathering some redstone supplies to try and make a prototype trigger.

Journal Entry #27

I’ve tried several combinations of levers and buttons and redstone but nothing seems to activate it. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

Journal Entry #28

Nothing’s working.

Journal Entry #30

Can’t sleep again.

Journal Entry #32

I don’t think I’ve eaten. 

Journal Entry #33

I have to go ho back. I need to be more careful, George and Bad are getting worried. I don’t want them to be worried about me. They don’t even know me.

Journal Entry #34

Do I even know them?

Journal Entry #37

I won’t go to the Console for a couple of days. That might calm them down.

The weather’s getting warmer actually. I think spring might be almost here. Not sure if seasons might not work the same.

Journal Entry #38

George says it’s already mid-spring. I didn’t realize I’d been here for so long

Journal Entry #???

I want to go home. 

~~~

Eret closed the small book with a sigh. Ever since he had found the console several months ago, he had tried to do his best to keep a record of what he found. 

However, the journal had quickly turned into a place for him to pour his emotions, rather than document his findings. All of his actual records were with the console itself, where he could better keep track of them. 

He placed the small book in his bag, before swinging it over his shoulders. He needed to go back. Even if everything about the small, dark room made him want to scream, it was his only hope. His only way of potentially returning home. 

Gently, he pushed back the small curtain that separated his room from the rest of the community house. Even after several months of staying here, he still hadn’t bothered to make an actual room. After all, it wasn’t like he had a ton of free time. 

Almost all of his time was spent either at the console, or digging out tunnels underneath L’manberg. God, he hated those tunnels. 

As he gently stepped out into the main room, he quickly glanced around, checking to see if the coast was clear. 

It wasn’t as if he didn’t trust Bad or George, in fact it was quite the opposite. He just… He hated making them worry. He knew how much his frequent visits bothered both of them, and so lately he had begun trying to quietly slip away. 

He was almost at the front door of the community house, when a voice called out to him. 

“Eret?”

He froze. 

Shit. 

Maybe, if he kept walking, whoever it was would just… let him go. Maybe he could pretend like he didn’t hear them, and he could just move on with his day. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to figure out the best course of action. 

“Eret? Are you alright?” 

Fuck. 

He slowly turned around, trying his best not to grimace when he saw Bad standing at one of the other doors. 

“Hey…” The word sounded forced, even to him. “Uh, I was just… um…” 

Bad’s face fell ever so slightly as he noticed the small bag slung across Eret’s back. 

“Are you going to the forest again?” Eret tried his best to ignore the way that Bad’s voice was tinged with a slight disappointment. It would only make him feel guilty. 

“Uh, yeah…” 

“Were you just going to leave again? Without telling anyone?” Although there was no accusation in his tone, the words still cut deep, acting as a harsh reminder of his own actions. 

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to dispel some of the nervous energy that was swirling around him. “I didn’t want to worry you guys anymore… I left a note upstairs though, I swear!” 

That was a lie. There was no note, there never was a note. But if claiming that there was helped to ease Bad’s worries, then that was what he was going to do. 

He could tell that Bad didn’t believe him. Although his friend would never actually call him out on it, he could still tell from the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, or the small frown that crossed his face. 

“Ok… Well, before you head out again, me and George were hoping to give you something,” Bad’s voice was filled with a forced cheerfulness, complete with a matching smile. 

Eret’s head shot up in disbelief. What on earth did they possibly have to give him? They had already done so much to help him, what more could there possibly be? 

Tendrils of guilt began to worm their way through Eret’s mind, reminding him of all the ways his friends had helped him over the past months, and all the ways he had failed to return their kindness. How was he supposed to accept yet another gift? 

“I really don’t need anything, you guys have already done enough for me,” he protested, knowing full well that nothing he could say would actually dissuade Bad. 

“Nonsense, this is something that we wanted to do for you. Hold on, I’ll go get George. Don’t go anywhere!” he cried out, already rushing out of the building. 

Eret let out a long sigh at the final sentence. Of course Bad didn’t trust him to not run off. 

Why would he?

~~~

Despite every instinct in his body that was telling him to run, Eret found himself rooted to the spot where he stood. When Bad returned nearly 10 minutes later with George behind him, he had hardly moved. 

“So… What exactly is going on?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded forced and strained. 

“Well, George and I were talking,” Bad started, already rummaging through one of the many chests that lined the walls, “and we realized that you’re going to be king soon, right?” 

Eret couldn’t help but flinch at the reminder. To him, the title of king was nothing more than a reminder of what he had lost. A reminder of the pain he had caused for his friends. A reminder of the pain that he would continue to cause. 

But still, he couldn’t let his own reluctance show. If he remembered correctly, becoming king had meant a lot to his alter-ego. Hell, he had gone so far as to betray his friends, just so that he could secure the crown. 

And so he forced a smile onto his face, doing his best to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth. “I mean, yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s not going to happen for a while, but… yeah that was the idea. Why?” 

Bad’s grin grew wider, his face alight with barely contained excitement as he continued searching through different chests. Even George, who rarely showed any outward excitement around Eret, had a small smile on his face. 

“You’ll see, it’s a surprise. I just gotta find it first” 

“I uh, I think it's hanging up downstairs,” George interjected, already moving towards the stairs, “I can go grab it, hold on.” 

He was gone only for a few moments before he emerged at the top of the staircase, holding something behind his back, hidden from Eret’s line of sight. “Do you wanna explain what it is?” He asked, his question clearly directed at Bad. 

Bad nodded, then turned back to Eret, pride showing in his eyes. “Well, we wanted to get you something nice for your coronation. I know it probably isn’t going to be for a while, but you’ve seemed really stressed lately, and we wanted to do something nice for you!” 

George grinned, revealing a long, extravagant coat from behind his back. “Sapnap and Punz helped out with collecting dyes as well.” 

The silk coat was a deep shade of crimson, embellished with gold accents. It felt nice to touch but it was also durable. The inside of the coat was lined with an insulating fur that pokes over the collar, making the inside of it warm. 

He glanced up at both George and Bad, his brow furrowed in slight confusion. “Wait… Wait is this… What?” 

“It’s a coat! I know it gets cold at night so we made you this. Not to mention, a king should look the part.”

Tears started to form in his eyes, threatening to spill over as he gently took the coat. “Thank you” He forced out, unsure of what else he was supposed to say. 

“Go on then,” George said. “Put it on!”

Slowly, he took off the tattered L’manburg uniform, bloodied and stained with dirt, and put on the new coat. It felt… different. But, a good different. 

“Thank you.”

~~~

Several days had passed since Eret had last left the community house. Several days since George and Bad had gifted him the red coat. 

George could tell that their friend's absence was starting to chip away at Bad, his worry festering underneath his skin. By the third day, George had had enough. 

He quickly packed two bags, complete with everything that they would need for a long journey. He might not have known where exactly their friend had gone, but they knew the general direction. That would have to be enough. 

“Hey Bad!” He called out, his friend quickly coming down the stairs of the community house. 

“Whats up?” 

“Come on, we’re gonna go look for him.” 

~~~

Neither of them had any idea what they were looking for, all they knew was that it was somewhere in the eastern dark oak forest. They had spent nearly a week searching every nook and cranny of the woods, never finding any trace of their friend. 

That is, until they stumbled across a pathway. The dirt had been worn down, leaving a trail that they could follow.

The path had led to a small clearing, with a dark building in the center. 

Both George and Bad had recognized the strange material almost instantly. Bedrock. Eret had somehow found a building made of bedrock.

What the hell. 

The area surrounding the building was devoid of any human life, the only exception being a lone horse that was sleeping in the warm sun. 

“Well, I think we found him…” Bad’s voice was filled with concern. 

As they stepped into the strange building, they saw the room completely empty except for a machine in the middle. And unconscious at the desk, was…

“Eret?!”

~~~

Master Post

First -  Previous - Next

Taglist :D (feel free to send me an ask if you wanna be added) @hismilw @violet--majesty @chiera99 @koi-boye @waffle-time-god @miss-oleum @porkgavo @crafted-dreams​ @harley-the-pancake​ @lemonaid-ruru  @g3rmpy​​ @somethingtocrowabout  @bee-tubbo​​ @firepowder​​ @jayebird ​ @rayjayo  @carry-on-my-wayward-why​ ​ @echo-delta​ ​ @star-fruit23 ​ @brieflyburningbaguette 

[chilling-in-the-dark]

The Golden Cage Part 1: Post Room

This is a yandere story; it mentions elements of obsession, possessiveness, death, murder, kidnapping, imprisonment, and mental abuse. If any of this is triggering for you, I understand, and you don’t have to read it.

So you know how I said I might end up writing a thing for Zuko, well things happen and here’s part one of five will be flipping between what I’m calling pre and post room chapters, that I’ll make sense in a bit I promise. Anyways here’s Yandere Zuko a thing no one asked for, but you got anyhow.

Zuko smiled softly when he entered your chambers, you’d always had that effect on him, and he didn’t doubt that you always would. Zuko hoped that one day you’d act like you used to around him, back when searching for the Avatar had been a hopeless dream, the last shard of hope he’d had. You’d smiled so freely back then, and you’d been full of backtalk and witty banter, all in all, you’d been exactly what Zuko needed in his life.

For now, Zuko would content himself to spending what few precious hours of free time he had with you, in his mind, it was never enough. Still, he also had a hundred-year-old mess to clean up, and it was going to take more than the five years that had passed since he’d taken up the throne to really get that job done, but for now, it seemed things had come to a bit of a lull.

Zuko had told you as much, while you fidgeted with the golden handcuffs on your wrists, it almost made you want to laugh how well they fit your current life. You were a bird in a golden cage longing to fly free, and yet you clung to your captors every word because his daily visits were the only time you got to speak to anyone.

All of the servants were under strict orders not to talk to you; they were only there to bring you items you asked for from a list the Fire Lord had approved, a list that shrank after every clever attempt at escape.  Currently, you were only allowed meals that you could eat with your hands unless Zuko himself was present, because you’d stabbed a guard in the eyes with a pair of chopsticks in your last effort to flee. That had also been the incident that had earned you your shiny shackles. Since the staff now feared for their lives, it was the only way that they would still serve you.

At least that’s what Zuko told you when he was putting them on.

You couldn’t remember how long ago that was, it had to be a few weeks at least, or was it months, it was hard to keep track of time in a room with paintings of the outside world where windows should be. Your body had to figure out its own type of rhythm, and it seemed to have a general sense for when Zuko was going to arrive because there hadn’t been in repetitions of the first time you’d been asleep when Zuko arrived.

You’d woke to the sound of the prince’s Fire Lord’s heartbeat as your head lay on his chest, once that would have been a welcome sound, but now all it did was send a jolt of fear down your spine. Though that had been ages ago, it still gave you an excellent incentive to be awake when he arrived. In fact, right afterword, you’d stayed up for nearly a week straight and had only relented because he’d had the servants start slipping sleeping medication into your tea.

The next time you saw Zuko, you made some snarky comment about drugging prisoners; after that, he didn’t return for a week, and you learned your lesson about calling yourself a prisoner. Zuko seemed to think that you were still his girlfriend.

In your head, though, you’d always be a prisoner. Even if you were dressed in the finest silks, and ate food you never would have dreamed of in your days as a wanderer, you would never be able to truly enjoy it because all you’d wanted was freedom. You’d gladly give it all up just to be able to feel the sun on your skin again or hear the wind whistle through the trees. Sure, most nights growing up, you’d slept on the ground because whatever your mother was running from, it had made her want to avoid people, but at least you’d been able to count the stars. Now all you had was the lavishly gilded ceiling above your head, and in your mind, it was a poor comparison.

If Zuko ever noticed your reluctance to talk, he never said anything, the only time Zuko honestly expected a reply was when he asked you a question. Even then, he was so caught up in his delusions that he was happy with one-word answers. The question he posed today was one that made your heart sink, no not sink the ship you’d stowed away on sinking was what got you into this mess. The question made your heart drop was a much better way to describe it, you decided.

“Do you think we should get married soon?” There was so much hope in Zuko’s eyes as he asked that question, but you were sure the only thing reflected in yours was dread. You knew this day was coming; after all, you might not have been sure how long you’d been down here, but Zuko had visibly aged. It had to meant that years had gone by. The only thing you could do now was stall.

“Perhaps, but I’d like some time to think about it, when to get married is a big decision after all.” You weren’t going to lie to yourself; there was no if to marrying Zuko; there was only a when, and you had every intention to stall as long as possible. You may have finally given up trying to escape, but that didn’t mean you were ready to give in to your captor entirely.

“Perhaps a walk would help you think,” Zuko said as he offered his hand to help you stand up. You didn’t want to be left alone again, and angering Zuko seemed to be the fastest way to have that happen. After the chopstick incident, he hadn’t come down for what seemed like forever, and you weren’t ready to face that again, so you accepted his offer. What harm could a walk around the room, do anyways?

Except it wasn’t just a walk around the room, for the first time in five years you stepped foot outside of your chamber without immediately getting thrown back in. You were so happy you could cry, and a single tear really did roll down your cheek when he took you to the courtyard.

The stars were more beautiful then you remembered as they twinkled above your head, and the smell of grass. You hadn’t even thought about it, but now it would haunt your dreams because you knew you were going back in that room this was just some whim of Zuko’s, but still it was the closest thing to freedom you’d had in years.

Yet you knew you were still a bird in a golden cage this freedom was only temporary, it was a clever ploy to give you hope that maybe just maybe if you married Zuko, you’d get to see the outside world more. You hated yourself because it was working.

“Zuko when we get married, would I get to come out here more,” You did your best to suppress the fear in your voice. Either you did a good job, or Zuko’s selective hearing had kicked back in because he smiled at you and kissed your cheek.

Physical contact was something you’d had to learn to tolerate from Zuko because it was the only way you’d get any. At first, you’d fought it, and he’d relented giving you your space, he said he understood what a big adjustment your new lifestyle was, but you quickly became so touch starved that you basically threw yourself into his arms one day.

“Of course, though I fear you’d be rather busy a lot of things have been neglected at court in my mother’s absence, though the most pressing matter is the staff, it desperately needs tending to. Some of them are older than Uncle, and they still haven’t been allowed to retire because no one thought to find their replacements, and apparently, no one thought to arrange schooling for the servant children. So, unless corrected soon, our next generation of servants might not even be able to read.” Zuko paused for a second to think before continuing, “but I don’t see why all of that can’t be handled from right here.”

You knew Zuko was a man of his word, so if he said that you’d be allowed out of your room, even if it was just to handle court business, then he meant it. If you married Zuko, you’d be allowed to go outside, you’d be free. You weren’t even aware of how far your definition of freedom had fallen, because this had you ready to say yes on the spot.

“You know what Zuko, I do think it’s a good idea to get married soon.” You knew you were giving in to his desires, something you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t do. Yet here you stood bending to Zuko’s whim because he’d given you something that should have been your right. The person you were before the room would despise who you’d become after it.

“How does three months from now sound?” Zuko asked with a tone you could only compare to excitement.

Tags:

@yanderepeterparker​ @idkmanicantenglish​

@prettyafghan @neon-phosphorecsent​

[the-pen-pot]

Changes.

Before I begin, I'm pretty sure you guys all know I'm unemployed and have been for yonks. I was self-employed running an online jewellery store and a SAHM until Brexit. Since then (about 2016) I've been privileged enough to be able to adjust family finances so my spouse brings in the money and I keep the house ticking over. Sort of. Just to give you some idea of why an actual JOB never seems to feature in my ramblings)

As some of you know, I battle with depression. It hit me hard after finishing Gilded Cage back in about 2015, and while I've been medicated and had therapy since (both of which I no longer have access to), it's not the kind of thing that is ever really cured. One of the areas of my life that it's had the biggest impact is in my creativity. Writing is hard. Not while I'm doing it, but just getting started. I've developed a few different coping mechanisms, but the problem (which in my head I call inertia) is pretty persistent. It exists in other areas of my life too (tv shows, games etc): just finding the energy to *start* the thing is hugely challenging. Most days I manage it, but some days I don't get out of bed.

I think I've spent the past five years trying to get back to "normal". At first, it seemed a sound enough strategy, but it's pretty much time to admit that maybe I need to ditch that idea. This year in particular has shown everyone, I think, how much of an illusion normal is (and probably given us all an intense hatred for the phrase "new normal" which I hear all the time and it makes me want to beat someone's face in.)

So, I need to stop comparing what I'm doing now to what I've done in the past. I've been collecting fears because they're pretty excuses ("You'll never write anything as successful as Gilded Cage again. You've peaked; give up. No one will like it so why bother.) and I do like to cling to them as I give myself another reason to stay in bed all day. I need to acknowledge that different tactics worked for me in the past, but they'll no longer cut it, and I really need to find new strategies. Which, of course, is a mess of trial and error, some success and probably a dollop of crash-and-burn failure too.

So what's the plan?

Good question. I've already implemented some changes in my life to help since finishing The Riven Crown in 2017. (That was pretty much pure escapism and denial of my issues fic and I love it to this day because it let me completely ignore the issue for 18 months and didn't turn out too badly).

I started my patreon to help boost my self-esteem. To prove people were listening/caring/wanted what I write and were also willing to pay. (One of the neuroses from my upbringing is if you're not earning any money doing the thing, then that thing (and by extension you) is worthless. This is UTTER BULLSHIT and I know it but my psyche doesn't do logic). Patreon's been successful beyond my wildest dreams. Not only does it provide a good argument to my internal whinings of worthlessness, it provides my writing life with some external pressure. Before, all of my pressure came from me "You gotta update every week." which was challenging because I am simultaneously a hard-ass and a soft touch. I'd let myself miss my self imposed deadline and then loathe myself intensely for doing so. Not cool. Patreon allows me to externalise that a little bit more, which helps.

It also gives me fresh ideas, opportunities, and is an excellent way to connect with people who really, really like my work.

I also started using 4thewords to help with the inertia. It didn't. Not with the inertia bit, anyway. I still struggle to START THE THING, but what it does do is keep me going and keep me coming back, because by gamifying my writing, I'm giving myself other, smaller goals than "finish the chapter/story/thing" which, as we all know, makes a big goal easier to achieve. I'm not staring down the barrel of "Write 8 chapters and a smutty epilogue". I'm staring down the barrel of "Write 700 words to kill the critter and get cool gear" which is infinitely more do-able and also, I get cool gear. It feeds the positive reward feedback monkey brain and monkey brain likes that.

I need to do more, though, and mostly I think that comes down to trying out new strategies in the way I live my life to find a happy balance between getting things done and feeling worthwhile, and also getting the rest/downtime/whatever my neurochemistry needs to function. This is especially hard right now because I recharge through solitude. Like, utter solitude. Ideally, an empty house. Which has not happened since lockdown began in March. My home is currently also my husband's work and my kid's school, and that's not changing until at least September. I deserve a medal for not murdering anyone in the depths of an introvert-forced-to-socialise-constantly fugue yet, if I'm honest.

So next week (July 20th to 26th-ish) I'm taking a week off writing. (Sounds dead simple, doesn't it? But actually it's not.) What that means is I won't write during that week unless there's a project that's really captured my imagination and I'm compelled to do so. Will I still be posting? Yep. I'm angling this so that, hopefully, there'll be minimal delays to any scheduled postings.) After that I plan to gently increase the amount of writing/editing/actual "work" I do during the week. At the moment it's a bit hodge podge. I normally write a bit in the morning. 2000 words on a great day. On a not great day, maybe 100. I'd like to build that into something more consistent and productive, Monday to Friday. The idea is that roughly one week in every four, I'll take off from writing. 

It seems excessive. Even me looking at it right now, I'm like "that's a LOT of time off", but I think I need it. At least to start off with. I need time to just lie in bed and read fic if I want to. Time free of the constant, internal nagging of: "You should be doing x". Pre-planned, guiltless, time-off.

My hope is that it will help stabilise my productive/not productive patches into something workable that leads to a happier life for me, and more fic for you guys =D

Thanks for listening to me ramble!    

[b-witchered]

Eeeeeeeeeee! I love tgia SO MUCH❤️ Any chance of more Renfri and Renfri&Yennefer? 🥺 The parallels on chapter 11 were f***ing amazing. (Thank you for writing the alive!Renfri we all deserved)

Renfri and Yennefer definitely get more scenes together! However, I do fear I’m setting up some of my readers for failure oops. Renfri/Yennefer as a couple isn’t going to happen within the scope of tgia for a few reasons

PUTTING THIS UNDER THE CUT, plus a little tgia snippet from the next chapter, because i have never been accused of being concise in my life

Honestly? They might have slept together at some point when Geralt and Yennefer were on the outs. They’re both very attractive individuals, danger and almost dying clearly gets Yennefer fired up, and Renfri has been known to make questionable sexual choices when it comes to Very Dangerous Individuals. So their relationship probably does include some flirting, some pushing of boundaries, some erotic subtext where Renfri has at least once put her sword under Yennefer’s chin and tilted it up

But when it comes to an actual relationship, Renfri at least is smart enough to put her foot down. They’re fine as rivals-friends-frenemies, but Renfri has some serious trust issues. Especially with mages. Especially with brotherhood mages. Yennefer knows Stregobor. She might not like him, but they belong to the same order. 

And then there’s the big thing between them: Yennefer wants kids. She wants, desperately, to be a mother. This is tied into her whole desperation for unconditional love thing she has going on. Renfri? Does not want kids. Absolutely against them. If she somehow gave birth tomorrow, that kid would be either adopted out or in Jaskier’s care quicker than you could say “curse of the black sun”. It’s not even that Renfri doesn’t like kids. She’d be a great weird-aunt-who-gives-an-8-year-old-a-real-sword-as-a-present. But Renfri does not want to be responsible for a child’s life and health and safety.

There are other little things. I love comparing and contrasting Renfri and Yennefer in tgia honestly because it’s so much fun? Yennefer was born a peasant and clings desperately to the power and prestige her magic affords her. Renfri was born a princess and cast it aside with pride so that she could be as unladylike as she pleased. Both of them knowing that power means sacrifice. It’s a gilded cage to be sure, but it’s still a cage. Yennefer was willing to make the sacrifices and change herself to gain power while Renfri ran. Granted, Renfri ran for many reasons but let’s be real, tgia!Renfri wouldn’t have stuck around to be married off and shuffled away to a quiet corner of the kingdom, out of sight out of mind. 

Renfri was a princess, but her father was a King with male heirs. No matter what parallels I draw, her situation was vastly different from Princess Pavetta, sole heir of Queen Calanthe. And even then, even then with circumstances giving her great importance and a parent in power who should have been sympathetic to her plight, Pavetta was still a pawn on a board who was expected to marry a man she did not love for a political match and then become a background trophy. But even so, Pavetta would always have been Queen and the keeper of her bloodline, and so retained at least some power. Until she produced an heir of course, after which she would have become... less important to keep alive.

Renfri on the other hand? After Jaskier’s birth, she’s a spare. Jaskier is the male heir, and so he got to leapfrog over Renfri in the inheritance. Renfri is officially a bargaining chip, one that doesn’t even have to be compromised with because she is not going to be running the country. As best she could maybe hope to strike a political match with a prince and become a queen of somewhere not her homeland, with little power and easily replaceable. But Stregobor claimed Renfri had internal mutations, ones that might make her sterile, and so as a bride she would be... undesirable to say the least, except perhaps as a bride to a widower who already had heirs to follow him and needed no more. Perhaps to a second son who needed a bride but whose family tree needed no new branches. Which means she would likely be married off to a man, possibly very much her senior, probably not a King but perhaps a Lord (or lord’s son) currently in the king’s favor. This choice would have been made for her, and she would have been expected to accept her new position with grace.

Yennefer’s father sold her away as well. Yennefer’s father struck a financial deal. Renfri’s father’s deal would have been political in nature, likely. Yennefer was bargained away to the brotherhood, Renfri would have been bargained away to a man. 

(me, loudly: what about the implications of a mage organization comprised of all genders being called the brotherhood.)

Renfri and Yennefer each have. A lot of issues. A lot of these issues would make then incompatible for a longterm relationship. Renfri needs someone she can feel safe with, and that someone is never going to be a brotherhood mage, even if it could even be a mage at all. Yennefer needs someone who loves her unconditionally, who places her first, always. She needs to be someone’s first priority. That doesn’t necessarily have to be a romantic relationship mind you, but either way that person can’t be Renfri. For Renfri, her first priority is Jaskier. Always. Just like Jaskier’s first priority will always be Renfri. 

(He loves Geralt, he does, but if Geralt was his first priority then he would have told him about his sister long ago. Geralt is important to him, and he would move heaven and earth for the Witcher, but his sister is the only family he dares to claim and he defeated death itself in her name.)

Yennefer and Renfri both have serious control issues as well. Yennefer has literally mind controlled Geralt before, has manipulated him, and keeps him on his toes. She has this need to be in control, and for the most part Geralt is fine with following where she leads, and that makes her feel safe with Geralt. Up to and until she finds out that Geralt’s wish might be the reason why she loves him, and then all of a sudden it isn’t her in control, it’s some untamable uncontrollable magic, and she absolutely flips her lid. She’s furious! She feels betrayed! All this time she thought she was in control, but then she finds out that Geralt tied their fates together or whatever. 

(Thankfully, this isn’t an issue in tgia, but Yennefer also doesn’t exactly love Geralt in tgia so much as she loves being loved. Their major conflict in tgia is probably going to be about children, honestly, because Geralt sure as fuck doesn’t want any.) 

Renfri? Also would very much need to be in control of a relation. Maybe especially the sexual aspects of it considering her trauma involving that. She’s pretty, and that hasn’t done her any favors. She bristles under restrictions and has broken the door of every cage people have tried to shove her into, including death though she had a little bit of help from Jaskier breaking out of that one. She’s protective, and secretive, and has trust issues a mile wide. She never even tells people her name. Every piece of personal information is carefully controlled. And who can blame her for her trust issues a mile wide? She was assaulted when she was fifteen. At least one man she willingly lay with literally murdered her the morning after (thanks Geralt). Renfri has issues with intimacy.

So yes, while I love throwing them in scenes together and I love their snarky terrible friendship where Yennefer proposes they do something terribly dangerous and Renfri is like “...i mean i GUESS i’ll go.” unless she has a prior commitment OR it conflicts with her primary motivation of protecting Jaskier (getting too close to Geralt threatens this purpose), they won’t be getting together in the scope of the fic

which i hope people won’t be too disappointed by oof

sorry for writing you a whole essay about Renfri and Yennefer when you probably did not want it lmao, as you can see this has been pressing on my mind and tumbled about more than a little bit. 

(honestly though if Pavetta hadn’t been married to Duny and hopelessly in love with him, I might have shipped her and Renfri tbh. They had plenty in common, Pavetta had magic and would have been powerful enough to defend herself but wasn’t a brotherhood mage, they got along well and had inside jokes, the only thing standing in the way of that ship (besides Duny and. you know. the whole death thing) is that Renfri wouldn’t be too keen on becoming a queen/having to deal with shithead nobles again and the whole issue of Stregobor. But Renfri is a princess of a royal bloodline, was raised to be royalty with knowledge of court customs, and is a trained and blooded warrior. Let’s be real, Calanthe would have loved Renfri as a daughter-in-law. Renfri is exactly the ruthless sort of heir Calanthe would adore. There would be the issue of an heir of course, but as long as Pavetta was the one pregnant it wouldn’t be a big deal because Pav’s the one with the important bloodline to carry on.)

ANYWAY you have been very patient with me so here is a tiny Yennefer and Renfri snippet from the next chapter - 

As soon as they’re alone, Renfri turns to Yennefer. “I’m going to kill you for this. One day. Sleep with one eye open, Witch.”

“Come now,” Yennefer teases, “It can’t have been that bad.”

“I genuinely can’t tell if he’s criminally stupid or just ignoring the obvious.” Renfri hisses, “I’m carrying a sword. What kind of handmaiden beheads a bandit?”

“A very loyal one.” Yennefer offers, but she’s trying way too hard to keep a straight face and Renfri can see the smile she’s doing her damnest to contain. 

“You’re lucky I didn’t kill him in his sleep the fourth time he started extolling your virtues for taking an ‘unpolished peasant’ under your wing.” 

That makes Yennefer break face and give a most unladylike snort that she covers with one dainty hand. “You know,” She says, laughter still in her voice, “I wouldn’t need him if you just agreed to go with me.”

“If this is you trying to annoy me into going on an adventure with you, the answer is no.” Renfri immediately states. “Need I mention the last time you talked me into going monster hunting for you? There was a fucking manticore nest, Yennefer.”

“You enjoyed yourself, admit it.” Yennefer smiles with a flip of her hair.

Renfri presses her hand together and then presses them to her lips like she’s about to start praying for Yennefer to get some sense in her empty, empty head. “You are literally insane. You know that right? Stark raving mad.”

[intrepidolivia]

Tarot: 3--The Empress

Pairing: NeganXOlivia (OC)

Warnings: cursing, implications of abuse, discussion of injuries

Summary: A/B/O AU. Sherry gets Olivia settled in, she meets Frankie, and has dinner with Negan.

A/N: Been a little slow writing of late, but I’m already working on the next chapter!

The Empress is traditionally associated with maternal influence, it is the card if you are hoping to start a family. She can represent the creation of life, romance, art, or new business.

Sherry led Olivia through the lounge to a hallway lined with doors. Most of them were closed, though a couple stood cracked open, allowing her to see into fairly well appointed bedrooms. Sherry pointed to one of the closed doors.

“This one’s me,” she told her, and opened the next door. “And this will be you.”

The room was plain, which didn’t surprise her. It had been unoccupied for some time, after all. There was a dresser, a small table serving as a desk, and a double bed with cobbled-together bedclothes. It was better than anything she’d had since the world ended.

“Thank you,” she said, looking up at Sherry.

Sherry chuckled, ruffling her hair. “It’s not much, but once you start earning points you’ll be able to fix it up a little. I can help with that if you promise not to tell Negan,” she winked.

Olivia grinned a bit. “Won’t say a word,” she promised, taking a tentative step inside the room. There was no lock on the door, she noticed, but it still felt safer than most places she’d been. The windows were set high in the wall, too small for someone to climb into. She could barricade the door if need be. She shook herself. She was safe here. She didn’t need to think that way.

“We’ll go ahead and get you some fresh clothes, and a shower. I’m sure you’re dying for both,” Sherry said, leaning on the doorframe.

She nodded eagerly. “I am. I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.” She was also desperate to lessen her scent. Any Alpha close to her would know what she was, but a proper shower, with soap and maybe even perfume, would make it a little less obvious. She hesitated, glancing at Sherry’s outfit. “Do I… have to wear a dress and heels?”

Sherry laughed, shaking her head. “This is just for wives,” she said. “So, advantage or drawback depending on your point of view.”

“I’ve never been much on heels,” Olivia confessed. “I can’t move in them very well.” She wondered, perhaps uncharitably, if that was why Negan liked his wives in them.

“No one can,” Sherry smirked. “Honestly half the time I just have on slippers and save these stupid things for public purposes. But I’ll grab you a few changes of clothes, and some shoes. What’s Negan going to put you to work doing? Did he say?”

Olivia nodded. “I used to be a nurse. So he’s going to have me working in the infirmary. Starting tomorrow I guess.”

Sherry raised an eyebrow. “Huh, that should pay a lot of points. So you should be pretty good as far as the essentials.”

“Hopefully. I’ll be out for a week every month,” she sighed. “Without suppressants it’s hard to get out of bed, much less to try to work. Not to mention being around other people.”

“Well, Negan’s sure not going to let you go roaming around if you’re in heat,” Sherry agreed, sympathetically.

Olivia frowned a bit. “I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s going to mate me.” He would be a safe choice in some ways. He was dangerous, but he was strong. More than equal to the task of keeping her safe, considering what he’d built with Sanctuary. Still, the thought frightened her.

“Probably so,” Sherry said. “But he��s under the impression he’s irresistible. My advice? Even if you decide to say yes to him, make him work for it some.” She gave Olivia a sharp-toothed grin. “He doesn’t force anyone to be his wife, but there are undeniable benefits all of us take advantage of for one reason or another. And Alpha and Beta females aren’t in terribly short supply. You, little Omega, are unique. Don’t let him forget that.”

“I don’t know if I want to say yes,” she admitted. “He scares me.”

Sherry nodded. “He should. He’s dangerous. But if you’re his, he’ll put that toward making sure you’re safe. And he’s good to us.”

“As long as you obey him?” Olivia let a little sourness creep into her voice.

“Well,” Sherry sighed. “I won’t deny that he likes being in charge. He likes people to be afraid of him, he likes people to obey him, and yes, he likes having a harem of wives. But,” she tapped the tip of Olivia’s nose with a long, elegant finger. “He’s good to us. And he’s not usually very hard on his wives.”

She thought about responding to the ‘very hard’ part, but chose not to. Sherry was being kind to her, and she didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Even so she couldn’t help but muse that even a gilded cage was still a prison. Then again, what alternative was there?

“Hey,” Sherry’s voice cut into her thoughts. Olivia looked up, and the other woman smiled. “Cheer up, sweetie. You’re going to be fine, I promise.”

Olivia nodded, giving her a small smile. “Thanks,” she said softly.

“Now, I’m going to get you some fresh clothes, and we’ll find you some things for a nice bath. That’s generally warmer than a shower around here.” She winked. “You say yes to Negan and sometimes he lets you use his bathroom. He usually has hot water.”

Of course he did. Rather than say anything, Olivia just nodded again.

Sherry ruffled her hair. “Sit tight. I’ll be back in a few.”

Olivia sat down on the bed once Sherry had gone, not sure what else to do. Any belongings she had were left back with her old community, so there was nothing to put away. Nothing to rearrange. Biting her lip, she pulled her knees to her chest, feeling alone.

It was better than being with Kevin, she reminded herself. At least Negan gave her a little bit of choice. And, if she were to believe him, safety. When Kevin found out she was an Omega, it was almost as though dollar signs lit up in his eyes. She’d ceased to be a person, and had become a bargaining chip. Chattel. She wasn’t sure if it was better than him claiming her or not. In her situation it seemed likely that in the end Negan would end up knotting and mating her. Sherry had been reassuring, so maybe--just maybe-- he wouldn’t be cruel. But she’d had more than enough of Alphas who wanted more than she was willing to give. It seemed almost inevitable that most of them wound up violent.

She might have ended up brooding until Sherry returned, if there hadn’t been a knock on her door. She approached cautiously, afraid it was going to be Amber back to torment her. Instead, it was the woman Negan had introduced as Frankie.

The other redhead smiled. “Hi,” she said.

“H-hello?” Olivia still felt more than a little nervous. She didn’t want to alienate her suite-mates (other than Amber), but she didn’t know what the other woman could want.

Frankie seemed fairly relaxed, however. Her smile only widened, crinkling her nose. “Hey, sorry if you want to be alone,” she said. “I just wanted to say a proper hello. Sherry kinda tucked you under her wing and ran off with you.” She giggled softly. “She does that.” Frankie put out a hand. “I’m Frankie. The other ginger,” she said drily.

Her charm was disarming, and Olivia smiled, taking her hand. “Olivia. The Omega. Since that seems to be my claim to fame.”

Frankie nodded, almost eagerly. “Yeah. So I heard from Amber’s bitching.” She leaned against the doorjamb. “So, sorry about that. Amber…” She shook her head. “She’s kinda a trainwreck. The whole apocalypse thing fucked her up. Try not to pay her any mind.”

Olivia shrugged. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good call,” the other redhead chuckled. “Anyhow, look, I did want to let you know I used to be a massage therapist. And we took classes on Omegas in heat. So if you need some help once that rolls around, and you’re not a new wife…” she trailed off, glancing over with narrowed eyes.

Olivia frowned slightly. The offer was a good one. Perhaps a little too good, now that the world had ended. No one did things as favors anymore. She hesitated. “In exchange for what?” she asked, cautiously.

“Nothing much,” Frankie said earnestly. “I didn’t really mean it like a Godfather favor or anything.” Her cheeks turned pink as she looked down. “Just, you know. More an open-ended thing. Like watching each other’s backs and helping each other out if we need it.”

“I can’t tell if you’re flirting with me or trying to ask for an alibi,” Olivia said after a moment.

Frankie laughed. “You’re so suspicious. I’m just trying to be friendly. We’re all in here together so helping each other out is for the best, you know?”

Olivia relaxed a little, chuckling. “Yeah… sorry. It’s been rough for a while. It’s hard to trust anyone. Even a Beta female.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Frankie said softly. “You’re lucky you made it this long without something awful happening.”

She couldn’t quite meet the other woman’s eyes. “Plenty awful happened,” she said. “But I didn’t get killed or forced into mating. So there’s that.”

Frankie nodded. “That’s good, hon,” she said gently. “And you’re safe now. Nobody’s going to cross Negan. Even if you aren’t a wife.”

“That’s what I keep hearing,” she replied, sighing.

“God, you too?” Amber’s sneering voice made Frankie turn. The blonde was standing in the hallway, arms crossed. She wrinkled her nose. “She’s short and weak and she stinks,” she continued. “And she’s only here because Negan wants to knot her.”

This time there was no Alpha to hold her back. Olivia growled. “You spend weeks in the woods and see how nice you smell,” she shot back. “And keep running your mouth and we’ll see who’s weak.” She chose to ignore the last part of Amber’s commentary. That, at least, she was pretty sure was right.

“Amber, having someone new here doesn’t mean there’s going to be less goodies for you,” Frankie cut in, her voice reasonable. “Olivia’s going to be working, so she’s not going to be taking anything meant for you anyway.” She arched an eyebrow. “And I don’t see why you’re acting so jealous. It’s not like you care if Negan sleeps with you or not.”

Amber sniffed, turning her nose up. “I don’t care if he’s panting after some Omega bitch. I just don’t think she should be here smelling up the place and getting a free ride. She ought to be out there with the rest of the workers if she thinks she’s too good to be a wife.”

Olivia’s nails bit into her palms. “I don’t think I’m ‘too good’,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

Frankie laid a hand on Olivia’s shoulder. “It’s different for Omegas than us Betas, you know that… It’s not something she can take back later…”

“So? Why’s she got to be here while she’s mulling it over?” Amber sneered.

“Because Negan said so.” Sherry’s voice cut through whatever Amber would have said next. She strode up the hall, a cloth tote slung over one shoulder, her expression hard. “That’s all you need to know, Amber. If you don’t like it, I’m sure you could take it up with him.”

Amber flinched at the suggestion. She cast a dirty look at Olivia, and tossed her hair. “Whatever,” she growled, stalking off to another room and slamming the door behind her.

Sherry sighed, rolling her eyes. “That woman has a real attitude problem,” she said. She smiled at Frankie. “Hope everyone else was getting along.”

Frankie grinned. “Yeah, so far so good,” she said, and patted Olivia’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you with the mother hen, but I’ll see you around later,” she said.

Olivia couldn’t help but chuckle, waving at Frankie headed back to the lounge.

Sherry passed her the bag. “I found you some clothes, and some soap and shampoo. Go ahead and get washed up, dinner should be here before too long.”

The bathroom Sherry showed her to was fairly spacious, and already stocked with towels. As she’d been warned, the water was on the tepid side, but she didn’t much care. It was the first time she’d had warm water and soap in so long she’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

Olivia scrubbed every inch of her skin, washed her hair, and luxuriated in the feeling of being clean. She felt much less self-conscious once she had washed up and put on fresh clothes. She thought most of what she had on was probably a loss, discolored by ground-in dirt and sweat and even blood. Even so, she bundled them together in the hopes that she might get them washed.

In the mirror she examined herself, frowning at her visible ribs and spine, and jutting hip bones. She might not have lasted long if she hadn’t wound up with a group. Still, the bruising across her back, ugly blue and purple stripes, reminded her she might not have lasted long with one either. Negan at least seemed like he’d be… well, perhaps not kind, but so far not abusive. And he’d been right; Sherry seemed like she would be in Olivia’s corner.

She chose a pair of soft drawstring pants and a tee shirt with a cartoon cat on it. The clothes were comfortable, if a bit large on her. Soon she was dressed and feeling better than she had in months. Her belly growled, and she remembered that Negan had promised food. Quickly stashing her new clothes in her new room, she headed down the hall.

Olivia could hear him before she got to the lounge. The baritone laugh carried down the hallway, along with the scent of something delicious. Despite her hunger, she approached cautiously, peering into the room from the doorway before she let her presence be known.

Negan sat on the couch, one arm thrown around Frankie’s shoulders. He’d left his leather jacket behind, still wearing that white tee that clung so enticingly to his chest. Lucille, the barbed-wire wrapped weapon, leaned against the wall next to the door. Even with his wives, he apparently didn’t go unarmed.

The other wives sat in chairs or at the bar with plates of food. Olivia’s jaw almost dropped as she finally recognized the smell of tomato sauce and realized Negan had brought honest-to-god spaghetti.

Negan paused, a beer bottle halfway to his lips, and his nostrils flared. He turned his head, dark eyes catching her, and grinned widely. “Well, hey there. No need to be shy, sweet thing. Come eat. You must be hungry.” He indicated the empty spot on the couch beside him. “I saved you a seat.”

She might have balked at his presumption, but she was hungry. She padded in, avoiding looking at Amber. Negan leaned down, opening the containers on the coffee table, and portioning a small serving of pasta and sauce onto a plate.

“I know you probably ain’t been fucking fed right for a while,” he said as she sank to the couch beside him. He handed her the plate and a fork with a smile. “So start with that. If you’re still hungry we can try a little more, but don’t eat yourself sick.”

She nodded, almost nervous that she would drop the plate. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Negan’s grin was toothy. “You’re welcome,” he paused, dark eyes dropping to her shirt, “Kitten,” he said, his voice a low and almost sensual rumble. He chuckled as her cheeks grew warm.

Olivia ducked her head and concentrated on her food so that she wouldn’t have to look at the large Alpha next to her. It took an effort to keep from wolfing her food down. After subsisting on canned food and foraging for so long, pasta that had actually been boiled, and sauce that was cooked tasted like heaven.

Sherry chuckled softly. “As I was saying, Negan, Olivia is settling in fine. I think you should let her rest a day or two before you put her to work, though.”

Olivia looked up, swallowing a mouthful of noodles. “N-no, I’ll be fine,” she protested. “I have to start earning points.”

Negan laughed again. “Well, you were right, Sherry, I owe you a beer,” he said. He looked over at Olivia with a smirk. “She said you’d say that. Don’t worry so much, Kitten. You can afford to coast a day or two.”

He gave her a teasing swat on the back. It wasn’t hard, by any means, nor was it malicious. It wouldn’t have hurt if she wasn’t covered in bruises.

Olivia flinched, as much in fear as pain, hunching her shoulders and yelping. She managed not to spill her plate, and managed to keep her seat. Negan froze, eyes widening in surprise. Then they narrowed, a dark fire behind them.

Sherry sat forward, putting her plate down. “Livvy, you okay?” she asked quickly.

Olivia made herself straighten up, forced a smile. She avoided looking at Negan directly. “Y-yeah. I’m okay. Sorry. Just a little sore.”

Negan’s mood never quite made it back to relaxed and jovial the rest of the meal. He smiled at their conversations, chuckled at Sherry’s jokes, pulled Frankie to his side teasingly. But something clearly stuck in his craw.

Olivia was afraid it was her. Negan didn’t try to touch her again, and when she emptied her first plate he was quite solicitous about being certain she got enough. He included her in the conversation, never probing too deeply, not mentioning her earlier reaction. Even so, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her.

Despite her worries, the time passed quickly, and soon enough she was yawning. Sherry chuckled.

“Come on, Liv. Let’s get you to bed,” she said.

Negan waved for her to stay. “I got it,” he said. He stood, holding a hand out to Olivia. “Come on, Kitten. I’ll tuck you in.”

She wanted to object. She knew the way back to her room, and she certainly didn’t need him to tuck anything in. But the heaviness of his dark eyes told her that he wasn’t asking. Swallowing, she took his hand and let him walk her down the hall.

Tagging:   @noodlecupcakes @glittered-unicorn-lava@genevievedarcygranger@adair-donovan @feistybaby @negans-network @ask-kakashihatake @haleyea @collette04

[alexeiadrae]

Strange Things About the Monarchy in the Slayersverse

I think the big thing that jumps out at me is how unconcerned the monarchs in the Slayersverse are to producing more children, when producing as many children as possible has traditionally been one of the big goals for most monarchs. Especially in an age where infant and child mortality was high even for the wealthy (Queen Anne of England had 17 pregnancies, 12 of them stillbirths, and of the ones that survived, only one lived to be older than 2, and he died in childhood, so she had 17 pregnancies and no heirs that were biological children).

Royal women tended to marry in their teens and were expected to start producing children. If a spouse died, it was expected that the surviving spouse would remarry to further diplomacy and produce more heirs. Yet in the Slayersverse, this does not seem to be as much of a preoccupation. A. Naga is in her 20s, unmarried, and if she is betrothed, it is never mentioned (keep in mind, it was not uncommon to arrange engagements between monarchs in infancy, though often those deals fell apart during the passage of time. Mary Queen of Scots was engaged when she was 6 months old to Edward VI of England, but when that fell through, she was sent to France at the age of 5 to live with her new fiance's family and get used to the ways of the French court. Naturally, she did not marry him at the age of 5, she was 16 when that happened). B. Similarly, Amelia is not married and there is no mention on an engagement, even though she is at least 17 by Revo/Evo. C. The number of children among the royals is small. Naga and Amelia's age gap is rather large, especially considering a royal woman would not nurse her children (Anne Boleyn tried. Henry VIII said no. She didn't press the issue, thus ensuring her head remained attached to her neck for a few more years). Alfred appears to be the only child of Christopher. If Randy has children they are never mentioned. Likely the reason is because HK didn't want to bog the story down with too many characters. Still, looking at other royal families, Martina appears to be an only child, and I can't think of any royal family depicted in the series where there are numerous children. They could be there, but they are absent. D. That Prince Phil never remarried is strange. Given he is set to inherit the throne and given that HK has said that women can't inherit the throne in Saillune (though there appears to be some debate on this), he would be under a lot of pressure to re-marry and father more kids. Though hopefully he wouldn't go all Henry VIII about it. Christopher, also, for all intents and purposes appears to be a widower (either that or women in Saillune really stay out of official business, though Amelia would seem to contradict this). And Martina's father has also never appeared with a queen. Once again, the more likely reason is not to muddy the story with too many characters. Potential Fanon Explanation (not sure how much weight I give any of these): -Perhaps, because of religious or cultural taboos, remarriage after the death of a spouse is forbidden in the Slayersverse, and that extends to the monarchy. -Prince Phil's renowned ugliness means that it is very difficult to find someone who would marry him. OK, seriously, after working for several years with meth addicts who smelled like rotten shrimp and whose teeth were rotting out of their gums and it was physically painful for me to look at them because my teeth would start to ache in response (damn empathy), whose skin was grey, scabbed, and who knows what else, yet they still were pregnant/recently fathered children/sexually active, I've come to believe that there is no level of ugly that someone won't fuck. So the good news for Phil is that if he wants to embark on marriage again, someone somewhere would have him. -Infant and child mortality could be low because of sorcery and may be comparable to what we see in our modern times, especially in a place like Saillune. This would be why there isn't a lot of focus on breeding like rabbits. As Louis VII of France discovered, having a plethora of male heirs reach adulthood becomes a curse as they start to bicker over who gets what and start wars with each other, so they may deliberately limit family size. -At the same time, a high infant/child mortality could also explain why there aren't a lot of royal children. Many don't survive. The problem with this one, though, is that it would make no sense to let the surviving royal children gallivant across the continent without bodyguards and the like. On this note we go into... Privacy! Privacy was damn hard to come upon for royals! In England, they even had an official Groom of the Stool, no, not the type of stool you step on to reach the china you put out of the kids reach, I'm talking excrement stool, basically, this person's job was to assist the king as he took a shit and examine the contents to make sure the king was healthy. And you thought your job sucked! But it was actually a coveted post because you had the kings confidence and trust. For the king of England, though, not even bowel movements were private. Many royals never even slept alone, and this isn't even in the sexual sense. Royal women shared their beds with other noble women, and it was a great honor for a woman to be asked to sleep with the queen. This did happen with the men, though not to the extent it did with the women, but people would not have concluded that a prince who shared a bed with another man was engaging in anything sexual. Sleeping alone is a rather modern invention. Royals were surrounded by people morning, noon and night. Royal women had a group of ladies in waiting to attend them. Men similarly were surrounded by people. So the lack of other nobles surrounding Amelia, Phil, Naga, etc, is strange. That Naga in particular would travel without a companion is strange (you could argue that as Amelia always traveled with other members the Slayers group, with the exception of the one time she went to find Phil, that she had people with her even if they weren't nobles). Possible Fanon Explanations: -It's hard to say, but it's possible that the royal courts in the Slayersverse are at an early stage of evolution, before the varied and strange jobs involving stool collection could be invented. So perhaps they did have privacy in the bathroom at least, and perhaps the role of the ladies in waiting to constantly attend to a royal woman, had not been firmly established yet. I'd briefly created a lady in waiting for Naga but ended up writing her out. Amelia never mentions one, is never seen with one, and given that in the novels we meet her at the Saillune court, if it was expected for the princesses to be attended by one then we should have seen her then. -This one is rather cynical, but a kingdom that grants its royal daughters so much freedom is also at odds with one that would not let them inherit power, though perhaps there is a sinister purpose...them dying in a heroic adventure on the road and paving the way for the next male heir. In the novels, though, Phil does take an active role in trying to keep Amelia out of the action (at one point picking her up and telling her that the battle scene is no place for a little girl), YET he lets her travel with Lina and Gourry under dangerous circumstances. Perhaps the tradition of women traveling on their own for a bit was created for that purpose (though the reasons why were lost to history), and since it's a tradition Phil feels he has to honor it even if he doesn't like it, and the royal daughters, heady with teenage rebellion and itching to get away from court and stretch their wings and, being teenagers, convinced of their invincibility would riot if it was done away with. On a related note, one question I've seen different people take different approaches to is the question of whether or not marriages are arranged. Given that Naga and Amelia do have so much freedom to travel without being under the watchful eye of the court, that tends to confer a degree of sexual freedom to meet potential partners, fall in love, etc, that would wreck problems with the whole arranged marriage thing. At the same time, social pressure can be enough, given as I went to high school with a significant percentage of people who had immigrated from India, and a few (though not the majority) of them had been betrothed in high school and were still expected to travel to go to college and stuff, but they also accepted the arranged marriage because of family pressure. That said, I like the idea of princesses who get to go out and have fun rather than live their lives in a gilded cage at the mercy of their sovereign (and Catherine of Aragon's story drastically shows how those fortunes can rise and fall precipitously, particularly if you had the bad luck to be married to a sociopath). I like that Amelia addressed Phil as "daddy" rather than "My Supreme and Illustrious and Royal Father and King" or whatever (not that royal fathers didn't love their children and their children didn't love them). It may not make much logical sense, but it makes for a good story.

[logosminuspity]

Been brainstorming a lot in the past few weeks, and with some motivational inspiration from superrisu, I really want to get serious about writing an original story. Talking with friends of mine who actually have written stories and gotten them published, the biggest thing is just writing the damned draft. Edits can happen later. So with that in mind, I’ve managed to write a first chapter of what I hope is going to become a full-fledged story of mine this year. Fingers crossed for keeping this moving forward!

“Lady, you’re going to catch…something staying out here like this.”

The guard shifted nervously on her feet, not quite stamping, but moving and resetting her weight just enough that it was impossible not to glance down at her boots. Sturdy leather, worn but not too worn. Heavy enough that even a half-deaf owl could no doubt hear anyone who wore them coming from a mile away. Ridiculous. But then, what about humans wasn’t ridiculous?

Arana could hear the quiet rapprochement from her designated guardian, though there was no immediate follow up. Her first instinct was to continue swirling her feet in the cold water of the garden’s reflecting pond. The cold felt good. It felt real, and the grass and ground that had only just been frosted and frozen this morning made her feel real, too. Winter and the great cold were coming, if not quite yet. She wondered if it would change anything, if it would feel any different. Would it change her any more than what she already had?

Arana reached with one hand down to the still waters of the pond, watching the ripples as her fingers broke the surface. She stirred idly, her thoughts churning. When she was done she flicked the water from her fingertips to the side, droplets catching the leather of her guard’s boots.

“Isn’t the phrase to ‘catch death’?”

Perhaps that was what she wanted anyway. In the safety of the glen and forest, even the thickest of snows rarely passed through the protective canopy of leaves. Perhaps this year the great white would simply catch her and pull her spirit away with it. It was not an unpleasant thought.

“Lady Arana…” The guard’s voice was halfway between a moan and a sigh of desperation at having so difficult a charge to watch over, and for a moment Arana nearly sighed back.

A moment of pity pierced through her usual melancholic haze. Mara was a good woman—for a human. She had not asked for the dubious honor of guarding over the chief’s…the chief’s…

Here Arana’s mind stumbled for a long moment, uncertain of what she even truly was to the humans here. A prisoner by her own reckoning, but one who was given honor guards, handmaidens, offered the finest of food and clothing that could be provided given their surroundings. What exactly that made her to them was questionable at best. But no, she decided firmly again, it hardly mattered. A cage was a cage, no matter how gilded it might appear. ‘Prisoner’ was probably for the best. She glanced back up at Mara’s slightly queasy face, as if already dreading what might next come from her charge’s mouth, and this time Arana did sigh.

They had been out for longer than usual, and she could no further blame her guard for trying to follow orders than she could blame the ants for doing their queen’s bidding. It was simply the way of the world, and Arana did not have the strength in her to fight it any longer.

She pulled her feet out of the water, drawing her knees up to her chest for a long moment and staring at the meager ‘garden’ around her.

There were a few trees, if they could even be called that, perfectly trimmed, barely above the height of a tall buck. Most of it was a lawn of grass, meticulously gardened so that no single plant that was unwanted by the owners could be seen anywhere, and the entire small area was enclosed by a high, wooden wall. And of course there was the pond, where Arana spent most of her time when allowed to.

It was a pond that didn’t even have fish or frogs. Really, what kind of pond didn’t have fish? Brother Trout would have been beside himself with the affront. The answer was, of course, obvious. A human pond. A hole dug into the ground and filled with water meant to be clear and dead and devoid of the mud and algae and reckless vibrancy that actually made a pond a pond.

What little respite she had taken for the afternoon by sitting outside evaporated, and a weariness fell over her again. She stood, barefoot, falling comically short of her tall guard. Mara, for her part, only appeared relieved at the rare prospect of not having to argue any further.

“Come on,” she urged gently. For all that she was a simple guard, her eyes and words alike were surprisingly kind. “I’ll have the kitchens send you some hot tea before dinner.”

Dinner.

Not something that Arana looked forward to.

It was rare, these days, for her to be called to dine with the chief. When she had first been…brought here…it was like a nightly ordeal, and one that she had dragged her heels to every single time.

The chief of Tamins was a short, stout woman, with gray muddying her otherwise mouse brown hair. A few crow’s feet pulled at the corners of her eyes, and it was Arana’s guess as to whether or not they betrayed her age, or possibly hid it. Regardless, she was imposing. There was something about her like the stone face of a boulder, and the way that even on the rare occasions in which she did smile, it never seemed to reach her eyes. It was not to say that she cruel, but she was neither kind, and her understanding of things extended only to what related to her own life and ambitions. She had a name, of course. But everyone in Tamins simply referred to her as the chief, and Arana had never bothered to think of the woman who so casually controlled her life as having a name, even if she had been told it before. She was the chief of Tamins, and that was that.

It was a seemingly innocuous title, ‘chief’. The chief came from no notable background (whatever that meant, but the guards and servants and merchants alike were quick to boast of such), and was supposedly from some nameless village so far removed from Tamins that no one could quite remember the name. Not that Tamins itself was notable in the least bit; it was unimpressive at best in appearance. An outpost more than a true settlement, the scattering of buildings—now boasting a full tavern and inn—were all of roughly hewn and still-green wood hacked from the old forest. It led to a heavy and pervasive scent of pine sap throughout the air of each building, no matter how much incense of perfume was hauled in. Guards, workers, and merchants all alike muttered under their breath about the constant smell, but Arana found it as one of the few comforts to be had in a world now filled with strange sights and sounds and smells.

No, Tamins was neither large nor elegant nor apparently anything that humans aspired to have in a settlement or town, but it was profitable. And to exchange bronze rings for silver, and silver in hopes of gold was apparently reason enough for the people who now lived in Tamins, and it was more than reason enough for the chief. Arana had understood little of it, and still didn’t. Rings of precious metals were of value to humans, who used them as a go between for exchanging goods and services and pretty much all else in life. This small, otherwise insignificant trading post was a prize to the chief. She spoke incessantly about the numbers and profits of pass through trade associated with the new roads through the mountains and forests that she and her crew were carving out.

Arana had been angry at first at the talk, and then she had learned to stop caring, or at least to stop listening. None of them understood, so there was no point in trying to convince them. The reality of the situation was that she was here, and they were here, and Tamins—which had not even existed as a point on the map until the last year—was not about to go anywhere either.

Nor was Arana, and nor was the chief.

The first weeks in Tamins had all blended together in her memory, and it was a not a time that she particularly cared to dwell on. Brought in with nothing but a charitable cloak to cover her back, Arana had been disorientated and terrified. Her new and unfamiliar skin had been uncalloused and untried, softer than spring flower petals and just as tender and weak. Half-mad with uncomprehending grief, she had tried at every last opportunity to lash out and escape, and her guards—though wary and fearful of her ‘bouts of hysteria’—had just as easily subdued her as they would have a child.

She had learned all too quickly that whatever power she might possess, it was a far cry from what was needed to run away. Not that she was even sure what she would do if she managed to escape. How many times had she been told in utterly incredulous tones that she would almost certainly die out there? It was something that, when even she had to think about it, posed a significant unknown. As she was now, would her body survive? Was it even meant to survive? Uncertain.  

There were no clear answers, and she was only more convinced that the humans had even less sense or reason than her.

So she bided her time in the meanwhile, inhaling the scent of pine sap deeply when she was alone, and holding tight to her old memories for fear that her new body might betray even her mind and she should lose her past as much as her future.

Things were easier, in a way, when she had learned to quietly nod along rather than argue and thrash. She had been left to her own devices when the chief and guards alike had finally begun to warily believe she might not try to escape at every last opportunity. Arana had hardly given up the idea—she was not going to stand for being trapped here until she grew old and died—but she had quickly recognized the wisdom in not setting everyone against her. This body was weaker than what she would have liked, for all of its size. Her guards were bigger, faster, and undeniably stronger than her. So she held tight to the vision of the forest held in her mind’s eye.

As for her guards, they and she alike had settled in to a sort of truce with one another. Arana had stopped trying to test their watch and escape at every last turn of a corner, and in return, they were perhaps more understanding and kind then the fear had made them initially. It was a rotating set of them, different guardians that Arana had assigned to her by the chief. That had been something she had learned early on, that having household guards was a sign of wealth and of power, two things that she still did not fully understand nor particularly care—no matter how much emphasis was placed on it. However the chief had both power and wealth in aplenty for these remote lands, and that was notable in and of itself, according to everyone. For her to assign personal guards to Arana was a mark of esteemed value, or so they said. Yet it would have been a lie if any had denied that the militia who shadowed her were just as much to keep her under watch and in the house grounds as the chief expected. Still, of all the guards, Mara was as close as any could be to resembling a favorite. She was quiet and nervous beneath her lumbering tower of leather and cloth, but she was also the most patient of them. She tried, more than what her pay and duty asked of her, and against all of her initial stubborn resolve, Arana couldn’t help but feel some semblance of guilt for being an unusually difficult ward.

Mara had not asked the gods to be assigned to Arana, yet she did her best for both her employer and her charge. After all, kindness was rare enough, and perhaps Arana understood both that and the impossibility of Mara’s position more than she would have liked to admit.

Tonight, like every other night spent having dinner with chief, started the same. Mara was good to her word, and the tea arrived to Arana’s chamber barely after they had come back inside. Mara herself handed over the steaming cup, frowning not at Arana’s dirty feet or her windblown hair, but at their hands as they brushed.

“You need to warm up,” was all she said. The usual. Arana never felt cold, even if everyone spoke of her skin being chill. She shrugged, her attention already drawn toward the windows and the outside world she was yet again separated from, and her guard let her be. Solitude was a façade at best, though. The servants entered before she had finished her tea, even if it had long since cooled. The men brought in the familiar bronze footed bath, filling it with bucket after bucket of steaming and scented water. Then they took their polite exit, leaving Arana with three attentive handmaidens.

Arana stepped out of her robes before they could remove them from her, preferring to minimize what contact she could. She found it disquieting, even now. The touch of another human hand on her skin was unwanted and discomfiting, and set her skin itching and a sharp desire beneath her breast to flail and flee. Much good that would do anyone.

She endured it now, better than what she had once. Now her skin only twitched when the sponges scraped down her back, but she didn’t jerk, didn’t jump away. She forced herself to stare forward, blinking only when water was poured over her head and hair. They were not unkind by any measure, and she knew it. Quite the opposite, really. Her hair was treated with utmost respect and care, washed and cleaned and then combed until it reached what was an unearthly shine.

The handmaidens whispered to each other over her hair. They always did. Arana tried her best to ignore it. So what if it was different than anything else the humans had seen before? Arana herself was different than them. Yet all they did was display the mirror for her as was dressed back into her robes, showing her the curtain of gleaming black hair that fell down her back, interspersed with threads of bright gold.

Arana didn’t care. Dinner with the chief was always an ordeal at best, and it made something in her stomach tighten as supper drew close. By the time her bath and dressing was finished, the bell had rung for the evening meal.

Mara had left, replaced by another guard for the time being. He quietly nodded and escorted Arana to the dining room. It had been nearly a fortnight since the last time she had dined with the chief, and she was not excited for it.

The dining room itself was bathed in warm lantern and candlelight. As Arana was announced into the room by her accompanying guard, she caught a glimpse of the last of the kitchen servants laying out the steaming dishes of freshly cooked food.

A feast was placed on the table before them. Even though she knew it would be but her and chief who would dine in the privacy of this room, there was far more than two ravenous individuals could possibly hope to finish, particularly considering how meager Arana’s own appetite remained. She was never hungry, at least not as how everyone seemed to think was normal. But she was also yet to take ill or fall to waste the way that her caretakers had seemed to fear, and so it gave her no more pause than any of the other myriad of things that made people frown about her.

The chief was already in attendance, predictably with logs books of trade and expenses at her side. The paper were put aside as soon as Arana entered, and the chief stood, looking pleased.

She came around the table to see Arana seated herself, lingering to run her fingers through a lock of Arana’s long hair. Arana didn’t need to turn upward to see the chief’s face; she already knew what would be there. She would have the same look of fine appreciation as when counting the rings of silver and brass when they came in from the trading tariffs. It was the look of evaluating something she believed to be of high worth for her, no different than rings of currency or barrels of trade goods.

Arana suppressed a shudder just as it began to run up her back, forcing her body to stillness. It was a difficult body to control, though, with its warm blood and beating heart. It was never still, not in the way that she wished it to be. Thankfully the chief did not linger overly long. She stayed only to fill Arana’s cup with wine, and then took her place on the opposite side of the table, filling her own cup similarly.

Whereas the chief immediately raised her cup for a makeshift toast and took a deep drink from it—enough that she had to immediately refill it—Arana distained the burn of alcohol that the chief so seemed to enjoy. The kitchen, however, had grown used to her and had the foresight to leave a second cup of steaming tea. She sipped from that instead, enjoying the warmth more than any taste it held.

With that, dinner began. One of the kitchen staff dutifully spooned out portions of the main dishes onto plates for both of them. Even though the amount of food on the chief’s was easily twice that of Arana’s, she still wanted to sigh at how much had been offered to her. Too much. More than she would ever finish. She supposed she needed to try, though.

Arana placed reached for her utensils, glancing up at the chief. She never was entirely certain just exactly what the chief expected from dining with her. Arana knew she was not much in the way of conversation or entertainment. Nearly everyone she did see was far more interested in her hair, which was not to say that was not the chief’s main interest in her either, but it was less of the unnerving mixture of admiration and adoration that Arana was still growing accustomed to, and more in the way of material evaluation. But then, the chief seemed to look at everyone with some degree of that same measurement, as if determining what could be extracted from a person for her own values and gains. It was not to say she was utterly inhuman, but more that any extraordinary kindness she showed was extended purely for the benefit of what she saw in return. That simply was who the chief was.

“You spend quite a great deal of time in the garden, I am told. Fresh air is all good and well, but it does not do you well to stay too long in the growing cold. It’s not healthy, especially for one as slight as you.”

The chief spoke around the mouthful of food. She, at least, seemed to have more than an appetite for food. For her part, Arana picked at what was on the plate in front of her, giving the slightest nod of her head that she knew the chief would want. Not that the chief seemed to particularly care either way. She had the habit of giving lectures to whoever she seemed to talk to, be it traders, militia, or Arana herself, and Arana had learned quickly that it was best to at least appear acquiescent to the chief’s wishes.

What else was she expected to do without the garden? The chief was far from open to the idea of letting her wander outside of the house grounds themselves, particularly after Arana’s first attempts to escape. The town itself held little in the way of interest to Arana, and there were tasks within the house itself to be had for her nor that the chief seemed inclined to allow her to do. A thought struck her, and Arana shivered. She had not thought of how things might change as winter moved in and once snow began to cover the grounds. If she was not allowed outside because of the winter…

The chief’s garden was one of the few places that she could find refuge in throughout the whole of the small settlement. It was a far cry from the tall, dark tree line on the horizon, but Arana had quickly taken in what little pleasures she could find when confined to the outpost. And the garden was a thing to boast of, or so the chief had explained. Others in Tamins might be able grow a few vegetables or root plants for their own kitchens, but no one outside of the chief had the staff nor the space to afford an ornamental garden. Such a mark of luxury was typical reserved to the cities and the old money families, or so Arana had been told. Whatever truth was behind it mattered little to her. Walled and trimmed to the bizarre degree of ‘perfection’ that it was, the garden with its fishless pond and its tiny few trees had become her small world. If the coming of winter threatened that, then she would place herself at even more odds with the chief again, no matter the consequences.

Arana forced a piece of fish into her mouth and swallowed. It was fish, through and through, and her human tongue and stomach told her that spices and sauces and the fire-cooked flesh were how it was supposed to be. It clashed at odds with the memories of raw fish, pulled fresh from shimmering scales and on a palate entirely different than the one she knew now. The cooked fish from some fresh water stream stared lifelessly back up at her, surrounded by vegetables and some unknown grain. The textures were always foreign on her tongue, and thought it wasn’t an unpleasant thing, it was too often overwhelming. Arana took the token bites of everything on her plate, and then slowly mixed the sizeable remainders of what was left. So much food that would be leftover, not simply from her plate but from the table, and it made her wonder where it all ended up.

She stirred at a piece of the now sauce-covered grain, and then poked at the fish again. If the chief thought anything of the silence between them, she never showed it. Her main concern seemed to be her own food, and having spoken her bit, she appeared content on inhaling as much of the food and wine put out before her.

“I have good news for you.”

Arana looked up, startled by the unexpected interruption in the meal. The chief set down her napkin, taking a deep drink from her glass again. Her eyes sparkled, undeniably pleased. That alone made Arana’s stomach clench, and the words that followed flooded over her like freezing water. “The sages who visited to see you seem to have relayed a favorable message to the court. I received notice today: you will be travelling to the imperial palace as soon as the escort guard arrives.”

Arana forced herself to stare down at the small, half-eaten fish on her plate. The scales seemed to whirl and blend together, and there was a faint roaring in her ears that drowned out whatever else was being said. Not that the chief seemed to mind either way. At least not until Arana found her voice again.

“Please.” Her voice was choked, desperate. It was a far cry from how she used to demand this. “Let me go.”

The chief had just been raising a piece of some sort of meat to her mouth. She paused in the action, and then very, very slowly placed her utensils down, food now forgotten. Any semblance of the earlier merriment was now forgotten.

“Now listen, you need to stop this…this nonsense.” Her brow was a stern line that mirrored her lips as she spoke.

“I have tried to be more than understanding since we took you in. I see that whatever fell power was cast on you is no simple thing for any human to recover from, but you cannot sink yourself its madness. You are as you are meant to be. You are human again, no longer trapped in the body of a beast or animal through—” The chief made a sign with her hands, the sign—Arana had learned—that was meant to ward off evil. “—mischief.”

Arana felt her hands clench together. Her feet wanted to carry her away, to dart out of the oppressive walls made of dead trees and to run back into the forest. But she knew she would never even make it to the door.

“It wasn’t a curse. It was the magic of the old go—”

“Mischief!” insisted the chief, her voice just short of a panicked yell, and Arana jerked and flinched. The chief made the symbol against evil a second time, and then wiped the sheen of sweat from her forehead. “And it brings ill humors on this house to speak of such things and call attention to us.”

She stopped again to take a deep drink from her glass, finishing what was in it and refilling her cup before a servant could even approach. Her face was red in the lantern light, a mix of emotions and alcohol alike, but her lips were a thin, white line. There was no tolerance left in her, and Arana felt the fight drain out of her. The chief shook her head before continuing.

“You need to put a rest to this. It does no one any good. The empress and her sages have taken an interest in you. You must conduct yourself with honor. And if there is any such…” Here her words seemed to fail her for a moment and she struggled, ultimately still unable to mouth even the word of ‘magic’. “Any such persistent strangeness about things, they will surely know the course of action.”

The chief sighed and stared at her for a long moment. It was not the look of a vendor evaluating the worth of their property, but something queer and unfamiliar. For a long and disorienting moment, Arana had the sudden awareness of seeing herself as the chief must see her: a puzzle to which there were no apparent means of solving.

So. The chief would be glad to see her removed then, placed into someone else’s care. And why wouldn’t she? Her goals remained the same as they had always been: continuing to expand her business and name, cutting a swathe into the wild ‘frontier’ that humanity now sought to conquer. She had never asked for Arana, just as Arana had never asked for this.

“You’ll be better off in the capital,” finished the chief, and that was that. She picked up her utensils and continued drinking and eating, no longer paying heed to how Arana did not even pretend to touch her own food.

Arana remained for as long as she could, until the silence weighed oppressively on her skin and she could no longer sit quietly no matter how she commanded her body to stillness.

“May I take my leave now?” Her voice was not raised, but it cut through the air jarringly, and she winced to hear the sound of it on scraping against her own ears.

The chief, however, remained unphased. This time she did not even lift her head, simply reaching for more food. A non-committal sound emerged from her throat, but she raised her spare hand to gesture for the guards. At least she would allow that much.

Arana stood, setting aside her napkin and stepping away from the table before a servant could reach her. Two guards were ready at the door for her, neither of them Mara. By the time they made it back to Arana’s room, the silence had yet again grown knife sharp. One of the guards slid open the door for her, and Arana returned to her makeshift cage. Her room was by no means barren. Indeed, nearly everyone she had spoken with indicated quite the contrary. Even modt of the buildings in Tamins appeared rough on the edges, the chief didn’t seem to tolerate the same in her own residence, and her ‘guest’ chambers were no exception. Much like the dining room, tapestries ad rugs were hung and laid everywhere to hide the grainy beams of wood that formed the walls and the floors. The bath tub that had been brought in before had long since been removed. The faint impressions on the rug were the only evidence it had ever been present.

A wax candle had been lit on the small bedside table. It was scented beeswax, and Arana flared her nostrils for a second. No matter how many time she said it, no one listened to her wish to simply live with the smell of pine sap around her. She strode over to the small candle and brought her fingers to her mouth. A moment, and then she gathered her courage. Even now, fire made her freeze with instinctive fear. But humans controlled fire, and she was human now, too. She knew how to control a flame just as much as the rest of them. She licked her fingers to wet them, and then extinguished the small flame between her thumb and forefinger quickly. The wick hissed and she withdrew her hand quickly, though it remained whole and unburnt.

The sound of her door sliding open had Arana spinning on her heels, and the room swam around her for a long moment.

“Your pardon, lady.”

The young woman who had entered bowed her head perfectly in apology, glancing back up through her eyelashes.

“I was to tend to your hair before you retire for the evening.”

No room to argue on it, even if the woman’s eyes were appropriately downcast. Arana stared at her, uneasy and trying to recognize which of the serving staff members this was to no avail.  

When Arana said nothing, the woman continued into the room, over to the sitting cushions. She gestured with one hand.

“Please, lady.”

After a moment, Arana slowly made her way over, her bare feet only a whisper of noise on the floor. She sat, and the woman moved around to the back of her, hands moving with the comb.

Arana caught a glimpse of it from the edge of her vision. It was the usual tortoise shell, fine tipped and kept meticulously clean. Every day, before going to bed and after rising from it, Arana would sit in this exact spot. Back straight, head still, as silent and cooperative as a statue, she would sit and endure the unwanted touch of the tortoise shell comb moving through her hair, brushing against her scalp, and of the human fingers that accompanied it.

The movement of the comb started a second later, meticulous and precise. They were all the same, the women chosen by the chief to comb her hair. Exacting and precise, they did their job with more than just technical proficiency, and it was that certain bit of more that Arana did not like to overly dwell on.

Always, she could sense their presence hovering over her, a nameless gaze focused and fixed upon her with a desire and jealousy alike that she never understood nor wanted. She had not asked to be made like this, to be different. She gritted her jaw, blinking fiercely and trying to think of the home that was no longer her home. She tried to call up the groaning of tree branches in the wind, the mottled sunlight and moonlight falling through the leaves, the plucking vibrations beneath her.

Yet more she tried to seize and hold the image in her mind’s eye, the further it seemed to slip from her, as if her own memory were betraying her. Her memory stood at odds with her present reality, and her frustration only mounted. The overwhelming desire to move and get up filled her, but she quashed it ruthlessly, digging her fists into her thigh until the worst of everything abated.

If the serving woman combing through her hair noticed how Arana had grown rigid and stiff, she did not say it. Her own work at hand remained focused and uninterrupted, until finally she moved the last stroke with the tortoise shell comb, stating the obscene number of strokes with an unmistakable tone of pride.

After everything of the day, something drained out of Arana, like water emptied from a sieve, and she felt her muscles go slack and sore with fatigue. The combing was now finished, yet the woman did not immediately withdraw. She hovered, and Arana felt her presence as acutely as if she had spoken. The silence slowly built into a roar.

The woman reached out and pulled back the curtain of hair, now brushed to perfection, from Arana’s neck. Arana stiffened at the sensation of fingers pressed against her skin. So similar to the plucking or strings, and yet so different. She could feel it in the touch, even if she could not understand it: the tremble of fearful want in those fingertips, almost sorrowful and full of regret. The sensation made her shudder and recoil.

Terrifying, how humans were so filled with sadness and regret. How long until she became the same, if she was not already?

The serving woman paused at her reaction, hesitating before speaking. “You are so beautiful. More beautiful, they say, than even the empress herself. Yet you are so cold, as if you have no desire to be warm…”

Arana reeled, the words striking her as unexpected as a physical blow. Warmth? As if she had never lived? As if she had never known life before now at all? From behind her eyelids flashed the memory of vivid green, the sound of running water. Then it was just as quickly gone, like smoke from the extinguished candle. Arana opened her eyes, but all that was before her was the brown and gray of the room, and only the faintest scent of dead wood that had once been living tree.

Something rose from within her chest, wild and frantic and horribly painful, but then caught in her throat like a knot, threatening to choke her.

The woman reached around to wipe at her cheek—Arana realized belatedly that a single salty droplet had escaped her eye, a tear—and Arana did jerk away then.

“Leave me.”

Her words emerged with a calm that surprised even her, for all that they were whispered.

The woman paused, hesitating, and silence grew monstrous.

Arana could feel her draw breath, about to speak back. Then there was a polite knock at the door, and it slid open. Mara poked her head in, one arm resting on her armored hip as usual, and Arana felt a surge of rare gratitude for her stoic watcher. The serving woman was already standing before Mara had even finished her interrupting cough. She bowed her head, first to Arana and then to Mara, and then took her leave. Mara did not immediately close the door.

Instead she studied Arana quietly, her face giving away nothing of what she might have thought. Arana rubbed her face with heel of her palm, suddenly self-conscious. When she looked back up, Mara’s gaze had moved toward the sleeping pallet. The think blanket was half pulled back, no doubt designed to be inviting. The sun had long since set beneath the horizon, and the only light in Tamins was from the pitch torches and the oil lanterns, and what little was left from the waning moon in the night sky.

“Will you not sleep, lady?”

But they both knew the answer to that, just as they knew that if Arana was asleep with the first bell and arrival of the morning serving staff, they would be lucky to find her actually slumbering in her bed as she was meant to.

Mara sighed, and though it was soft, it seemed to echo through the room. “Should I ask the kitchens for a tea for you?”

Arana shook her head. To speak suddenly seemed to require too much.

“If you need anything…”

She nodded her head. Then her guard bowed and left. The door closed behind her, and Arana was left to the solitude of her own thoughts, bound in the makeshift prison that was her mind.

Draining, it was all completely draining. Yet like every other night, the thought of laying down on the blankets seemed to repel her more than anything. It was suffocating. Arana found herself back at the same place she always wondered to when left in her chambers. The ledge against the window was doubtlessly not designed with the intention of being anything more than an ornamental seat, but Arana squeezed into it.

She brought her knees up to her chest, curling in on herself. Her hair—her prized hair—fell past her ears and in front of her face, blocking out her one view of the night sky. The wood beams of the wall pressed against her back through the thin fabric of her night shirt, and Arana breathed in deeply. The faint but constant scent of pine filled her nose and lungs. She closed her eyes and imagined a different world entirely: the delicate but strong plucking of silk strings beneath her, the humming vibration of the nighttime crickets from within the thick grass, the low snore of a sleeping doe.

For almost a moment, she was there again.

When she exhaled, her breath came out in a choked sob, too quiet and low for any to hear, even if they had been listening for it.

[firefly464]

The Gilded Cage - Chapter 3

I felt like you guys could use some nice fluff after yesterday, so we zoomed to get this chapter out. Also, oh my god i have so many ideas im so excited ahahahahah

ALSO!! IMPORTANT NOTICE!!! The first section of Chapter 5 of The Real World has been edited slightly. I recommend you go back and reread it :)

Written in collaboration with @i-have-this-now :D

Thank you @rivys for beta reading, editing, and writing :D

Master Post

First -  Previous - Next

~~~

“Alright then, Eret. Talk to me.”

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to calm himself. “George, it’s all…” he trailed off, unable to explain exactly what he was thinking. “What… what happened to me?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

George scoffed. “Did you not hear me when I said you got shot? Did you miss that bit?”

Bad hit him lightly on the arm. “George! That’s not how you support a friend through a trying time!”

“What?! I’m not wrong, am I?”

“Eret, here.” Bad moved himself over on the bed to sit right next to Eret. “We found you passed out in the woods with an arrow sticking out of your arm, so we brought you back here and patched you up.”

“You also were nearly frozen to death. Honestly, I think the reason you didn’t bleed out sooner is because the blood froze over or… something.” George shrugged, a little too nonchalant for Eret’s tastes. “I dunno, I’m not a doctor.”

Bad frowned. “That reminds me… Why were you even out there without a coat? It’s the middle of winter!” 

“I- what?” Eret asked, caught off guard by the question. Hadn’t it just been mid summer? He shook his head. He was in some sort of fucked up world, why was he surprised by a change in seasons? 

Even so, it made sense. It explained why he had passed out in the first place. After all, running through the woods in the dead of winter without anything to protect him from the cold was a surefire way to give himself hypothermia. Thinking back on it, it was surprising that he managed to last as long as he did. Any longer, and he very likely would have died. 

George cleared his throat, dragging Eret back to the present. He realized that his friends were looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. “I uh…” He stammered, trying to come up with a decent excuse. “I didn’t exactly have time to grab a jacket. They were kinda chasing me out…” 

George’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

Bad’s let out a small gasp of surprise as he realized what Eret meant. He quickly stood, trying to take the heat off his friend. “Well, you don’t need to worry about them now!” he exclaimed, trying to hint to George that now wasn’t the time. “Here, how about we get you situated? Do you want something to drink?”

Eret stared numbly up at him. “Why are you being so… nice to me?”

“Because we’re friends,” Bad stated as though it were fact. “And you deserve it. Come on, I’ll make some cookies, and you can rest while I do that, okay? George, give him your jacket.”

“What?!” He sputtered. “Bad, I’m not giving him my--”

“Give it.” Something in Bad’s eyes must have made George decide to change his mind right then. The man nodded and grabbed a coat from a nearby hanger and chucked it over to Eret. 

Almost instinctively, Eret tried to raise his arm to swat away the incoming coat. Pain tore through him, causing him to let out a small gasp. 

“Hey, careful! You don’t want to tear your stitches,” Bad said quickly, rushing to check that the stitches were undamaged. “You’re still healing.”

Eret only watched as his friend undid the bandages that wrapped around his bicep, trying not to wince. His eyes widened when he saw the torn skin, slightly swollen around the places where string held it together. It wasn’t red or bloody, in fact, it looked like it was at least a few days old. He frowned. 

“How long was I out?” He asked. 

“A day, maybe?” Bad held out his hand towards George, not looking away from the wound. “Could you grab some of the gauze I just prepped? I might as well replace it.” 

Eret frowned as he watched George walk out of the small, curtained room. He could hear the sounds of shuffling in what he assumed to be the kitchen. 

“A day…?” He asked, glancing down at the scar on his arm. The faint, red line looked several days old, with only a minimal amount of swelling around it. There was no way it had only been a day. Injuries just didn’t heal that quickly. “How is it healing so fast?” 

“We tried our best to close the wound as quickly as possible. It would have been better if we had been able to get to you sooner, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers,” Bad sighed. “It didn’t help that you were half frozen to death, so we needed to take care of that first before we could even begin thinking about your arm -- hey George! Grab some regen pots while you’re out there please!”

“Splash potions or normal?” George called from beyond the curtains.

“Normal. We’ve already taken care of most of the outer damage. Now it’s just a matter of getting back all that blood he lost” 

Eret sat in confusion, his gaze darting back and forth between the shadow creature in front of him, and the curtain. “That uh… That doesn’t explain how this looks a week old.” 

“Well, your buddy Bad knows a thing or two about healing people,” the demon chuckled. “I soaked the bandages in healing potions so that your wound would close up safely.”

Eret stared at the scar on his arm in wonder. “Holy shit, Bad, that’s genius.”

“Language!”

He looked down, having the courtesy to at least look somewhat ashamed “Sorry…” 

“It’s alright, you muffin,” Bad laughed. “Didn’t I tell you guys to use this technique already? You know it’s really not healthy to just drink health potions, right? Have you not been taking care of yourself?”

Eret grimaced. “Well, it wasn’t exactly… common in L’Manberg, per se?”

Bad’s face fell. “Don’t tell me. Did Wilbur forget? I know I told him how to!”

“I honestly have no clue,” Eret shrugged. It wasn’t technically a lie, he really didn’t know, but the reason why was entirely different than the implication.

Bad nodded, pride shining on his face. “Well, Eret, I can guarantee you that as long as you stay here with us, we’ll take good care of you.”

~~~

Eret woke slowly and peacefully, a surprise to everyone in the community house. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of a knocking in the doorway, and was startled to see Bad tapping his knuckle against the wall, a plate in his other hand.

“Heya, sleepy-head!”

“What are you--” Eret sat up and rearranged his pillows to support his aching back. “What are you doing?”

The demon grinned. “I’m bringing you cookies, what does it look like?” He sat the plate he was holding down on Eret’s nightstand with a clink.

Eret stared, dumbfounded. “Why?”

“Lots of reasons!” Bad replied, smoothing out the wrinkles in his jacket. “I figured you weren’t feeling too great, so I wanted to do something nice for you to cheer you up!”

“Oh.”

“Plus, cookies taste better than potions, so I figured I could kill two birds with one stone and put the regeneration potion into the cookies.”

“Oh.”

“You have to make sure you eat all of them, okay? Doctor’s orders! I made sure to keep it a small batch so you wouldn’t get stuffed.”

“Oh...” Eret could only stare at the six perfectly round cookies sitting on the plate next to him. This was real, physical proof that somebody here cared about him -- really cared.

Why?

Eret couldn’t think of a good reason why anyone here should care about him. He had betrayed L’Manburg, or so everyone in this world thought. He was untrustworthy. He could turn on his friends at any moment. It would have been in Bad’s best interest to leave him freezing out in the snow, to leave him to die, but he hadn’t. Bad had done the opposite. So--

“Why?” he muttered.

The demon furrowed his brow. “Why what? What do you mean?”

“Why do you…” Eret stared down at his hands, unsure of what exactly he felt. “Why do you care? You have no reason to, I-- I’m a traitor. For all you know, I could turn on you, I could stab you in the back, I could...” he trailed off, not daring to finish his sentence.

A small scoff sounded from the open curtain. “Please, you wouldn’t do that.” 

Eret glanced up. George was once more standing in the makeshift doorway, his arms crossed in front of him. “You’ve already invested way too much into this, you wouldn’t just throw it away. Besides, I like to think of it as a double agent. Sounds much cooler than being a traitor.” 

Bad turned and faced George with a disappointed frown. “George.”

“What?” The man glanced around nervously. “I’m not wrong.”

Bad sighed and faced Eret once more. “Well, I guess…” He trailed off, seemingly deciding what words fit his answer best. “I think that everyone deserves to have someone that cares about them. And I already cared about you before I found you in the snow.”

“Besides, we all knew what would happen once you pressed that button,” George added, a soft smile on his face. “We all accepted it, and we knew what would happen. You weren’t the only one in the final control room. We’re in this together.” 

He could only watch as Bad took a seat on the side of his bed.“You’re our friend, Eret. You still deserve love, and a warm bed, and some nice cookies, no matter what you’ve done. And I want to be able to give that to you, for as long as you’ll let me.”

Eret blinked hard, trying to clear away the tears that threatened to spill over. “Do you mean that?”

A warm smile crossed his face. “Of course! Besides, I may have not approved of your plan, but I still vowed to stay neutral. I knew that this was going to happen, and I’m here to help you through it.” 

Eret gave up. The dams he had put up broke, and tears began to stream down his face. He tackled his friend and held him in a tight hug, not daring to let him go. It was slightly strange, considering the fact that his friend was some sort of shadowy-demon monster, but it didn’t matter. The hug was still filled with warmth and love.

It was enough to make a traitor cry.

He could feel a second pair of arms wrap around them as George nestled his head in the space between the other two’s bodies and let out a content sigh. Their tangle of limbs was slightly awkward, but none of them cared. Both George and Bad were too focused on trying to support their friend, and Eret wasn’t focused at all. 

Bad rubbed Eret’s back, trying to comfort him as much as he possibly could. Eret’s throat was too tight for him to say what he meant just then, but he hoped that this embrace said it for him.

Thank you.

~~~

Master Post

First -  Previous - Next

Taglist (feel free to send me an ask if you want to be added) @hismilw @violet–majesty​ @chiera99​ @koi-boye​ @waffle-time-god​ @miss-oleum​ @porkgavor​ @crafted-dreams @harley-the-pancake @lemonaid-ruru @luminousart @somethingtocrowabout @bee-tubbo @firepowder @boombahey @rayjayo @carry-on-my-wayward-why @echo-delta​ @star-fruit23

[firefly464]

The Gilded Cage - Chapter 1

if you cant tell the first part of this was written by pami a couple weeks back when we first decided to actually do a prequel :D

Written in collaboration with @i-have-this-now :D

Thank you @rivys for beta reading, editing, and writing :D

Master Post

First - Next

~~~

The first thing that Eret noticed when he woke up was the aching pain in his head. Before he even opened his eyes, he could feel the side of his head throbbing. Every tiny movement sent another wave of pain through his mind. 

Tentatively, he cracked open his eyes, only to shut them almost immediately as a bright light pierced his vision. The light only caused his headache to grow ten times worse. A wave of nausea washed over him, making him groan internally. The last thing he could clearly remember was being on stream, with each memory after that fuzzy and unreachable. 

All things considered, he was probably hungover. He couldn’t remember ever getting drunk, which probably wasn’t a good sign. 

Eret tried for a second time to open his eyes, this time pushing through the pain in his head. As he looked around, he noticed his surroundings were blindingly white. It was as if someone pointed a flashlight directly at his face. Squinting, he tried to see where he was. 

It was way too bright to see anything he recognised, but even with the weird light he saw, he couldn’t see any of the familiar outlines of his desk or chair. It looked like he was inside some sort of strange room from the looks of it, only just barely able to make out the bright outlines of a couple windows. Oh god, did he get kidnapped? Was he already in the second location? What was going on?

“Whoa, slow down. You’re going to make yourself sick. The potion still hasn’t fully left your system,” Eret was forced to swallow a scream of surprise as he heard his friend's voice. Wilbur’s voice was coming from somewhere beside him, though it was far too bright to actually see him. “Wait, here’s your glasses.”

Glasses? Since when did he wear glasses? “My wha-” Eret began, cut off as  an object was pushed into his hands, plasticine and cool to the touch. A pair of sunglasses. He slipped them over his eyes and immediately realized why Wilbur had given them to him. Everything darkened significantly and he could see a lot more than he could before. He was in some sort of van, metal sheets were hammered into the walls of it, as if it had been built by people who didn’t really know what they were doing. 

“Hey, so uh, how are you feeling?” Wilbur asked, his voice filled with tension. 

He glanced over, surprised to find his friend wearing a strange, revolution based outfit. Maybe they were at a con? That would explain the strange cosplay, but it still didn’t make sense. For one, Eret couldn’t remember ever actually going to any conventions, and besides, he was fairly certain that all all conventions were canceled because of covid.

“I feel like shit,” he admitted, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position. 

Will chuckled slightly, but it sounded forced. “That makes sense. The potion took a toll on all of us.” 

“Potion…?” If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t know where he was, or why Wilbur was there too. He didn’t know what was going on. He was confused, lost, and just wanted to go back to bed. 

The door to the strange van creaked open and someone poked their head in. “How’s he do- oh! You’re up!”

Eret had to do his best to suppress a shriek of surprise. Entering the van was Fundy, but he was… well, different. Peeking through Fundy’s brown wavy hair were two pointed fox ears, and swishing behind him was a fiery orange tail, tipped with a patch of snow white fur. What the fuck?

“Fundy?”

Wilbur furrowed his brow. “He might be experiencing some memory loss. Eret, do you remember who I am?”

“What?” He shook his head, trying to focus. “Yeah, I don’t-- Memory’s good. Just uhh…” He tried to think of a viable excuse, but nothing came to him. “Y’know.”

“Right.”

A tense silence fell over the room as the three of them stared at each other, unsure of what any of them would say next.

Fundy cleared his throat. “Well, sir, I’ll assume my post at the door again. Let me know if he causes any trouble.”

Wilbur nodded in return. “Make me proud, son.”

With a sharp salute, the fox began towards the door of the van. “Of course, father.” Just as soon as he had entered, he was gone, his tail flicking behind him.

Eret furrowed his brow. Father? That didn’t make sense, Wilbur was only three years older than--

Oh.

Memories came rushing back to him as the pieces clicked into place. He remembered the Final Control Room, the strange falling sensation and... being in the game? No, no. That can’t be right. It wasn’t real, right?

“Eret. I need you to focus. I’m going to ask you a few questions.” Wilbur asked, now more forcefully.

“Er, sorry about that. What- sorry- what was the question?” Eret was tempted to ask him what was going on but he thought he should just answer the questions for now.

Wilbur sighed, as if disappointed. “Why didn’t you press the button?”

“Why didn’t I- what?”

“The button was supposed to open up the walls, wasn’t it? You were going to open up the walls, let Dream in, and drug us all. You were supposed to betray us, why didn’t you?” 

“I- I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Eret, don’t lie to me, we found the needles in your bag-”

“I’m not lying.” He steadied his voice, there’s no use shouting at Wilbur. It would only end up making things worse. “I didn’t know what was going on. Wilbur, you have to believe me.”

“You were going to betray us. Why should I believe you?”

Eret didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t real. This isn’t supposed to be real. It was just a game. It was… It was right in front of him. Wilbur didn’t act like himself, he was stern and precise. Was he really even Wilbur? The one he streamed with and joked around with? The one he gathered resources for in Minecraft? He just didn’t understand. 

“Wil, what the hell is going on?” Eret started. “One minute, I’m at my PC. Next, I’m here in this… whatever this place is.”

“What do you mean? Eret, you-” Wilbur was cut off.

“Wilbur, I don’t think I’m from here.”

“...what?” 

“I- This whole world- This isn’t supposed to be real. I’m not supposed to be-”

Click.

Darkness creeped into the edges of Eret’s vision, spots dancing in front of his eyes. Blood rushed past his ears, drowning out any other sounds. It felt as if his mind was filled with static noise, whizzing and humming. “What the…” He blinked a few times to clear his vision. Wilbur sat on the wooden stool, his eyes glazed over. “Uh, Wilbur? Are you alri-”

Wilbur snapped out of his strange trance and shot to his feet, his gaze filled with anger and hatred. “Eret. You heartless bastard. Do you have any IDEA-”

“What? Wilbur, why-”

“Why the fuck are you even here?! To mock us?! To rub your victory in our faces?!” he was screaming now, his voice echoing through the small room, making Eret’s head pound.

"What the hell are you talking about?! I didn't do anything!" he was on his feet now, his arms raised to protect himself. He didn’t know what was going on, but the look in his friends eyes was enough to make him fear for his safety. 

The door to the van slammed open as Fundy came rushing inside. A rush of emotions flew across his face as he took in the situation before him, going from confusion, to shock, and eventually settling on pure hatred, mixed with a hint of fear. His tall, pointed ears were flattened against his head. In any other situation, Eret might have found it funny, but in the moment he was in no mood to laugh. “What the fuck is going on? Why is Eret here?” 

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to figure out. This son of a bitch was here when I came in, who knows what he might have done.” Will snarled, never taking his eyes off Eret.

“What the fuck do you mean? Wilbur, you brought me here! I’ve been here the entire time! You- Fundy, you saw me!” 

“Excuse me? What the hell do you mean by that? I’ve been standing outside this entire time!” Fundy’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, ready to unsheath it and attack at any moment. 

Wilbur’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Fundy, trying to figure out what Eret was talking about. “Enough!” he cried, “Fundy, I want you to go and ring the alarm bell. I need everyone here at once. Understood?”

“But what if he-” 

His eyes narrowed even further. “Now.” 

Eret’s mind raced a thousand miles a minute as he watched his friend scamper outside, most likely to go and sound the alarm. He needed to run, to escape. He didn’t know what was going on, or why Wilbur was so angry at him, but he knew that he needed to leave. The murderous look in his friend’s eyes made it very clear that he wasn’t just going to let Eret walk away peacefully. 

The far off sound of a bell ringing echoed through the small van. Eret could feel his heart rate increasing. Any second now, the others were going to come into the room, and it would make escape ten times harder. If he was going to make a run for it, this was his chance. 

He glanced at Wilbur, then to the door. Although the taller man was in a defensive stance, he wasn’t armed. There was no weapon in his hands. This could be his only chance. 

He crashed through the door, and didn’t look back.

~~~

Master Post

First - Next

Taglist (feel free to send me an ask if you want to be added) @hismilw @violet–majesty​ @chiera99​ @koi-boye​ @waffle-time-god​ @miss-oleum​ @porkgavor​ @crafted-dreams @harley-the-pancake @lemonaid-ruru @luminousart @somethingtocrowabout @bee-tubbo @firepowder @boombahey @rayjayo